“One more drink,” Dante whispered.“Just one.”
Tadeo swallowed shakily, but the ends of his lips were twitching upward, unsure of smiling.“We’re already drunk enough, aren’t we?”But when Dante took off, Tadeo followed him.He continued following even after the soldier reached yet another cooler, took out an ice-cold glass bottle, then ran off again.“Where are you going?!”he called, but followed, followed.‘It’s the least I can do after you followed me down to Hell.’As Dante swerved into a street, then hopped over a fence into an abandoned restaurant with outside seating, the soldier made his way over to a plastic table, plopped down onto it.Tadeo reached him soon enough, and before he could even speak, Dante had already grabbed him by the throat, tugged him down into another kiss.
Grunting against the soldier’s mouth, Tadeo felt as Dante shoved the cold beer in between the tenting at their groins.The alcohol’s wetness at the seam of his jeans sent a harsh shiver up Tadeo’s spine, and he rolled his face back, biting down a noise of startled pleasure.But the snickering soldier simply took the chance to bring his mouth to the anti-Christ’s bared neck.Pursing his lips, Dante suckled, then licked up Tadeo’s rosary beads.Setting a fist down on the table, Tadeo felt his skin everywhere suddenly strain; the grotesque thing inside him — wrestling against his heart.“Dante, fuck, be careful?—”
Dante grinned against his skin, then turned upwards to peck Tadeo’s mouth.“You think I’m scared?”
Tadeo murmured, “No, I think you’re stupid.”His breath caught and knotted, however, when Dante started rubbing the beer in between their mutual hardness.“I could kill you,” he tried to say, claws starting to dig into the table.“Fuck.Dante, forfuck’s sake?—”
Dante kissed him again.“Mwah.”He removed the bottle, finally, set it on the table, and then reached for the button and zipper of Tadeo’s jeans.“Relax.”And the anti-Christ tried, gaze flickering down to watch the soldier slide his hand into his pants, take hold of him.He grimaced before he could stop it, and he felt an abrupt whip of presentness that told him he was sobering up.
“I can’t—” Tadeo whispered, but he set his forehead against Dante’s, panting and panting.His hands were trembling.“I can’t relax.”The soldier’s touch froze, and he glanced at the anti-Christ’s shutting eyes.
“Oh man,” said Dante, starting to hesitate.“Are you okay?”
‘Never.’Tadeo knew he must look terrified, his breath unsteady, his eyes too wide, but he insisted, “I’m okay.”Blindly, he reached, took the bottle that Dante had left on the table.“I just need a little more of this.”Lifting it to his mouth, he downed it, welcoming the murky taste, hardly feeling the drops that rolled cold down his chin, his neck, to his white top.
Dante’s eyebrows curved.“Are you sure?I can stop.Or I can suck you off quick?—”
“I’ve never— No one’s ever sucked me off.”‘I want that and this,’ he wanted to say.‘I want you more than anything.’
“Yeah, doesn’t seem like it,” Dante joked, and Tadeo laughed so weak that the soldier undoubtedly noticed it wasn’t the time for humor.“Here.”He brought his other hand to his own pants, and Tadeo watched the other man pull himself out, squeezed, pumped, then let out a strangled pleasure noise.
Setting the drink back down, Tadeo tried to crush the part of his mind that feared that noise.‘Think of him,’ Tadeo urged himself.‘Think of Dante.’He’d tortured him.He’d broken his hand.‘Your moans remind me of your cries in pain.’He kissed Dante now, and the soldier wrapped a hand around both their lengths.Nervously, Tadeo drifted his clawed hand, put it over Dante’s just as he began stroking them both.Hips aching, Tadeo gasped, raw and hoarse, but rolled them forward slowly, and Dante matched him with his own low moan.
They thrusted together, fucking each other steady.Steady, grounding almost.And Tadeo’s eyes fluttered open a pinch, examining Dante — his squarer face, his darker hair, his nose, his long lashes, how his lips parted.‘Fuck, I don’t want to be in love with you.We shouldn’t do this.’But his cries grew weaker, higher, and he just about whimpered at the swelling goodness, at the pulses of their cocks, the wet drag of skin.The tips that kissed when they angled them right.
