Author's Note: This was written for the 2013 Kurofai Olympics, for the prompt "Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea." Yeah, I'm not sure how that turned into Kuro-dite and Faionysus either. It's best not to look into some things too far. Anyway, the good news is that the fic is complete! The bad news is that I am a being of very little brain and kind of jammed most of the writing of it into oh...three days (like you do...), so I am breaking it into smaller chapters so I can edit as I post. There are six in total, and I will try my damnedest to post one chapter per day!

The beginning of a story is a fickle thing, depending on how thorough one wishes to be in its telling. This story is no different; ascribing a singular point in time the title of "beginning" is a tricky business and more guesswork than science. Does it begin seven thousand years prior to the bulk of its events, with the birth of a god and his human twin brother, or is the story of their birth better left secondary to the larger tale? Perhaps it's best to begin the narration with the introduction of the rest of the cast – a sort of "first meetings" scenario that drags the reader in and hooks them with its coyness and promises of things to come. Certainly neither of these are inconsequential to the story at large but, as is so often the case with case with tales of gods and immortals, the time gaps left between these and the bits that are actually interesting are staggering, and have a habit of irritating both reader and narrator.

Perhaps the best to begin this tale of two gods and the human son they have raised as their own is to simply set the scene at the beginning of the "interesting bits" and work from there.

Along the outskirts of Clow – greatest city of the eastern seaboard, home to the finest craftsmen and philosophers the world has known, and birthplace of the triple-dipped octopus popper – a sprawling, ancient vineyard can be found tucked into the sleepy inland hills (not so far inland as to start border disputes with the heathens in Infinity to the west, but far enough to make travel to the capital district of Outo a day-long endeavor). Its haggard appearance notwithstanding, the grapes grown and pressed here are the finest of the region and the wines aged from them in great demand among the upper classes, commoners, and priests alike. There are many who insist the soil here must be watered by runoff from Mount Edonis – home to the Gods who rule over humanity – or perhaps nourished by the blessing of the great Clow himself. Still others maintain that the strange and eccentric owner is a direct descendant of the wine god Faionysis: a man of divine quality gifted to the earth to produce wines fit for the gods. Some of these speculations are, naturally, more correct than others, but even within the walls of the vineyard, the quality of the owner remains a hotly debated subject.

The quality of the wine, however, has never been disputed. At the peak of harvest season, hundreds of field workers will flood the gates before dawn, anxious to be associated with the excellence of craft the vineyard is renowned for, and labor as late into the evening as the sun allows. The following months of fermentation and aging will fill the vast, labyrinthine cellars to the brim until spring, until the first casks are broken into to sample the vintage. This first sampling is sent out to temples far and wide for spring rituals; the rest will be stored in amphorae and distributed throughout the next years (assuming it lasts that long: the past three summers have seen the cellars run dry before the next harvest).

Fortunately (or unfortunately, if you happen to be one of the local day laborers currently out of work), the season of intense labor has passed, giving way to the long slumber of winter and finally the first, dripping announcements of spring's thaw. For now, the days begin later and end earlier and, while they may hustle and scurry to complete the days tasks while the sun is up, a general torpor settles over the vineyard in the dark hours and allows for restful nights.

So, it is a strange sight, in the early hours of the morning – before the sun has even splintered overtop the sagging tree line on the horizon – to find a shadowy figure creeping down the back stairway of the main house, skipping every third step or so to cut back the number of creaks and groans slipping from the wooden planks. The skips are a valiant effort, but a fruitless one in the end – this particular set of stairs breezed through the prime of its life some twenty years prior and is lucky its struts have yet to buckle under their own weight. The shadow figure's shoulders flinch at each mournful whine his steps drag out of the boards. Despite all appearances, this is not a burglar, nor even the repentant participant of a one-night-stand about to embark on one of the longer walks of shame their short life will ever see, but has, in fact, recently been named as one of the owners of this humble abode (at least on paper). He is, however, not aware of this, and as such is doomed to the fate of all teenage boys creeping around their parents' house under the cover of night.

