Chapter Text
It was jarring -- the feeling of death. One moment, he was alive, scrolling through his phone while music pulsed through his ears. The next, his mama’s abrupt scream tore through his focus. He barely had time to look up before the headlights of the oncoming car swallowed him whole.
He didn’t remember the impact. It all happened too fast. One second, he was in the car, panic quickly spreading throughout his body. The next, he was on the pavement, unmoored from time and space. Distantly, he registered screaming, one of them, he thought, was his mama’s. Shadows loomed, voices swelled, and through the haze, a chilling certainty settled in.
He was going to die, alone beneath the sun.
And yet, it wasn’t the pain or the fear that was burned into his memory—it was the scorching sun. It must have been midday, for the sun was directly above him and watching his final moments unfold. He remembers how cruel it was as it mercilessly burned his retinas as he lay there motionless on the ground, unable to even move his neck. It didn’t help that the heat pressed down on him, suffocating and sinking into his skin, only serving the purpose of making the pain sharper and his breath shallower.
His vision swam in gold and white, the stinging in his eyes getting worse, as the sun incessantly shone with its brightness. It was seared into his memory how the sun scorched him from the inside out and marking the moment he felt himself slipping away. The blazing sun in the sky, both bright and unrelenting, was the last thing he saw as he slipped into oblivion.
He doesn’t think he can ever look at the sun and feel warm again.
The next time he regained consciousness was at a hospital. Or at least, he thinks it was, but his vision was too blurred to make out anything for sure. His body felt impossibly heavy as if it was weighed down by something more than just exhaustion. Sounds came in waves, too much and too little all at once, while his tongue stayed useless in his mouth, both thick and unresponsive.
He quickly realized he had no sense of time. Days bled into nights, nights into days, an endless cycle he could no longer distinguish. Trapped in his own body, unable to move, speak, or even see. He often wished for death, for this wasn’t living.
Shame burned through him whenever unseen hands cleaned him after soiling himself, a constant and silent reminder of his helplessness. But the worst part was the feeding. His lips would instinctively close around something—something he refused to acknowledge—and warm milk would flood his mouth, coating his mouth with a taste he tried desperately not to think about.
Sometimes, he wonders if this is a punishment from the gods. What sin had he committed to deserve this? To be reduced to something so helpless, so utterly dependent on an overworked nurse in a hospital that likely didn’t even pay her what she was worth.
On the days when all he can do is lie there, unable to do anything but drown in his head, he idly thinks that if the gods wanted to make an example out of someone, they had chosen well.
Over time, he began to make out a gentle, comforting hand touching his head, slowly caressing it with a tender softness. The touch was soothing, almost hypnotic, and he wondered if this was his mama. She must have had better luck than him in the crash. Yet, he didn’t remember her being this gentle, this inviting.
Then again, he has missed her this whole time. He pondered, when the days became too much, if she had died, for he had not felt her near his bed. It was an agonizing thought that he never dwelled too much on.
It wasn’t too long before his senses returned to him. Maybe the gods haven’t abandoned him yet, which was a funny thought, considering the fact that he has never been religious. And yet, they had been on his mind a lot lately.
At first, it was just a vague awareness, the world sharpening bit by bit. The blurriness in his vision faded, colors became richer, and the muffled voices around him started making sense. The weight pressing down on his body lessened as movement returned—slow, uncoordinated, but undeniably there.
But something felt…off.
His limbs felt wrong. Too small. Too weak. His fingers curled into tiny fist without his command, and when he tried to stretch, the movement was clumsy, unrefined. Panic gnawed at the edges of his mind, but he pushed it down. His body had been broken in the crash. This was just part of the recovery. It had to be.
Then came the voices.
Soft, cooing tones. Words spoken too simply, too gently, as if he were delicate. As if he were—
A chill crept up his spine.
He tried to speak, but what came out wasn’t a word. It wasn’t even close. Just a tine, pitiful noise, high-pitched and weak.
His breath hitched.
The woman above him—her face clearer no, unfamiliar but warm—smiled down at him with pure adoration.
“There, there, little one,” she murmured, rocking him gently.
Little one.
His heart pounded. He turned his head with effort, catching sight of small, chubby fingers.
No.
No, no, no.
The realization hit him like a crashing wave, drowning out all logic, all reason. He hadn’t survived the accident. He had been born again as a baby.
He didn’t know how long he cried. But he cried—a loud wailing sound full of despair for what he lost. His family, his life, and worst of all, his identity.
