Jaguar kneels over the small sleeping form of her young brother. She strokes one finger gently over his golden brown cheek. His skin is as yet unmarked by the green tattoos her people painted across her own. She is fifteen. He is five.
“You’re the god of what again?” the current avatar of the god of death asked.
“None of your business,” the much shorter redhead replied.
They were just teenagers and probably had no business being avatars, but gods never bothered much asking the mortals that channeled them.
“But we’re partners now, Chuuya!” Dazai persisted. “Surely it’s something to do with Death!” Be careful who you want to meet, Dazai thought. He just might keep you around.
Chuuya recoiled. “Passion,” he replied bluntly.
“Passion.” Dazai blinked. “Passion?”
Chuuya’s body language was tense, but he refused to elaborate.
What he was refusing to tell his new ‘partner’ was that he wasn’t the avatar of the god of passion. He was the god of passion—full of all the pleasure and violence that generally entailed. He was the avatar of another power though because it didn’t seem to care whether it channeled its way through a mortal or a young god who just happened to be wandering the earth when the last avatar of calamity died.
“What exactly are you passionate about?” Dazai asked, wide-eyed. “I’m looking for a beautiful woman to—”
Chuuya shoved him into a tree. “Not that kind of passion.”