"Hold it right there, hot shot," his father (by all measures that matter, if not by biology)'s voice rings (or possibly giggles) out from behind him, "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Syaoran (former shadowy figure and current grotesquely illuminated figure caught in the glare of his father's candle) ducks right and attempts – very casually – to blend in with the stacked barrels taking up space along the inner wall of the courtyard. When this inevitably fails, he opts for a more tactful approach and steps forward with his head bowed. "Good morning, Fai," he says with a note of exasperation coloring his voice. That Fai is awake this early in the morning can only mean one thing-

"It's morning?" Fai's eyes widen – not from surprise at this news, Syaoran realizes a moment too late, but because he's lost all sense of balance and finds himself suddenly unable to control both the lurch of his head and pitch of his trunk at the same time. Syaoran manages to steady him before he tumbles into the barrels – if only just – and settles him on the bottom stair before he can do any more damage to himself or the clutter in the courtyard.

"Were you out all night?" he asks, delicately leaving off the 'again' that is lingering in the back of his throat. "Getting an early start on the Spring Festival?"

The Spring Festival is the largest of its brethren celebrated by the people of Clow. For most, it's nothing more than an occasion to cast away the scarcity of winter and spring by gorging on the early harvest and polishing off the remaining stores of last year's wine, and has garnered a well-earned reputation over the years for the high incidence of drunken hedonism, debauchery, and outright obscenity that overflow yearly into the streets. For those who know better (or at least proclaim to), it is a celebration of the return of the Great Yuuko – guardian of the growing season – from the underworld and the descent of Clow to rule therein until the fall. It is also an important occasion to appease (and perhaps curry favor with) the erratic and often volatile gods that rule over them from Mount Edonis.

"Of course!" Fai snorts, "…not. Of course not! That doesn't start till sundown." He crosses one shin precariously up and over the opposite knee and leans in to brace his elbows against it. His face – distorting and retorting through a startling array of configurations – he catches with the heels of his hands to hold in place as he sways from side to side. "We stayed in," he says very seriously, "Discuss'd y'r future. We were debating whether it would be more loo…luck…more money to sell you to the royal household as a servant or try to marry you off into it-"

"That's hilarious, Fai," Syaoran sighs. He holds out his hand toward his father patiently, hoping he can at least get him up and moving toward his bed, but opts for a more direct approach as Fai takes the opportunity to stare blankly back at his fingertips, and grabs him around the wrist. "And here I thought I would hang around here for a while…keep you from drowning in the bottom of a barrel…" The last bit of this is muttered quietly to himself as he wrenches his shoulders back to pull Fai up and off the stair.

"You're no fun, Syaoran," Fai assures him, "You could at least insist that there is some precious little country girl here that you can't bear to be away from. That your heart would break in two if you couldn't see her radiant smile every morning as she tiptoes out to milk the goats and slips and you get a lovely view-"

"Come on, Fai," Syaoran tightens his grip as Fai teeters backward, lost in his own building laughter. Fai is at least on his feet, but threating to topple back over any second; Syaoran hauls him forward until he's practically slung across his shoulder.

"Course, you couldn't feel that way, could you?"

"What are you talking about, Fai?"

"Nothing, nothing."

Fai snores gently against his shoulder. Syaoran nudges him gently – at least until Fai snorts and he's sure he's awake. "Where's Kurogane? You didn't leave him at the tavern again, did you?"

"Naw, that old killjoy was in bed hours ago," Fai grumbles against Syaoran's shirt. He pushes himself up with one arm and ruffles the other violently through his hair, hissing through his teeth the entire while. "He'll be awake any minute to remind me that I've forgotten to – oh shit! I've completely forgotten to load the cart for the two of you to take into Outo today!" His hair ruffling becomes yanking and tearing at the roots as he lurches forward to bang his forehead against the wall of the house. "I'm never going to hear the end of it!" he whines, "You're going to have to get yourself some breakfast, Syaoran. I have to-"

"Fai-"

"Can't believe I spent the entire night howling at the goats in the park again-"

"Fai!" Syaoran manages to catch his father's attention just in time to register what he's said, "It's fine – I already- Wait, you just said you'd been home all night."

