It was mutual for the two of them; they had no other things to keep the stresses of their daily lives away. They were always so close in proximity, so it made sense that when they needed to get rid of something like this they would turn to each other—even if they were out to kill each other.

The touch of skin, their brash games of coy arousal—games without contact—with hot breaths brushing lightly over skin like a hot summer's breeze; too hot to do anything but make the heat worse, but somehow revitalizing as if it had been a cool north wind. Hands ghosting across the upraised hairs on arms, chests, thighs; the two of them drove themselves mad, worse and deeper into the insanity than what the troublesome black books had, the few known ones scattered across the world, with two of them in Japan.

The physical contact was so sweetly gratifying, but still something they would have to get to later; their coy games, driving their minds and bodies to the breaking point, had their own pleasures. Who could last the longest at their sick little games, whom would make whom scream the loudest, how long until the hot flash would envelope their minds and wipe them blank—even for just a moment, the crisp cleanness of knowing nothing was calming, soothing to the burning souls of the two who now depended upon the one they would kill.

The one who broke first made a gasp that lit his partner's insides on fire, the stupid cherry lollipop slipping from in between his pinky and ring fingers as his other hand made a grab for the face of his opposite, his enemy. Tongues tying, skin burning, flesh ripping; oh, how amazing! oh, how frightful! To think, the body drove them together, and the mind wishes the opposite's departure from this world! A sick kind of laughter almost makes the holder of death want to run it into their kiss—so very passionate, that kiss.

The first finds no arousal in the second, and vice versa; they just have a bodily need, this uncontrollable desire. So twisted it is, yet so befitting that they rid themselves of such a troublesome human need upon one whom they hate. The pounding of flesh on flesh, the pool of heat—so awful, so beautiful—and the promise of their minds becoming blank slates so very soon drove them together, into one another, through one another; becoming one another.

The pair knew which of them would be dying first; they knew the other's true name and darkest secret, yet they kept putting the inevitable off. Eventually, one of them would be dying by the hands of the other. Waiting wasn't the strong suit of either of the men; tenacity took such virtues and threw them to the howling wind. Maybe they wanted to keep putting the other's mind to the test, maybe what they got out of sex together was something too good to give up yet.

But, if you think about it, they're doomed to walk the path of hell together. So maybe walking the streets of fiery hell can wait just one more night. After all, to deviate from the path to insanity this far in favor of the road of mere hell was more foolish than anything else.