Chapter Text
The world rejoiced when he striked, and booed when he got hit, not at him though, he knew that for sure.
The audience was there as an add on to Saparata's final moment with Fluixon, as witnesses, but with false testimonies of what they saw. To them, Fluixon was a monster, a pure psycho, and cold-blooded threat to the people around. To him, Flux was his everything.
Everything he possibly wanted, everything he needed for himself.
When the embrace no longer felt warm and gut-wrenching anymore, it was when Saparata first learnt of the devastating news. No heartbeat, no pulse, no trace of warmth slipping onto Saparata's cold, numb chest. He left him, just like that, the end of his performance—the end of what he caused to the world and everyone around, the finishing end of his evil.
Saparata was the first person to know of the news, he didn't say anything. He only knelt there, frozen still, lost in the arms of someone who was already gone with silent, unwanted tears flowing down to his chin. His hands instinctively grabbed onto the corpse, harder, begging, pleading, for the life to return, for everything to be the same again. In the end, Flux still found his way to mock him even in death, even at the utter humiliation of losing the duel, even at his defeat. Strange, it's mortifyingly strange, why does Saparata want him alive so much?
It took the audience a few moments to realise the outcome of the duel. For almost a long while, most thought it was a draw, with both parties dying together, with how still and serene the two men knelt there on the gravel and sand of a battlefield stained with the blood of many. Only when Saparata moved his hands did the audience burst into thunderous applause, standing, jumping, exploding out the victor's victory in joy, relief, and solace—knowing that evil has been charged with its karmic tragedy, and is wiped off for good.
"Wonderful!" Schpood applauded eagerly, standing up from his chair with his subordinates lingering closely beside him. "You never disappoint me, white boy."
Fluixon's body flopped back, weak, paralysed, lifeless—Saparata could only watch helplessly as his blood poured out onto the ground of the colosseum, not on him. The cold, practiced smile on his lips still there, the weapon lodged into his abdomen—too deep, more painful than how Saparata had originally striked. He looked down, hands shaking with blood all over, his white coat completely red, blood-stained, draping over him as a reminder of who he was now. The man who slayed down The Architect of The Conspiracy.
Saparata's legs shook, trying to keep his balance in spite of how weak he felt. His eyes landed on Fluixon's corpse, head subconsciously shaking in denial and utter disbelief, chest sinking down a well of empty promises he once said to Flux. No. No. No, that can't be. Why isn't he standing up? Why isn't he fighting back with everything he has? Why isn't he laughing on the ground until his stomach hurt?
Saparata was so fixated on Fluixon's body that he did not notice Schpood standing beside him, personally directing him towards the exit of the colosseum. He turned over, slowly, face slightly pale, face still tensed from shock, his body stagnant, unreactive.
"You've worked hard," School directed him towards the other end of the colosseum with the red carpet already being rolled out for him. "You came here with a possibility of death, yet you walk out victorious with hero carved into your title."
It felt more like salt to the wound rather than an honourary praise, an invisible, tight slap on his already burning puffed up face, flushing red from exhaustion. The truth was something ugly, and intolerable to admit.
Fluixon's death was more of a celebration than loss to them.
Saparata's breath rapidly caught up, the sudden, intense burst of emotion through his nerves flashed through him. He could barely form out any audible words, only muttering half-completed words and phrases with his ragged and cracked voice. Something along the lines of what? Why? Huh?
He helplessly watched as the Westhelm guards escorted out Fluixon's corpse out. Silent, eyes watering up, heart hammering. He wanted break down, he wanted to get onto his knees, he wanted to attack the guards for touching Flux.
He couldn't.
Watching the guards carry the love of his life out of the colosseum and fade into the distant building, Saparata clenched his hands into fists, doing anything, his absolute everything to control, stop, restrain himself from lashing out and tarnishing the name he crafted for himself through the use of his lover's blood.
It took everything in him to not crash and start throwing punches towards Schpood, he took his first step onto the red carpet, legs wobbly, soles aching. Observing the crowd around the colosseum, cheering and chanting his name out loud as their 'hero' or 'saviour', he felt more as a fraud than what he saw himself as.
Saparata is no man who wants to save others. It's more of the opposite actually, it's also why him and Fluixon so perfectly match each others as opposites. Fluixon seeks a desire for altruism; Saparata only wants the best for himself and doesn't wish to be involved in the lives of others.