"I lied, Syaoran," Fai cries, laying a hand across his son's shoulder and burying his face into the opposite palm, "I'm a terrible father." He pulls back, eyes darting about wildly, and sinks his teeth into the flesh of his hand. "I'm a terrible businessman too. That's the sacrificial wine – if it's not delivered on time-"

"Fai!" Syaoran grabs him by both shoulders and shakes, "It's fine. I took care of it last night before I went to bed." He stares at Fai for a long moment with concern. "While you and Kurogane were arguing over whether or not ducks and crows are made of the same kind of meat-"

"They're not, you know," Fai says quickly, "Crows sink if you put them in water. Now, tits on the other hand-"

"Either way, I'm sure the gods aren't going to punish you because the wine is a little late," Syaoran sighs. The sun will be breaking over the horizon at any moment, destroying the last of the pleasant morning half-light, and along with it-

"You don't know them like I do!" Fai interrupts the flow of his thoughts, "But that's-" he cocks his head back to fix Syaoran with an approving, if slightly wobbly glance, "That's very good of you. You're a good son."

"Thanks-"

"Even if you are skulking around my house in the dark like some sort of miscreant." His arm catches Syaoran around the waist and pulls him close to breath enough alcohol into his ear to intoxicate a horse, "What are you doing up at this hour, anyway? Sneaking out to your little girlfriend's?"

"No," Syaoran attempts to lean away, but only ends up getting pulled closer, "I thought maybe I'd get a head start on prepping the horses and then…" he trails off as he realizes that Fai isn't listening to a damned word coming out of his mouth and is instead carrying on about girls and tits and Syaoran not appreciating his jokes.

"Still, you're such a good son," Fai repeats, "Let's get you some breakfast. I'm sure Kurogane is going to want some too before you two take off for the city. And Clow Almighty knows he has to turn everything into such a production. Don't know what we'd do without you."

"Well, I won't be going anywhere for a while," Syaoran mumbles.

"Don't be silly," Fai swings the door to the kitchen open and shoves Syaoran through the frame, "You're a man already. You won't want to live at home with your dads forever-"

"And why is that?" A gruff figure is waiting for them in the kitchen, leaning heavily over the center table with a crust of bread in his fist. Kurogane – his other father (again, maybe not biologically, but in all the ways that really matter) – fixes the two of them with a measured glare. Syaoran bites back a curse – this is exactly the scene he's been hoping to avoid this morning. He braces himself for the inevitable fireworks as Fai drops his hold on him and storms across the kitchen to rifle around the hearth. "Is there something wrong with my house?"

"It's natural that children should fly the nest," Fai grumbles in Kurogane's general direction. He fusses about with pile of logs for longer than should be necessary, but eventually manages to get a fire started. "What are you doing up already, Kuro-fancy? Wasn't expecting to see you for another hour at least."

"Tche," Kurogane snorts over his bread, "Figured you'd forget to pack the cart for us. So I got up early."

"Well," Fai waves an overly large wooden paddle in front of his face, "I didn't. Or, I did, but Syaoran already took care of it." He nods sagely and sets about emptying the contents of a large ceramic jar into the cast iron cooking cauldron. "No harm done."

"Every year it's the same," Kurogane grumbles, "Same festival, same order. What kind of idiot can't manage to remember the one commitment he has to the state? Miss these deliveries and we'll have to sell the kid into servitude."

Fai grins wickedly back at him. "Sorry, Kuro-love, I'm afraid I missed that. Something about not being able to do the one thing you're assigned?"

"Shut up." Kurogane's mug comes crashing down on the table. The table itself thuds against his thighs as he stands too quickly and nearly takes it over in his wake. "I'll be in the stable. Syaoran, get your breakfast and get outside. We've got a long day ahead of us."

Syaoran swallows heavily. His earlier attempts at impressing his fathers have been all but thwarted – this very well may be the one chance he has left-

"Actually," he stammers, "Kurogane. Um." He's worked himself through this speech many times in the past twenty four hours. So many times, in fact, that he's managed to echo the words into formlessness and banish them from his memory completely. "I was thinking," - yes, good, it was something along these lines - "Maybe I could…" - could he? - "Maybe I could take the wine into Clow. By myself. And you wouldn't need to worry about it this year."

Kurogane stares back at him. "Why?"

"Well," Syaoran starts, "Because…" He hasn't planned this far ahead. He didn't actually believe that he would ever get the words out in the first place, so where was the point in justifying them? "Because I'm almost nineteen and-"

"Because he's a grown man, Kuro-lust," Fai interrupts loudly. He's managed to saunter all the way across the room in the time it's taken Syaoran to formulate his partial thought and is now engaged in the very serious business of warding Kurogane back toward the table. "Grown men don't need their fathers haunting their every footstep." He's gesticulating wildly with his cooking spoon, sending glops of smashed, molten fig mush spattering around himself, and Kurogane is forced back toward the table just to avoid a nasty, sticky burn.

