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Morpheus traces the wraiths of a sleeper's desires, molds them, gives them shape. Here a mythic beast, tall as a tree, high-breasted and bull-headed; here a beautiful woman crying; here a young man as fresh and sweet as a newly picked blueberry. And there, behind them, the darkness of what the sleeper really wants: a primordial blackness full of creeping crawling intentions.
There's potential there, and he reaches out, puts mouths on tree branches that grab at you as you pass, soft moss that feels like flesh to the touch.
He feels a touch, almost a caress, on his sigil. Bright and cold and intense, it feels.
'Not now, sibling,' he growls.
'But you call to me, brother,' says Desire, in its gallery, lounging against an ornate desk it just thought up, its cabinets bursting with love letters and suicide notes.
'I am making.'
'You are working in my field, brother. You're changing this man's mind.'
'I am fulfilling him. I am...'
'He will become a Corinthian thing. I like him just as he is, and so does my twin. He's ours too. Stop.'
'You do not call me just to talk over the petty wants of a single sleeper.'
'I suppose I am bored. Won't you come over?'
'No.'
'Haven't you forgiven me?'
'I have not forgotten.'
'May I come to you?'
'...Very well.'
They stand in Dream's gallery, Desire like a knife encased in a silk sheath, Dream as black and deep as mystery.
'May I offer you refreshments?'
'No,' whispers Desire, and slinks close, catching Dream's cloak in a slender bone-white hand. 'I'm horny.'
'I hate you still.'
'Yes,' whispers Desire, pressing close. 'Yes.'
Desire never begs - it doesn't have to. 'I could look like her,' it says, as Morpheus' lips touch its neck, a low moan of need in his throat. 'I could smell like her.'
'Don't you dare.'
They stand in Dream's bedroom, which is never slept in and was only put in when Lucien took over and began to model the palace after human houses. Desire's silken gown falls off its shoulders, Dream tugs at a belt he could wish away in an instant. Desire undoes it deftly, its fingertips on what's beneath like concentrated heaven. The jeans come off faster, the cloak pools at their feet, and Morpheus falls back on the soft white sheets. Where Desire's hands touch them, they become red, like passion, like blood, like the secret flesh.
'Another page in our Endless family epic--'
'Quiet.'
Desire falls silent, though it spares a thought to Destiny in his garden, and kisses Morpheus, tastes sweet sorrow on his tongue, feels the rush of its own desire and hatred mingle in the heady mix that called it here. Morpheus alabaster skin is warm to the touch, his body smooth and rippling and spare, and his movements of flesh-need coax the song of triumph in Desire's soul. 'I'm in you, brother,' it whispers.
Without a word, Morpheus spreads his legs, wraps them around Desire's hips, and Desire can feel his cock hot and thick against its belly. It takes it but a moment to guide itself into its brother, tight but moist and deep and sweet.
Flesh-bliss is only surface. This is soul-bliss. A thousand dreamers come in their sleep. A hundred thousand. They will never forget what they see, the rutting of gods in a changing room, eternity in each gasp and thrust.
The palace shakes in the unravelling aftershocks. A Ming vase dreamed of by an archeologist shatters, books fall off the library shelves and pile themselves on the aisles, some chocolate cakes become ostriches, and every flesh and blood dreamthing feels the stirring of the mating instinct. It passes quickly. The Dream King is rarely so careless.
Desire lies its head on its brother's chest, slipping into an unaccustomed calm. It had been a long time since it had taken a lover, and had almost forgotten this part - or at least the way it felt first-hand. Desire felt peaceful, pleasant. Unbidden thoughts and images appeared before its eyes.
It sat up, disquieted, scared.
Dream touched its arm, a light caress. 'And I'm in you, sibling,' he said.