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spinny roses

Decided


I'm so glad you finally decided to come
Another day and I could've gone mad
Another day and it might've gotten bad
Another day and I might have betrayed
Every scruple I have

“Could've Gone Mad,” Poe

He was a child, only a child. Dark gold in color, unfinished overall. A child, a child.

The other was not an adult himself, but somehow not a child. Lighter, almost finished brushed gold. More than he should be, more than his age.

Both had gone through more than they should. More pain, more death. Both had died, body death, disintegration of the cells that make up a human body. Connections, from blood to body to soul, two brothers far more than they should be.

Further apart than brothers and more should be. A barrier, untouchable, intangible, somehow stronger than the bonds that connect the brothers. A barrier, only broken by a Gate of sin.

Love thy family, a honorable concept. A concept, one that some families are able to follow. Some cannot. The eldest brother, dead for several years and morphed into a shape not his own, hated. Younger two, through their sin, constantly attempted to touch the Gate. They attempted to undo their unknown brother's hatred, to touch again.

Their thoughts connected, on each side of the Gate. Sinful love, more than mere brothers should hold. It is a sin that the Gate adores, one it allows. They imagined what the other has become. The child became a man, completed and colored in a rich gold. The elder of the two was whole in body, his limbs all flesh and bone. But both had the same sin in mind.

Both must be quiet, as to not wake their roommates. Moans stifled with a hand, a pillow as an imagined tongue licked up a half-aroused penis. Cries aborted and choked back as a hand swiftly pumped, imaging instead the other brother writhing on top in unimaginable pleasure. A name whispered as that hand became coated in fluid, unable to be screamed as loud as passion wanted.

A silent laugh, ricocheting around both their tired consciousness, as the Gate closed that connection build of sin. Each day it allows this is another day closer to madness. Another day. Each day, a brother wishing to hug his sibling, to kiss him, to fuck him.

And the sun rose.