"Ashre...Ashre, please. Come downstairs, I- I'm sorry."

The voice- and the tremor it brings. Ashre's hands haven't stopped shaking since leaving the ocean's shore, and his hair still smells of salt and brine. Everything he once was is now a remnant of the sand, of the birds and the sirens. And- wait; "I love you." Oh, but he whispers.

"Excuse me?" his brother asks, clambering up the steps. He's older. Time's wave hurt Wherin like the sea had hurt Ashre- enough, pain, the wounds already sting. Why make them worse?

Ashre stares. Greyness has swarmed his eyes, a monochromatic and niveous calamity. Wherin, suddenly, wonders where the amethyst has gone, and how hard it'd be to uncover it, again. Gems of inescapable creation, gone forever. Ashre stares. Stone. A manhunt finished between gazes.

My whispers are not meant to be heard.

Wait;

"I love you."

Ashre stopped breathing, one, winter night. The moon was just a shadow then, eclipsed by itself and the disappeared sun. He felt warm; not hot, but a temperature of specifics, high enough to strip away the sweater, yet cold enough to stockpile the blankets. He didn't think of the end before it came. Only his thoughts, as raging and lamenting as the years before.

When it happened, he didn't realize it was dying. It was fast, slow; gradual, unexpected; numbing, drastic; heart attacks were routine for him at that point, so he didn't question the pain. Not yet, no. He allowed it to simmer before he called for help; Ashre let the organ cry before uncoiling the telephone cord to pull on his lifeline. Weakly, however, the tug was fragile and frail

This was the fifth time. On a single hand, Ashre counted the rapidly-beating and scarlet nightmares, the dreams of a muscle uncontained by ache. Even after two cycles of cannon and death, the sting inside his chest echoed the loudest.

The first had been wavering.

"Ashre? Oh, good lord... Ashre, grab onto me! Grab onto me! Now!"

Wherin's bellows are hectic, so much so that Ashre believes them to be hallucinogenic. It's his brain, of course, running with too much blood. It's a hollow scream, a ghostly wail, a wily phenomenon- not reality, not reality. He can't be dying.

He'd just won. Though, it seems, the cannons aren't finished with him. His heartbeat booms and thuds inside himself, like thunder pressure and press. His skin cries out- wait; "I love you."

"What, Ashre? What're you saying?" Wherin has handled the emergency by now; medical attention is on the way. How kind. How familial. How numb to feel empty at a time like this.

And Ashre stares, anticipating the final tick and tock. The last drops of violet spill from his eyes in tears, streaming in multicolor rivulets down his shuddering cheek. He's afraid; even then, he doesn't reach out for his brother, brother, can you heal us?

You can't hear me, can you?

Wait;

"I love you."

Smoke filled the air, steamy, and like clouds passing in. Shapes fluttered from a kettle on the stove, loud and tinny and screaming for the completion of Ashre's now-boiled water. It reigned with heat, as if the night needed no sun after all, as if it needn't rise ever again.

There was nothing special about the seconds preceding Ashre's death. Tea, a novel, his hand vying to scribble inkwells in the margins, to pass the fleeting time even more fleetingly, different stories occupying his own. And the kettle shouted and cried, leaving Ashre to jump from his bed and wander into his final room.

Although, when he entered, the kettle was already set aside, kitchen table filled. Wherin Relicks watched his brother saunter to the counter and sigh, hands alight with anxiety, worry creased in his brow and bone. And- wait; "I love you."

"You're here," Ashre said. Since leaving Victor's Ocean behind, Ashre's voice seemed to be harrowed by silt and gravel, deepened, as if given new sound as a going-away gift. Like it was tainted by the escape, as if surviving meant it could no longer be lively and loud. No, no. Living meant guilt; it meant darkness shrouding even the simplest of menageries: the throat of concealed tone.

