They themselves were despicable creatures (and on their tenth drink by now), loathsome, crawling, unworthy. Foul. Vile. Whimpering petty hindrances.
The other would never love them. He could never love them. For him to love them would be a debasement of everything that he was.
Belial's butterfly moved its wings like a heartbeat. "Because," the demon said, "he is the Lord of Hell, the child of God, so beautiful --"
"-- the Prince of Terror, the string-player, the dancer, so lovely --" Toshiki whispered.
"-- the Captain, so certain, so fucking high above me, so damn unmatchable . . ." Renji swore.
There was something about their pain which let them admit it to each other, just this once, just over the wine and behind closed doors.
And when, in the end, it developed into drunken punches and curses, and from that into hot embraces and jerking bodies and tangled limbs and quick dirty sex in the corner --
-- well, it just proved it. Didn't it.
When the morning came, it tasted of hangovers and bitterness.
---