It's ironic, isn't it not? The one standing in the heart of the Westhelm colosseum, walking on a velvet soft carpet only reserved for the most imperative individuals, titled and nicknamed as the 'hero' of people around the islands, isn't the one that wants to help others. With the more steps Saparata took on the carpet, the more he felt like he was inside a circus as a clown.
Every cheer, squeal, chant coming from the audience made it harder and harder, walking over the sacrifices and blood of his lover—who did everything all for the motive of others, was an irony no blood could ever compare to. Saparata was no true saviour nor good guy. All the credit came from his late lover.
Funny. Saparata would've been laughing if Fluixon got to see this with the cute pout on his lips, ignoring him for at least a few days before jumping right back into his arms for a hug he needs from him. If only this wasn't the case though.
Cameras, flashing and blinding lights at his terrified eyes, journalists swarming around to take the best angles of Saparata's most emotional moments for the pure intent of writing the best articles to create the most profit out of Saparata's feelings. Even after everything, Saparata is still dehumanised and used as something merely as a tool for others. Privacy was something he could imagine.
Heading into the distant exit of the colosseum, his mind still lingered on Flux. He regretted not staying there a little longer. Not telling him the secrets he buried under his tongue.
I love you.
ᯓ🪼₊⊹
The weight of his actions sat on him, a heavy boulder he never wanted to carry on his back, slowly, but surely suffocating him from the inside. Beads of sweat flowed down the creases of his palms. He watched numbly as the cold water from the tap blasted onto his hands, trying to clean off the blood with its current. The image stuck to him, persistent and haunting, blurring into his memories with ease. The sight of Fluixon's body with blood flowing out from his abdomen, metal slicing open his guts and viscera, his torn purple shirt revealing his vulnerable human body. His smile. His unyielding smile that he kept on while going through the most pain he has ever been in. Fluixon was happy. Flux was happy to die in the hands of Saparata.
Saparata wasn't happy to live in the hands of Fluixon's dead body. To breathe the air Fluixon could no longer take in, to go on and live a fulfilling life with admiration all around, to continue on life. Life is unfair. Life has always been a comedian on stage.
A cruel joke. It always has been. Saparata looked up to see his ghostly pale reflection, eyes that look like they haven't slept in days, a part of his face has a small splatter of Flux's blood which he never noticed, lips dry, about to crack. He wished Fluixon kissed him.
Right there under the evening sunset, where his skin no longer bled, where the rays of the sun adorned his sharp features, where his smile wasn't full of melancholy. Where Saparata could call him his, hold him in his arms, feel the faint beats of his heart, whisper his confessions into his ear.
It's a shame, really—he could've done so much more with him, if only that were possible—if only it didn't turn out like this. Why did he choose to live anyway? Why did he refuse to die for Flux? Why did he miss him so much he couldn't bear the fact that the betrayal was their last moment together? Why was he so determined to survive just so he could see Flux again?
Saparata is an idiotic fool. Saparata is a dumb bastard. Saparata is stupid. Why did his survival instincts take priority? Why did he try with everything he had in him to find a way to prove his innocence? Why did he do so much to keep on living? Why did he only live for Flux?
Saparata fought against men, was chased and hunted down by hundreds, dodged and survived assassination attempts with minimal scars—used human shields as a way to defend himself, he fought with death at the door—with all his motivation coming from the same man that put him through this horror.
In some way, Saparata felt a bit special.
As Fluixon's scapegoat, the longer he was still alive, the more Flux would think of him. Something about that kept pushing him, the more Flux cursed his name out in his righteous, confident voice—the more it accelerated Saparata's adrenaline.
Saparata began to clean himself up, forcing on a fake smile onto his mouth, his eyes was still hollow as before. He calmed the raging tides of his mind, letting out a small and minimal grunt—collidng his fist into the reflective surface of the mirror. Shards broke, scattering out from where the impact landed, some scraping and giving slight cuts onto Saparata's hand and forearm with the sharp edges. Blood, painfully and mesmorising—slid down his worn out skin, the sight was eerily calming to him, blood was no longer something he could be surprised of.
Saparata walks out of the restroom calm and steady, he's able to keep this up for at least half an hour more. He prepares himself for the night that he will definitely forget after. Brace yourself, Saparata.
ᯓ🪼₊⊹
"Your finally here white boy!" Schpood's voice echoes through the banquet hall, authoritative but somewhat friendly. He grabs Saparata's forearm, offering him a glass of wine. "Drink up. Tonight, we're here to celebrate your win and victory against that scumbag of a leader."
