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So. Like.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TAICHOU
Also I'll have you know that I don't know what I'm doing, posting this up because jsdfhksj;dhfjdf; paiseh please, my first porn fic on my LJ ever, and it's for you, and I hope you like it, please forgive any stupid gaffes. And okay, it's not that porny because I chickened out at some points, but I hope it reads well anyway, SO.
Still Love
Greek myth
Anteros/Eros
NC17
Eros is who he is because there is Anteros.
“I don't understand how,” Anteros says, and it is testament to how well Eros knows his brother that he can detect the hint of petulance in that deadpan voice. The elder tries to keep his smirk in check but it is difficult, especially when the score is in his favour this time. He looks up at the statue, cocking his head admiringly. They are in Piccadilly Circus, at a fountain located in the middle of the place. Atop the fountain, a little bronze figure of Anteros poses with a bow and arrow, the feathery four-sectioned wings that resemble a butterfly's clearly identifying him to those who know of the other Greek personifications of love outside of Eros and Aphrodite.
“It's a lovely thing.” He paces around the memorial, observing it from all angles, even though Anteros himself is right before him and is, in the younger's opinion, a sight more beautiful than an immoveable bronze statue. But he knows Eros will disagree simply to see him scowl. That is not the point now however, the point is that while admiring the statue, there have been several couples passing by now, perhaps tourists intent on showing off, who have identified the damned thing as Eros, or even worse, the Angel of Christian Charity.
Just-- Fuck that, really. Anteros is not usually given to swearing (Eros is more prone to that) but this simply tests his patience. Of all things, to call him an angel, as if the worship of them hasn't already been erased through the advent of that damned religion with its damned feathery beings. The Erotes were here first, damn it, the beautiful attendants of Aphrodite herself. For that matter, that was not the first image they had stolen from them; as proud as the carpenter-worshipers are of their Renaissance paintings of religion, the fact remains that they have taken Zeus' face and planted their god's name on him. Plunderers and looters, the whole lot of them. He squints up at the statue again with a cool expression that Eros identifies as 'irked'. Any second now, Anteros will break his silence...
“Christian charity,” he huffs out at last, and Eros laughs at how predictable Anteros is. The younger god ignores his laughter, and instead folds his arms across his chest. “I give no charity, and certainly not in the name of their god. Why doesn't anyone ever remember that love needs to be requited in order to flourish? They remember you, and Mother, but it's as if a one-sided love is enough to sustain the world!”
Almost instantly, there is a finger on his lips, and Eros is pressing a careless kiss to his cheek. “Hush,” he says. “That is our mother you talk about. There was requited love before you were ever a thought.” Anteros gives him a withering look. “Besides, you don't have anything to requite if there is no love in the first place. And then sometimes you simply don't need love at all.”
They've argued over this for centuries, millenia, but Anteros still takes the bait like it's new, his usually placid, dreamy countenance firing up into something more.
“I beg your pardon,” he sputters, ever the hopeless romantic, and Eros fights not to look too amused. Baiting Anteros is one thing, making him truly angry is another. “Are we back to talking about sex again? Because as far as I know you've never proved your stand, only talked about it, with your logic going round and round in stupid circles. Himeros isn't even as bad as y--”
“And you,” Eros sounds as bored as he can make himself, “just can't move past the vision of a blushing bride in white waiting for her groom under an arbour of blooming pastel flowers.” He slides a sly glance out the corner of his eye at his brother, who seems to be counting down from ten, and he does a count down of his own. Three, two... one. The punch that comes his way is easily caught in an open palm. Eros doesn't know if it's because Anteros is simply that predictable, or if it is because Eros knows him like no other. After all, Anteros' name holds his own, and he had been given to Eros from the very beginning. He presses another chaste kiss to his cheek, placating, and then another on his lips which is considerably less chaste.
“Don't you have any other reaction than to smash my face in?” he teases, thinking that there is no greater sport. Himeros is too volatile, moreso than Anteros, and somehow Eros always finds himself at the losing end with the personification of violent longing. As for Pothos-- well, no one can lose anything to Pothos, but he is so damned melancholic that he doesn't even seem to understand the concept of teasing. “And people think you're the gentlest of us four.”
“I avenge the scorned, I would hardly consider that trait gentle.” Anteros lifts his chin, eyes narrowing slightly; there is a pattern to this, always, and as far as Eros tries to push it, they never step too far beyond each other's boundaries.
