AN: The AN from Perfection applies here as well. In the re-editing I realized that I am not entirely pleased with this one anymore, either, as it was written so long ago, but at least I think I managed to weed out the last of those pesky typos. Emphasis on "I think." ^_^

The Corruption of Roses

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.

In the beginning, there was the void.

In the beginning, there were the machines and the dying cry of the Mother's voice; there were the whispers of the Serafita's death and the simultaneous disappearance of God, of an unknown conflict in Entemenanki. There were the hushed rumors of a beast being kept alive by machines in the higher ranks of Heaven and of the beautiful infant who had been his sister.

In the end there will be youth and light and an endless radiant beauty that would make all of Heaven envious. In the end there will be perfection.

Sitting lazily atop the velvet sofa, Rosiel gives a small, empty sigh. It is the first sound he has made for several hours.

The girl gasps and delivers an eager, chaste kiss to his unmoving lips. She has indeed taken advantage of his seemingly catatonic state, kissing him often and running her slender fingers over his still body whenever Katan's eyes are turned away. It is beginning to annoy him, and yet at the same time he feels strangely amused by her daring advances. Of course he is amused. She does always manage to amuse him; she, in her desperate attempts to win his attentions, in her fiery rivalry of Katan, in her pure naïveté, he finds, is an inevitable source of amusement, for all the irritation she has caused him.

She raises up on her heels, caresses his face. She leans over and whispers into his ear, "Please, Sir Rosiel. Come back to us."

Come back to us. Such a peculiar choice of words. How long, he wonders, has he remained like this, perfectly still and perfectly silent, his face without expression and his eyes without life? More than the mere few hours he previously believed? Days, perhaps? It is entirely possible, he supposes with an apathy that for once does not dishearten him. The world could have ended and he would not have noticed.

Kyrie kisses him again and backs away from him so that their eyes are meeting, their faces only inches from touching. She has today forsaken the usual modesty of her normal attire and is wearing instead a clinging dress of scarlet. The dress adheres to the curves of her body in a way that most would find provocative, highlighting the swell of her breasts and of her rounded hips and the pleasant concavity of her waist. The neckline of the dress is looser on her than it should be, and as she leans over him he can see almost the entirety of her exposed breasts, from the initial swelling down to the barest pink hint of her nipples. Is she intending for him to see this? Does she actually believe it will entice him to be forced to stare at the vulgarity of her whorish desire? What a pathetic fool she is, and yet at the same time he feels almost sorry for her. He is the object of that desire and he will not yield to her despite her employment of her own physical resources. But then such sympathy is useless. She left Heaven of her own volition; he did not force her to; likewise he has not asked her to dress as a prostitute for him.

She begins speaking to him under her breath again and he represses the urge to strike her. God, but she irritates him, and seeing her in this dress only reminds him of that. Such a hopeless imbecile, so disgustingly hopeless. He wonders why Katan has not yet sent her away from him as he usually does.

Katan.

Ever so slowly as not to alert Kyrie to his consciousness, he allows his eyes to shift over her shoulder to the cherub's figure on the opposite side of the room. He sits placidly in the corner of the window seat, his knees drawn up to his chest in a fashion that seems strangely boyish. Atop them he holds a strange book, bound in leather and well-aged by the yellowed edges of its pages. Most likely he found it in what remains of the church's library. Rosiel watches him as Kyrie continues her incessant prattle and after some time he realizes that the cherub is not reading at all, though he pretends to be: the pages of the book never turn and his eyes move only barely over the words upon the unmoving sheet. Those eyes—so beautiful they are, those eyes like those of a perfectly-crafted doll—seem instead locked on what transpires before him, on the girl and her annoyingly enticing movements and his master who give no sign that he notices any of this. The expression upon his pale face is one of utter emptiness, as though he regards this scene without any emotion at all, but the angel is well aware of what is going through his child's head: those thoughts Katan has himself confessed to having of jealousy that another should be allowed to touch him, a repressed anger for the girl and her daring fingertips. Does he not realize that he would be allowed the same were he to take such an initiative? Does he not realize that he could do the same to anyone he chooses?

Kyrie shifts in her position again, obstructing the view of the cherub. She brushes her lips against his face again and she allows the satin-covered peaks of her breasts to graze across his lips. He silently fights the desire to shove her back from the sofa and as he struggles against the thought Katan appears behind her, finally incensed to act, and pulls her away. She turns on him, raises a hand to slap him. The cherub catches her wrist and with his free hand pulls up the low neckline of her dress. There are heated words between them, the beginning of what could become a rather fiery argument, and in his seemingly catatonic silence he listens raptly. It is these constant feuds between them that amuse him the most.