Pressured, Saparata can only accept Schpood's generous offer with a subtle nod. The wine in the glass swirls around, crimson—and red. Like blood. Like Fluixon's—
No. No. Stop. Shut up, stop thinking of him—don't even think of anything anymore—just shut the fuck up.
Saparata nearly drops the glass of wine, barely coming to his senses, his thoughts whirled around like a whirlpool. Schpood waves at him impatiently.
"Earth to Saps." Schpood waved his hands directly in front of Saparata's eyes.
Saparata forces himself to keep his act together. "I'm here."
"Ah." Schpood laughs hysterically, like a psychopathic emperor he presents himself as. "Thought I almost lost you there."
"I'm not that easy to lose." Saparata presses his lips into a straight line. He's tempted to bite his tongue off to have an excuse to never fucking talk to anyone ever again. "It's just that… I'm not very accustomed to alcohol and wine."
"Oh?" Schpood's eyebrows rose, his face now—more interested in the conversation. "Haven't tasted the beauty of Westhelm's wine? My, white boy—I sure pity you."
Schpood clinks his glass against Saparata's before gulping down his glass of wine, letting out a loud burp after.
Saparata holds the glass of wine tighter against his chest, griping strong enough for the glass to almost crack. Hesitation is found in his hands, but numbness is stuck in his pupils. Finally, he gives in.
Saparata chugs down the glass of wine.
The taste is awfully bitter and plain, he almost spits it out of his mouth. Saparata grunts, wiping the red residue off of his lips. Carelessly, he finds the audacity to ask, "what's so special about this shit?!"
Chatters quieted down, conversations stopped, eyes turned and landed on him and Schpood. Some terrified, others mostly offended and pissed. Schpood turns to him, and maniacally laughs at his face.
Saparata settles the empty glass down, hard, it shatters upon impact on the premium material of the table, glass shards sent raining down onto the Westhelm carpet.
"You never fail to make me amused, white boy," Schpood says, in his same, confident voice. He gently places his glass down onto the table. "When you drink, it's not about the taste."
"It's about the feeling it gives you!" Someone yells from the crowd. "Alcohol is for your negative emotions to be washed away!"
Schpood raises his hand up. "Bingo!"
Schpood pours another glass of wine, he offers out an extra empty glass for Saparata. "Why don't you try again? This time, with a different mindset."
Reluctantly, Saparata accepts his offer, pouring in more into his glass this time—with the intention of drowning out his grief and loss. "Thanks."
"After the battle today, I think you deserve the most alcohol out of all of us, Saps—so drink up white boy!" Schpood clinks his glass against Saparata's again, grinning ecstatically. "Scatter up! The party still isn't over yet!"
Saparata stares at the filled up glass, slightly shaking the glass in a circular motion to watch the liquid splash side to side. He builds up the courage to put the edge of the glass at his lips.
He dunks the glass down in one go.
"Fucking hell," Saparata mutters quietly, wiping his lips with his finger. His head spun and vision blurred, haplessly clutching onto the table for support as he collects himself.
Everything came rushing back into him. Saparata didn't even have any chance to brace himself for the alcohol to kick into his system, for a moment he stood there, slanted, sluggish—weak.
He blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice.
Time felt slower, footsteps echoed through his eardrums—loud, the faint click of heels against marble flooring, whispers and words amplified around, he could hear the embarrassing confessions between two men—secrets of an affair between two women. Then, he exhaled. Calmer and relaxed, his mind rested in the fleeting feeling of satisfaction for once.
Now, Saparata finally understood it. Why alcohol and drinking is the best and most effective method of releasing bottled up feelings, and the fastest way to lose yourself in the process.
And for once, Saparata could forget how miserable he really is, how despite of having everything one could possibly want—he had nothing to himself, how lonely he will be for the rest of his life, how no one else will be able to revive the vulnerable strings of his heart. This was better, truthfully.
This was his how he was going to spend the rest of his days, stuck on his tiny claustrophobic patch of land, bottles of alcohol in his area, drinking until his brains melted, until his blood no longer flowed to his limbs, until he no longer had light reflecting off his surroundings to his eyes. Then, maybe—will he be at peace, once and for all.
"Yo," a voice calls out to him, gradually getting closer. The mysterious stranger puts their hand on Saparata's back, rubbing him with their hands. "You good man?"
"Don't touch me." Saparata stumbled as he pivoted towards the mysterious stranger, face flushed and out of his consciousness. "You're…"
"Have we met before?" The mysterious stranger says, pouring in wine into Saparata's glass.