It doesn't mean that Eros doesn't like to test their boundaries though. There is a flash of something in his eyes, Anteros notes, a familiar something, and he is proven right a second later when Eros whispers against his lips: “Then show me how ungentle you are.” Their mouths almost touch, before Anteros steps away, and he has the satisfaction of watching Eros' eyes widen a split second in surprise, before giving himself over to annoyance and confusion.
“So much for requited affections,” Eros says at last, his mood darting like quicksilver into coolly disguised indignation. Around them, there are curious gazes, at their blatant display, especially when they look so similar that it is clear they are brothers, but Eros is indifferent to them as he leans in close again to steal what Anteros withholds from him. Anteros merely takes another step backwards.
“I do return your affections, in my own way.” Low, and smiling, his voice, even when his lips remain in a straight line. It is Eros' turn to be piqued now, his brows drawing together in frustration. He doesn't allow Anteros any more space; he simply reaches for his brother's arm, fingers closing tight and painful on it as he takes them away from Piccadilly Circus. The urban scenery shifts, fades away until everything around them is white, and then just as quickly, an apartment fades into view around them, materializing into solidity from a sheer mass of colour. Eros doesn't let go, still scowling, though his siblings would call it childish pouting. “You're bewildered and angry,” Anteros observes. “Are you really the eldest of us, sulking like this?”
Eros doesn't bother to answer with words; he merely presses Anteros into the wall behind him, demanding silence and obedience in the slant of their lips. He doesn't get it. Anteros doesn't yield to the kiss, he makes it his own, and in no time at all, Eros finds himself in the role of supplicant.
Love blooms only when it is requited.
He breaks from the kiss at last, breaths coming from him in little shallow pants. Anteros' breathing is as unsteady, but there's a little infuriating curve to one side of his lips, a barely noticeable mark of his triumph. You bastard, Eros thinks, without heat, and he merely huffs out an wry laugh, before he leans in close, teeth catching on his brother's throat. It's always this way, neither of them can ever really get the best of each other. Oh they try, they try their damnedest, only to admit in the end that there is no real victory and there never will be. They need each other too much, and the need is now translated in the hungry urgency of their hands and mouths, the way Eros' fingers leave reddened marks on Anteros' pale skin, the way Anteros evokes burning lust with a mere lick across Eros' lip. Eros doesn't stop to dwell on the intricacies of their relationship often but when he does, he never forgets that Anteros is the one who makes him more completely Love.
The thought drives him to want to possess Anteros, even if it's just for this while, and he is almost clumsy with desire as he works at the buttons of Anteros' shirt. The first two buttons are undone with ease, but the third goes flying and Anteros mutters unhappily into the kiss. Eros ignores it. There are five more buttons, and at least two more are torn from their threads; Eros is sure this will come up later but for now, he simply grins against Anteros' mouth and delights in the rebellion against his brother's preferences. This isn't a time for the slow sensuous slide of skin, not the way Anteros likes it. There won't be hours where they languish in foreplay until Eros could cry from sheer frustration- already he's sliding the jeans from Anteros' hips, left hand palming his erection through his boxers. He hears Anteros begin to speak, then cut himself off in equal parts irritation and impatience, and Eros laughs, outright and insolent.
“I'm not going to leave you hanging, like you'd do to me,” he stage-whispers, sliding to his knees and laving a path up from the band of his boxers to his bellybutton with his tongue, before pulling the fabric down completely. Anteros glares for a short moment (“I don't leave you ha--”), and then his breath hitches involuntarily and he bites down on his lip to keep from gasping too loudly. No point in giving Eros his satisfaction this fast. Sometimes it is a game between them, Eros doing his best to make Anteros admit that romance isn't the end-all and be-all of love and sex, while Anteros withholds all but the most unwilling capitulations to his brother's will.
His fingers scrape futilely against the wall, nails scrabbling for purchase as Eros takes him in his mouth, his gaze upwards the most obscene and lewd he can manage. Anteros hates this, he knows, hates how Eros can take the soft sweet side of love away so entirely and still make him beg. He watches with a dry mouth as Eros wraps a hand around the base of his cock, his head bobbing; he's so taken in by the sensation that he doesn't notice when Eros guides his hand to his head, when his fingers start curling painfully in his brother's hair. Eros just keeps his smug smile to himself for now.
