Their bodies scream when they are parted. They are caught in a gilded cage of obsession and longing, wandering around their mansion dressed to the nines or barely at all. They sit too close and curl around each other like cats, speaking their own language and watching you with the arrogance of those who know they are beloved. They are playful in the mad, careless ways that lead to rumours and revolutions. They meddle in each other’s love lives like jealous lovers and throw the kinds of parties of which Caligula would be proud. Their eyes, when they think you aren’t looking, overflow with dark secrets and darker acts and the darkest lie: that rules apply to everyone, to anyone else, but not to them. They conspire at cruel, intoxicating games of power that only they know how to play, and the all the while you can’t help watching, waiting, wanting, though you know they could never truly let you in. They have been raised like little gods, believing that nobody else on earth could possibly compare. Is it any wonder then, that they have eyes only for each other?