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"Don't be scared," Louis whispers. "It's okay, now."
It's not, and Paul doesn't need the frantic keening of his birds to tell him that. He can see it in the cool green glint of Louis's eyes, feel it in the slick press of Louis's white devil behind him. Their bare skin drags over his, too close, too indecent, it makes him want to vomit.
"Get thee--" He shoves hopelessly at Louis's chest, his nails scratching over his brother's skin. "Get thee behind me, Satan!" He draws his fist back for another blow, but rough arms loop over his chest, dragging him close.
"Fierce little thing, isn't he?" The white devil nips at Paul's throat, his fangs scratching Paul's skin. His hardness presses against Paul's thighs--Louis's hardness presses against Paul's thighs, their legs tangled around him like a net.
Foolish, to come here alone, trusting Louis's pleas for help, his tender lies. They'd pinned him and stripped him so easily, so strong, so fast. The devil is in Louis's so-called friend, and now it's in Louis, too, and Paul's prayers are not enough to save him.
"Our Father," he tries anyway, "who art in Heaven--" He's cut off with a gasp as Lestat's teeth sink into his throat, sharper and larger than any mortal man's. He swallows, and Paul feels his blood leaves in an arc of light, a violation creeping at his very core.
"Hey, now," Louis scolds, and the devil pulls his head away, laughing. Louis huffs and leans over, biting his lip before pressing a kiss to Paul's wounded neck. Paul feels the skin knit itself together, the pain sliding away, and misses it fiercely.
"Just keep breathing." Louis leans back into his vision, his horrible green eyes soft with love. "We're going to take care of you, all right? Set you right, help you feel good, so you don't hurt yourself no more."
Paul spits in his face in that, right in the eye, like Louis taught him. Louis just chuckles and rubs his face clean, blinking the mess away. He smiles, and it looks like Louis's smile, Louis's smile sewn to a demon's skin.
"You're going to burn," Paul forces out. "Both of you. My brother's soul, he's gone straight to heaven, but you--"
He's cut off when Louis kisses him, wet and sloppy, his tongue forcing his way down Paul's throat. He bites on instinct and Louis's blood feels his mouth, sickeningly sweet, like honey spilling down his throat. His eyes flutter and somewhere in, in his head, he hears Louis chuckle.
You always liked sweet things, Paul, Louis says, or the thing wearing Louis like a suit says. Always taking my candies after supper. I pretended not to notice, but I did. You were so happy when you had a bit of sweet in you, Paul, I didn't care what it took. I never have.
The white devil's hands wrap around his legs, pulling them apart. There's fingers prodding at him now, Louis's fingers, slick and wet and terrible. He pushes inside where no one has ever touched before, and it hurts, and it feels good, as all sin feels.
"Not sin." Louis pulls his head back with a wet pop, licking his lips. Blood shines on his mouth, but he doesn't seem tot notice, or care. "Bigger than sin, Paul, better than sin. Brighter. You've dreamed of this for a while, haven't you? And saints don't dream of sinful things."
No. No. Waking up hard and breathless in Louis's bed after crying himself to sleep there, the devil's gaze leaving him warm and breathless at the dinner table. Just thoughts, just impulses, the filth he has to scrub out of his skin with prayer, drown out with birdsong.
They're singing now, his birds, wild and free. So loud it hurts, almost, and he usually leans into the pain, the raw ecstasy of it, but the sound combined with the press of bodies against him, the crook of fingers, is too much, too much.
"You don't gotta listen to them." Louis's nuzzles against Paul's chest, over the place where his blade had rested. "You can listen to us, now. We'll listen to you."
"But--" They're not listening, he wants to whine, like a little boy, because no one ever listens. Louis's fingers brush some vile tender place inside him and Paul flinches, cut off with a cry.
"Sensitive little thing." Lestat's fingers flutter between his legs, brushing across his cock. Paul's hips jerks helplessly, straining against his will. "Are we your first, Paul? Your very first?"
"Fuck you," he spits, and regrets it instantly, the foulness. Lestat chuckles, a musical sound, the kind of music that makes your blood chill and crawl backward through your veins.
"Such foul language for a saint," he teases, his fingers sliding across Paul's stomach. "This fire of yours, it's wasted on holy candles. If they ever tried to put you in a pulpit you'd scorch it to ash, wouldn't you?"