All too soon though, Eros sits back, the tip of his tongue running over his lips as he smirks up at Anteros. The younger merely stares for a moment, uncomprehending. “... What now?” he demands, struggling to keep his voice normal, as if Eros hasn't had his mouth on him and made him writhe for the last five minutes.
“Take the rest of your clothes off.” It's an order, not a request; Anteros only obeys because Eros is doing the same, stripping his own clothes off in quick succession. Eros smiles widely at the cautiously blank expression he interprets to be a mix of curiousity and resentment, and kneels back down on the floor when he's done undressing. The tube of lubricant seems to appear from nowhere (but really, that's not a surprise), and Anteros' gaze doesn't waver as Eros pries the cap open and pours the viscous fluid onto his fingers. Damned idiot, Anteros thinks, always showing off like this, but he's lying if he dares to say he doesn't enjoy it, and so he watches as Eros presses his slicked fingers into himself, and he shakes his head in disbelief at how shameless Eros is with his vocalized pleasure.
“You're a real whore, Eros,” he says, but Eros stills, and indicates the wall with a jerk of his chin.
“Stay there until I tell you to move, there's a good dog,” he returns, and Anteros rolls his eyes at how juvenile Eros can be despite being the eldest of them. He concedes though, and backtracks until he's leaning against the wall again, fighting not to touch himself while Eros fucks himself with his fingers and pulls at his erection. The show is slow and deliberate; Eros knows exactly what buttons to push, and he displays that knowledge with impudence. It rankles as much as it arouses. Anteros really wonders what he's doing sometimes, how it is that Eros knows so unerringly how to manipulate him in the worst ways possible and yet still. Still. Anteros loves him like he does no other, not even Aphrodite.
At last though, Anteros has had enough of Eros' blatant show, and he stalks over, until he's leaning over Eros on his hands and knees. “Tease,” he accuses. Eros doesn't deny it. He leans down to take a kiss, but Eros simply pushes at him, and flips him over so that he's straddling Anteros instead. Anteros stares up at him, a little confused and about to protest, only to stop when Eros closes his fingers around his cock and presses the tip of it up against his ass. He keeps his eyes on Eros as he sinks down, their lips slightly parted in identical silent gasps, and he thinks that as familiar as the sight is, he'll never not love it when Eros' head is thrown back like this, when the column of his neck is stretched out to a smooth line of pale skin and shifting muscle. They start off slow, surprisingly, for all of Eros' words before, but Anteros doesn't get to enjoy the intimacy for long before Eros forces it into something fiercer, something more unrestrained, and it becomes useless for Anteros to insist that it be otherwise because the violence of it catches him and wraps him in the ferocity of the moment.
Useless really, for him to even think of anything but the tight grip of Eros' fingers on him, the slick warmth around him as he thrusts up into Eros and pleads silently for this to last because there is nothing else he could ever want, not now. Their rhythm falls into perfection, into a familiar route of knowing what the other wants, what the other likes, and neither is ashamed of using the knowledge to their best advantage. Anteros lets Eros kiss him, lets him murmur his dirty words into his ear because he does secretly love how this act is really nothing but base instinct and want, and in the midst of it he angles his hips so that he's pushing into Eros the way the elder wants. They are breathless, and desperate, and Anteros thinks disjointedly that only this-- this is bliss, and that the other gods will never know the intricacies that bind the personifications of love so deeply together.
His climax hits him hard, fast and sudden and he doesn't notice when his fingers leave reddened scratches down Eros' hips and thighs; all that he's aware of is the sheer aching sweetness of release, and for a moment all he knows is darkness.
Then he opens his eyes again, reluctantly, only to find that Eros has lifted himself off him, before slumping back down against Anteros, too warm and sticky and clingy. Anteros isn't sure he minds so much. Silence settles for a good long while, broken only by their soft breathing. It's always like this, their arguments always end in this. Anteros wonders if it's a good thing or bad thing. Then again, it's worked for a few thousand years, and they are still like this. They haven't faded, haven't irrevocably severed their ties as so many of their kind have done. Perhaps they are doing something right.
He opens his mouth to speak to Eros, turning to face him, only to see the bright eyes so similar to his staring at him, and he decides that perhaps he can leave the words for another time. Right now, he thinks that it is far more appropriate to simply kiss him, and so he does that.
