This is how it used to be, when they were brothers in arms, walking the endless shady lanes of paradise: Michael and Lucifer, inseparable, pressed tight into each other at the end of a long day, burning hotter than the fires of sunset. Lucifer giving all, as he always did, Michael firm and gentle in the love of his brother. His hands would cross over Lucifer’s chest, hold him in place, as he covered the back of his brother’s neck with kisses and guided him down and around until they were hitched together at their core, Michael burning inside him, Lucifer crying out in want and desperation. Their cries were the sounds of heaven, and when Michael thrust up with a gasp and filled Lucifer up with heat and power, Lucifer would crane his neck back to catch his brother’s mouth in a kiss that started all power and pain and faded to bliss. Moving softly together as their orgasms faded, the two brothers of heaven could never conceive of a day when they might be separated by inches, much less by worlds.