"I should be the one asking you!" Saparata yells, his words slightly slurred—barely audible. He balances himself, and studies the man in front of him.
Yellowish-blonde hair, a distinct pair of turquoise eyes, and a red velvet cape draped over his shoulder. Who the fuck even is this kid?! Schpood's secret illegitimate son?!
"Seem familiar…" the stranger mumbles, folding his arms. A Westhelm shield pops out to Saparata's view, giving him a slight hint to whoever this mysterious man may be.
Albeit Saparata was still convinced that this man was Schpood's illegitimate son, with the Westhelm shield reinforcing this hypothesis. He takes a good amount of time to analyse with whatever was left in his messed up head.
"I don't know," Saparata finally says. "I can't remember much."
The man holds up Saparata's glass for him, smiling—but it doesn't reach his eyes. He pushes Saparata to drink more. "That's fine."
Saparata accepts the glass and gulps down another glass of wine. "Can I have your name?"
The man laughs quietly, but not quiet enough for Saparata to not hear. "You wouldn't really remember it after today, y'know?"
"I can try," Saparata tells the man, "though we probably might never see each other again for the rest of our lifetimes."
The man shakes the bottle, watching the liquid slush with more intensity than necessary. "That's fair."
"Saparata." He immediately began, gesturing the man for another glass.
The man refilled his glass with zero complaints. "I know, everyone knows who you are."
"But I don't know who you are."
A pause.
The man hesitates, eyes darting away from Saparata's. Then, after a moment of contemplation and irresoluteness—the man answers Saparata.
"Ezran."
ᯓ🪼₊⊹
The night still isn't over yet.
Alcohol is still waiting for Saparata. His liver can rot in agony—if the pain is enough to drown his sorrows. Saparata's not intoxicated enough, Saparata can still feel the pain tearing through his heart—bleeding without a trace of an end.
For a victor, Saparata isn't the most pleased for sure.
He followed behind the remaining leaders, into the meeting hall with a glass roof. The sky is dark, hollow—tonight, the stars refuse to reveal its presence nor align, it lays low in the cosmic shadows, nowhere to be seen by the naked eye.
It's fate after all, right?
A sign of bad omen, astrologists may say.
Flux never believed in things like these. It doesn't matter whether the stars appear, align or shine—as long as the universe is stable, nothing should happen. Saparata wants to believe it.
Right now though, he finds it hard to believe Flux. It's absurd, absolutely ridiculous—how such simple 'coincidences' determined it all. Why couldn't he choose it? Why must it be up to randomness and probability?
His heart aches for Flux's voice.
Nothing feels the same.
"So." Schpood's voice cuts through the heavy silence, gathering up the gaze of the leaders and Saparata. "Got any suggestions on what we should do with y'know…?"
"The conspiracy's mess originates from Luminara, I think Legacy should be the one to be in charge with them," Cass quickly states her opinion.
"What about Infernus then?" Legacy adds on. "You know—like, what if they plan for another invasion in the near future."
"With what?" Schpood arrogantly laughs. "Their tiny amount of manpower that a quarter of my men could easily wipe out? Please Legacy, wake up."
"I think you took in too much alcohol," Saparata interjects, hiccuping in between muffled words. Ironic.
"Saps you finished half of the total—"
"Listen to the mediator," Schpood sneers at Legacy, slapping him on the back.
Legacy gives a cold glare at Saparata before closing his case. Fine, arguing is useless to this psychopathic emperor.
Realisation dawned upon him. Saparata realised it after so long, the gains he received for killing Flux, the respect he had in the eyes of nations, and the little power he had to turn over conferences and discussions of international affairs. Saparata was no longer a simple chess piece for people to easily manipulate and play around with, Saparata was no longer that discardable tool of an altruistic movement.
Saparata is in control.
Now, he understood it—why Flux wanted control so desperately to the extent that he would've attempted to harm his close friend, the feeling of power and influence in the flick of his hands and opening of his mouth—words with more value than human lives.
So, this is how it feels to be above.
Watching the world through the lens of a god, an omnipotent authority with the ability to twist and shape lives around, helpless poor souls flocking to your feet for a mere chance of speaking face to face with you. People bend their pathways for you to keep going straight.
It's no surprise to why Schpood loves his role as the leader of Westhelm. As much as he despises international relationships and conferences, he loves the adrenaline-rushing feeling he gets from watching his own citizens fight to their deaths in the colosseum, at least that at then—he won't feel insecure of himself with his prideful ego.
