Azure Magpies

And in eight days, the heavens opened up their gates to welcome a wicked sinner and the beloved child of death. Roxas/Sora.

i.

Serenity. Like razor-pointed paperclips under moonlight.

He glanced around, found his brother curled up tight, foetus-like, under crisp white covers. As though Roxas, little saint with angel's wings and a bright halo of light, would let anything happen to his darling sleeping Sora. Hush, gauze curtains swaying in the breeze like buttercup daisies in a storm. Oh, how pretty he looked from here! Sora, Sora, Sora. Roxas noiselessly whistled something ambiguous, drowning in his own mindless purple drivel, foolish thoughts. Like springs and fireflies.

Foolish, asinine, phantasmal. Sinful, lustful, adoring, amorous.

He put his book down on his bed and stretched tightening muscles and sinew. Then, making his mind up like always, he swung his legs daintily over the edge of his bed and rose to his feet. Phoenix-like. Reborn. He was ready again.

Trod, trod, trod. Bump. Rustle.

"—Sora, Sora, hey Sora, wake up."

Quiet as a sparrow in the early hours of yesterday evening, where the sky blackened into coal-drops and baby ember lights. Hello, Sora. Smile and look at me, my little baby cupcake –shook his brother gently by the shoulder and glanced away towards the ticking Mickey-ickey Mouse clock on his bedside. Midnight. Oh hey.

"Wakey, wakey, Soraaa. Let's continue with our little game again. I'm bored and I have a blindfold we could use—"

Murmur, murmur—

"That's riiight. Get up. It's late. Late enough. Mommy won't hear us. She'll be asleep." Rustle, rustle, prod.

—murmur, murmur, gurgle—

"Sooooraaa. Little bro, c'mon."

Brown soppy hair covered half-lidded eyes. Head lolled to the side limply. Drool collected along the base of his neck. Traces of blood and other milky fluids dribbled out his nose, eyes, ears, mouth—

Oh.

—mumble, muuurgghh, ggggggrrrrgle, splurrrt.

And Roxas' scream ripped through the night air like his heart had been stabbed fifty-nine times over.

ii.

Breaking dawn, now.

Roxas—

((devil, devil, little devil))

—was sitting on Sora's hospital bed, beside the pathetically fragile patient, still shaken by replayed scenes of his beloved brother being taken away on the cold metal gurney, rushed over to Gainsborough General Hospital, the only one in town. He had never been so afraid. Afraid afraid afraid. Rocked back and forth and nibbled on his bottom lip so it bled something fierce. So fucking afraid. Ghosts clung close to his thundering heart like fear and terror and fear and terror and fear and—

"The doctor said you're gonna be okay, Sor. You're gonna be just fine."

Promise. Lie. Fight this, Roxas, you fucking coward. Lie some more. Come clean, asshole. No. Don't.

What's wrong with me? — it was a soft whisper, like a breath of wind from an enchanting angel in heaven. And Roxas wanted to hit something because he really couldn't stand just watching his brother deteriorate like this into a mess of, of—

"Ess bee ess. They agreed on that one," Roxas explained patiently, soft eyes fixed on his brother brightly, artificial lights above illuminating a stretched smile that fibbed a happilyeverafter fairytale. And he could hear transparent sobbing on the other side of the sanitary white-walled room, like a black flood. A tidal wave of a million tsunamis. God. They were going to fucking drown in salt and tears like fish on a rainy day. Oh, mommy hated hospitals. She hated. Hated. Haaaaated. Mommy hated that her son wasn't alright.

He wasn't—

all right. In the head.

Sick, sick, siiiick. Roxas, you're a fucking bastard, how could you—

What's that? — vaporous fingers, cold and feeble, grazed Roxas' wrist, much too weak to caress with conviction. Roxas broke a little inside as he gripped Sora's leadened fingers tight, trying to force some of his strength and life into his baby brother. And Roxas wanted to behead himself right then and give everything he had to Sora. Brains and blood and all.

"Sh-sshaken baby syndrome, Sora. And now you're b-bleeding in the brain." And Sora's sweetheart brother explained everything to him like he knew what he was talking about. And Sora didn't really understand. No, no, he didn't. It was like one and one made eight, and the world was spinning and spinning and revolving like spheres of music and soap bubbles on its axis. Sapphire diamonds in the midst of a cornfield. Golden yellow peaceful tranquility. Were those eyes always that blue? And who was this stranger staring back at him like a cold-blooded killer?

Buh—t I'm nOT a bAaaby. I'm FiiiifTEEEN years OLD. I'm not a BAYBEE. How did this hAAppEN?

Cracked. Somewhere in his chest. Cracked and splintered into bleeding starlight and shards of frozen steel. Roxas' lying smile died on his lips like a fire going out.

No. No. No. SO SOON. TOO SOON. Come back!

"S-sora. I d-don't know how. I think before – beforetheclockstrucktwelve, before you knocked out for a bit, when we were, we were… we were onmybedhaving—"

The bed creaked and Sora made a futile attempt at clawing away from Roxas' suddenly venomous touch.

Who the HELL are you?!

iii.

The window on the other side of the room smashed into sixty-nine hundred glittery pieces when Roxas flung the black-white porcelain mug through the glass.

His agonised screams echoed down every hallway and his mother and Doctor Valentine had to take him away by force, dragging him out and down to the lobby and away, away, away from—

iv.

"FUCK YOU, SORA. FUCK YOU, YOU STUPID BITCH. FUCK. YOU! JUST… FUCK—"

Rain, rain, rain. Lightning flashes and brutal thunder overhead. Smothered in—

Rain.

