R O U L E T T E
the clock goes tick tock

Blue. Aqua. Navy. Cerulean. Azure. Sapphire. Cobalt – yes, that was the one. That dark, gray-blue storm that floated around in his eyes, eyes so pained and tormented, filled to the brim with self-deprecation and heartache and suffering, and god, god, why is he here right now when he's supposed to be dead, when he's supposed to be six feet under and spinning, twirling (dancing, he thinks. Dancing) with his lover, with his lover who was so very dead right now, it was painful not to rip his heart out.

(When will you be gone?)

That was the first time. The second time, it had been another, one so different and yet reminded him of her so very much, one with black hair instead of brown, gray eyes instead of black, short hair instead of long, shurikens instead of magic, but he took her in anyways, opened a door, just a tiny crevice which was large enough for her to creep in. Ninja skills, she'd said proudly, and flashed an incredibly overrated and yet insanely cute victory sign his way.

(When you wake up)

He should've known, should've realized what happened to people like him, people who lived in confinement to atone for their sins, and goddamnit, he'd done it once, with her, she who was so incredibly beautiful it'd wrenched his heart open just looking at her. He refused to do it again, with this knew girl, just a girl, and couldn't bear to see her smile like nothing was the matter. Life's just a lie, he'd screamed at her once, and she'd just kept smiling, kept that warmth in her eyes that drew him in, like a moth to a flame.

(Then I'll never wake up)

He'd gotten too close, and his wings had been burned and that fire changed shape, changed into a butterfly (black swallowtail, he'd decided. It was fitting.) and flew away, flew so very far away so that when he woke up, she was so far gone, he'd just sat and stared. Stared at the body that was just a shell, stared at the lips still curved into a smile, and bent over her bed, kissed those lips once more, feeling the coldness of her skin, and thought it was just wrong.

It was so very wrong.

I.

He'd lost three times already, once to a sister, once to a lover, once to a love, and he was so done with life, done with mourning, done with grieving, done with mornings spent sprawled on his bed, and he'd gone away, into the chapel, which was so damn fitting.

Will.

He'd stared at the stone walls, stared until they blended together, until everything blended together, until his legs were numb and so was his brain, which wasn't bad because he didn't want to think about it, about anything anymore.

Never.

His hands had been steady. It would be so easy.

Wake.

One bullet through the chamber of his weapon, one opportunity, one release. The click of the safety reassured him. This, this was his time. Now was the time.

Up.

He'd fallen, hit the ground with a thud, hand still gripping the weapon, eyes closed in resolution, chest still.

(I will never wake up)

He hadn't.