Erwin Smith doesn’t believe in love. There’s no room for it, in this world of blood and choirs of death quietly humming to the rhythm of galopping hooves, stomping feet, crushing teeth.
He doesn’t believe in love, and neither does Levi. But that’s the beautiful thing about love, Erwin whispers to the soft skin of Levi’s throat, moonlight catching in the silver web of his eyes, in a dark December night filled with shy imprints of fingertips and stuttered symphonies of a lover’s name.
It’s beautiful and terrible, and it shatters both of their hearts under the weight of knowing that – that –
That love is a hurricane, and it doesn’t matter if they believe in it or not. It’s there.
Moami 