Devotion

He dreamed in red, rivers of blood staining the walls, the floors, and his body. He dreamed of mercy and second chances, of love and acceptance, blonde hair and angel wings. Always covered in white feathers, arms reaching out for him, smiles and laughter echoing in the background. In every dream, he was left, cold in the realization nothing was real, nothing lasted, and faith was just a word used to guide and control the sheep.

Farfarello was no fool, and he wasn't about to fall in love, in any of the many forms. All he needed was a knife and a body. He would be the artist, creating masterpieces with the blade, painting with the warm reds and the clear liquid from the organs. Blondes' didn't calculate into his world, they were just another face in the many he killed, except for one. Always that one. He never planned, never asked, and he knew it was just a trap. Lies from God, whispered through the soft velvet lips of his angel. But he couldn't walk away, couldn't turn his back on the angel. Demons needed angels, just like angels needed demons. They were destined to be, something nothing would prevent, because destruction, chaos, wouldn't be denied. Either the angel would fall or the demon would die, and for Farfarello that was life.

Staring across the street, he gazed through the crowd into the café window were his blonde worked. The angel was laughing, blushing at some comment and Farfarello smiled as well, single golden eye following the other's every move. He dreamed of this boy, remembered the taste of him everyday, mesmerized with the innocence. Devoted to seeing him gleam, wringing under the Irishman's body, arching in pleasure, nails scraping his pale back. And in his own sick sort of way, Farfarello was in love, taken by the seamless vision of blood and wings, and redemption in the arms of his blonde.