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Immortality does not mean living forever, like depression does not mean sadness and happiness does not mean a smile or a laugh. It is something deeper, stranger, more complicated. Depression is an aching hollowness in your chest where your ribcage gapes open like bony petals curling around the void where your heart should have been, the feelings all scooped out. It is the intense rages and griefs, the violent tempest of emotions swinging back and forth in a wild dance until you burn yourself out. And, of course, the sadness. Happiness is the butterflies beating their tiny wings in your chest, sending your heart soaring until your feet could lift off the ground. It is the unbridled, swooping joy and warm, quiet contentment. And, of course, the smiles and laughter.
Immortality is no simpler a thing. It is not the equivalent of living forever. It is not life at all. All living things die. Immortality is little more than a static, unyielding existence. Boiled down to its essence, it is a total absence of change. An immortal is carved from stone that does not weather through the centuries, always as perfect and cruelly beautiful as ever. The youth never fades, the wrinkles never form, the hair never grays. It is barely a person at all, the god. It will survive through the centuries, unchanging.
A god will never die, but it will never live either.
A child god is born from a wish, and this wish is the chisel and sculptor. It is what carves a god out of the ether and breathes the spark of immortality into it. It will define a god for its entire existence, and a god cannot change because the wish that gives it form does not.
Yato does not understand this as a child, but he lives it nonetheless. He kills and culls because that is his nature, and it seems the simplest thing in the world to him. It is black and white. He has a purpose carved into his soul, and he wants nothing more than to fulfill it. Father's approval is a measure of his success, and Hiiro molds to him like a second skin. She has the same purpose carved into her, and with her Yato is content to do his job.
Sakura shakes his world to its core. When he binds her to him, her name sears through his veins like wildfire, leaving him gasping for a breath he shouldn't need. Her life and death seize control of his empty existence, filling it to bursting for a brief and blinding moment before settling down to nest in a hole in his soul he had never realized was there. It's raw and bright and frightening in its intensity. He has never felt more…alive. He has never felt more alive than when her life sinks its claws into his soul and settles in like it belongs there.
She does not have the same purpose and does not encourage his. She is different from Father, who has never told Yato there could be another way to live. She is different from Hiiro, whose existence seems as empty as Yato's own and lacks the same spark of life.
Yato is fascinated, drawn like a moth to the flame. From Sakura, he learns that he can make his own choices and explore different ways of life. That he can be who he wants to be, and that he can want. That he is capable of wanting something more than Father's approval, something more than the fulfillment of a purpose someone else assigned him.
He spreads his wings a little. It's a rocky road, but he lets Sakura take his hand and show him what life really is, even if he never quite lets go of Father.
And then suddenly she's gone, in as bright and painful a blaze as she came, and the pain is like nothing Yato has ever known. He realizes that life is death, that the beautiful pieces of Sakura nestled in his heart can bring as much destruction as joy.
And he realizes that she was wrong: he does have the purpose of making death out of life. He tried to change, and only managed to do the same thing to her. This is what he is. The time with Sakura was little more than an illusion. The illusion of freedom when immortality has none to spare.
And he realizes that he cannot—cannot—change, because Father's wish does not change and Yato is formed from a wish. If he changes, he will deny his very existence. If he changes, he will simply disappear.
He goes back to being what he has always been and will always be. Father smiles and pats him on the head and Hiiro slides back into his hand, fitting perfectly like she'd never left. Yato goes on like he always has, a god made for killing.
But he's aware of the hollowness now, in a way that he wasn't when he didn't know any better. Sakura opened something within him, and he doesn't quite fit into his role as well as he used to. It itches and chafes, and he wonders if he's a failure for it.
He still watches the humans Sakura had loved, watches as they live their lives and lose them at his sword. He watches the life fade from glassy eyes as breaths slow to a stop and heartbeats go silent. He presses his hand to still chests and wonders why their lives are tied to that strange, rhythmic beat of their hearts.
And he presses his hand to his own still chest and wonders why his isn't.
Gods don't die. Death would imply change, and immortality forbids change. A god can be 'killed' in a select few ways, but this is little more than a ripple in an otherwise unchanging existence that is soon smoothed out and forgotten. The god will be reborn with the same qualities and characteristics and purpose. Perhaps a handful of small, insignificant things will be altered, but it means little to nothing in the grand scheme of things. Reincarnation and the short 'growing up' phase that follows are the closest gods will come to any kind of change. And in truth, they are as much an illusion as their death.
