Walter's note:
Another one-shot Rogermon fic. A sad fic. I wish you all red noses and tears.

In this story, there had been years apart before the scene you're about to read would happen. They had time, lots of years ahead of them before this story happened. They're, more or less 17-19 years old. Yes, it has been that long. Because some people might think that I pair 12-year-olds and make them go tear up their buttholes?
WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK. I. DO. NOT. YOU. FUCKERS. SUMALANGIT KAYO SA IMPIYERNO.

But, on a second thought, what does it matter to you if you hate boy slash/ yaoi/ gays? Get the fuck off and get the fuck away from me. I don't give a shit. I don't care. Beat it, assholes. I'm through with your bullcrap.

For alwaysthrowingafaint, a newfound rogermon fan.

FATAL STARS

Eyes wide with shock. His jaw hung open. The meat in his hand fell on the sand. His spear followed. A muted thud. Distant chants. Deep yells. Yet all he could do was watch from the sidelines. The bonfire was bright enough to shed some light into the scene. The murder scene.

Roger had gone to the side of Castle Rock to collect his forgotten spear. He had ripped a part of the pig's belly before turning away from the painted kids. Dark had already blessed the night; it was nearly impossible to see. But he was gifted with keen senses, trained from the long days (weeks, months, years?) of their hunting sprees. Once his feet touched what felt like wood, he blindly grabbed it. Yes, it was his spear alright. Long. Pointed at both ends. Perfect. Then he stumbled his way back to the bonfire party, but no one was there anymore.

In the distance, he watched them, all of them. Young boys, tall lads, no trace of innocence, or smear of childish fears anymore, but nonetheless, they were just boys. Kids with spears on their hands. Lonely castaways with berry juice slabbed on their bodies, which they ridiculously called 'war paint.' Young boys and savages, they only had one face. They stabbed. Stabbed. And stabbed.

A fallen body was on the ground. It was alive, and it tried to squirm away from the circle of kids who rained down their pointy sticks. Screams of mercy mingled with savage chants. The body frantically moved. It shielded itself from the blows. It called out names. It shouted the words no, please, don't…

An epiphany: Roger knew whom that quivering body and squealing voice belonged to.

"NO!" he heard himself shout. He dashed to the crowd, pulled them away, tore them off, pushed them back, until Simon's body coated in fresh blood, came into view.

The gang of savages were taken aback. Silently watched their member cradle the body of the beast. The beast, heaved deep gulps of air, yet slowly, and evidently, was about to die. But Roger murmured things to it. A soft voice, tender, like a mother's to her child. They looked at each other, confused, bewildered, puzzled, more puzzled when something wet began to spring from their eyes and blur their visions. What was happening, they couldn't understand, yet they watched intently, listened to the whispers of the air, and unknowingly cried for their own mothers.

By the crashing ocean, Roger knelt down, close to his good friend, Simon, and tried to help him sit upright. Yet the beaten boy was too weak, he settled to lie his head on Roger's lap. He breathed heavily, then convulsed, spat some droplets of blood onto the sand. It mingled with his own red pool.

Roger looked around. "CLOTHES!" he screamed. He needed cloth to dry him up, to patch him, to stop the flow of blood. "CLOTHES!" There was no mistaking the desperation in his deep growl. Yet the painted boys were in patches of skimpy clothing, and it was enough to covered their privates. None of the boys took the audacity to give him cloth to patch up the batty kid. They watched them, as if they were in a distant place, deaf to Roger's pleas.

Then the boy did one thing the others watched in shock. First, he laid Simon down on the cool sand, before he took off his bottoms. Then he sat him up against his lap. He wrapped the wounds, whatever could be wiped with it since there were all over Simon's body. His trousers seeped the blood and quickly turned crimson.

"N-no, it's okay..." Simon moved, winced, tried to push away the cloth, tried to ignore the pain stinging him all over. "G-good... bye..." His breath was faltering, but his coughs deepened into awful spasms.

"No, no, no!" He ignored Simon pushing him away and continued to wrap the cloth around the gory chest. He then dabbed his pants over his face, wiped off the sweat and blood and... tears. There they were, glittering tears upon his face, the matured features, and they were still maturing, until tonight. Such tears glittered, as if the stars had danced upon his eyes. "No, it's not okay, but please don't cry. It's not okay, please-"

"Yes, it is..." It was barely a whisper.

"You're wrong."

"Then, it will be okay," he smiled. Even at the moment of death, he managed to smile. How heroic.

"Si-si-si...m-m...mon..." Roger choked and hiccuped on the name as he intently stared upon the dying boy's bright glassy green globes. The grip on his clothes tightened. The need to mop up all the blood burned in him. Despeartion clouded his stare. He begged a silent plead that screamed in his head: Don't you dare die on me now. His heart banged with fear. The seconds passed, and he anticipated it, doubted that Simon would last any longer. Yet he clung to a smaller crumbling hope that the boy would make it through the night. Or at least, to see tomorrow's daylight.

"Sing."

The command caught Roger off-guard. He wasn't quite sure he heard right. He leaned closer, an ear ghosted about Simon's bleeding chapped lips. "Sing," it was barely audible as he dropped the word in a breathy and tired voice.