“Eros,” he murmurs, and doesn't say anything else for a good long while.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TAICHOU
Also I'll have you know that I don't know what I'm doing, posting this up because jsdfhksj;dhfjdf; paiseh please, my first porn fic on my LJ ever, and it's for you, and I hope you like it, please forgive any stupid gaffes. And okay, it's not that porny because I chickened out at some points, but I hope it reads well anyway, SO.
Still Love
Greek myth
Anteros/Eros
NC17
Eros is who he is because there is Anteros.
“I don't understand how,” Anteros says, and it is testament to how well Eros knows his brother that he can detect the hint of petulance in that deadpan voice. The elder tries to keep his smirk in check but it is difficult, especially when the score is in his favour this time. He looks up at the statue, cocking his head admiringly. They are in Piccadilly Circus, at a fountain located in the middle of the place. Atop the fountain, a little bronze figure of Anteros poses with a bow and arrow, the feathery four-sectioned wings that resemble a butterfly's clearly identifying him to those who know of the other Greek personifications of love outside of Eros and Aphrodite.
“It's a lovely thing.” He paces around the memorial, observing it from all angles, even though Anteros himself is right before him and is, in the younger's opinion, a sight more beautiful than an immoveable bronze statue. But he knows Eros will disagree simply to see him scowl. That is not the point now however, the point is that while admiring the statue, there have been several couples passing by now, perhaps tourists intent on showing off, who have identified the damned thing as Eros, or even worse, the Angel of Christian Charity.
Just-- Fuck that, really. Anteros is not usually given to swearing (Eros is more prone to that) but this simply tests his patience. Of all things, to call him an angel, as if the worship of them hasn't already been erased through the advent of that damned religion with its damned feathery beings. The Erotes were here first, damn it, the beautiful attendants of Aphrodite herself. For that matter, that was not the first image they had stolen from them; as proud as the carpenter-worshipers are of their Renaissance paintings of religion, the fact remains that they have taken Zeus' face and planted their god's name on him. Plunderers and looters, the whole lot of them. He squints up at the statue again with a cool expression that Eros identifies as 'irked'. Any second now, Anteros will break his silence...
“Christian charity,” he huffs out at last, and Eros laughs at how predictable Anteros is. The younger god ignores his laughter, and instead folds his arms across his chest. “I give no charity, and certainly not in the name of their god. Why doesn't anyone ever remember that love needs to be requited in order to flourish? They remember you, and Mother, but it's as if a one-sided love is enough to sustain the world!”
Almost instantly, there is a finger on his lips, and Eros is pressing a careless kiss to his cheek. “Hush,” he says. “That is our mother you talk about. There was requited love before you were ever a thought.” Anteros gives him a withering look. “Besides, you don't have anything to requite if there is no love in the first place. And then sometimes you simply don't need love at all.”
They've argued over this for centuries, millenia, but Anteros still takes the bait like it's new, his usually placid, dreamy countenance firing up into something more.
“I beg your pardon,” he sputters, ever the hopeless romantic, and Eros fights not to look too amused. Baiting Anteros is one thing, making him truly angry is another. “Are we back to talking about sex again? Because as far as I know you've never proved your stand, only talked about it, with your logic going round and round in stupid circles. Himeros isn't even as bad as y--”
“And you,” Eros sounds as bored as he can make himself, “just can't move past the vision of a blushing bride in white waiting for her groom under an arbour of blooming pastel flowers.” He slides a sly glance out the corner of his eye at his brother, who seems to be counting down from ten, and he does a count down of his own. Three, two... one. The punch that comes his way is easily caught in an open palm. Eros doesn't know if it's because Anteros is simply that predictable, or if it is because Eros knows him like no other. After all, Anteros' name holds his own, and he had been given to Eros from the very beginning. He presses another chaste kiss to his cheek, placating, and then another on his lips which is considerably less chaste.
“Don't you have any other reaction than to smash my face in?” he teases, thinking that there is no greater sport. Himeros is too volatile, moreso than Anteros, and somehow Eros always finds himself at the losing end with the personification of violent longing. As for Pothos-- well, no one can lose anything to Pothos, but he is so damned melancholic that he doesn't even seem to understand the concept of teasing. “And people think you're the gentlest of us four.”
“I avenge the scorned, I would hardly consider that trait gentle.” Anteros lifts his chin, eyes narrowing slightly; there is a pattern to this, always, and as far as Eros tries to push it, they never step too far beyond each other's boundaries.