Then again, Saparata expected someone like Schpood to be an egoist. He's not wrong about himself though, isn't he? Governing the nation with a strong might, beautiful architecture and structures, flourishing wealth despite its disadvantages—a work he built from bare nothingness. Like the common sayings, 'Westhelm wasn't built in a day.'
Admittedly, it is hard not to admire Schpood as a person. For a man with nothing, to build something with nothing is already an impressive feat some could dream of. Is he really egoistic if his actions show how capable he is as the leader of a civilisation?
Saparata doesn't know how to answer his own questions. He finds it meaningless to ask the man himself.
When the meeting finally ended, Saparata found himself at the docks of Westhelm's sea borders. Listening to the calm sea smashing onto the shores with his head reminiscing the nostalgic tangible feeling of home again, Saparata might have found peace in that short period.
He had to credit Schpood, the alcohol does make it better indeed. At least for the time being, he feels as if he could touch the intangible concepts around. If that were such a thing, he wished he could tore down the act of selflessness itself.
Saparata still isn't used to the international fame he gained overnight, by killing his best friend. It's arguably borderline stupid in all honesty to him, Saparata didn't personally dissolve The Conspiracy—he only did the finishing blow; killing off the leader.
Albeit that the fame itself is somewhat comforting, after the weeks of relentless pursuit and bounties on his pretty skull with almost half the world slandering his name out. Saparata hopes to go back home and look through the news to see if Flux had publicly slandered him or mentioned him anywhere—
Again, Saparata couldn't care less if Flux used his name as vulgarity, the mention of him in Flux's tongue and lips is enough for him to forgive him for everything he has done to him.
Saparata prepares to dock his boat and set off back to Pandora, it brings back memories—past experiences he wished he'd forgotten. The memory of running down, skin against the harsh wind, Thomas and many more behind him, over an unfair, biased verdict.
The same verdict Flux bought for him.
How cute of him to do so.
He hears the abrupt sounds of footsteps above him. It's Schpood—of fucking course it's him of all people at this damn time. Saparata braces himself, he's never coming back, definitely.
"Good time?"
Saparata quietly huffs. "Yeah, very much. Thanks a lot for everything man, I owe you one."
"You deserved it Saps." Schpood lightly patted his back, "you can finally go back now."
"Without being hunted down," Saparata continues. "It sounds like a miracle."
"Come back soon, Westhelm wine is obviously your type."
Saparata rolls his eyes, the liquor finally overwhelming his brain. "I only have one type Schpood."
There's a slight pause before Saparata adds—
"Purple." He breathes.
"Purple wine?" Schpood raises an eyebrow out of uncertainty, "I'll get back to you when we make one."
"Thanks." Saparata settles into his wooden boat, hands on the oars, the waters calmly hitting him up occasionally. "I wish the best for Yggdrasil."
"Same goes for Pandora. I hope Thomas dies a lonely and miserable fucking death."
"He deserves it. I want that dickhead gone." So Flux would've never been successful in his plots.
"Well then, have a safe trip back home, make sure to attend Thomas' execution too." Schpood claps his hands together.
Waving Schpood off, Saparata slowly began paddling his way back to Pandora, accompanied with the unpleasant torrents of the ocean between the two lands. Tonight, it was just him now—alone and isolated, like how he had originally planned his entire life to be—before Fluixon had to courteously step in and waltz straight into his soul with genuine ease. This time, however, it felt wrong.
Saparata wasn't talking about wine.
ᯓ🪼₊⊹
Saparata knows he's dreaming.
It's obvious that he had fallen asleep while rowing, he's not dumb, and he's surely not schizophrenic. It's illogical for—
For Fluixon to be lying down next to him.
Adorned in the flowers he planted for him, a combination of both their favourite flowers—a subtle yet ambiguous expression of his feelings towards him. Saparata was always weepy when everytime Flux walked by the garden, he had never once acknowledged the presence of the flowers.
Maybe it was to force himself to stop appreciating Saparata—so that losing him wouldn't hurt him as much. Saparata doesn't know.
The answers are buried with the dead.
Still, even if this is all just a dream—even if this Flux isn't the real and indifferent Flux—even if this Flux is just a projection of him from Saparata's mind.
Saparata wants to love him. He desperately wants, needs, and yearns to love him. Because only when he's loving Flux, does he feel the most alive as a person. The hammering feeling of his heart wanting to jump out of his chest, the rush of blood, and the mind boggling way how his brains stop working. It's so, so nostalgic.