Kurogane's shins clatter against the table legs as his posterior crashes back onto the stool; his fist isn't far behind in smashing down onto the table. "Have you lost your damned mind?" he roars. "Do you remember the little incident ten years ago when you promised that you'd take care of-"

"Of course I don't remember ten years ago, Kuro-smooch," Fai laughs and slams a cup of wine down on the table in front of him, "And neither should you. You'll be old before your time." He drops a small loaf of bread next to the cup and skips back toward the fire.

Kurogane tears a chunk off the bread and jabs it into his cup. "Do you remember last night then?"

"Vaguely."

"Tche," Kurogane snorts and sucks down the soaked bit of bread, "And what time did it occur to you to stop drinking and load up the damned cart?"

"Oh pssh," Fai waves this away with practiced ease. One does not spend as mornings fending off an irritable business partner whilst on the verge of a hangover as he is prone to without learning to carefully ignore a good deal of what comes out of their mouths. He rounds back on Kurogane with a stern look, "All of your complaints are about me, so please just let him go. It's been forever since you spent the Spring Festival in town here anyway. You can come give me a hand in the shop." He does his very best to bat his eyelashes and squeak a pathetic whine out of the base of his throat. "I'll make it worth your while."

"Please, Kurogane," Syaoran repeats, "Let me prove that I can take care of the business on my own."

"Fine," Kurogane grumbles and tears what remains of his bread in two, "But, you be home by sundown." He levels one fistful of bread toward Syaoran, "Which means you're back on the road right after the last delivery."

"Yes, I will be!"

"No chariot racing. No wrestling. And if I find out you missed any-"

"You'll sell him into servitude," Fai finishes, "We know, Kuro-drum. Do you have any idea how often you repeat yourself?"

"Tche," Kurogane scoffs and shoves the last of the bread into his mouth. He heaves himself up and away from the table – carefully avoiding Fai this time – and huffs out into the yard.

Fai skips across the room and presses a few coins into Syaoran's hand. "Be home by midnight," he hisses, "Any later and I can't guarantee that I can keep him occupied." Syaoran nods furtively and shoves the coins into his pocket. "And Syaoran," Fai grabs his wrist as he heads toward the door, "Make sure you bet on a fast chariot."

"Right!" Syaoran laughs and makes a mad dash for the stables before either of them changes their minds. He makes a quick sign of obeisance to the state of Yue, messenger of the gods outside the front door, then sets to work of hitching the horses to the cart and sets off down the road – not toward Outo itself, but toward the small row of shops in the town center.

Outside the Yamazaki blacksmith's shop, he stops his team and jumps to the ground to gather a few choice bits of rock, which he hurls toward the second floor windows. A head peeks out from the shutters to grumble at him, eyes still sodden with sleep, but brightens as he registers that it's Syaoran waking him at such a dismal hour and his terrifying father is nowhere to be seen. He hoots triumphantly, throws the shutters wide – exposing rather more of him than even the dawn needs to see – and hurls himself out the window.

He lands with a thud on the bench of the cart, grinning and – much to Syaoran's chagrin – sprawled as wide as the great Omo Plains. "I can't believe you managed it!" he laughs, though Syaoran is more invested in averting his eyes than listening at the moment. "Give me a hand with this thing, will you?"

"There's no reason you couldn't have done this ahead of time…" Syaoran grumbles as he fumbles with Yamazaki's shoulder fastinings.

"Didn't think you would be able to slip the scary one," Yamazaki says very seriously, "I didn't want to miss out on my beauty sleep." He ties the waist of his tunic and prances in a little circle to make sure it's swaying the way he likes. "Did the garlic and stafylinos work?"

"No," Syaoran says huffily and plops himself onto the bench, "And I looked that up – it's not a sleeping potion, it's an aphrodisiac."

"I didn't say it would knock them out-"

Syaoran snaps the reigns and shouts the horses into a start before he can finish. He knows better by now than to trust anything that comes out of Yamazaki's mouth, but it's hard to stop him talking all the same. And sometimes he's really convincing, so stopping him before he really gets going is key. The sudden jolt of the cart seems to do this nicely, however, so Syaoran relaxes their speed and doubles back to pick up the long, winding road into Outo.