There were no words for the grief that flooded him. It was a hollow, crushing emptiness—the pain of knowing that nothing he had once been would ever be the same. His old life was gone, wiped away as if it had never existed.
His tears were endless, pouring out everything he couldn’t put into words. They were for the things he could never have again.
The woman held him close, wrapping him in a warm and soft cocoon, her love surrounding him like a shield. Trying with extreme effort to calm him down. She tried everything to soothe him—singing softly, rocking him gently, patting him with a rhythm she had perfected. But nothing worked. He was too far gone, consumed by the grief that filled him to the brim.
In the back of his mind, guilt twisted through him. He had robbed her of the opportunity to raise a child who was unaware, innocent—something who could experience the world with wide-eyed wonder. Instead, she had him, a broken soul trapped in the body of a baby, mourning the loss of everything he once was.
When he could cry no more, too tired to even keep his eyes open, he fell into a deep sleep. His breath evened out, slow and steady, but the world he once knew was no more.
He has been born once again. His life had been stolen from him, and in its place was this fragile existence, this unfamiliar body that was as much a stranger to him as his surroundings. His memories, once sharp and vibrant, felt like they belonged to someone else—someone he used to be.
But deep within the haze of sleep, something else began to stir. A thought, faint but undeniable.
This wasn’t just an end.
This was a beginning. And humans were many things, including capable of adapting to any situation.
The months after he was nearly consumed by grief were full and lifeless. He doesn’t know how, but he managed to pull himself out of his stupor. He thinks it was because of his mother—how bittersweet it is calling another person that title.
But slowly, he managed to accept her. Her all-encompassing love for him, no matter how death-like he was following the days he realized his predicament. She worried for him—yes, for which mother will not worry for their child that seems lost. And yet, instead of calling him unnatural she continued to cherish him as if he were a precious treasure.
Maybe that is why he was able to move on—never fully for he thinks he will always mourn his old life—and became more active. He started smiling more, giggling to himself, and absentmindedly latching on to her fingers with his tiny fist.
She was a beauty, both in soul and body. It was the first thing he noticed of her. Beautiful blonde hair, that was a touch too light to be called golden, always put up in a proper bun. Strands facing her beautiful face perfectly bringing out her silver eyes that were full of unconditional love towards him.
Those eyes were what softened his demeanor towards her. They were filled with adoration when facing him, almost as if she couldn’t believe she was holding her baby. It was filled with desperation that a single glance away would make him disappear as she held him in her arms.
While he has accepted her, for he could do nothing else but move on from the memories of an old life, her unconditional love for him was a touch too suffocating.
She was rich, that much he knew, because she wore these high-quality robes made from luxurious fabrics. Silk and velvet were tailored to flow elegantly with a leather corset to emphasize her figure modestly. Her neck always wore a necklace, either pearls or gold, along with matching earrings, which only served to highlight her slender neck. Though she never minded whenever he drooled on her shoulder, dirtying her clothes.
It was odd at first. Seeing her so sophisticated and controlled in her movements. Every motion carried a grace, a quiet precision that seemed embedded in her very bones. Her presence, calm and unshakable, felt so different from his mama, who embodied chaos and love. His mama was full of life, loud laughter, and chaotic energy thrumming through her veins that translated into a frantic intensity that exposed her raw and true emotions. She was never one to back down.
His new father carried an icy detachment, his gaze unreadable, his posture regal and distant.. He held himself in a way that spoke of power as if he were raised to stand above others. His hair was long enough to reach his midback, but the color was so blonde that it looked almost white. He looked at him with those blue eyes that masked his emotions—often his face settled into an unreadable mask—that softened immensely when facing his mother.
When he looked at her, it was as if she were the only thing keeping his world together.
He was not sure how to feel about his father. He never had one in the past, as his had left his mama pregnant and alone. But it was hard not to be charmed a bit by his father, who held him like he was afraid he would hurt him. His eyes showed a bit of panic—mask slipping whenever his mother thrust him into his arms, causing him to frantically look at her for her approval on how to hold him.
His father was awkward around him, almost as if he was unsure of how to face him. That did not stop his father from looking at him with gentle eyes full of love, for he was his mother’s child and had her blood running through him.
He did not know how he looked, probably a squished face baby that was ugly as all babies were, but he was her son and that was all that mattered to his father.
It was during the quiet morning, with birds chirping, when he first heard it, soft and delicate—like a melody whispered into the air.
As routine, his mother laid him on the ground, onto his back, to give him more room to stretch his tiny limbs. He faced the toys hanging in the air, slowly moving in circles and completely capturing his attention. He often stretched his arms, futilely trying to reach them, and this time was no different.