It doesn't mean that Eros doesn't like to test their boundaries though. There is a flash of something in his eyes, Anteros notes, a familiar something, and he is proven right a second later when Eros whispers against his lips: “Then show me how ungentle you are.” Their mouths almost touch, before Anteros steps away, and he has the satisfaction of watching Eros' eyes widen a split second in surprise, before giving himself over to annoyance and confusion.
“So much for requited affections,” Eros says at last, his mood darting like quicksilver into coolly disguised indignation. Around them, there are curious gazes, at their blatant display, especially when they look so similar that it is clear they are brothers, but Eros is indifferent to them as he leans in close again to steal what Anteros withholds from him. Anteros merely takes another step backwards.
“I do return your affections, in my own way.” Low, and smiling, his voice, even when his lips remain in a straight line. It is Eros' turn to be piqued now, his brows drawing together in frustration. He doesn't allow Anteros any more space; he simply reaches for his brother's arm, fingers closing tight and painful on it as he takes them away from Piccadilly Circus. The urban scenery shifts, fades away until everything around them is white, and then just as quickly, an apartment fades into view around them, materializing into solidity from a sheer mass of colour. Eros doesn't let go, still scowling, though his siblings would call it childish pouting. “You're bewildered and angry,” Anteros observes. “Are you really the eldest of us, sulking like this?”
Eros doesn't bother to answer with words; he merely presses Anteros into the wall behind him, demanding silence and obedience in the slant of their lips. He doesn't get it. Anteros doesn't yield to the kiss, he makes it his own, and in no time at all, Eros finds himself in the role of supplicant.
Love blooms only when it is requited.
He breaks from the kiss at last, breaths coming from him in little shallow pants. Anteros' breathing is as unsteady, but there's a little infuriating curve to one side of his lips, a barely noticeable mark of his triumph. You bastard, Eros thinks, without heat, and he merely huffs out an wry laugh, before he leans in close, teeth catching on his brother's throat. It's always this way, neither of them can ever really get the best of each other. Oh they try, they try their damnedest, only to admit in the end that there is no real victory and there never will be. They need each other too much, and the need is now translated in the hungry urgency of their hands and mouths, the way Eros' fingers leave reddened marks on Anteros' pale skin, the way Anteros evokes burning lust with a mere lick across Eros' lip. Eros doesn't stop to dwell on the intricacies of their relationship often but when he does, he never forgets that Anteros is the one who makes him more completely Love.
The thought drives him to want to possess Anteros, even if it's just for this while, and he is almost clumsy with desire as he works at the buttons of Anteros' shirt. The first two buttons are undone with ease, but the third goes flying and Anteros mutters unhappily into the kiss. Eros ignores it. There are five more buttons, and at least two more are torn from their threads; Eros is sure this will come up later but for now, he simply grins against Anteros' mouth and delights in the rebellion against his brother's preferences. This isn't a time for the slow sensuous slide of skin, not the way Anteros likes it. There won't be hours where they languish in foreplay until Eros could cry from sheer frustration- already he's sliding the jeans from Anteros' hips, left hand palming his erection through his boxers. He hears Anteros begin to speak, then cut himself off in equal parts irritation and impatience, and Eros laughs, outright and insolent.
“I'm not going to leave you hanging, like you'd do to me,” he stage-whispers, sliding to his knees and laving a path up from the band of his boxers to his bellybutton with his tongue, before pulling the fabric down completely. Anteros glares for a short moment (“I don't leave you ha--”), and then his breath hitches involuntarily and he bites down on his lip to keep from gasping too loudly. No point in giving Eros his satisfaction this fast. Sometimes it is a game between them, Eros doing his best to make Anteros admit that romance isn't the end-all and be-all of love and sex, while Anteros withholds all but the most unwilling capitulations to his brother's will.
His fingers scrape futilely against the wall, nails scrabbling for purchase as Eros takes him in his mouth, his gaze upwards the most obscene and lewd he can manage. Anteros hates this, he knows, hates how Eros can take the soft sweet side of love away so entirely and still make him beg. He watches with a dry mouth as Eros wraps a hand around the base of his cock, his head bobbing; he's so taken in by the sensation that he doesn't notice when Eros guides his hand to his head, when his fingers start curling painfully in his brother's hair. Eros just keeps his smug smile to himself for now.