No, no he wouldn't. But he's heard the whispers, hasn't he: too broken for the pulpit, too swept up in his birds, too wrong. Tears sting in his eyes, foul and humiliating, and Louis kisses them away with a gentle sigh.
"The moment I saw you both dancing in the streetlights, I knew what I wanted," Lestat murmurs. Dancing. Louis's knife against his flesh, Louis's teeth biting in. Louis smiles as Lestat's fingers wrap around Paul's hips, hoisting him into the air.
"Deep breaths," Louis says, and then he's pushing something into Paul that's bigger and thicker than his fingers, heavier. It hurts, and Paul tries to hold onto the pain, but Louis takes it so viciously slow, moving bit by cruel bit.
"How does he feel?" Lestat asks, speaking over Paul's head as Paul heaves for air, gagging on nothing.
"Like paradise." Louis rolls his hips and Paul moans before he can stop himself, helpless under the weight of all that sin. "How you doing, Paul? Feeling good?"
"I hate you," Paul rasps, and he can almost believe it. Louis just chuckles before kissing him again, his tongue tapping against Paul's lips like he's marking the rosary. Lestat's hardness drags between Paul's thighs; Louis lets out a muffled grunt, as if he's been pierced too.
It's not a sin. Louis paints the words on the inside of his head, poison dripping through his skull. It's the Roman's spear through Christ's side, Paul, don't you see? His hips jerk again, again, and Paul wails. You'll see. We'll help you see.
He doesn't want to see. He wants to close his eyes and disappear, let the birds drown it out, but even they can't overcome the sinful pleasure rolling through him, a tidal wave soaking their feathers and pulling them under.
"I love you," Louis insists, the words like nails sining through Paul's skull. "We love you, Paul, so much."
"So much, mon cher." Lestat agrees, his breath a bitter wind on the back of Paul's neck. "My beautiful saints, my darlings."
Not a saint, Paul wants to cry, not now, not ever. Saints don't writhe in the arms of devil's like this, saints don't shudder when devil-fingers wrap smoothly around their cocks, stroking back and forth.
Saints don't break the way he does, with a sound that's somewhere between a wail and a scream, filth spilling over Louis and Lestat's hands. Louis lets out a low groan and then he's spasming, too, something wet and wicked sloshing through Paul's insides.
Please. Paul's gaping for like a fish, drowning on dry land. Please, God, let me die.
"You won't die." Louis's voice sounds so steady, so firm, a big brother who always knows best. "Not ever."
Lestat's teeth plunge into his neck again, swallowing in damp gulps. Paul cries out, or tries to, but the strength is seeping from his muscles, the birds beating their wings helplessly against the inside of his skull.
"C'mere." He's pulled off Louis's cock and gathered in his brother's arms, head lolling, too weak to speak. He feels like a babe, and Louis cradles him like one, stroking Paul's forehead as he hums one of Mama's lullabies.
Through blurry eyes he sees his brother lift his own wrist to his lips, bite down with a dull crunch. He pulls his hand away as blood drips from his wrist, splattering over Paul's face, dribbling into his mouth. Paul squeezes his eyes shut, holding onto the last scrap of defiance with everything he has.
"Don't be scared," Louis insists. Lestat's fingers tug at Paul's jaw, forcing it open with a dull pop. "It's just like Communion wine, see?"
It's not, it's not. But it feels like that, sweet as that, when Louis's blood dribbles down his throat. When Paul swallows without being able to help himself, frantic like a man stumbling over water in the desert, the first tender gulp after forty days.
"We'll teach you how to hunt the sinners, to set them free." Louis's voice surrounds Paul, fills him up until he can't hear, think, anything else. "I ain't gonna fuck up, not again. I'll make it right, Paul."
Please. The world shimmers around him, sickeningly divine, and the birds are singing a song he's never heard before. Please, God. But the only God he can see shines in his big brother's eyes, bright and unyielding as a church window.
"This is how it begins," Louis whispers, as the hellfire buzzes through Paul's flesh, as twin drumbeats ring in his ears, as the universe shakes itself apart around. "This is how we begin, Paul, and we're gonna make it beautiful."