At last the girl storms from the room, leaving Katan where she had earlier stood as she tormented their master. Slowly, tentatively, he stretches one pale hand forth and touches the side of Rosiel's face, runs a single finger over the line of his cheek. Rosiel wonders briefly if he will take this opportunity as Kyrie had, then the cherub puts to rout this silent question by withdrawing and returning to the window seat.

He feels a slight, unnoticeable smile cross his lips at this.

Katan resumes his former position and again places the book across his knees. He remembers this time to turn the page.

Rosiel, unhampered now by Kyrie's attentions, studies him calmly, closely, as an art connoisseur would examine a truly exquisite painting. And the cherub is truly exquisite, isn't he? His pale hair, his even paler skin, the intensity of his feline eyes as they glance from the book to Rosiel, the shape of his hands, slender yet still masculine. He wears a tight-fitting black shirt that curves beautifully with the shape of his body but Rosiel cannot fully see this for over it he wears his long, loose coat, and he strangely finds himself wishing that the cherub would remove this obstruction. His dark pants are neither extremely tight nor extremely loose and where his legs are raised they draw against the skin of his knees. He wants to touch the cherub, he realizes with something like a familiar sense of wonder. He wants to rise from this false stupor and go to him and let his hands travel over the perfectly sculpted body as they had only a few nights ago as the cherub murmurs hopelessly his pleading protests. Katan would protest, he knows, though he would desire it as much as Rosiel. He would protest in his innocence that he does not know what any of this is for he indeed is innocent, without true carnal knowledge although Rosiel has come so close to bestowing it upon him. And he would protest in fear as well, the fear that any pleasure would be later followed by pain. He wonders salaciously in these moments of wanting to simply touch and to tempt him whether the cherub's fear would outweigh his desire or if perhaps the opposite would occur.

Such thoughts are futile now. He is content merely to watch the cherub in his vague movements—the rise of hand to slowly turn a page, the furtive stolen glances at his master whom he believes cannot see him—and his sweetly empty expressions; he is content in the mere knowledge of how often he plays this game, how often he watches him while feigning unconsciousness. Katan is still unaware of this, he believes. Poor, obedient, innocent child.

He watches as the cherub gives a quiet sigh and turns another page.

"Do you find it cold in here, Katan?" he asks, sitting up on the sofa.

The cherub jumps, startled at the sound of his voice.

Rosiel laughs softly and brushes his hair carelessly aside. "Do you find it cold?"

He clears his throat and swallows his initial shock. "No, Sir Rosiel."

"Then take off that coat."

Katan nods and slips in one silken movement out of the heavy obstruction.

Rosiel smiles as a cat that has just decided upon its next prey. He draws his slender legs against him—a rather feminine gesture—and waits.

Katan looks up at him, comes so deliciously close to meeting his eyes.

Such an obedient boy.

The cherub drops the coat onto the empty space on the seat next to him. There is the barest twitch in his legs as he unconsciously draws his knees together. He is so afraid of his master now, perhaps more afraid than he had been the night when Rosiel had gone to him, naked and hysterical, and had almost defiled him then.

Rosiel decides not to torture him any longer.

He rises from the sofa, lets the skirt of his dark militaristic uniform fall around his pale effeminate legs. "Tell me, Katan," he says, smiling, approaching him slowly in order to examine his changing expression, "were you watching me earlier? Were you watching what she was doing to me? I know I'm not mistaken. You were watching."

Katan swallows nervously and lowers his head as though in shame. "Yes, Sir Rosiel," he admits, his voice almost tremulous. "I was."

Rosiel smiles again and continues toward him. "And did you enjoy what you saw?"

Katan shakes his head. "No, Sir Rosiel. I was disgusted by it."

"Were you envious, Katan?"

He shivers as though in sudden terror that he will now be punished for his silent visual intrusion, that now that he has enjoyed a few moments of his master's attention there will come the inevitable pain.

Rosiel draws near enough to him to place a hand upon the cherub's head. "Were you envious, Katan?" He does not take the trouble to disguise the blatant amusement in his voice.

Katan nods. The silken strands of his hair move enticingly underneath his palm. "Yes, Sir Rosiel, I was."