And if a god simply disappears… Well, that's because they are obsolete and their purpose is void and they have faded already from the memories and hearts of humans. The world has changed around them, and they have been unable to change along with it. So if they quietly fade from existence, from a world that has already forgotten them and in which they no longer belong, has anything really changed at all?
It's never the same after Sakura. Yato does his job and does it well, but he's suddenly aware of the fundamental difference between him and the humans. It isn't that they are lower creatures or lack a proper connection to the Far Shore or live in a different world. It's that they're alive. They are warm and bright and bursting with vitality.
Yato watches with a trace of envy. They will soon flicker and fade like a candle flame sputtering out, but until then they live every second of their short lives. It's very different from the cold hollowness weighing down Yato's bones. Humans take every breath and feel every heartbeat in a way that he can't. He doesn't understand the ones who want to throw it away. If they are fortunate enough to be given the gift of life, why wouldn't they fight to their dying breath to keep it? Yato would, if he had the chance. He scorns the ones that squander their unappreciated gifts, but in the end it's easier not to care too much one way or the other.
He goes on like this for a small eternity, going through the motions and quietly stamping out his fascination for the humans. His job is easier if he doesn't care, and Father quickly tires of any undue interest Yato might show. Nothing changes, really.
Not until Kazuma comes bumbling into Yato's life in an awkward, desperate, headlong rush. His is the kind of request Yato has little use for, but the god takes it despite Hiiro's mocking. Maybe it's because he's curious. Why does this shinki care so deeply about a god? There will always be a bond between a god and their shinki, but it puzzles Yato why this one runs so deep. A god is not alive, not human, not capable of returning that kind of love and devotion.
But then again, that is why Yato has always been interested in Bishamon herself. He has only seen her from afar, but she inspires a wide-eyed admiration that he hasn't felt since Sakura. It's not only that she's strong—although she definitely is—but that she seems more alive than any other god he's ever seen. She's so bright and vibrant surrounded by her shinki. He's never thought much of the other gods, jaded about their static existence and dull parody of life.
He doesn't understand how Bishamon can be so…human.
But when he cuts her out of the phantom, the remains of her corrupted shinki, she seems small and shriveled and lifeless. Maybe she is not as different as he thought. He turns away, disappointed and losing interest. He doesn't acknowledge Kazuma's tearful thanks, just walks away.
But Kazuma comes back.
He trembles and shakes and stumbles over his words, but he faces the magatsukami despite his fear. Yato is bemused by his return and the thanks he bestows. In general, he receives little appreciation in his line of work. Kazuma comes bearing a food offering. Just a few small rice balls, really, but Yato is not accustomed to receiving offerings either.
He hasn't bothered to eat in a long time—why should he when he can live without eating or drinking or breathing?—even though Father is always generous in providing food, but it doesn't seem right to refuse an offering. For something so simple, it tastes remarkably sweet. It reminds him of the physical pleasures of sharing a meal with a friend, something he hasn't done since Sakura. For a few hours, it chases away the emptiness inside him. Just a little.
And then Kazuma comes back, again and again and again. Even when Hiiro mocks him and Yato waves him off with cold eyes and tells him not to come back, he still returns every few months, years. Yato does not think his debt needs to be repaid on so many occasions, but Kazuma always seems to find him and, sometimes, Yato finds him in return.
Kazuma is different from Hiiro. He's young and uncertain and wears his heart on his sleeve. He's more alive. He makes Yato want to be alive. Yato wonders if this is why Bishamon was always so vibrant: she had shinki to live through.
One day he throws caution to the wind and names a new shinki, because Kazuma is great but he doesn't belong to Yato. The air rushes into his lungs in a sharp inhale as he's assaulted with memories. The moment stretches into a lifetime as he lives the shinki's life and dies her death alongside her. He's left gasping, his body vibrating with energy.
He eats dinner with Father and Hiiro that night, even though he hasn't bothered in ages. They don't say anything, although curiosity glimmers in the depths of Hiiro's eyes and Father raises his eyebrows. Hiiro holds her peace until they're settling into their room for the night and Father is out on his own mysterious errands.
"You're breathing again," she says.
Yato touches his chest automatically, pressing his fingers to the spot where a human heart would lie beneath the skin with a feather-light touch. His heart is silent, of course, just like it has always been, but his chest flutters beneath his fingertips in time to his shallow breaths.
