Of Gods and Worship - Dreamnoblade

3.

The afternoon sun basks the entirety of the temple in a yellow glow, and the sunset peeks at them from the darkening horizon in a final goodbye. Gold spills out of the open windows and falls upon a statue of faded colors and hints of cracks, down upon the ring of flame at its feet, and even further down upon two figures in front of canvas damp with paint and raw sparks of creativity waiting to be ignited. In there, the gold fades into a dozen different colors composing a breathtaking iteration of a fantastical landscape waiting to be completed.

"That's beautiful." Techno breathes out, smiling so proudly. It gives him an ache that he's known ever since the god became a part of his life. "You are no Apollo and that is no masterpiece, but it is no less beautiful."

"Must you always compliment me in that way?" Dream chides, but there is no real hostility behind his words. He's grown used to the way he never means what he actually says, to the way he hides his positive sentiments behind half-hearted insults. "It tastes rather bittersweet."

"It is fun to tease."

"Not for me."

"Lighten up a little." The god chuckles, reaching over to turn the page of the book on his lap for him. "This wonderful day is not befitting your fearsome scowl."

"Hush, you." The priest looks down to scan the first few lines before going back to the canvas. "This part requires my attention."

The comfortable silence that envelopes them is familiar as Dream goes back to his task of painting, his silver-tipped fingertips masterfully dabbing the paint onto their designated areas to create wondrous imagery. It is a relaxing hobby to fill in blank canvases from every corner with the images of places and events in the books he reads. He is quite enamored with seeing things come to life, quite enamored with breathing it into them anew.

"So delicate, those hands of yours." The god suddenly speaks from behind him, eyes fixated on his hand making strokes along the negative space. "So tender, that touch of yours."

The priest smiles abashedly. "You've said that before."

"It is no less true now than it was then."

"You speak as if it had been centuries."

Techno has a strange look on his face, one Dream is familiar with whenever their past endeavors are mentioned. He thinks it's a little too soon to be nostalgic about things like that. "Don't worry about it. Regardless, I was correct. You really bear a striking resemblance to him."

Dream takes his brush away from the freshly painted sky and dips it in a cup of water, watching as the blue paint swirls into ribbons in the colored liquid. "I'm sure even the worst of his creations put my best to shame."

"It is a matter of how they both endear me so." Techno brings a rag for him so that he can dry the brush of its excess water. "In that, both of you are equal."

"I'm flattered." He stretches in his seat as he sets aside his palette just as how the other takes the book from his lap and puts it down on one of the pews. He mutters his thanks as he's handed a damp towel to wipe away the colors staining his skin. "Not every day does one have a god liken them to another."

"Shall we change that, then?" Techno's hand coming up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear is nothing new to him. "We could even make it twice, or even thrice a day if your flushed cheeks allow for such frequency."

"I cannot help flustering easily." Dream leans into the touch when the other cups his cheek. The warmth is still there, but he has been burnt enough times to grow numb to the sensation. "I cannot help how much you tease me."

"I cannot help enjoying it."

"One can only dream to fathom how a god enjoys messing with a human that is simply trying to read and paint."

"Perhaps it should be the other way around." Techno does not stutter in his next lines, and Dream later wishes that he did. "Perhaps I should read those words against your lips and paint merlot on your skin."

"I−" Dream flushes comically quickly and intensely. "Techno!"

"Yes?"

"You cannot... just say things like those...!" He jumps back as though he's been scalded. "Or I'll..."

"Or what?" He smirks, and it makes his heart skip a beat. "Or you'll end up falling for me?"

And that is what opens his eyes. A line meant to poke, to prod, to taunt is what ended up letting him realize where fate had brought him. A line meant to dig into him and have him sputtering to deny it is what ended up making him realize its truth.

Falling in love with the blood god is like falling into a bed of roses. Falling, falling, and falling with not a single thought nor doubt. It is as though the strings of fate had been woven into a tapestry depicting the exact moment he gave his heart to his god, the exact moment the fervor of his faith had turned into something more akin to fondness. And yet as sweet as roses are, as velvety their petals may feel, as intoxicating their aroma may be, they still have thousands of thorns; they still have but a million ways to hurt him. And yet he lets himself fall and be pricked beautifully, he lets himself bleed on the manifestation of his love; after all, it is only right for that to be a priest's offering to the blood god.

Techno is a god and he is his priest. He is ever present, ever ethereal, and ever untouchable. He is not for him to have; he is not for him to even think of having. He is only there to keep him company, is only there to keep himself entertained.

Dream looks away in shame as his reply is unspoken and will remain unspoken for as long as he can manage.

Perhaps I already have.