"What we could've been," Saparata quietly whispered, plucking out a hyacinth to put it into Fluixon's hair. "I should've stopped you long ago."
I should've kept you locked up in my island, I should've killed your little group of friends, I should've made you so broken that all you can think about is me, I should've killed everyone so that there wouldn't be a thousand more people for you to sacrifice me for. I should've made you live only for me.
"I can hear you," Flux suddenly opens his eyes, the sun perfectly washing over his immaculate face, "you're terrible at hiding things from me."
Saparata smiles, for the first time in a while, a smile with genuine warmth. "Not that I would ever try to hide anything from you Flux."
Flux scowls, gaze diverting away from Saparata's view. "You're definitely hiding something from me."
Yeah I am. You're not actually real Flux, you're just a projection of you from my mind, and I hate myself so fucking much for making you so inaccurate to yourself. I hate my brain for messing you up this badly.
"Yeah. I actually am," Saparata boldly states.
"I hate you." Fluixon pouts. "All you say is lies after lies, what am I even supposed to believe then if everything you say could be falsehood?"
"You ache my heart, Flux," Saparata sobs, voice in between the line of crying and pleading. "I feel as if that I've been betrayed and stabbed by you."
"You're the worst man ever, I despise you, Saps." Fluixon sits up, cheeks slightly red, hands finding Saps' hand. "You've manipulated me into being in a trance once I'm near your proximity. You're toxic, you're radioactive waste—and I'm somehow addicted to you."
"Write a book on how much you need me." Saparata's face scrunches up. "Maybe then… I'll tell you what I'm hiding from you."
Fluixon brings his body closer to Saparata's, eyes directly faced with one another. His brows furrow, and he bites his lower lip in impatience.
"Tell me it now."
Saparata brings his finger to Fluixon's nose, his finger waving no with a playful smirk playing on his lips. "Nooo."
"I'll die right here, right now. I'll kill myself if you don't tell me." Fluixon grabs Saparata's collar.
"Hm," Saparata falters, "fine, but one condition—"
"Call me dear."
Fluixon stops, his fingers curl up into fists with some of his knuckles cracking in the process, he grits his teeth—trying to put on his determined masquerade.
Fluixon pulls Saparata's face closer to his with a sudden burst of force. "Being here with you is already out of my courtesy to you. My dignity definitely matters more than my time."
"I won't tell you then." Saparata breaks him down.
"Please, dear," Fluixon immediately blurts out.
Saparata triumphs, he pulls on Flux's wrist to shortened the distance between them—crashing their lips together with Saparata stealing the opportunity to bite into Flux's lips. They stay there for a while, enjoying and savouring the kiss with all that's left of their bodies. Saparata adores watching Fluixon's shy eyes when he deepens the kiss, forcing him to look at him even if he doesn't want to.
Saparata pulls back to breathe, even though he doesn't need to because it's all just a dream. Maybe it's instinct, maybe it's because he has imagined this scene over a quadrillion times inside his head.
Saparata no longer wants to wake up ever again.
It'd be better if he were stuck inside here, for all of eternity, till the end of time and the lifespan of the universe, where they wouldn't age, nor die—just the two of them in love, living together and depending on only each other. But it's hard to face the reality that this isn't Flux.
He will never be Flux.
Well, so what? Does it really matter? Honestly, Saparata couldn't care less anyway if this Flux was the true him or a fake version that he created. Saparata knows that for a fact, whatever happens, or whatever circumstances—ultimately, he still loves the same soul.
So as along as he believed in it.
The flowers matched the bruised, yet beautiful purple sky, albeit not comparable to the beauty of Flux's eyes—Saparata uses his spyglass to have a closer look into the incredible beauty of this fleeting dream.
He lowers the spyglass down to ground level, zooms in and out to find the vivid and distinct sight of beauty in his eyes. Sunflowers itself are beautiful, it's why Saparata considers it his favourite type of flower—but when Flux wears the flower in his hair, something dark and all-consuming rises from his chest.
Saparata doesn't know whether it's possessiveness or jealousy or even both at the same time. He's a very petty man, doing all of this over a singular flower that could be crushed with ease in one force.
To him, Flux is like a dazzling sunflower within a sea of flowers, he stands out from the others, he blooms like none other. Saparata loves him so much that he would pick the flower from its stem and preserve it forever, all for itself—so no one else can ever have the privilege to do so. Because, no one else would do as much as he would for one singular flower that would be found everywhere.