"Huh," he says with mild surprise. "I suppose I am."
It feels more natural now, whereas before it was a chore to remember each breath and easier not to bother at all. But somewhere out in the makeshift shelter he'd found, there is a shinki huddled away from the cold whose name is written on his unbeating heart and whose life is bound to his own existence. With her life coursing through his veins, he can breathe in time to her heartbeat. He can even feel something in his chest, something tight that says she is troubled. It's hardly a heartbeat, but it fills the hollow in his chest, just a little.
If he feels so alive from naming just one fledgling shinki, he can only imagine how Bishamon would have felt to have so many. No wonder she had been so vibrant. It's a heady feeling, a potentially toxic cocktail of joy and pain with every feeling magnified brighter than he's felt in a long time. Since Sakura, he realizes, and he wonders if he felt so alive with her simply because the only time a god lives is when it gives a second life to a shinki and lives vicariously through it.
It's a thrilling, nerve-racking two and a half weeks. He's aware of the danger, and takes great pains to keep Father and Hiiro from discovering what he has done. But he doesn't regret it, because he hasn't felt anything with so much intensity in ages and he had forgotten how good it felt to feel.
And then one day she asks to leave. Yato doesn't want her to leave, of course. He might not have bonded with her as strongly as with Sakura, but her name is carved into his heart and he can't help but care deeply.
And it's because he cares that he lets her go.
It hurts more than he anticipated, losing her. It hurts a lot. If he was burning bright before, it only magnifies the pain just as much. He had chosen to feel, and now he pays the price.
She rips out a piece of his heart when she goes, the part that her name had claimed, and the pain is raw and searing at the jagged edges.
But then, slowly, it fades. The feelings dull back down into indifferent numbness, until he can't quite remember what it was like to feel so blindingly happy or grievously hurt. They leave him even emptier than before, because there's a new hole in his chest next to the one Sakura left. It scoops the hollow in his chest a little wider.
"You stopped again," Hiiro observes, studying him like he's a puzzle that needs solving.
Yato draws in a utilitarian breath for the purpose of making sound to reply. "I suppose I have."
Each breath just seems laborious, ponderous, unnecessary. He has to remind himself to take each one, whereas before it was second nature. Now it just seems like too much effort to bother.
But he remembers when things had been different, like liquid sunshine slipping through his fingers as he tries to grasp it again. This is a dangerous game he has stumbled into. He craves the high, the intensity of life. But he's equally afraid of the plunge if another shinki decides to leave him, ripping apart his malformed heart and stealing his ability to feel as they go. Could it really be worth the risk?
Yato isn't sure, but it's a drug and he can't help but take another hit.
There is one small loophole in the gilded cage of immortality: a god cannot change on their own, but sometimes, under special circumstances, a shinki can help.
A shinki's immortality is not the same as a god's. A shinki was once alive. And even if they are dead, a god bestows upon them another life by binding what's left of their spirit to their own immortal existence. It's easier to kill a shinki than a god. If a shinki dies, it does not reincarnate or fade. A shinki's immortality is incomplete, imperfect.
It is, in short, a gift.
A god gifts a shinki a second life, and, in return, the shinki unknowingly provides the god with a vicarious life and death through them.
Any shinki can do this, but it takes a special kind of shinki to inspire change in a god. A shinki is, or was, human, and humans are capable of change. It is one of those concepts that applies more to shinki and humans than gods, like the idea of right and wrong and sin. And like those ideas, it is something that a god learns from them.
In a pinch, such as when a god is newly reincarnated and relatively malleable, any shinki can force some kind of small change. But meaningful change, that takes something special.
A hafuri is not simply a protector. Any shinki can protect their god. Hafuri are special because they are willing to give up the name and life their god gifted them for their god, gifting it unto them in return and bringing it full circle. A hafuri is the epitome of a god's life, for they have given their life to their god.
A guidepost is also a special kind of shinki, hafuri or not. Exemplars do not simply direct their gods, but guide them along paths they never realized they could follow. A guidepost has the unique ability to take up the chisel and slowly, painstakingly carve something new out of the mold their god's wish holds them to. It is not easy by any stretch of the imagination, because gods are not built for change. But with some time and effort, they can slowly reshape their god.
The most special shinki are both, hafuri and exemplar. They are a god's most precious gift and saving grace. But in the end, most gods are left waiting forever.
