iv.
The castle was dank and musky and the stone walls shimmered with cob webs and trails of dirt no matter how hard Magenta scrubbed them, but once they reached Earth, they were actually sort of glad of these things. It reminded them of home. Unlike Transsexual, Earth's days began as early as five in the morning, and stretched for sometimes fourteen or fifteen hours. As soon as it was light – this only lasted a short while back home, and even then the light was not as intense or bright – Magenta awoke, unable to sleep one her room was drenched in even the faintest of light. She couldn't bear sunlight on her pale skin; it burnt like acid, spreading like forest fire, and she would spend the next hours following shadows around the castle, only cleaning the corners which were dark enough for her to be safe in.
One night, after she had followed this horrendous routine exactly twenty-three times, and her skin was beginning to actually peel, Riff Raff appeared in her room. Magenta, who was seated at the end of her bed, looking into a large, ornate mirror – one of the only luxuries Frank allowed her – brushing her thick, red hair, turned to find him hurrying in, arms laden with a stack of old wood.
"What is that for?" she asked, returning her gaze to her reflection.
"I'm boarding up the sun portals," Riff explained, moving over to the window, "my dear, beautiful sister, it hurts me to see you in pain."
The faintest ghost of a smile came over her lips. She didn't voice her gratitude, but continued to tend to her hair, attempting to tame the frizzy mess, all the while watching Riff get to work at the window.
"Riff," she suddenly said, putting her brush down.
"Yes?"
"I wish to look one last time," she breathed, and Riff knew exactly what she wanted. She liked to look out at the stars, imagining one of the twinkling bright lights was their home. He hadn't the heart to tell her that it was impossible to see their planet from here. It was one of the few things that brought her comfort; he couldn't take that away from her.
"You can use my room to look, anytime," he assured her, placing the board he was holding onto the bed and shifting so he knelt behind her. Her bright green eyes darted constantly across the sky, watching each of the stars in turn.
"I miss it, Riff," she sighed, turning to face him.
Her breath was warm on his face, and he was suddenly transported to a time when his little sister would look up at him with the same wide, inquisitive eyes, and ask him the questions of the universe. He didn't always have the answers, but he always tried. Anything for his little sister. She would curl up in the safety of his lap and he would talk until she was fast asleep. Sometimes he read from tablets, but most of the time, he just reeled off information. Names of stars and planets, and facts about Transsexual's moons. She didn't really care what he talked about; she just enjoyed the sound of his voice, lulling her off to sleep.
"Genta," he sighed, his voice barely above a whisper, the childhood nickname sounding foreign on his lips, "this isn't forever. We will return to our beloved home, I promise."
v.
She had almost grown to hate her elder brother back home, but here he was all she had. She stayed out of the prince's way and did only as she was told, but she was lonely and miserable, and - worst of all – homesick. Riff did his best to quench her pain, but nothing could quite shift it. Night time was the worst, ironically. She had always sought safety and comfort in darkness, but here it was her enemy. Most nights, she was unable to sleep. The bed sheets still felt stiff and foreign, despite her having slept in them for weeks now. Even with her windows boarded, she could hear the odd noises from outside her room, the sounds of cars passing through their remote town. It was worse, still, when Frank had a guest over, as he often did. He went through groupies faster than she could learn the names of them, and with his quarters on the floor above hers, his bed directly above her head, she caught the worst end of the deal.
That was what had driven her to quietly make her way down the hallway, to her brother's room. Magenta didn't entirely know what she was doing or where she was going, until she reached the unmarked door, and found herself rapping gently on the tired wood. It was a long while before the door opened, so much so that she almost turned back, deciding her brother must be asleep. But, eventually, it creaked open, and Riff stood on the other side, fully dressed, and blinking sleep out of his eyes.
"Yes M- Magenta," he said, startled. He moved to open the door wider, "come in?"
She was hesitant, but nodded, stepping inside his chambers and waiting whilst he silently closed the door. Much like her own room, his was dark, with make-shift curtains draped over the large window at the end, rather than boards. His bed was little more than a wooden box with a mattress that was worn and lumpy, and he had no other furnishings besides a shelf which contained several tablets, stacked neatly and alphabetically. His clothes – aside from a night shirt which was bundled in the middle of his bed – were piled on the floor, and consisted of two shabby suits and nothing more. Though Magenta's own room felt bare and unhomely, her brother's felt more like a storage cupboard. The only item that stuck out as being remotely personal was a browning photograph which he had stuck to the wall right beside his bed. It showed them as children, sitting in the gardens of their home, before their parents had died. Magenta didn't allow her eyes to linger on it for long, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes already. She blinked, turning her attention back to her brother.
"Sorry, I know it's late. I hope you weren't asleep..." she muttered, sitting down heavily on his bed, wincing as it groaned under her weight.
"No," he answered, with a tight lipped smile. She knew he was lying. He very rarely got the chance to sleep, with Frank working him hard in the lab at all hours of the day, and she instantly felt guilty for interrupting him. She wasn't even sure why she had done it. What comfort could she seek from the man who she had barely spoken to in the past five years?