"Envious?" He extends one finger and strokes the sensitive crest of the cherub's ear where it is uncovered by his hair.

Again Katan nods. "Yes." So lost, he sounds, so lost and utterly terrified. Like the poor child he had once been in Heaven, starved for acceptance, for affection. He knows the feeling all too well himself.

He tightens his grip on Katan's head. "Say it."

"I was envious, Sir Rosiel."

Rosiel smiles complacently. "And why were you envious?" He teases him with another stroke, and he can feel the cherub straining not to relax against his hand.

"Be-because she was t-taking advantage of you, Sir Rosiel."

He lowers his hand to the side of Katan's bowed face. "Are you saying that you would like to take advantage of me?"

Katan shudders and half-restrained sigh escapes his lips. "No, Sir Rosiel. I wish to do nothing of the kind."

He presses his nails against the crown of the cherub's head, lets him feel how easily he can cut into him. "You don't want me then."

The cherub responds with a small choking sound. He is so wounded already, always so easily wounded. So wounded and still so perilously starved.

My beautiful child, I won't starve you much longer.

He withdraws his hand, steps away from the window seat and his beloved pet. "You don't want me." And strangely part of him does mean these words, though he knows they are not true. They cannot be.

"No, Sir Rosiel, I do. I want you."

"You touched me after she left," he continues. He feels the smile beginning to return to his lips. "Why did you not do more than that?"

"It would have been disrespectful, Sir Rosiel."

"Which is greater, Katan, your desire or you respect?"

Another shiver. "I…I don't know, Sir Rosiel."

He touches the cherub's face again, gently guides it upward so that their eyes meet. His fingers again run across his beautiful son's forehead, down onto the line of his nose, under the sensitive flesh beneath his eyes, over his trembling lips. Katan slowly lowers his knees and the book—still open—slides down onto his thighs. Rosiel picks it up, looks at it amusedly, and casts it carelessly aside.

"Tell me, Katan, which one is the greater?" He climbs up onto the window seat, gathers his skirt up around his thighs. The moonlight outside the high window glows dully upon his pale flesh, dueling passively with the candlelight.

Katan glances down at this and swallows.

He gently pushes the cherub against the chilled glass and lowers his head until their lips are all but touching. "Which is greater?"

Katan shudders again, exhales shakily. His feline eyes redden and brim with tears.

Rosiel takes his hand, places it upon his bare thigh. He guides it, as the cherub begins to tremble violently, upward, until it is curved around the swell of his bared hip. "Which is greater?"

Katan looks helplessly up into his eyes. "De-desi-sire," he stammers.

Rosiel smiles. He pushes Katan's hand tighter against his hip, then releases him. The cherub's hand remains.

He lowers his head again, softly kisses his child's neck. Katan stifles a tremulous moan.

"Then why do you not do anything?"

He feels Katan give the first slight attempt to pull away from him.

"What is it, Katan? Are you afraid of me?"

The cherub hesitates, nods. A large tear spills over his left eye. Rosiel leans forward and slowly licks the tear away.

"Sir Rosiel, please don't."

He looks at the cherub inquisitively.

Katan draws away from him. "Please don't do this, Sir Rosiel."

He presses his body close against that of the cherub, tempting him, frightening him. Corruption should always be this way. "Why not?" he whispers, almost playfully, into the cherub's ear, running his fingertips down the pale curve of his neck. Katan tenses, struggling against giving in to him.

"This…this isn't right, Sir Rosiel."

He moves his hand upward, curves it around the underside of his child's face. "Why are you frightened of me, Katan?"

Katan shudders, lets out another shaky sigh. "Sir Rosiel--"

His fingers tighten around the cherub's face. Katan gives a sharp gasp as he feels his master's nails drive perilously close to piercing his skin.

"How do I frighten you?" he demands of his child. He rakes the edge of one long nail over Katan's cheek, not quite hard enough to cut him.

Another tear falls from his eye. His chin quivers like that of a young boy, and he fails in stifling a high whimper.

Rosiel feels his own heart breaking at the sight of this. The cherub has no idea how badly he desires him at this moment. His poor, defenseless creation, his beautiful child. Tonight, his lover.

"Are you afraid that I'll hurt you?" His hand relaxes, caresses the cherub's face softly.

Katan nods. "Y-yes, Sir Rosiel."

"I've hurt you so often in the past, haven't I, Katan?"

"I understand your reasons, Sir Rosiel."

