Chapter Text
Quietly, you pack up your bags, attempting to ignore your classmates as they excitedly discuss visiting a club over the weekend. Others talk about having to work, while some mention spending time with family, relaxing. There’s no telling how relaxing your weekend will be. You could just hang out on the sofa watching TV, or he could drag you out for a whole day to teach you how to throw a proper punch. Or dance, that’s the most probable; he doesn’t care how shy you are about it; he’ll still drag you into his arms, try to get you to learn traditional dance. You sigh as you think of the God of Destruction. You’d think a god would have better things to do than hang out with a university student on earth, especially one who’s the leader of his pantheon. But no, somehow for the last two years, he’s made himself a weird permanent figure in your life. It seems the gods have way too much free time. You weren’t even one hundred percent sure you believed in god, only to find out all the gods were real when you met Shiva. Who you mistakenly thought to be a demon. He wasn’t impressed.
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Spice. It’s the first thing that hits you when you enter your apartment. You blink, confused.
“Hey, welcome home,” Shiva greets you with a grin over his shoulder before turning back to stir something on the stove. Carefully, you slip off your shoes and walk closer to him. On the table, there are several traditional Indian dishes, though you aren’t sure what many of them are. You gaze at the food in confusion before turning to him. “What did you do?”
He blinks at you, then an offended expression crosses his face. “What makes you think I did something?”
“There are like twenty dishes on the table, you always try to win me over with food when there’s something going on.” You narrow your eyes.
He shrugs, “You’re exaggerating…it’s only ten dishes.”
By the time you sit down at your tiny dining table, it’s covered. Covered.
Golden rice with some vegetables mixed in. Butter chicken so rich it makes your mouth water before you've tasted it. Something dark and fragrant bubbling in a copper pot you've never owned. Skewers of charred meat. Fritters next to green sauce. Puffy bread discs stacked. A bright salad, and two desserts – one milky and pale, one glistening in syrup. Your eyes dart between the unfamiliar clay pot and the perfectly grilled skewers. Your apartment doesn't even have a grill.
You blink at the spread, half impressed, half suspicious.
“Okay,” you say slowly, arms crossed. “What did you do?” You repeat.
Shiva gives a grin, but he won’t meet your eyes. “Can’t I cook for my favorite human without being accused of crimes?”
“You can,” you say, “but last time you cooked it was to apologize for breaking my TV. That was two dishes. There are ten on the table.”
He winces, laughing under his breath. “That was one time. And I replaced it for you with a better one.”
You raise a brow. “Still.”
He slides a bowl of rice toward you, ignoring your distrust. “Sit. Eat.”
Your fingers close around the cool metal of your fork, but before you can lift it, his hand darts out and catches your wrist, stopping you with a firm grip.
"What the—" you blurt, eyes snapping up to meet his.
“No forks,” he says smoothly, leaning back lazily. “Eat with your hands.”
“You’re in my apartment,” you remind him. “That means I get to use forks.”
“Do you eat ramen with forks? No,” he counters, tearing a poori in half and dipping it into the butter chicken.
You give him a deadpan look. “Shiva, seriously, what did you do?”
He takes a slow bite. “Eat.”
You sigh, muttering under your breath, but finally give in — tearing a piece of poori, mimicking him. The flavor bursts across your tongue — rich, layered, alive. Your irritation melts a little.
He notices, of course he does. Shiva grins, eyes glinting like he’s won something. “See? You like it.”
“It’s… good,” you admit.
“Good?” He laughs, mock-offended.
You roll your eyes but can’t stop smiling.
“Alright, fine. It’s incredible. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” he says, leaning his chin on his hand, gaze soft but teasing.
You reach for another poori — still watching him warily.
“Eat first,” he sighs. “Interrogations later.”
After the meal, you’re both on the sofa with a movie playing on the TV that neither of you is really watching because you’re locked in a stare-off. “Seriously Shiva. What did you do?”
His fingers drum against his knee, a slow rhythm that feels like a countdown. "_____, remember that thing I mentioned? The vote every thousand years for humanity to continue?" He watches your face, waiting for recognition to dawn. You say nothing. The butter chicken turns to lead in your stomach. Your spine goes rigid, nails biting half-moons into your palms. Suddenly, you understand why he'd gone to such lengths to make you a meal.
Was that meant to be my last meal?
When you don’t answer, he continues. “There was a vote yesterday. The majority of the vote was to end humanity.”
Slowly, you turn to look at the table that hasn’t been cleared yet. “Was that meant to be my last meal?” you ask him aloud this time. “Could I at least get... I don’t know... ice cream? I don’t have any ice cream. Is it going to be painful? Oh my god—wait, no, fuck you guys.”
He grabs your wrist, holding you in place. “Let me finish, ______. You are going to be safe.” he promises, but you're not sure how he can promise that. If all the gods have planned to wipe out humanity, how will you be safe? “Before it could be confirmed, we were interrupted—have you heard of Ragnarok?”
