There is a song the wind plays upon the outstretched fingers of trees and foliage. Twisting vines with flowers have shut themselves and their blooms in the darkness. The moon, bloated and seeming to fall close to earth under its own weight. Thin, luminescent tendrils of silver slink and dance across the pavement, around tree trunks, and up the walls of a dark wood house. Beams of light glimmer through the curtains and windows, slithering across a wood paneled floor, under cracks in doors to mysterious hallways.
The attention of a being had been snatched up, its feline gaze locked upon the traversing slivers of fluid light. His bones alight with a fire, tumbling bricks of anxiety in the pit of his toxic gut. Fluid and quick upon limbs of propulsion, hair streams behind like a cascade of liquid ebony.
Up a long staircase the chase has gone, the 'Yin' in the lead while the 'Yang' chases fruitlessly behind. The cracks of a door yield easy entrance, slithering beneath it to what is hidden behind. Fingers alight upon the knob, turning it slowly and revealing the room.
The moonlight comes in from an open window and bravely, bathing a moaning, writhing figure on the bed. Sweat glistening off a naked chest and stomach. His face glows a sickly pale white; as white as the moon. Clothing has been thrown off to relieve his aching, heated body. Digits curl into linens, a heated face contorted in pain, muscles contracting in lithe legs.
The intruder seems to waltz to the one huge window and whips the curtains closed. Turning and advancing upon the bed, sitting on it, he pulls this sickly form into his lap; and first there is a small struggle, but the smaller learns to accept this touch. He is in pain, so he whimpers out his distress, clutching, trembling in his pain.
His elder pulls from a gaping sleeve the most ungodly medicine. The pipe is lit with the most wretched, sickly sweet smell, and there is a short pause; an old craving beat down. The pipe meets young, plump lips, drawing on it, breathing in black poison into his lungs, blood, and impressionable mind. A sigh as the struggling ceases, the moans drift off.
"Oh Feng. I'll always take care of you. Wash away the filth you've collected from the West. We'll become one again, soon. Until then, this is for your own good. I do this because I love you."
Dark eyes have already become glazed, he feels no pain, the jumble of words holds no meaning; except. 'I love you'.
There is a hand that pressed to his thigh. "No…" It's weak; his voice becomes lost as the hand goes higher. Gasps, shuts himself in when he is grabbed and fondled, becomes putty in his captors hands.
"Yao…"
And then Feng cries, because Yao's love is so strong, it smothers him and burns him. His tears are kissed away, pleas buried in more black gold and the heavy shifting of blankets and bed posts against the floor and wall, and strange pleasured breaths and moans that ward off the mood.