He gives an endearing smile and runs his thumb over Katan's lips. "Then understand this, Katan—I never meant to hurt you, and I will not tonight."

The cherub seems apprehensive, but his desire is written blatantly across his beautiful face. His arms unconsciously, acting of a volition greater than that of his fear, lock tightly about his waist. Rosiel smiles again and brushes his lips against Katan's.

"Let me feel that desire then," he whispers to the cherub, tempting him with the barest touch of his tongue.

Katan lets out a quiet moan of surrender and after one more moment of hesitation his embrace tightens, pushing his master's body harshly against his own. Rosiel moves his hips provocatively against those of his beloved cherub and as their lips meet again in a soft, pleading kiss he feels beneath him the first tightening bulge as his efforts at last achieve success and Katan's desire wins out over his incessant fear. Katan moans in a perfect mixture of that strange initial pleasure and surprise. To Rosiel's knowledge this is the first time he has ever felt anything like this.

"Katan."

The cherub's hand moves upward, sliding carefully up his master's back until it cups the back of his head, silently requesting. Rosiel graces him with a playful smile and honors the request, bending down and kissing him again, deeply this time, as though he wants to devour him. Katan's lips part willingly and their tongues briefly touch, and Rosiel gives a soft laugh as he wonders if the cherub will try to tease him now. He lowers his own hand, pausing atop the cherub's thigh and extending one finger to stroke the hardness beneath the dark material of his pants.

Katan gasps and pulls out of the kiss, staring up at Rosiel in the manner of one who is held in utter terror. His breath explodes from his throat in high, tremulous gasps.

"Is this the manner in which you desire me?"

Katan tries to nod and through his ragged breathing he says, "I desire you in all manners--"

Rosiel interrupts him with another chaste kiss. "But is this the manner in which you desire me?"

"Yes, S-Sir Rosiel."

He kisses the side of the cherub's face and lowers himself from the window seat, taking Katan's hand in his own. "Then come with me," he says, and he starts for the door. The cherub follows close behind him.

The corridor beyond the room is cold and without light, but he knows precisely where he is leading him to. Katan brushes against his side, quite unintentionally, and Rosiel responds with a low, short laugh.

His own bedroom is only a few halls down from the door through which they have just passed. There will be no distractions once they have crossed its threshold—the vast room is already alight with rows of hundreds upon hundreds of candles, as they are kept lit at all times in the event that Rosiel should suddenly want to go there. He does not like to light them himself, and the others indulge him on this.

He pauses briefly outside the door, and for that one moment he thinks of why they indulge him, of some great unspoken knowledge that Sir Rosiel could not be allowed to do such a thing and the fear that he would harm himself, all these same reasons that the roses he had found there the other day had been deprived of thorns.

God, what have I—

But these thoughts, these wicked fantasies of self-destruction he must push away now.

He opens the wide doors and guides the cherub inside, then locks the doors behind them in the event that Kyrie should return to pry. Katan shivers as he waits for whatever is to occur next, be it his master's love or his master's wrath.

He silently takes the cherub's hand again, leads him to the luxurious bed. There is fear still but there is blatant desire as well, as the cherub returns the grip on his master's hand and leans forward to brush his lips against Rosiel's cheek.

"May I, Sir Rosiel?"

The angel nods and guides him to sit on the edge of the bed. He rises and stands before the cherub, watching his eyes as they transcend from one emotion to another. He raises one elegant hand, curls his fingertips around the first button of his uniform's jacket. "Is this what you desire, Katan?" he asks, and when the cherub nods silently he begins to unbutton the jacket. "Then tell me what you see."

He removes the jacket, lets it fall carelessly to the floor. The cherub's tentative hands move upward onto his bared back, simply touching the flesh there as he has never been truly permitted to do in the past.

"I see how beautiful you are," he says finally, letting his eyes explore his master's pale body as his hands are too frightened still to do.

Rosiel smiles, lowers himself down onto the cherub's lap, straddling his waist. "And how beautiful is that?"

Katan sighs as his master lightly rakes his tongue across his face. "As beautiful as Heaven itself"—they kiss briefly—"as the face of God's mercy. More beautiful than all of creation, so"—Rosiel's hands trail down to chest teasing him with soft, furtive touches that he knows the cherub will not be able to resist—"so beautiful that not even angels should be permitted to look at you…so beautiful, Sir Rosiel…beauty beyond"—Rosiel's hand again finds the cherub's tensing hardness and his fingers wrap around it through the cloth of his pants—"beauty beyond…beyond everything…everything…oh God--"

His fingertips move up and down the cherub's length, eliciting at last a low, desirous moan from his pet. Katan's lips seek his eagerly as his hands push underneath his master's skirt, trailing up his thighs, underneath them. One hand darts into the crevice between Rosiel's legs, gently clutching the curve of flesh that exists where should be the masculine organ.