All too soon though, Eros sits back, the tip of his tongue running over his lips as he smirks up at Anteros. The younger merely stares for a moment, uncomprehending. “... What now?” he demands, struggling to keep his voice normal, as if Eros hasn't had his mouth on him and made him writhe for the last five minutes.
“Take the rest of your clothes off.” It's an order, not a request; Anteros only obeys because Eros is doing the same, stripping his own clothes off in quick succession. Eros smiles widely at the cautiously blank expression he interprets to be a mix of curiousity and resentment, and kneels back down on the floor when he's done undressing. The tube of lubricant seems to appear from nowhere (but really, that's not a surprise), and Anteros' gaze doesn't waver as Eros pries the cap open and pours the viscous fluid onto his fingers. Damned idiot, Anteros thinks, always showing off like this, but he's lying if he dares to say he doesn't enjoy it, and so he watches as Eros presses his slicked fingers into himself, and he shakes his head in disbelief at how shameless Eros is with his vocalized pleasure.
“You're a real whore, Eros,” he says, but Eros stills, and indicates the wall with a jerk of his chin.
“Stay there until I tell you to move, there's a good dog,” he returns, and Anteros rolls his eyes at how juvenile Eros can be despite being the eldest of them. He concedes though, and backtracks until he's leaning against the wall again, fighting not to touch himself while Eros fucks himself with his fingers and pulls at his erection. The show is slow and deliberate; Eros knows exactly what buttons to push, and he displays that knowledge with impudence. It rankles as much as it arouses. Anteros really wonders what he's doing sometimes, how it is that Eros knows so unerringly how to manipulate him in the worst ways possible and yet still. Still. Anteros loves him like he does no other, not even Aphrodite.
At last though, Anteros has had enough of Eros' blatant show, and he stalks over, until he's leaning over Eros on his hands and knees. “Tease,” he accuses. Eros doesn't deny it. He leans down to take a kiss, but Eros simply pushes at him, and flips him over so that he's straddling Anteros instead. Anteros stares up at him, a little confused and about to protest, only to stop when Eros closes his fingers around his cock and presses the tip of it up against his ass. He keeps his eyes on Eros as he sinks down, their lips slightly parted in identical silent gasps, and he thinks that as familiar as the sight is, he'll never not love it when Eros' head is thrown back like this, when the column of his neck is stretched out to a smooth line of pale skin and shifting muscle. They start off slow, surprisingly, for all of Eros' words before, but Anteros doesn't get to enjoy the intimacy for long before Eros forces it into something fiercer, something more unrestrained, and it becomes useless for Anteros to insist that it be otherwise because the violence of it catches him and wraps him in the ferocity of the moment.
Useless really, for him to even think of anything but the tight grip of Eros' fingers on him, the slick warmth around him as he thrusts up into Eros and pleads silently for this to last because there is nothing else he could ever want, not now. Their rhythm falls into perfection, into a familiar route of knowing what the other wants, what the other likes, and neither is ashamed of using the knowledge to their best advantage. Anteros lets Eros kiss him, lets him murmur his dirty words into his ear because he does secretly love how this act is really nothing but base instinct and want, and in the midst of it he angles his hips so that he's pushing into Eros the way the elder wants. They are breathless, and desperate, and Anteros thinks disjointedly that only this-- this is bliss, and that the other gods will never know the intricacies that bind the personifications of love so deeply together.
His climax hits him hard, fast and sudden and he doesn't notice when his fingers leave reddened scratches down Eros' hips and thighs; all that he's aware of is the sheer aching sweetness of release, and for a moment all he knows is darkness.
Then he opens his eyes again, reluctantly, only to find that Eros has lifted himself off him, before slumping back down against Anteros, too warm and sticky and clingy. Anteros isn't sure he minds so much. Silence settles for a good long while, broken only by their soft breathing. It's always like this, their arguments always end in this. Anteros wonders if it's a good thing or bad thing. Then again, it's worked for a few thousand years, and they are still like this. They haven't faded, haven't irrevocably severed their ties as so many of their kind have done. Perhaps they are doing something right.
He opens his mouth to speak to Eros, turning to face him, only to see the bright eyes so similar to his staring at him, and he decides that perhaps he can leave the words for another time. Right now, he thinks that it is far more appropriate to simply kiss him, and so he does that.
“Eros,” he murmurs, and doesn't say anything else for a good long while.