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Akira's corpse is heavy, even if there is only half of it. He pulls it over himself, sniffling like a child, clutching it like a security blanket. It's not Akira, Akira is gone, and if anyone deserves Heaven it's him. But Ryo can never go back (vain, wrathful, envious, these are the words his siblings threw at him as he fell burning from Heaven) and he's not sure he wants to. How would Akira receive him, knowing of his betrayal?
Not very well, he thinks.
Maybe this is the end. Just him, alone, endlessly, endlessly, alone, and he'll eventually wither away and die. Maybe God will grant him that much mercy.
God has never been merciful, though, and Ryo loathes the word maybe. He prefers to deal with certainties, facts and figures, puzzles and words and every little thing he can pick apart in his hands. Maybe it would've been different if he'd understood humanity. Maybe. Maybe.
He wishes, abruptly, that he had spent time around the Makimura girl, insignificant as she was. However, for all her powerlessness, she was 'good'. Some of that could've rubbed off on him, and Akira would still be alive. But then again, the Makimura girl was now so much ash, and here he was. Alive.
Alone.
He doesn't think he regrets killing off humanity. They were offal, disgusting and wasteful and stupid. He does, however, wish he'd been a tad more discerning in his methods. A large scale global war was ultimately useless, and ended with too much chaos for even him to corral. Humans were finicky creatures, and must be taken out logically. How much longer would the control burn method have taken? A few famines, poisoning a water supply, four human rights violations, and they would've been putty in his hands.
The corpse in his arms is cold, and it smells of cooked meat and Akira's shampoo. He holds it tighter anyway, enfolding his wings over them like a blanket.
" Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me." Is his mantra, face buried in Akira's hair, tears dribbling down his face pathetically.
He has had many names, many personalities, and he could don and discard them like coats. Is this all he is? A worthless fallen angel, clutching the corpse of a dead boy, gathering the ashes of his pride around him. God's first, his most beautiful, his weakest. Discarded like trash on this worthless fucking planet.
" Kill me!" He screams, wings flared, a spot of golden light surrounded by red, the corpse of his puppet splayed across his lap, tears soaking into his hair and eyes still open.
No one answers.
No one will.