Rosiel pulls away from him, his eyes suddenly wide where they had been hazy and half-closed, and Katan quickly withdraws his hands like a disobedient child. His hand rises and strikes the cherub across the face, bringing more tears where there had been sighs and quiet moans.

"Wh-what is it, Sir R-ro-rosiel?" The cherub's voice is choked by fear as well as a lingering sensation from his master's fingers only moments ago.

Rosiel looks at him, realizes that his own respiration has become shallow and hurried. He lets out another shaky exhalation—

—you are so hideous, Rosiel—

—and touches the reddening side of Katan's face. "Please, Katan, don't ever do that again," he whispers. He brushes his lips against the cherub's, an apologetic offering. "Don't ever, ever do that again."

Katan look up at him with an innocently pained expression upon his lovely, tear-streaked face.

"I am really not a man or a woman," he continues. "Is this what you desire so badly?"

"Yes, Sir Rosiel. I would not wish you to be any other way."

They kiss again and Rosiel moans softly as the cherub unzips his skirt; it falls, dejectedly, onto the floor. The falling of a shadow of a dream.

He removes Katan's shirt, carefully does the same with the rest of his clothes. Naked, the cherub embraces him, presses his pale lips against the base of his neck.

"Katan?"

"Yes, Sir Rosiel."

"Tell me that I'm beautiful."

"You are beautiful, Sir Rosiel."

"Yes."

Another kiss, a tightening embrace. Katan lays back on the bed as Rosiel gives another murmured 'yes' and his hands grasp the cherub's shoulders, as though he is drowning and Katan is the only thing that can save him. Drowning, yes. Drowning in his desire for the cherub, in his desire to corrupt him. A corruption of roses.

He guides the cherub to lay back on the bed, to lay his head atop the many pillows. Two more tears run out from his eyes and these Rosiel kisses away; to him, strangely, they taste vaguely of rose petals.

"Tell me," he urges the cherub, grinding his hips against his.

Katan shudders as he reacts to the movement of his master's body. "You are beautiful, Sir Rosiel."

He brings his lips to the cherub's again, runs his tongue over them. Without breaking this teasing kiss he reaches back and draws the silken crimson sheets over their entwining bodies as Katan's legs tighten helplessly about his waist. Katan's hands bury themselves in the lavender curls of his master's hair and Rosiel begins to move over him in an act he cannot perform, rhythmically brushing the formless void between his own legs against the cherub's organ. His lips travel down onto Katan's neck, tugging forcefully at his taut skin, perhaps too forcefully, perhaps hurting his beautiful cherub but he does not care, for in his mind he is cursing her, his ethereal sister, cursing her for not giving to him the one part he most needs now. He looks at the dazed, yearning expression on Katan's face and realizes that he wants to take him as a woman would, wants to feel the tight muscles of the cherub's chest against his own, wants to watch his eyes, his trembling lips, but he cannot for he lacks the part that would enable him to do at least that too, which she could have given him just as easily as she had relinquished her eyes, her flesh. He continues this futile movement against the cherub's body and there is some slight sensation, a sensation that will never intensify, that will never cause him to tremble as the cherub now does or cause him to moan as the cherub now is, quietly, unabashedly, the tears still streaming from his hazy eyes, his hands tangling in the waves of Rosiel's hair…he will never know this, no matter how badly he desires it, he will never—

"Damn you, Alexiel," he whispers against the cherub's neck. "Damn you, damn you…"

He is silenced by the cherub's hand upon his lips. "Forget her, Sir Rosiel. She is not worthy of your thoughts. Please forget her."

He bestows a smile upon the cherub. "Yes." He kisses him again, relishing the taste of his lips. "Yes."

He moves away from Katan's face, smiling still, vaguely aware that the expression on his face is like that of a playful cat. His lips trail down the length of the cherub's pale body, covering his chest, his shoulders, his abdomen in firm, reverent kisses and between each one he murmurs the word again as Katan continues to give hushed little moans that only work to deepen his ravenous desire for him. He places his hands between the cherub's thighs and gently spreads them further apart.

