(Well. This is very vague. It could be any two characters you want, almost, but I did write it with one and a player-character in mind. It could be not even fanfiction at all, if you want to take a few lines and make them metaphors. Just a disillusioned little poem about what it means to fight Blights with taints. Oh, and, you know, love.)

...

...

This is the only thing I could look in the eyes, as obscene as I am,

And it's the only thing that wouldn't bite if I didn't.

We're both sick enough that we don't have to worry about infection anymore,

We're both going to die so there's

No worry

No tears

And no talk

Of the future. Not ours, anyway, and aren't we the only ones that matter?

It used to be just me, and I didn't mean to let you in,

But I hope I die before you do so I'm not free of my chains just in time to die;

So I don't have to taste freedom with despair.

Oh, you don't ask me that question

And I don't answer, but I want to say: 'of course I do, but I can't say that, can I?'

There are so many words we can't say.

Light defeats dark and purity shines over obscenity, didn't the fairy tales teach you that?

Maybe you haven't had anyone to tell them to you, and I can't,

But living like this you should know

That splinters of art and affection are the only things that make our depravity hurt.

So we can't say anything, lying here

And we already feel that this is too right, in each other's arms.

We need to go back to blood and screams before it's too late.

Before we can't go back.

Before dying starts to hurt again.

We're no fairy-tale knights;

We carry viruses to fight plagues,

And I wonder, if there's more evil in the world, why don't we carry

Every single poison

To make all the world right?

It wouldn't kill us; if it did we wouldn't even notice,

We really do feel like we're already dead.

But this bed of ashes makes us feel just a bit more alive;

Life hurts, we feel it, and we need to die again.

I need to bite you, or you kick me, or one of us say something written in ice.

We can't. We can't, we can't.

It's not even dawn yet, and the stars make every move still feel like stillness.

So we're lying here, more or less catatonic, but very quietly so

And we cannot bring ourselves to the suicide of spirit we'd need to keep fighting.

All we can hope is that someone will come along and put us out of our misery.

Maybe a little scorn, some shock, some embarrassment.

We don't need much, it's not so hard to kill soft-winged butterflies,

Though it's harder when they want to be dead.

Possibly the sun could rise and burn us; yes, that will do.

We've had such a mobile death we're afraid of how slow life would be.

We fear nothing more than the living lurid colors that follow no logic, no rules,

We are so safe in our moral grey darkness.

Oh, it's too late, so late—I think I see the color in your hair, in your lips, your eyes. I have this desire to look up at the stars, and oh they do hurt. I can hear the murmur of the river, the wind in the trees and the grasses, and it pulls at my heart. I must break this curse, but we can't move,

Not relative to the stars, even if we could get up.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know it hurts.

I don't even know if we can ever make it stop again. Neither of us want to live,

But we can only die apart, and

I won't leave you.

Let us lie here tonight. We can be freed with the sunrise. I promise I will walk away just enough

That we can each be just dead enough

To kill.

...

...

(Reviews really do make some people as happy as they say they do. I always thought they were exagerating. They aren't. Oh, and I'm not, either.)