When Darkness learns to love, God will Fall, for what is God if not Love?
And there was laughter and blood and fire, but most of all there was laughter ringing out above the sounds of metal clashing against flaming steels as the armies of the Underworld poured up the moonbeam-wrought stairway (like steel except weaker, cold and beautiful and contrasting so nicely with the many-hued blood that spilt over them and made them slick, made the demons slip, made the angels slip with them, slip and fall and die and become one with the Earth they have watched over for long).
And the blond pushed his partner against the first gates as the battle raged around them, as immortals died around them, as kin met kind (kindness was a concept too foreign to be named and names were stripped from the dead, weapons taken from the wounded), and kissed the paler one, and laughed. The sound of his laughter sounded above every war-cry (matched with a death-sigh, with a hell-scream, with a hurt sound) and it ate away at the gates as if it were acid, corroding them and boring through them and they fell to the floor in nothing but little pieces of bronze that had been polished so highly that it reflected the war taking place around them (death and death and more death, the crows will feed well tonight).
And they fell upwards, reached the next gates and the others streamed after them (blood dripping upwards from their swords, a red rain in reverse and the moon was blocked from the sight but the light never left them for here, there is nothing but light) and again, the blond pressed the other against the gates, kissed him and told him, "I trust you." His words were like a wind (winded, panting, barely able to speak, each kiss stealing not his soul but his heart and the words coming out so faintly that it's surprising that they were still the loudest sound during the Final War) and the wind blew at the gates, making them topple and fall while still locked together in a triumph of twisted silver.
And again, they fell upwards, levels after levels and tests after tests but bad luck comes in threes, as does good, and there are only three gates and they're winning (oh gods they're winning, how can they be winning - the cries of the dying, the cries of the wounded, the cries of the worse-than-dead follow after them with the strength of a banshee's scream but with none of the maleovance, angels are too good at loving to know how to hate properly and when you're dying isn't the best time to learn new tricks) so the blond went to shove the other but found himself being spun around instead, the ornate gold of the gates digging painfully into his back. With a smirk, the other kissed him (briefly, quickly, passionately, fiercely) and spoke the final words to seal their victory, "I love you."
And Paradise burnt.