You nod automatically, then shake your head. “Kind of? What does it have to do with you guys wiping us out? I know humans are horrible, that doesn’t mean you have to get rid of all of us.”
With his upper arm, he drags a hand through his hair, rubbing the cloth around his head with enough force to make it shift. “Ragnarok is a final battle between gods and humans. A tournament. Gods versus humans.” He doesn’t say it aloud, but you can see in his eyes that he thinks it’s dumb. Just slowing down the inevitable.
He moves closer, shifting his hands from your wrists to your hands, and leans forward, nose almost brushing yours. “Don’t worry, you’ll always be safe with me.” He promises, “It will start soon, so I have to go to Vahalla. You’re coming with me.”
Quickly you pull away, eyes wide. “What? COMING WITH YOU? Shiva, are you going to kill me? I don’t want to—”
He pulls you against his chest with a sigh that vibrates through you. "Kill you? No. The exact opposite." His arms tighten around you. "I'm bringing you to Valhalla because I need you where I can see you, where I know you're safe. I don't know how long this tournament charade will last, but you'll be by my side through all of it."
“What happens if the gods win?” you ask.
He laughs. “When the gods win, everything is reset. Humanity disappears. They’ll try again in a millennium, if they feel up to it.”
“And if the humans win?”
He shrugs, as if the answer is self-evident. “No regular human can even graze a god.” His voice is equal parts pride and contempt. “They’re picking the best, but what’s ‘best’ when humans are going against gods?”
“Do you want humanity to end?”
He doesn't even blink. "Yes. For a millennium, we've watched them destroy everything they touch. Their wars, their greed, their pollution—" he waves a dismissive hand, "—it only escalates."
You feel your jaw slacken, your pulse quickening beneath your skin. The way he's looking at you—like you're somehow separate from what he's condemning—makes your stomach twist.
He must see the discomfort flicker over your face. Shiva gives a short bark of a laugh, shrugs, like there's humor to be found in the tragedy. "Don't take it personally. It's not you—it's everyone else. It's the odds. If a few billion humans won't stop setting their home on fire, what are the gods for, anyway?" He says it with a lightness that makes your ribs hurt.
When you finally speak, it's through a mouth gone cottony. "Is that what you want me to say? That humans deserve it? That you're right?"
He looks at you for a long time. "I'm not asking you to agree with it, ______. I'm just making sure you know what's coming."
A beat of silence. Your pulse thuds in your throat.
"You know, for someone who says humans are trash, you spend a weird amount of time with me," you say sharply.
His smile stretches, all teeth and mischief. "You're different," he says, thumb tracing his jawline. "Like watching a firework that knows it's going to explode but lights itself anyway." He bumps your shoulder with his, fishing for a reaction, but you keep your eyes fixed on the silent TV screen, then, voice hollow, reply. "So, the gods wipe out humanity while you keep your pet human safe in a gilded cage. How thoughtful."
Something shifts in his expression, as if your words have finally penetrated. The laughter drains from his face, replaced by a hollow echo of his former confidence. Shiva leans back, with all four arms extended forward, then props one arm to support his head.
His voice drops to barely a whisper. "That's not what this is." He gestures between you with one hand while another rubs the back of his neck. "You're not some... pet. You're—" The word hangs unfinished in the air. Something flickers across his face—a crack in his divine certainty. His golden eyes dart away from yours, then back again, as if hoping the right word might materialize in the space between you.
The quiet between you feels like a physical thing, heavy and sharp-edged. In front of you, the TV casts flickering blue light across your skin, his face, the room. Some old foreign film plays—the kind with terrible dubbing where the actors' mouths move wrong. On screen, a man runs toward a woman across a field, his mouth forming words that don't match the sounds coming out. Their faces already know the ending won't be happy. You've sat through apocalypse blockbusters without blinking, but this cheap melodrama suddenly feels like a knife between your ribs.
You run your palm over the armrest. "All I wanted tonight was popcorn and horror movies on the screen. Not some farewell dinner before the apocalypse.”
"Haven't you been listening? Nothing will happen to you."
You trace a finger along the seam of the couch cushion, not meeting his eyes. "Funny, isn't it? Billions of candles lit, knees bloodied on prayer mats, and this is the divine response." A bitter laugh escapes you. "But I guess we had it coming. We've been crossing species off the list for centuries—dodo, Tasmanian tiger, woolly mammoth, and a lot of other cool species. I suppose we're just the final entry in humanity's extinction record.” You lean back and stare at the ceiling.
You press your lips together, then tilt your head. "Can I at least wear a 'Team Humanity' t-shirt?"
Shiva's laugh rumbles low in his chest. "Wear whatever you want. Just know when I step into the arena, I better hear your voice above all others."
Your eyes meet his, something defiant flickering behind them. "That might depend on who you're up against."