His mother was sitting beside him, not caring for her clothes getting dirty, her fingers gently brushing his forehead as she hummed a lullaby, her voice a soothing balm to the turmoil he still carried within. The words she spoke, almost inaudible, seemed to wrap around his fragile heart, giving it a gentle tug.
“Draco,” she whispered, her voice trembling ever so slightly as she said it.
Draco.
The name felt foreign, yet it resonated deep within him, like it was always meant to be a part of him. He blinked, trying to make sense of it, his arms still dangling in the air as they slowly came down to his sides. The sound of it felt like a memory he couldn’t quite place, a piece of a puzzle he had known before.
That did not matter, though, for it was a name. His name.
Draco echoed in his mind, each syllable rolling through his thoughts like a newfound treasure. It was the first time in his new life he had heard something so personal, something meant only for him. His lips curled into a gummy smile, laughter bubbling up and spilling from his mouth.
His mother scooped him up, her smile so radiant it stole the breath from his tiny lungs. She rocked him gently, probably deciding it was nap time, as she continued to hum her lullaby that was interrupted by his laughter.
And in that moment, as he drowsily stared at her, he was content in his new life for the first time.
The world had grown bigger. Draco could now move, not far, but enough to explore the soft carpets and polished floors of his home. His tiny hands pressed against the cool surface as he pushed himself forward, his unsteady limbs carrying him toward something new, something just beyond his reach.
That was when he saw him,
A presence—tall, looming, yet warm.
Draco froze.
Gold. Too much gold.
The man’s hair caught the light, glowing like a piece of the sun itself. His robes, dark yet embroidered with shimmering gold threads, moved like flickering embers. And for the briefest moments, Draco felt a whisper of something—something old, something wrong. A heat that did not warm, a sky that did not care, a light that did not save him.
His fingers twitched, and his insides recoiled. A memory not fully formed, a feeling of suffocating heat pressing down on fragile limbs, of light too bright, too indifferent.
Then the man moved.
He knelt, lowering himself to Draco’s level, his long golden hair slipping over his shoulder. His deep blue eyes met Draco’s—watching, waiting, unhurried. And in those eyes, there was no cruelty. No indifference. Only quiet patience, as if the man knew not to push, as if he felt the hesitation thrumming in Draco’s tiny chest.
The warmth surrounding him did not burn. It was different—soft, like morning light filtering through the trees instead of the cruel blaze of an uncaring sun.
Draco, unafraid now, did what came naturally.
He reached.
A small, chubby hand lifted toward the man, fingers curling, grasping at air as if trying to take hold of the light surrounding him.
The man let out a chuckle, a sound rich like a melody just out of reach.
“You are not what I expected,” he murmured, his voice smooth, contemplative.
Draco didn’t understand the words, not truly, but something about them settled deep in his chest. He gurgled in response, a small bubbling sound of delight, and for the first time he thought—
The sun had a name.
He just didn’t know what it was yet
Draco continued blinking up at the man, his small hand still reaching, urging him to pick him up. The golden-haired stranger watched him with quiet curiosity in his eyes before, ever so gently, settling fully onto the floor beside him. His movements were precise, fluid—like he belonged anywhere and everywhere all at once.
Draco tilted his head, tiny fingers curling and uncurling at the man’s clothes as he observed the strange, glowing man. There was something unnatural about him, something more, yet instead of fear, an odd sense of familiarity settled in his chest.
Then, the man hummed.
It was soft at first, a mere whisper of a tune, but it curled around Draco like a gentle embrace of a lullaby. The melody wove through the air, each note so effortless, so perfect, that it made something inside him ache.
The tune was unlike anything he had ever heard. It felt familiar in a way he couldn’t understand, like something older than words, older than him. It curled around him, warm and safe, filling the silence with something he somehow knew but couldn’t name.
Draco’s eyes grew heavy, his small body relaxing as the melody wrapped around him like the softest embrace. He didn’t know what the song meant, but somehow, he felt it—like starlight on water, like the hush of the world just before dawn.
His tiny body swayed slightly, instinctively reacting to the song’s rhythm. A giggle bubbled up in his throat, his gummy smile widening as his chubby fingers continued to latch onto the man’s robes.
The man let out a quiet chuckle, the sound blending seamlessly into the melody, as if his laughter was music itself.
Draco cooed in response, his small hands tugging insistently at the fabric, demanding more.
The man complied.
He sang.