Maybe that's why he chose to fight him. So that he wouldn't do so many foolish things for ungrateful ingrates anymore.
So that Flux belonged to him.
It's only fair to him then, Saparata never really wanted much as a person, all he wanted from the world was Fluixon. He's utterly, disgracefully selfish.
The field of flowers sang against the mellow glide of the wind, pollen scatters throughout the island, accompanied by butterflies and bees flying around. Saparata takes out his camera and positions himself to get the best shot possible.
"Flux!" Saparata shouts, gesturing for him. "Smile for the camera!"
Fluixon pauses for a brief moment before realising what Saparata was doing, in a moment of haste and panic, he does a V sign with an awkward smile pasted on his lips.
Saparata snaps the camera and the photo rolls out, he rips the paper out of the automatic printer of the camera and smiles at it. In spite of the awkward and unprepared Flux, he still looked beautiful as ever—a flower beyond nature's encyclopaedia. If only the photograph could be taken in reality.
Fluixon walks over to him. "How does the photo look like?"
"Not telling you," Saparata laughs.
"What? Is it bad?" Fluixon tries to snatch the photograph away from him but Saparata ducks and runs away from him.
Saparata raises his hand with the photograph and sways it around like it's the grand prize in an auction, baiting and tempting for Flux to come and get it if he wants to.
"You look so stupid in this," Saparata bluffs, it's the most majestic capture of Flux he's ever laid his eyes upon. "I'm keeping this!"
"No, absolutely not!" Fluixon yells, charging towards Saparata with full force, like a track athlete with years of training and experience, he moves swiftly across the patches of grass onto the sand where Saparata was on.
Saparata runs, screaming his lungs out when he turned behind to see Fluixon at his perimeter, they fall onto the sand, wrestling for the small slip of paper.
"You're not going to get it!" Saparata giggles as he moves his hands far away from Fluixon's grasp.
"Oh, yes I would!" Fluixon's voice cracks under the sound of waves slamming against the shores.
Eventually, Saparata lets him win. It's still a dream after all, he isn't dead in anyway, and this flux is undeniably fake. Though, he has to deal with another problem now.
"You lied," Fluixon flatly says, holding the photograph in his palm so tight that it's crushing the paper. "I look normal in this."
"Whatever floats your boat, I guess," Saparata replies, yawning, "you look really dumb anyway."
"You're the idiot." Fluixon scorns.
"M'm," Saparata mumbles, "yeah, I look really idiotic for falling for you."
"I swear I'll cut off that tongue of yours one day."
"Please do," Saparata snorts. "Oh how I would love that from you."
Fluixon scoffs, "you're a freak."
"Hypocritical for you to say that," Saparata rebuts, "insults are given out as reflections of your insecurities, y'know?"
"Yeah," Fluixon huffs, "and I'll prove your hypothesis." He presses onto Saparata's shoulders, and lets his weight drop onto Saps'—where he bites into Saparata's lips.
It was a short and brief contact before their lips parted. "I never lie," Saparata says—with an overwhelmingly amount of confidence, "do I?"
"I hate you so much," Fluixon bemoans. "That I love you even more."
"That's awfully sweet of you," Saparata sneers, "why the sudden shift in attitude?"
"Can't insult you all the time, occasional sweet-talk balances out my toxicity towards you. Besides, you always find a way to make it positive somehow."
"You know me well, that's for sure." A smile curves at his hydrated lips, part of it bleeding from Fluixon's teeth. "Would you like to go swimming sometime?"
"I don't know how to swim." Fluixon quickly shuts him down.
"I can always guide you, y'know?" Saparata takes his hand and squeezes his fingers, slowly pulling him closer to the shoreline.
"Fine." Fluixon exhales reluctantly, following Saparata's steps closer towards the icy cold seawater.
When the water height reached their knees, Saparata finally let go of Fluixon's hand, laying down onto the surface of the water with slight shivers traveling through his body from the cold temperatures of the water. He giggles joyfully, putting his hand up for Fluixon to join him.
"It's relaxing, I promise," he says sincerely, looking up to stare at Flux's amethyst eyes. "You can hold my hand if you're that scared."
"'M not," Fluixon scoffs, laying down onto the water, copying exactly how Saparata had done it. "In what universe is this scary?"
"You seemed hesitant to do it at first." Saparata chuckled.
"Since when?" Fluixon mutters, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Saparata doesn't say anything after, he closes his eyes, allowing the sun's light rays take him out for a second.
Fluixon disappeared when he opened his eyes again.