Wherin remained seated. Older than Ashre, his knees were like cotton, spine as brittle as polyester. It was a poor choice for him to sit and stand, just to sit again. No, he folded his hands on the table and smiled a genuine, longing, selfish smile. "I came. At last. Ashre, I-"

"You're late." It was fraught and benign. Ashre shrugged with the statement, feeling no anger or resentment. Just fact. Wherin Relicks was not his family.

No one was, anymore.

The second had been the easiest. No longer a trainee to heartache, but a practiced soldier against beat, beat, attack. It'd been quick; it'd dissolved easily.

His back against the wall. Hands clenching crackling leaves and abandoned twigs, pulled grass and frivolous dirt. He watches as the tree stump in his yard sways, back and forth, disequilibrium of a faltering pendulum. But the wall behind him is so still; why does the world feel tectonic?

The stars file in, the sky blankets him. It all appears to be a dance, as if his legs are meant to drape, arms meant to coil and curve. But he merely sits, and shakes, and waits for his heart to wretch and wreck and wander and then stop- completely stop, not slow down.

To him, the first heart attack was a warm-up to the second; he knew not to call for help, now. The calm after the storm has never felt this broken. This...unwanted.

I don't need you to listen.

Wait;

"I love you."

"Keon is here. He wanted to come with me," Wherin said, half-expecting a joyous reaction, yet half-expecting the silent one he received.

For three seconds, Ashre tried picturing what he and his brother resembled as children. One; both of them were sick and light with messy and brown hair, smooth skin, nail beds of something ethereal, and their chests, heaving after a moment's chase. Two; Ashre's eyes were flora and Wherin's hands were fauna, a twisted pattern of connection, distinctly different, indistinctly the same. Three; he saw the horrors and the bloodlines and the deathly silhouettes cast over them, the fates and the names and the wounds caused and taken. But three; he relived himself, living the days spent unaware of the timeline, and saw someone else. There was, unfortunately, Ashre before and Ashre after.

And three; they were no longer the same boys. Brotherhood laced between them, like whistles and calls of nature, but they were muted in Ashre's ears. He reached for a mug on the shelf, but his fingers were so troublesome...

Wherin stood; it was a poor choice for him to stand and sit, just to stand again; Wherin rose and hobbled toward Ashre. He reached up with feeble hands and grabbed the closest mug, a white and aquamarine jigsaw of sea and sky. It was perfect for tea, but more so perfect for that final sip.

Ashre picked the kettle up, throwing a nod at his brother. There was something heavy about the motion, as if ropes and tethers were tightening between their skin as the milliseconds teetered past them. Although abundant, time was so obviously essential in that room.

Before backing away, Wherin heaved, purposely loud. "Please, Ashre. Let him see you. He loves you."

Ashre slammed the kettle down, the metallic clang nuanced with the countertop. "You kept him away from me." Still, anger bled shallow.

"I know."

"You locked me away until I stopped knocking. You told me to stay away. You said I was sick, that I'd never see you or him again. Why now?" The frustration mounted, reaching a vicious peak. Parts of Ashre burned and singed with ire, though it was heavily benumbed and masked by something else, covered by his other parts- the parts of him which didn't care. The parts of him which were already dead.

Keon didn't answer, though Ashre didn't know if he wanted him to. He swallowed, and both brothers had no idea what to say or what there was to mend. If only Wherin had known, much sooner- there's nothing too broken to love, nothing too shattered to hold.

The third and fourth resided along the same vein. They popped and they sizzled, like an inferno anthropogenic. Both bloomed of red and orange, the fewness of Ashre's bursting petals, of his tendencies and clauses, For once- or twice- he screamed to scream, not to fear.

"How did I kill them? Is that what you want to know?" Ashre asks, fear tempting his mind to shut down, fear drawing blood and tears to drip onto the floor. Wherin's grip tightens on little Keon's hand. Protective; Ashre becomes a monster to fear. "Didn't you watch me, Wherin? Keon, did you see what I did? Did you watch?"