Naming shinki is a roller coaster. The high is incredibly intense, and all the emotions that come after—the happiness, pain, sadness, fondness—are magnified when there's a shinki feeling them alongside him. Yato feeds off their emotions, and in return he can't help but fall in love with each one.
But there's always the crash that comes after, because he's too poor, scary, secretive, difficult to deal with. His shinki last only a few weeks, maybe a couple months. One sets a record at five and a half months. One sets another at two and a half days.
Every time they go, they take a piece of Yato with them. He thinks this isn't very fair, but a god uses their own life to give a shinki a name, and that name goes when they do. He inks every one across his heart, and each shinki rips out a jagged chunk around it when they leave. It hurts unreasonably much, and he's surprised that such a dead, unfeeling organ can experience so much pain when it's dismantled one little piece at a time.
In between shinki, he retreats to the safety of stability. So what if it's hard to feel much of anything at all and he always feels like he's hollow and missing something? So what if every day is the same and he follows Father's orders despite a secret, burning desire to change? Stability is good. Stability is safe.
He can be content with Father and Hiiro's steady, unchanging presence. He belongs to Father and the wish is everything. It gives Yato a reason for existence, a purpose, and he supposes he should be content with that. And Hiiro might not bring about the wild exhilaration that the more volatile shinki do, but she doesn't leave either. There are no highs, but maybe that's worth avoiding the crash.
Because Yato isn't sure the pain of naming shinki is worth the fleeting, evanescent pleasure it buys. Sometimes he thinks it is, when his empty existence chafes at him too much, and then he names a new shinki. And then the shinki leaves, and he remembers why it's really not. Every time, he tells himself not to do it again. Every time, he still does.
He tries to steel himself: don't care too much, they don't care about you so you shouldn't care about them, they're just going to leave anyway. It helps, a little, but he never quite masters the art of not-caring. He's very good at making everyone else think he's managing, though, which doesn't help him keep his shinki any longer.
He does his best not to get too attached, goes into every naming with the expectation that the contract will be broken sooner rather than later, keeps his guard up in the face of a never-ending procession of new shinki. And still, it stings every time they leave. Some hurt worse than others, but they all steal another piece of his mangled heart.
Kazuma stays, though. His loyalty is to Bishamon, but Yato will take what he can get. The remarkable thing about Kazuma is that he encourages Yato to try other things when he expresses an offhand interest, admires the collection of random skills he's picked up over the centuries that Father and Hiiro call useless, sticks by him when everyone else walks away. Sometimes when Yato is feeling especially selfish and mean-spirited, he half-wishes he had listened to Hiiro and made Kazuma a stray. But he also knows that this peculiar sort of friendship would be impossible if he had done that, and he respects Kazuma too much to dwell on it.
But Yato wants a shinki like that, so he tries again and again and again. And each time they breathe new life into his veins, he finds the will to change.
He leaves Father and Hiiro and bounces from job to job, trying everything under the sun to find something he's good at, something that can replace the purpose he was born with, the one he doesn't want. He fails at each one, and although Kazuma always offers support, it drives his real shinki away. And every time they go, they drive him back to Father.
He bounces between trying his hardest to make something of himself and giving up to slink back to Father, and in the end he gets nowhere. No matter how far he runs or how big he smiles or how hard he tries, he always ends up right where he left off. No matter how much it looks like he's changing on the outside, he's still the same as he's always been. He runs in circles, around and around and around, for centuries.
And then he names Yukine. He tries his best not to get attached, like always. He assumes from the beginning that the kid won't last long, and all the shenanigans afterward threaten to prove him right. The kid is a brat and sins at every turn, but he's got that little piece of Yato's heart and Yato has never been good at letting go. He will release his shinki when they want to find a better life, but he will not send them off to die. Not like this. He sticks with the kid to the bitter end, despite the blight and stinging and general misery. Right when everything seems lost, Yukine survives the ablution and stays.
He stays.
Yato is cautiously hopeful. Not too much, because he knows how this always ends and he's sure the kid will leave sooner or later, but enough. It's scary how much he wants it, so he tamps it down as best he can.
But then Yukine saves him, becomes a hafuri right there on Bishamon's doorstep, and all the hope and affection Yato has been suppressing come rising up again. Yato has always loved his shinki with every fiber of his unbeating heart, but it has been a millennium since one has loved him back.
