Here's the thing. I don't write yaoi, so this is a bit of an embarrassment. But the idea floated in my head for a long time, and I ended up giving in (damn blue-haired muse. ::Goes after him with a baseball bat.:: So... mmmyep. X.x It's fairly awful, and... God. Why am I posting this stuff? ::Runs away to hide.::
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At the Master's call, I sent him a dream last night. My Lord desires of me that I make his brother's life hell; what can I do but comply? If e'er I had the heart to do other than his Will, I lost it long ago; I lose it every time he glances in my unworthy direction. I feel the heat of that gaze, burning me like the cold of the desert at night, stinging as the sands. And before it, all my defenses and pretenses crumble, and I am what I am. Beneath the facades.
I am His.
But, the dream. It was, if I dare to claim talent in my craft, a well-built illusion. Beautiful and painful and undeniable. I heard him cry in his sleep, so far away, so alone; surrounded by his friends, but ever apart. The dear Master's brother, so afraid of a conjuring of moonbeams. He falls victim to my venom so simply, and I enjoy the sin.
But the dream. A conjuring of moonlight holding power over the Superior Being? Why, perish the thought; nonetheless, it did. I stood before him in the Void, and smiled. He saw me, but saw me not; and confusion reigned, as I raised my fingertips (his very own) to place between his brows; my own smile widened as his lips fell, the whites of his eyes glistening in the cold light of my making. In utter, frozen terror, we pause for a moment, before I let his fingers trail down his face, and down the shoulder towards their old, accustomed place.
And then, as they intertwined with their steel mirrors, I took myself from the dream, leaving to him only the faint feeling of fingertips in the synthesized nerves. And, for a split second, I let him be. I gave him the moment of peace I've been told to withhold (although, if the Master knows, he hasn't spoken of it. Perhaps taking peace back was penance enough.)
For after a moment, as his dreamself stared at his hand, the familiar feeling began in the dexterous match. Feathers and pinions sprouted half-formed (in as artistically obscene manner as I could manage, augmented by his own inner terrors. A man's worst fear is sometimes the best judge of his character.) Soon, the seraph's arm was complete, its nimbus of bright destruction ready for his beck (or perhaps, my own.)
But the dream ended not there; for from the other hand (where my touch had so recently lingered,) came a new sort of cherubim, of razorwire and glass; steel where flesh had been sprouted wings of its own, awesome and terrible as any industrial creature, clawing its way into feathers of an oily sheen. The fingers elongated and went daggerlike, splitting into rays, until he stood. Oh, the embodiment of heaven and hell he seemed, all pristine feather and tarnishing, rusting weapon. It was near enough to make me drop the dream from him- the thing of beauty he could become, conjured by his mind and my own; the perfect weapon, the perfect being (if only he would take what is rightfully his.)
Finally, weaving what art remained (although how dare I claim art, when I regarded it incarnate?) I pulled the dream apart by his own device; feeling, physical and beyond, the surge of power in his tendons as I drew it out from him like lifeblood, turning the dreamworld we sketched into fragments of nightmare, flower petals steeped in innocent blood. I turned him loose thereafter into his dream (our creation; though my hand in it was the hand that gave it flaws.) It was then that he cried, aloud and in his soul, and I knew contentment, as I had not since the day I met my Master.
Such beautiful creatures they are, the Twins; one as innocently pure as the day (how I would corrupt him, if I had the key to his soul, and see the suns swallowed by the evening!), the other as powerful and cold as a desert storm at night. They are my twin suns; one beloved, one hated (but sometimes, I cannot tell which is which.) They are my aspirations and my desire, my torment and my reward. My Masters, though one would deny it, and the other deny the pride with which I claim it.
In the dark of the night, the black of my own flawed soul, let me kiss your tears away, my flawless, golden deities.