It's a story of sadness, not of miracles; there are no miracles in this place, in this world of broken mirror-shards and bleeding shadows. But still, sadness is a softness, and in a place where softness is forbidden and condemned, you welcome it like a lover, a lover whose sickly- sweet smile masks the flashing silver knives hidden behind their back.
He is not a miracle, he is a curse, but to you, maybe, he is flawless, he is proud and unbroken. Compared to you in your eyes, he is perfect, and you cannot fathom why others you thought of as friends think otherwise. Even as their corpses lie broken at your feet, victims to your lover's gun and your lover's blades, you can find no fault in him, and that, truly, is your downfall.
To him, the situation is quite different. You are not flawless. You are flaw itself. A big clumsy man with unkempt hair and a stupid dopey grin, a lovestruck puppy who cannot seem to grasp the danger that you can possess, if only you cared, if only. He has tried to tame you, to whip you into shape, to carve you into the perfect soldier with harsh words and blunt, dragging knives, but still you catch his wrist and whisper soft words to him that he doesn't want to hear, though you have become much better with figuring out when it becomes too much for him to handle. Why he keeps you, he does not know; the whispers of forgotten memories tugging at his mind is the only thing keeping him from killing you, the ache of loneliness not something he wants to bear, not again.
And yet to you both, something within the fragile bonds is perfect. Some understanding, some buffer zone between blood-soaked affection and the sting of harsh words and blades that sometimes become too much. You feel it, and you hold him because of it; and maybe something in him, some crying wounded thing hidden and lost in the twisted mire of his mind-hears you and grabs on, desperate, clinging, and calls back, because there are times when he hisses and claws at you and times when he climbs on top of you and kisses you, fingers clinging to broad scarred shoulders in a grasp that can almost be called gentle. Times when the sting of his blades and teeth feel less like poisoned hatred and more like lost sadness. Times when you can almost say that he loves you, though you cannot be sure because the only indication you have is when he looks up at you with fiery magenta eyes and gasps as if he can't get air into his lungs, brow knitted as if he is still mad, though not at the world or you (yet), but himself.
Hold him. Worship him. Wrestle with his razor blades and barbed-wire tongue. Do what he commands. He is your life, after all, the tyrant king with his loyal watchdog by his side. Kiss him like it's actually worth the blows. Kiss him like he's worth your heart, your loyalty, your life. Feel the bones of his pride snap as he melts into you. Feel him kissing back, softly, unsure despite himself, because he is a monster and monsters do not know how to feel love. He's breaking himself for you. He is the demon, and you are his puppet, but before there was a demon there was a fallen angel and before there was a puppet there was a puppetmaster, and perhaps now he can remember what it felt like to be human.
Feel his clockwork heart tick fast under your fingertips. Taste the tears trickling down his cheeks, salty sweet, like the blood of the people he murdered. Trace your finger along the gold twin-headed eagle crest he carries in his breast pocket, a memoir of someone long forgotten, the ancient metal cold under your fingertips.
Feel the warm blood run sticky from the bullet wound on his chest. You broke him. Icarus flew too close to the sun, and he burned, his false wings of hope and joy melted away by the wrath of his own silly folly. He was not so different. You were the sun. He was a doubtful Icarus with wings fledged in blood and ash, and his tentative outreach of trust burned him. You burned him.
You too, can feel the plummet as he falls, and deep within your heart (forged with iron and steel and death, you cannot forget your maker), you know he's not coming back.