Even though he knows it will hurt a thousand times worse when it all inevitably falls apart, he drops his guard and pulls down his carefully constructed walls and allows himself to fully love this child. His child.
It's a dangerous, intoxicating high. It has been centuries since he's felt anything so strongly, since he felt so strongly about anyone as he does about Yukine and Hiyori. It feels so good, even if it hurts. Even if it will hurt him to breaking when he loses them.
He'll worry about that later. Yukine is going to be his exemplar, and Yato will follow his guidance everywhere. This time, he's going to change for good, change permanently, change into who he wants to be, and it's going to be because of Yukine and Hiyori.
They teach him how to breathe again.
The heart is the center of everything. You can have a lot of heart, a big heart, a heart two sizes too small. You can be heartless. Your heart can jump for joy or race in fear. Your heart can be broken, stolen, given freely. It can love and be loved. Home is where the heart is.
These things define the human experience, the human condition, the human life. They are things humans take for granted, and they attribute all those emotions, all that love, all that humanity, to the heart. Maybe it's a catchall, a metaphor. But the heart is vital to human life, and humans give it respect accordingly. Metaphor or not, these things all belong to the heart because the heart is the center of life.
Gods look human, but they are not and never will be. Their hearts are for show only, like the blood curdling stagnant in their veins, the breath pooling needlessly in their lungs, the food totally lacking in sustenance that they consume out of habit or curiosity. They will bleed if they are cut, they can breathe if they so choose and eat if they desire, but they cannot coax their heart to beat any more than a human could start or stop it at will.
A god's heart is silent and still, as good as dead. Perhaps that is why a god cannot truly live. Perhaps they cannot love or cherish or experience life to the fullest because they have no hearts at all.
Yato is woken by rough shaking and the grating, high-pitched whine of voices raised in alarm. He blinks blearily at Hiyori and Yukine bending over him. Their faces are pressed close, eyes wide and panic written across their features. Their voices tangle together in a panicked jumble of words he can't decipher.
He can see their distress and feel Yukine's fear squeezing his chest like a faux heartbeat, but he doesn't understand what's the matter and blames it on his half-asleep state. The table sits abandoned across the room where Yukine's futon will be put out at night, still covered in papers and pencils and textbooks from the math lesson that had bored him to sleep in the first place.
"Oh, thank goodness, you're awake!" Hiyori says, and Yato stares at her blankly, still trying to figure out what's so alarming about math. "Are you okay?"
"Wha…?" He sits up, and the children shuffle back a pace to give him a little room, although they still hover too close for comfort, watching him with too-big eyes. "What's going on?"
"Aside from you freaking us out?" Yukine demands.
Yato rubs his hand across his eyes, feeling too old and tired to deal with whatever this is. Grogginess is leaving him woefully unprepared for excitable children. He briefly entertains the idea of giving up sleep again, but then remembers that he likes it too much even if it's not really necessary.
"I was just asleep," he grumbles. "What happened?"
"Well, we noticed you weren't breathing!" Hiyori says, twisting her hands together. "And when we came to check on you, you didn't have a heartbeat either!"
Yato stares blankly for a moment more before comprehension dawns on him. "Oh. Huh. I've been back in the habit for a while, but maybe I stopped while I was asleep and not paying attention. It's not a big deal."
"Not a big deal?" Hiyori repeats, her voice rising high in incredulity. "We thought you were dead!"
Yato snorts dismissively and shakes his head. "It's not that easy to kill a god. I don't need any of that to stay alive. I fell back into the habit of breathing, but it's not like I have to. And I've never had a heartbeat."
"Of course you have," Yukine says. "You have to…"
He trails off, a troubled frown pinching his face. Hiyori looks a little green.
Yato doesn't understand the big deal, but he's had centuries to get used to the idea and it's not like he's ever known anything else. These two are just kids, used to human needs, and he supposes it might be more disturbing for them.
"Nope," he says. "Not once. Gods don't have hearts."
"Of course you do!" Hiyori protests automatically.
"Not functioning ones."
They stare at him a little more, like he's a strange specimen under the microscope, and he waits patiently. Sort of patiently. He's already grown bored of the topic. Now that he's awake, he wants to do something fun. More fun that math.
"Can I…?" Hiyori asked finally, uncertainly.
She trails off but leans forward, hesitates, and presses her palm to his chest. He eyes her in bemusement but shrugs at the request.
