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The sky in Anor Londo is a colorless twilight, as leached of vitality as the city itself. The city of the gods isn't overlooked by even a single star, never mind the moon or the false sun that Gwyndolin has wryly, privately, shamefully named himself after. Here, though, in these chambers that today have been opened for the first time in millennia, the lamps are lit, and the bedclothes are tangled in a hopeless snarl around the waists of the only two sons of Gwyn.
Gwyndolin sprawls on his side, watching the dead sky through the filmy curtains and feeling the strange air on his naked skin, his scales. His brother is a wall of heat at his back, the space between them still sticky and humid. Gwyndolin has been cold for so long he'd forgotten what it felt like to sweat. He turns his face against the huge bicep he is using for a pillow and feels his lower limbs stir languidly, twisting themselves against the warmth of his brother's legs. His brother snorts a deep half-laugh as a forked tongue tickles at his massive calf muscle, and Gwyndolin only realizes once he feels himself relax that he had been afraid his brother might recoil.
A hand skims down his scale-freckled thigh, gently strokes the place where the warm flesh splits into cool serpent coils. "Well now, little brother." The words rumble against the nape of his neck, quaking through him like a crack of thunder. Gwyndolin shudders, his face twitching involuntarily into another unfamiliar expression, rusty with disuse: a smile. "It seems I haven't tired you out thoroughly enough."
He's still not accustomed to the fact that his brother now talks like the coarsest of pilgrims. He's always been rough, of course -- Gwyndolin could never forget his boundless confidence, the way he'd always seemed to take up more space than he really did (so opposite of Gwyndolin, who'd always felt as if making himself any more noticeable than a dust mote was an unforgiveable imposition), the way he'd twist Father effortlessly around his finger one moment and send Him into a towering thundercloud of rage the next. But even his brother's accent is different now, and for some reason that, more than anything, is what makes Gwyndolin decide his answer to the question his brother posed to him earlier.
It's been millennia. His brother has lived a dozen different lives without him -- without any of them -- and still he returned. Even in his wildest, loneliest dreams, Gwyndolin had never actually expected anyone to come back for him.
"If thou see fit," Gwyndolin murmurs, heart hammering, "we shall have more than enough time to tire ourselves. Whenever and wherever would please thee." His brother stills, and then leans over him, his face coming into view like a sunrise. His smile is uncharacteristically cautious.
"You'll come with me." It doesn't sound like a question, but Gwyndolin knows it is.
Gwyndolin nods. And then, feeling the arm around his waist shift and grip him tighter in sleepy, confident affection, he turns, and says his brother's name.