"So beautiful, Katan," he says to him. "You are truly the only good thing I've ever accomplished."

He bows his head to kiss the inside of one silken white thigh, lets this side of his face rub against the cherub's hard masculinity. Katan utters a quiet, piteous whimper and his hands clutch the crimson sheets.

Rosiel smiles at this and, holding the cherub's legs apart, takes the organ into his mouth. Katan gasps loudly and his entire body—including the organ which now preoccupies his master—tenses. His legs involuntarily try to go together and with a small grunt Rosiel holds them down. The resistant gasps continue for a moment and through this Rosiel patiently waits, and then the cherub's gasps subside into slow, desirous moans. His resistance ends.

Rosiel tightens his lips about the organ, relaxes, tightens this grip again. He does not want to frighten the cherub, nor does he intend on breaking his promise not to hurt him again. He presses his tongue against it, laps gently at its tip as the cherub quietly murmurs his name.

My lovely Katan, how long I have wanted this.

He begins massaging the cherub's thighs, pressing his fingertips into the taut muscles carefully as not to drive his dark nails into the vulnerable flesh. He runs his tongue up and down the cherub's steel length, slowly at first but gradually quickening, teasing him with the occasional touch of his teeth. Katan's moans become faster as he tries to control himself and this only further incites his master. Rosiel sucks harder at the organ, his tongue moving against it more forcefully. He becomes aware that he is himself moaning in time with the cherub. The circling rhythm of his hands upon the cherub's thighs quickens with that of his mouth upon the cherub's hard, throbbing flesh and he at last elicits a response from him. Katan's hips buck suddenly upward, driving the organ deeper into Rosiel's mouth. He thrusts in time with his master's pleasing lips, moaning in an exotic pleasure he has never previously known exists, his hands gripping the sheets with every upward motion of his hips. The fear dissolves within him but still he tries to contain his reactions, to stop his own involuntary thrusting and relaxing yet he cannot. His master goes on with this sinful torture, suckling him, licking, gently biting as the cherub's restrained hips move in tight jerks that Rosiel finds beautifully irresistible.

Their rhythm intensifies. The cherub's climax is nearing. Rosiel moves against him more quickly, thrusting against the organ with his lips and his tongue as Katan's hips continue in their small arcs. He licks the cherub once more and withdraws, encasing the organ tightly in his hand as Katan reaches his climax. The cherub lets out a hushed cry and when it is all over, he collapses weakly against the bed.

Rosiel looks up at him, sees that his flushed face is drenched in tears. He crawls back to the head of the bed and gently takes the cherub into his arms.

"Rosiel…Sir Rosiel…"

He kisses the side of Katan's face, runs a hand through his short hair. The cherub sits up and before Rosiel can realize what he is doing he places his hands upon his master's bare shoulders and gently guides him to lie on his back. Rosiel tries to raise up and demand to know what the cherub is doing but he is held fast by Katan's hands, these hands which have never harmed him, have never even tried. This could be interesting. Let him do as he wants. His beautiful Katan. His child. His servant, his guardian. His lovely, corrupted rose—

He gasps sharply as he feels the cherub's daring tongue pushing between his thighs and softly caressing the spot that earlier Rosiel had commanded him never to touch again. A wave, like a bolt of electricity, like a flame in Heaven's light, washes up through him, paralyzing him against the mound of pillows as Katan's hands hold him down.

Katan—

He cries out frantically as he feels for that one brief moment a great pressure building up within him, like the beginning of what Katan must have felt as the sensation intensified with his master's forceful lips, a tempest in a teacup—

Alexiel—

And then it passes like a dream at the coming of morning.

Katan sits up, mumbles an apology. Rosiel silences him with a chaste kiss and burrows into the sheets.

"I want you to stay with me tonight," he says to the cherub.

Katan obediently nods. "Yes, Sir Rosiel,"

"Blow out the candles."

"Yes, Sir Rosiel."

The cherub rises, naked, from the bed, proceeds to blow out each of the flickering candles. Rosiel watches him contentedly from the bed and when the cherub returns to it, he moves into his embrace.

"Katan," he whispers after sometime, as sleep is beginning to consume them both, "I need you to protect me, Katan." He does not know why he has said such a thing. His mind is too hazy to consider it.

The cherub tenses, startled. Finally he tightens his warm embrace about Rosiel's small figure and gives a chaste kiss to his master's forehead. "Yes, Sir Rosiel. Always."

A corruption of roses should always be such.

Finis