Hiyori leaves her hand there a few moments longer before withdrawing it, and her frown only deepens. Yato doesn't quite understand the look in her big brown eyes, something steeped in worry and pity and goodness knew what else, but he doesn't like it.
"That's so strange," she mumbles.
Yato shrugs again, feeling a little defensive now. He doesn't want her pity.
"I'm not human," he says.
"But–"
"I look human, but that's only because I'm born of a wish. Humans form gods in their own image. On the outside I look the same, but on the inside I'm something different. I thought you knew that."
"But–"
"Did you finish your lesson yet? Because it already bored me to sleep, and I'm dying to do something else."
The kids drop the subject, but Yato can tell from the sidelong looks they keep giving him that it's not over. They seem distracted and uncomfortable the rest of the day, constantly sneaking looks like he's suddenly morphed into a strange, two-headed beast.
So he's expecting it to come up again sooner or later in one form or another, but he's expecting Hiyori to be the one to gather up the nerve to broach the subject first. She's more of a talker than Yukine, more willing to delve into the serious or emotional side of things. Not always by much, but it would be hard to beat Yukine's reticence in such matters.
So it does take Yato by surprise when Yukine is the first to raise the topic later that night. The sun has already set, and Yato is stretched across his futon reading a magazine he swiped from Hiyori's house. One of those stupid wrestling magazines. He doesn't understand the appeal, but there's no way he's going to lose Hiyori's attention to these guys.
"Does it feel weird?" Yukine asks suddenly from across the room, where he's been pretending to look over his textbook.
Yato hums a sound somewhere between 'huh?' and 'what?' and flips the page. He scowls at the glossy illustrations of overly muscled men attacking each other. What's so great about this Tono guy anyway?
"The whole… You know." Yukine pauses as if expecting Yato to get it just from that, but the god is much too caught up in the stolen magazine. He huffs out a breath and tries again. "Not having a heartbeat or having to breathe or any of that."
"Not really," Yato mumbles distractedly. What's so great about wrestling anyway? He's a badass with swords. Swords are way more impressive than sweaty guys with big muscles throwing each other around. "That's just how it is, like how we don't really have to eat or sleep or any of that."
"But I have a heartbeat and breathe and eat and sleep and feel the cold and all of that, even though I'm dead."
"Well, you're still human." Yato taps his finger against the page absently and wonders how mad Hiyori would be if he runs this Tono guy through with a sword. "You were alive. And in receiving a name, you received a second life. It might not be the same, but you still have stronger ties to those human qualities.
"I have never been human. And really, I'm not exactly alive, either. I just am. Gods exist more than live. We exist to fill the purpose we were created for. We don't have hearts. Don't need them. It's different for all of us, but personally, I don't usually bother with any of those things most of the time. It's different when we have shinki. Being bonded with a human gives us stronger ties to human things, I guess. We feel most alive when we're living through you."
"That's… That's not right!" Yukine protests. "Of course you have a heart. Of course you're alive. Of course you can do more than just whatever people want you to. Of course…"
Yato stares down blankly at the page. The unusual emotion Yukine is showing has finally pulled him from his daydreams. He can feel it as a sharp ache throughout his body and a pulsing pain in his ravaged chest. The closest thing he has to a heartbeat is the tide of Yukine's emotion pulsing rhythmically in his chest, and he realizes he can be satisfied with that.
"It's true," he says with a sigh. "It's not in a god's nature to feel or care or change. At least not as strongly as it is for humans. We learn those things from our shinki. There's a reason they say gods and shinki are two halves of a whole. We complete each other. I gave you a second life, and in exchange, your heart carries mine."
There's a pause, and he wonders if this conversation can be over now so that he can go back to plotting how to best take out this Tono guy Hiyori is so obsessed with. He thinks he's probably said enough to scare Yukine off now, since the kid is still in his prickly, awkward teenage phase.
But then a small, warm body slams into him, and he has to roll over and sit up with a grunt to hug the child back.
"I think that you have a good heart," Yukine mumbles into the god's chest. "I think your life is important too."
He tries to pull back almost immediately, face red and excuses already jumping to the tip of his tongue, but Yato grabs him and pulls him back. Yukine's heart thunders wildly, and the vibrations echo in Yato's chest where they press together. Yato isn't suddenly healed, suddenly something different than what he is, but Yukine's heart is beating in his chest and he wouldn't have it any other way.