"Sing?" he sounded agahst. "Of all the deathwishes you could as for, you only want me... to sing? As if we've never sat in choir practise? As if you've never heard my voice? As if-"

"Because I fell in-love with your voice before I fell in-love with your face." His voice was slightly stronger, but he continued to pant, fast puffs of breath. "Now, I just want to fall in love all over again before tomorrow comes. Because there is no tomorrow for me, and we both know that."

"But-"

"Looks like I won't make it back home..." he cut him. "Never had a ship in my pocket... But now, I see my fatal stars."

"No!" Roger held both of his hands, stroked them in the most reassuring way he could. He bent low. Their foreheads touched. They both breathed deeply; Simon sucking up air, sucking up for life, whilst Roger inhaled all the sadness that pervaded around. Dark strands separated them. He began to sprinkle quick pecks on the sweating skin of his face to occupy his mouth and conceal the unmanly sobs.

"Please? For me?"

Then Roger halted. The last kiss had been on the nose. There was an obvious air of hesitation.

"You're not bad," the injured boy suddenly muttered. "You just think you are. Don't."

"A picutre of you reminds me of how the years have gone so lonely," he suddenly sang, quietly and unsurely. "And why do you have to leave me without saying that you love me?" There was a newfound confidence bubbling and rising up to him. He continued the song, "I'm saying I love you again, are you listening? Open your eyes once again, look at me crying!" The grip on Simon's hands turned cold and light, yet he was still staring up at the singing choirboy, urging him with a pleading look of innocence. He knew Simon only feigned his strength, so he pushed on with the chorus with all his heart. "If only you could hear me shout your name, if only you could feel my love again... The stars in the sky will never be the same. If only you were here..."

A wide smile that displayed his pearly whites was plastered on his face. Slowly, it dissolved into a closed-lip grin and he said, "Thank-" Then came Simon's final breath. A tear trickled down from his unseeing eyes. It fell on his own blood and disappared, eagerly became one with the crimson liquid. His lifeless head toppled to the side, out of Roger's lap. The pool of blood greeted him once again. Cold blood met his frozen body. The smile remained pasted upon his face; it never moved, and so did Simon.

The stares bore a hole on Roger, and he willed himself not to wail, not yet. Now aware that there were others, surrounding him, others who had remained, who were still alive, who breathed the same stiff air as he did. They, too, saw Simon's limp body on the sand, but they didnt see his worth the way Roger did. To him, Simon had died a saint and his last words to him were a glorious good-bye, a praise that will forever be etched in his heart. The crowd slowly backed away, went to the fire, left the murder scene without a trace of remorse. They danced and ate, jokingly poked each other with their spears.

Tears freely fell as his eyes feasted on the remains of the gory corpse. He held him again, cradled him, rocked him back and forth as he was swallowed by extreme sorrow. He hugged the cold boy against his chest, tighter and tighter. He shivered and wept, nothing like him at all, but he couldn't help the grief and heartache that flooded his senses. He called him back, shouted his name, but nothing happened. He placed his hand over his friend's face, closed the eyes he would never forget. His hands lingered a bit, touched the smooth skin, those thin cheeks, his chin, his lips; he traced his brows, then the bridge of his nose.

He leaned down and without thinking, planted a kiss on the still-grinning lips. For a second, he thought Simon would spring back to life. For a moment, he thought a star would come down and wash away the blood, then Simon would be whole again. In that short span of false hope, he thought true love's kiss could break anything, even death itself.

But the corpse remained a corpse. The body laid stiff. Perhaps I'm not his true love? Yet, ever so stubborn, he pressed his mouth once more, tried a different angled, moved his lips against the immobile ones... but still, nothing. He kissed his dead friend and wept, kissed and wept, kissed and wept, he couldn't help himself. More anguish piled up until he was filled to the brim and he overflowed with more helpless tears and yells.

With his last strength, he lifted him, carried him to the sea. Little foamy waves greeted his barefeet. He walked a bit further, then let the sea push him away from Simon. He watched the body float away from his arms. At first, he tried to hold on harder, as he treaded deeper into the sea. But the water overpowered him, strong waves then dragged Simon to elsewhere. The water encased him. He drifted, a lost saint with the sea as his grave. Roger threw a fit of rage, and almost drowned, like the body of the boy whom he cared for deeply.

He curled up in a ball, but unlike Simon, the waters pushed him the other way. He noticed the night sky that gleamed on the black waters. His back abruptly hit the sand. Back on shore again, lonelier than ever. He laid upon the cool sand, looked up at the sky, watched the stars radiantly sparkle.

"As beautiful as your smile, Si," he muttered in the air. Soon, he stood up and looked around for his spear. A heavy heart weighed him down into a slow motion, but he grimly went back to Castle Rock. A soft hum escaped his lips, the last song he had sung to Simon.

"I hope you'll still fall in love with me up there..." Roger looked back up at the multitude of stars. He couldn't stop himself from humming. His voice seeped louder and louder until he noticed the stars listlessly twinkled. He took that as a 'yes.'

Walter's end notes: I do not own the song. It is entitled "Stars" and sung/ written/ produced by Callalily, a local band in the Philippines. Yes, the song is in English so, no translations happened, I used the 1st verse and the chorus.

So... how did that feel for you heart, eh? It crushed mine, honestly. But I love sad stuff... and gore. Although I didn't elaborate profusely with the gore part in here. Anyways, reviews and faves are much loved! No follows, because I will not make a next chapter to this hehe!