"I couldn't sleep," she said, unhelpfully, kicking her legs nervously over the side of the bed.
"He has a young boy with him, tonight."
Magenta nodded. She sighed, leaning against the wall. For years, she had wrestled with Riff's constant need to treat her like a child, but since they had moved here, that's exactly how she felt. Like a silly little girl, making a nuisance of herself, throwing silly little girl tantrums. She couldn't help it; everything just seemed so dire.
"You can..." he paused, seeming to gather this thoughts, or perhaps muster up some courage, "sleep in here. If you like, I mean."
"Are you sure you wouldn't mind?" Magenta asked, smiling shyly at him. He no longer represented the 'big bad', the older brother who shouted and swore and kicked the wall when she wouldn't listen to him. He wasn't the same man who had grabbed her by the throat so hard that he'd left bruises for weeks. Here, he was the last reminder of a place she loved, of a feeling of security. Of a world beyond mops and dirty dishes and sing-songy commands which were followed by blood curdling screams and the sound of leather on stinging flesh. Here, he was her home.
vi.
The day it changed was like any other day, to begin with. Riff had spent the majority of his day in the lab, working on the prince's most recent project. He'd spent so long in there lately that even when he closed his eyes to sleep at night, he could see the pale pink tiled walls as if they were branded on his eyelids. He was rarely allowed time out to eat or drink – he and Magenta never dined with the prince, even when he had no other company – and this, paired with a lack of sleep, had caused him to get sloppy, and make mistakes. He was exhausted. Anyone else would have seen that and excused an odd muck up here and there, excused him to his quarters for some rest, but not Frank.
The whippings had started shortly after they arrived on Earth. Usually, the whip only caught his heels, or the backs of his legs. It stung for a while, but it never really bled. He could ignore it, pretend like it wasn't there. Next time, he'd work harder, concentrate harder. He'd made Frank agree to never ever using it on his sister. Whenever she made a mistake, he would take the punishment, he'd insisted. For the most part Magenta did as she was told, and it wasn't necessary. Which was fortunate, because he was sure she would kill him if she ever found out about the bargain he'd made.
Recently, however, Frank had changed. His temper was worse, now. He was impatient at the best of times, and if Riff didn't work fast enough, he would receive a whipping straight to his back, hard enough to tear through the thin material of his jacket and shirt, and rip at his flesh. He wasn't permitted to go and clean himself up, but to continue working until Frank decided he was allowed to go to bed, usually several hours after Magenta had retired to her room. By then, his clothes would be matted to his skin with dried blood, and he'd be in agony.
Magenta had taken to sleeping in his room maybe twice a week. The connection that they had felt as young children had returned, and he would often fall asleep curled around her, his face buried in her hair. She didn't sleep well, even then, constantly twitching and muttering. The first time, it had taken him by surprise and he hadn't known what to do. She'd begun to whimper, and it had made his heart ache in his chest, and, with some uncertainty, he'd turned her towards him and held her closer. She'd nestled into his chest, and he'd pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she'd calmed down. He felt dirty; guilty for finding joy in her pain, but it had brought them back together again, and something about holding her body close to his just felt so right. He couldn't help it.
He hid his own pain from her. He could fool himself into believing he wasn't being selfish if he did these things, take her whippings, ask for no comfort of his own from her. He was protecting her from Frank, he told himself, ignoring the part of him that recognised that he didn't want her in Frank's bed for only one reason: he wanted her in his.
That night, however, he'd still been in the midst of bandaging his back when she'd arrived at the door. His fingers panicked, unable to concentrate on the task, and when he didn't answer her knock, Magenta assumed he was already asleep, and let herself in. He didn't stand a chance at covering his wounds before she caught a glimpse of them. Magenta immediately rushed to his side, her long, thin fingers making easy work where his couldn't. She quietly cleaned and dressed the wounds, avoiding looking him in the eye.
"I hoped you wouldn't see that," he said, as she finished.
She remained silent, taking the left over bandages, and the bowl of water, and setting them away in the corner. She kept her back to him, and for a moment he thought she was going to leave.
"Does it hurt?" she finally asked, her voice small and broken.
"No," Riff lied. She turned to look at him, and their eyes met. It was as if they had a whole silent conversation, sitting in the dark, listening to rain patter on the roof.
Wordlessly, Magenta wrapped her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. He sighed deeply, a sound she mistook for one of pain, and immediately lifted her head, whispering a soft "sorry". Then, all at once, her fingers were lightly dancing across his back, bare besides the bandages, and her lips hesitantly touched the flesh of his shoulder, brushing over a lesion that had already begun to heal. He made to gasp, but he was so afraid it would cause her to stop, he swallowed it, biting his lip, focussing solely on her mouth and her hands and how his skin trembled under her touch.
"Better?" her breath, so close to his neck, made his hairs stand up on end, a warmth spreading through his body as he barely managed to nod.
Magenta turned to look at him, a delicate smile on her lips, despite the sadness in her green eyes. He didn't dare to speak, frightened that he would ruin the moment. And he wanted it to last forever, to be permanently branded in his memory as the first time he realised he was in love with her, no matter how sadistic or perverted it made him.