His voice was divine—literally. It was pure and rich, carrying notes that no mortal could ever replicate, shifting effortlessly from deep, soothing hums to airy, celestial tones. It was music in its truest form, something that breathed life into the very air around them.
Draco’s world became that song.
His tiny limbs stilled, his breathing slowed, his lashes fluttering as the sound lulled him into drowsy contentment. His fingers, once grasping insistently at golden embroidery, now curled loosely, his body tilting ever so slightly.
The man, as if sensing his growing exhaustion, shifted. A firm yet gentle hand cradled Draco’s small frame, lifting him effortlessly into his lap. Warm enveloped him—steady, reassuring. Draco instinctively snuggled closer, his tiny face pressing against the silk of the man’s robes. The song continued, softer, now, a lullaby meant just for him.
And that was how his mother found them.
She stood in the doorway, silver eyes wide, a rare look of surprise softening her usually composed expression. For a moment, she simply watched as the golden-haired man sat on the floor, her child in his lap, singing with a tenderness that seemed almost unreal.
Then, Draco saw her lips curl into something unbearably soft.
“Well,” she whispered, stepping further inside, her voice teasing but warm. “I must say, I didn’t expect you, of all people, to be reduced to a lullaby singer.”
The man, who had been so lost in the child before him, glanced up, amusement flickering in his deep blue eyes.
“You wound me,” he drawled, though there was no real offense in his tone. “You speak as if I am not the god of music itself.”
Draco, unaware of the weight of such words, let out a small sleepy giggle. His fingers curled tighter around the fabric of the man’s robes, as if reluctant to let go, and snuggled further in the man’s embrace.
His mother chuckled, moving closer. She knelt gracefully beside them, reaching out to smooth Draco’s hair.
“Do not get too attached, my love,” she mused, her silver eyes glinting with mischief as she stared at Draco. “He has a habit of disappearing when it suits him.”
Draco saw the man merely smile, looking down at him with love in his deep blue eyes.
“Not this time,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Draco’s eyelids drooped, but he forced them open as he caught the brief flash of uncertainty in his mother’s gaze. He couldn’t fully understand it, but it was there—just a moment before it was hidden again by her usual composure.
“Draco will get attached,” his mother continued, her voice light but her eyes serious as she continued to stare at him, “and you, Apollo, are well aware of his nature.”
Draco heard a touch of something protective in her words, though she smiled as she spoke to them. His eyes fluttered, and his hand curled tighter into Apollo’s robes, almost instinctively. He wanted to stay here. He wanted this warmth to never end.
Apollo—that was the man’s name—looked at him once more, his expression softening when Draco met his eyes, while the golden light from the window spilling onto them like a warm sunbeam.
His voice was gentle, coaxing, yet carrying the strange reassurance as he addressed his mother. “I know. But he must learn. Even if it takes time. He must learn to defend himself, for his life will be hard at times.”
Draco didn’t fully understand the meaning behind Apollo’s words, but there was something in the way he said them—something serious, something important. He felt a slight shift, like a change was coming, but for now, his world was still warm and sleepy. He focused on Apollo’s voice, trying to latch onto the calm, deep tones.
“I won’t push him,” Apollo added, his eyes still soft with affection as he looked at his mother. “Not until he is ready. But there is no better place for him to start than with other people like him.”
Draco saw his mother hesitate, her hand pausing as she smoothed Draco’s hair. There was a quiet wariness in her gaze, a subtle tightening of her lips.
“I understand,” she replied, though Draco could feel the tension in her touch. “But he is my only child. After so many losses...” She trailed off, her voice faltering, but she didn’t look away.
Draco could feel the weight of her words, the heaviness of the emotion in her voice, even if he couldn’t understand it fully.
Apollo seemed to sense the delicate nature of the situation as he looked at his mother, his gaze full of understanding that went beyond mere words.
“I would never take him from you,” Apollo said, his voice full of conviction. “This is for him, for his safety. I will try to wait until you’re ready but know that time does not wait for all.”
His mother’s lips parted as if to say something more, but instead, she sighed softly, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. Her silver eyes, which always seemed so distant and unreadable to Draco, softened as she looked at him. Then, she tore her gaze away from him, meeting Apollo’s eyes once more with slight wariness that had now been tempered with a quiet acceptance.
“We will talk about it more later,” she said at last, her voice steady but still holding that thread of concern.
Apollo’s smile remained, warm and patient. “Of course. We still have time.”
Finally, no longer able to battle the drowsiness that had engulfed him, he drifted his eyes shut. His tiny hands still clinging onto Apollo’s robes.
He didn’t see him for a long time after that.