"That's enough, Ashre," Wherin says, his voice cavernous and low. Young Keon shivers in his father's hold, suddenly afraid of all monsters and all men.

Ashre's heart begins to murmur. Quiet, like an escapade. It's tip-tap and gleam, outstretched vines reaching for throat and lung, the overwhelming sensations of melancholy and flicker. It's darkness and shining, it's shadows and illume him as he says- wait; "I love you."

"I know you saw it. I know you did, Wherin, Keon. Me killing them, me killing them all, I know you saw it happen," Ashre continues, sucking in air between syllables, taking pauses to recover lost senses and-

"Then, how did it happen, Ashre? How did you kill them?" Wherin asks, his hand likely bruising his son's, the younger Keon wincing afraid. It's then. It starts. Ashre's heart hammers and hits with the third.

Ashre sees it- of course, Eden drowned, not his fault; of course, Hertzel bled out of a wound undelivered by Ashre, not his kill; of course, it was Percy to solidify manslaughter. But, is it still a forced murder, if Ashre felt the thrill of slicing Percy's neck thin and raw, eerily alive as the blood percolated and dripped.? Is it still a game, however, if Ashre wanted it to happen?

Keon's eyes are both closed and flooded. Wherin pulls him away as he mutters, "I was right about you. You're sick, Ashre. Stay away from us." They turn.

"Wherin, wait!" Is it still pretend, however, if the consequences are real? "Keon, Keon, come back! I love you..." Is it still life, however, if his thoughts stop and stammer? "Keon, Ristarria...I love you." Is it still sorrow, however, to a man who can barely feel?

His family- no- they walked away.

And the fourth- it came with a break.

Hear me.

Wait;

"I love you."

Wherin wandered to the farthest wall of the kitchen, closest to the exit. Out the window, he saw Keon waiting, his teenage impatience weary and erratic. The man breathed in toxic air. "Look, I'm sorry, but let Keon come in. He loves you, Ashre. I love you."

"Stop saying you love me," Ashre said, knuckles cracking rock. "Because it doesn't make sense. It doesn't make any sense anymore."

The two brothers' eyes met, the grey vastness matched with a green light, but nothing lustrous or profound bounced between them. It was nothing; it was nothing; it was-

Ashre turned away. The gaze was something. "Okay. Okay, Wherin. I'll see him." Then, Wherin turned away.

It was odd; it was impossible for either of them to realize their last moment of eye contact had just passed. Now, the ties were severed, connection lost, dry sparks filling the empty space. They were brothers, once, and they'd never be again. Oh, so lost in vain and purposelessness; a breathless love suddenly hitched, a burning fury sent to ash.

Wherin went outside, and Ashre glanced down at the kettle. It was close to his palm, then far, his lungs closing in as the metal suddenly struck the floor, the loudest of clangs clamoring and fluttering. His throat filled with concrete and his heart imagined a thousand separate needles incising him deep and long.

It was like Percy. The blade was dull and sharp. It was fire and ice, a blaze caught in the bitterness of winter. It was a desire to see blood pour instead; because, then, at least, he'd see where the pain was coming from.

He died unheld. Ashre was alone on the ground when his heart issued its final attack; after years of miscarried thrums and out-of-tune beats, finally, finally, it was going to be put to rest. It wasn't guaranteed he'd fall asleep forever; the last four times, he'd awoken from the enticing slumber. But not this time- eternity swayed and blackness drifted, the world diminished and Ashre Relicks fell.

And no one caught him. He died unheld.

Did you hear me loud or hear me clear?

Wait;

"I loved...you."

The last he sees

are the footfalls of a boy, coming

to build a sandcastle goodbye.

he is embraced, then, but

too weak to tighten the hold.

no, no, how it dares to feel,

oh, how he wanted to tighten and hold.

the last he breathes are

whispers; wait; "I love you."

Keon, Keon,

Oh...

Copper and wire.