Title: Waxen Wings
Author: keelhaul lizzie
Pairings: RikuxAnti-Sora
Rating: Hard R
Genres: Angst like whoah
Summary: Idle hands are the devil's playground.
Wordcount: 796
Warnings: yaoi
Date: June 17, 2006

----

we were neurophobic and perfect
the day that we lost our souls;
maybe we weren't so human
but if we cry we will rust.
-mechanical animals

----

In the hold of the ship in the land of lost boys, Riku creates life.

(Of course, when you fly too close to the sun, your waxen wings will melt.)

Playing god is a surprisingly easy thing, he thinks, and with his own hands he brings forth the form of a boy from swirling darkness.

Shadow Sora. Anti-Sora. In simpler terms, everything Sora is not; he is an inverted photograph of Sora with neon sodium-yellow eyes and blue-black bruise-skin. He is an inhuman, ersatz replacement for the Sora-shaped hole in Riku's heart. (Riku realizes later of course that one cannot replace a hole with another hole.)

Anti-Sora is too human to be called a Heartless but is nothing like a human at all; he is more like a twitching, mechanized insect, his viscera an imitation of grinding gears. His bloodless heart is made of tiny clock-parts and he clicks and ticks when he walks, staggering forth like a clanking tin soldier on all fours.

He follows Riku everywhere. Slipping beneath the mouldering planks of the floor, scuttling cockroach-like in the wake of Riku's footsteps. Wherever Riku goes, so does he.

Riku enjoys it at first.

This is Sora as he should be, Riku says to himself, smug and complacent. Beneath me. Behind me. He cannot ignore the stirring in his loins when he thinks of it that way: Sora the soldier, Sora the puppet-- the fuck-puppet; he was made for me, Riku thinks, and not in the way of romance novels.

Yes, he enjoys it at first.

But Anti-Sora looks up at him in the unquestioningly loyal way of a puppy, in the way of the real Sora-- too goddamn trusting, too placid.

That's what got us here in the first place, Riku thinks, sitting at Hook's desk, unaware of the irony of his own words; it is only until the point of no return that humans realize their own folly. His creation is at his feet like a listless pet, sitting slouched on the ground, cold trails of something indescribable, of darkness given solid form, twisting off from his hands and feet and into the air.

Riku takes strands of his smooth black hair into his hands, an imitation of the real thing lacking in finesse, and gracelessly yanks out a few; they dissipate into the heavy air.

On the floor of the ship's cabin, Riku fucks him.

Anti-Sora does not even wince or look surprised when Riku shoves him to the ground, unceremoniously and without formality, and pulls his pants to his knees. Whether or not Anti-Sora could even feel those emotions at all is something to consider.

Of course, Riku does not.

He enters him without preamble, without feeling anything except horny with a strange underlying rage and a tightness in his belly that could be guilt or fear but he swallows it down as he slides in. It is nothing short of violence the way he fucks him, Anti-Sora on his hands and knees like an animal; his skin is cold and dead and dry but he is primal heat on the inside. He mechanically moves his hips as Riku thrusts again and again, like an automatic, instinctive response.

And Riku knows now somewhere in the back of his clouded head, addled with the fog of lust and tightly-knotted anger, that his attempt at creating a human has failed horribly and his Heartless mimics Sora in only the basest of ways.

And it was over in a split-second-- Anti-Sora's low, guttural howls and Riku's own shameful breathy moans; he fucks him like he would break him (and he would if he could) and comes.

Riku says the name that does not belong to his creation nor fit it.

Sora, Sora.

Moments hang in the air like a twisting net, but finally he gets up off his knees and turns to leave. There is no point in conversation; apologies and useless words are lost on this creature. It is not until Anti-Sora tugs on his wrist that he stops; he tries to kiss Riku on the mouth as if he was innocent of the knowledge of what they just did.

And an earnest imitation of the real Sora is what Riku sees in the creature's unearthly, sickly-glowing lamp-eyes, a simple and plain desire to please.

It horrifies him.

Before he knows it his keyblade in is his hand and in a halo of sparks Anti-Sora is gone, sliced neatly in two, beads of dark matter dissipating fruitlessly into the atmosphere.

When you fly too close to the sun, your waxen wings will melt.