But no pain, no crying.Their bodies wept white sin, in just some minutes, and Tadeo hiccuped when the rush of it broke him open.But no pain.No tears in his eyes.He wasn’t afraid, and nothing hurt.Dante’s hold on their most delicate organs waned.This thing really was delicate, like a flower that blooms toward the sun then wilts.‘God’s imperfect design.’All men with their posturing of strength, so weak between the legs.Slumping, Tadeo dropped his own hand away from them and leaned over Dante, still on the table.He hadn’t been asking for a hug, but the soldier lifted a hand, rubbed Tadeo’s back.Pants for breath broke the silence, which was otherwise calm, comfortable.
“Are you,” Dante asked again, whispered, “okay?”
“Not really,” said Tadeo honestly, noting their stained jeans and shirts, as if stained with blood.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I should thank you.I never— I never told you how I died, Dante.”Tadeo pressed to Dante’s throat, warm and safe, though it shouldn’t be.“It was soldiers.Like you.They raped me.”Rape — unambiguous; he wasn’t sure if he’d ever said it like that.“And then they shot me in the head.But there’s something else— I—” He’d expected to choke up, to shatter from having kept it a secret for so long.
Dante said, “I saw a photo of your parents.Your grandfather recovered it from the rubble, and he showed it to me.Your parents and,” his voice growing delicate, “a daughter.”
Breath falling from his mouth, Tadeo felt a devastated smile forming slow.“It’s why I’ve always believed in God, Dante.I couldn’t understand why my body wasn’t mine.I felt like there was something so wrong with me that only God could be responsible.”
CHAPTER37
The Earth cracked like an egg, and hellfire erupted from where the surface pulled apart in every nation.At the heart of Babylon, where death and disease roamed as the blood in its veins, yet another thing pierced through the ground, rising far above all the other buildings, as if trying to claw at the red-tinted sky and reach Heaven.Satan’s tower, the Tower of Babel, returning to Babylon; there remains a story to tell of how the Tower of Babel landed in Satan’s hands, how the demons brought it to Hell — but it’s a simple one.Before Christ, but after the flood, the Lord and the devil had a mutually beneficial relationship; Satan gave God a reason to rage, and God raged.The Lord had said, ‘Aid in halting the construction of Babel, and you may take the tower.’
If it weren’t for God and Satan having their children, maybe their little game would have continued, but perhaps He’d grown bored as gods so often do.
And now, Satan panted as he adjusted his footing, lifted himself off the ground heavily.One hand planted on the cool glass of a window to hoist himself back up, then with heavy eyelids, he stared out into the Earth, his Earth, and his nails scratched the panes.The chaos of the human city was unlike anything he’d ever seen before — worse than all the wars he’d witnessed.Hell had risen to the very Earth — scorching every running person, grown or young alike, to dust and shrieks of agony.Behind Satan, demons groaned and many of them hurried, toward windows as well or to other levels of Satan’s home, perhaps looking for the safety of their friends.The armor would have saved many, and the impossibly tall tower could fit most if not all of the demons — but this had all happened without warning.Not everyone had made it in time.Turning slow, Satan saw Baal pressed against the wall beside the window, gasping still for breath, then he saw someone sitting on the ground, pressed to a pillar.
Rosier, silent, holding an amputated arm, eyes wide and utterly empty.
Trying to halt his trembling, Satan said, “Baal, I need you to scout the area.Keep… your armor on.It won’t be perfect against bullets, but it’ll be enough.”He wondered if Babylon could still organize its military, but he was sure that it could.The empire dies far before the war does; a lifetime that spanned every human century had taught him this.“And tell me if you see any angels.”
Baal said, “Lucifer.”Hushed, weak.“I think Asmodeus is dead.”The devil noticed his wide eyes and his terror.“There might be others— But— Asmodeus is dead.I saw it— the fires.”
Satan swallowed, thick, his gaze flickering to Rosier before he could stop himself, but the demon of fruit wasn’t responding, as if he were made of stone.And something hurt inside of Satan, like a harsh scrape.He recalled the sounds of Asmodeus’ voice.‘You told me that everyone was waiting for me outside.You told me I was as beautiful as they all said.’But Satan had grown to despise him.‘I told Rosier to leave you to be eaten by animals in the woods after the fall.Because of what you did.Because of everything.’
“He,” Rosier whispered hoarsely, the light in his eyes still dead, “gave me his helmet.”