Roxas was soaked to the bone as soon as he ran headlong out of the front doors and across the busy street, sheltered in a flurry of grey and steady pinpricks of liquid icicles. He was nearly thrown twenty feet as a flaming red Lamborghini swerved to avoid him. Tires screeched and horns blared and shouts of 'fuck, kid, look at where you're fucking going!' reverberated through the squall. But Roxas ran on, oblivious, in a world of colour of his own.

He took four and a half hours to find his way back home. He felt sick, sick, so sick. Vomited blood all over his own bed that night and hid under Sora's bedcovers, straddled Sora's pillow and dreamt up dark, perverse fantasies to keep his deep-rooted sorrow and wretchedness at bay.

v.

Childishness, a hundredfold.

He returned the next day, wearing black socks and black designer jeans and black lace-up shoes and a white collared shirt, rumpled and ruined with stains.

Sora was still on his pretty little deathbed, like a rose wilting and fading into dust and feathers.

"You're dying, you little fuck. You're gonna fucking die soon," Roxas hissed between clenched teeth, voice raspy and callous with disdainlovehateregret—

—whilst Sora just stared at this mocking stranger in utter horror and dread.

Utter horror. And dread.

Like a nightmare come to life.

Gh-get… oUT of my… ROooooo—ooooMmm. I-I'll call the NUUHHRSE! I sweeeeeaRRRR. GOOOOO 'WAYYY.

Tears stung blue eyes and pain engulfed Roxas' entire frame and he had to fight the burning, searing desire to scramble on top of Sora right then and there and beat the shit out of him, scratch his eyes out, make him—

"Fuck, Sora! Fuckfuckfuckfuck. DON'T YOU EVEN KNOW ME ANYMORE? I'm your fucking brother. I loved you! I love you still. I—"

And Roxas never finished his excruciating outburst because he was out of the room and kicking and punching and beating at the walls in the hallway and screaming and screaming and screaming and crying his eyes out. And he was bleeding and bleeding and bleeding torrents on the inside.

I'msorryi'msorryi'msorry. All my fault. My fault my fault my fucking fault. Wewerethere,onthebed— and I was all over you—andyouwerescreamingmyname—again and again—andyoucame—andshitshitshityouhityourhead—on the bedpost. You just fell asleep. You just fell—to sleep. Didn't think it was serious. Didn't know it'd end up like this. Sorrysorrysorry.

vi.

Day four.

Mommy watched Roxas' arm drip red rivers, said to him: "And who'd you think'll be the next to go? You? Or me?"

Roxas spat, threw the dampened cloth to one side and stormed off, trailing blood.

"Stupid whore."

He ran upstairs, shredded his (Sora's) security blanket (pillow) into ribbons with a switchblade—

—ran four and a half hours to—

—Gainsborough—

where he collapsed into a chair as soon as he set foot into his beautiful brother's room.

… Roxas…? Is that… you?

But Roxas didn't get up until Sora slipped off into a deep sleep.

vii.

Brotherly affection ran deeper than the cuts under Roxas' forearm.

And he decided to stay the night, shivering in the cold room, because it was already—

viii.

Midnight.

R-Roxas. Please… yes. Hold me. Touch me. Fuck me. Please, pleaseeee—

Sora's strangled, depraved cries jolted Roxas awake in his narrow chair. And Roxas could clearly see his brother squirming weakly on his bed through the dimmed lights, covered in his own sweat and saliva, eyes screwed shut, fingers digging and curling around limp, white sheets. Writhing, thrashing, spasming, arching—

Rox—oh, God. I—fuuuck. Fuucknngh. Ifuckingloveyousomuch.

He knew Sora was dreaming. Dreaming of some unearthed memory of their midnight trysts in bed. And he could see, could see so well that he was in agony.

Love you love you love you love you loveyouloveyouloveyou. Say you love me, too.

Roxas' hands gripped the fabric of his pants tightly and didn't let go until Sora shut up.

ix.

Day six.

Dark circles hung like waterlogged bags under Sora's unfocused eyes, skin a pale sickly yellow, expression a mask of incredible pain, limbs no longer controlled or coordinated, hair falling in large chunks.

"Sora?"

…w-w-wh-who?

x.

Roxas, sixteen, couldn't take it anymore.

His baby brother, his darling baby brother, the apple of his eye, the one he cherished above all else, the one he loved like no other…

was in excruciating pain.

And all he was doing was watching.

And waiting.

And slowly destroying himself over a spitting flame.

xi.

Day eight.

"Sora? I'm… going to bring us…

home now."

xii.

He wondered what kind of twisted joke God was playing on him. Maybe God was laughing at him, holding hands with Satan. Or Hades tried to bribe him, maybe, smiling along with—Oh, hello Lucifer—tried to pull him towards fire and brimstone, because his fingers were clutching the blood-drenched knife so fucking tightly that his dirty fingernails were cutting through the slime-slicked fleshiness of his own slippery palm.

And oh God, fuck.

Shit.

"Sora, I'm so sorry. This is the only way."

God, no, no, no. Yes. NO, GODDAMMIT.

He surveyed what he'd just done. And Sora's thin, watery blood was soaking through every inch of white fabric on the bed. Dead eyes stared back at him, some kind of disturbing, devilish, tell-tale grin fixed in place. Iknowwhatyoudidyoumurderer.

And Roxas wanted his own blood to paint the dark windows that shone like neon lights. Paint them red and black and violet.

Lord, have mercy on my soul. Take me home. I need to be with him.

With him, him, hiiiiim.

Roxas sank to his knees, slit his own throat in one deft movement, and the soulless angel—

((wicked, wicked sinner))

—ascended into—

xiii.

—heaven.

Author's note: I think… my brain broke.