It is only one night and a million deaths, but it is enough.
He watched him now, dark blue eyes reflecting the water of the pool, black hair falling like a river of shadows. His vision is blurred in the night time, one eye scarred shut. It was never meant to happen.
His chest aches.
And as if hearing the pulse of his life, Ashura turns.
"No," he whispers, suddenly there before him with an unnatural speed and grace. His mind is slow, like walking up a river. But he knows enough to feel long, thin hands curl against his cheek: and the scar burns like fire.
"I didn't mean to," he whispers, almost electing a laugh.
The hair beneath both their hands is soft and flowing.
His heart aches a little more at the softness of skin he has only ever seen hardened in the fear and anger of the battlefield. Leaning down with a rustle of his kimono, he placed a kiss on that cheek, put arms around that body. He did not need to think any more.
The bed that Ashura-ou sleeps on is almost too large and extravagant, but so has their love. Hidden beneath swords and armor, it had struggled to surface and shine. His chest ached now as if trying to shine out with that love.
Both their bodies are pockmarked from over the years. Swords, halberds, arrows...
His lips press onto the scar over his eye, and he cups the head, kissing back.
His eyes squeeze closed as the tension in his chest rises, an unnatural heat flooding his body. Ashura's cries are as behind a veil, rising as his own body moves.
...And everything shines, floods out, leaving him a dream.
Ashura-ou is a king. He has everything and one desire, and when he sees those two laugh together the desire floods his body, tasting of bitter red blood on his tongue.
Dark eyes, glittering with tears of apology haunt him.
There are no gods who will listen to him.
The children are everything.