Work Text:
Roter Sand und weisse Tauben / Laben sich an meinem Blut
Up here on Skynet, the wind is freezing. It cuts through the thin fabric of Etho's waistcoat, but he doesn't shiver. He's never minded the cold. Skizz is on the other end of the platform, standing in his shorts and nothing else. His armor lies in a blue pile around his feet. His little white wings flutter free, too small to fly.
They all watch as Skizz reaches up, grabs his halo in one hand and pulls it down. The golden ring shines in his open palms.
No one moves. A tiny bit of blood leaks from Etho's mouth, dampening his mask, and he resists the urge to wipe it away. They all learned a while ago that nothing stopped the Sickness' progression, and rubbing at it would only make it worse.
On cue, Skizz coughs. A line of maroon blood traces its way down his chin. It lands in dark spots on his collar. By the way he curls over, eyes hollow, he can't have more than half an hour left. Etho had seen the way Jimmy looked before he died, hollowed out by the Sickness like a dead leaf in February, and Skizz is the same. That's why they're here, Skizz explains. Etho stays quiet as Tango protests and Impulse chokes down a sob. He doesn't feel like crying. Maybe that makes him a bad person, but he can't do anything but watch as if he's already attending the wake.
Skizz is lowering his own coffin into the grave, distributing his possessions to the three of them. The last to come out of his inventory is a diamond axe. It's a beautiful weapon. The polished handle and razor edge speak of a deep care. Effort went into that axe. Valuable hours out of twenty-four days, spent on that axe. Skizz cared when he made it.
It takes Etho a good thirty seconds before he processes that it's being offered to him, and another twenty before it's in his hands. Skizz stands there, almost naked, hollow but for his love.
The axe in one hand, Etho closes the distance between them and takes the halo in the other. The metal is warm. He doesn't want to ever let it go.
On some silent cue, Impulse and Tango close in. The three of them surround their brother like a wall of shields. Etho's never been one for declarations, but Skizz deserves this. He loves him, and he tells him so.
"I just wish you had been better at this game."
I wish you had been selfish, is what Etho doesn't say. I wish you had been cruel. I wish you were a worse person, and I wish you could survive here. Etho is an extremophile, a pragmatist, a survivor. But his brother is an angel at his heart, a creature made of love, and he could never make it in this god-forsaken place. Etho leans in close, wraps his arms around his brother, and pushes the blade of the axe into his back, right where the muscle meets the spine. It cuts through and into his heart. He feels the dying muscle push once, twice, against the blade before it stops.
And there, with Skizz's head against his shoulder, a whisper reaches Etho's ears alone. He'll never tell anyone else.
"Me too."
Am Ende gibt es doch ein Ende / Bin ich doch zu etwas gut