The green seawater turned into a bloody—crimson red colour. Saparata only realised it too late, he ran deeper into the sea, till the water level reached his neck.
"Flux!" He pants, voice drowned out by the sound of crashing waves. "Flux!"
"Flux!"
This was it, as expected, history always repeats itself, and this time—it was Fluixon leaving Saparata's life again. No matter where he fled, the inevitable would always come back at him.
Not even dreams are safe.
Not even your own projections can help you.
ᯓ🪼₊⊹
Saparata woke up with saltwater in his eyes. It dissolved the tears already flowing down, he looked up to see the early morning sky—an orange and red canvas with the illuminating sun watching over Pandora's land, Saparata uses his hand to shield his eyes from the strong intensity of sunlight.
Saparata doesn't know when or how he fell asleep while rowing his boat, guess the exhaustion and alcohol finally kicked in and knocked him out hard. His back ached from lying down onto the wooden surface of the boat over a long period of time, Saparata could only groan in agony and get over it the next moment. It sucks, it really fucking sucks being alone, with nobody around to help him row his boat or nudge him awake. Saparata finally learns the quiet sadness of loneliness and isolation, just him and his little boat that could be easily capsized—talking to only himself and watching the sunrises alone, unable to share the joy of the moment with someone else.
Was this actually what he originally wanted for himself? Is his genuinely sick? This is unbearable and suffocating, unable to lean on someone at your side, having to do everything on your own, and having to watch others spend time with each other in envy. It hurts, it truly pains him, loneliness shouldn't hurt this much for someone like him, for someone who grew up pretty isolated from society and civilisation. He doesn't usually yearn for connection.
For the first time, Saparata feels sullen as one man on a solo boat trip. For the first time, he feels as if he needs human connection to complete him.
"Fucking people," Saparata spat, "I hate everyone." I hate talking to large crowds, I despise sharing my own possessions with others, I dislike being the centre of attention, I just want to be with him, I just want his attention—presence, his touch, his lips on mine. His body.
Saparata recognises the statue his boat is approaching, it's the statue of the late queen of Tricolour, and the golden crown was being stolen by someone. Saparata's brain stopped working, his immediate thought was to jump out and tell the Tricolour authorities of them being robbed—
And so he did.
Saparata, without a further thought or hesitation, jumped into the cold seawaters and swam with the sudden gush of adrenaline in his body towards the shores of Tricolour. He didn't think back for a second, he didn't think twice before leaving his small wooden boat.
He's stupid after all.
When Saparata finally touched the grains of sand of Tricolour, he ran to the nearest person with the flag on their shields. Saparata looked miserable, he was miserable himself too—his clothes still had Fluixon's blood stains and his hair was awful with the combination of grease and saltwater mixed together. Water dripped from his clothes and hair onto the pavement, bypassers stared at their so-called 'hero' in disbelief of what monstrosity he had become.
Saparata heard at least six different insults of his appearance over the course of the last two seconds he had stepped foot onto Tricolour, ranging from: his hair is so fucking hideous, to, oh my Tricolour! Is that really the well-regarded mediator that probably kissed the devil man?!
Saparata raised his finger to the statue, forcing the words out of his lungs, "there's a man stealing the gold crown!"
As expected, eyes snapped onto the head of the statue—the burglar stood there, pickaxe out and gold in his hands, all caught red-handed. The Tricolour guard immediately jumped into action and ordered for the burglar to stop.
The burglar wore a neon yellow hazmat suit, awful taste and a terrible eye-sore to Saparata, who in their right mind would ever try to commit a crime wearing something this obvious that shines under the bright light? Regardless, Saparata watched the guard climb up the statue and order burglar to surrender himself.
Something formed in his chest, Saparata didn't acknowledge the knot tying it around him—something's wrong, his brain is sending him weird signals and his stomach is desperately trying to destroy him from the insides.
Must've been from the alcohol consumption, Saparata though little of it.
Walking back to the shores, hearing the applause and praises from the citizens, Saparata doesn't understand why people would call him 'good' for doing this when almost any other person could do it.
Saparata isn't special anyway.
He calmly walks back into the cold waters—breath steady, climbing back onto his little wooden boat, and starts rowing back to his island. Was this something Flux would do? Saparata thought to himself while moving his arms against the currents.
It's hard to tell, to be matter of fact, though Saparata has spent over hundreds of hours thinking about Fluixon and Fluixon's mind—he could never draw into how Flux's comes to his conclusions and decisions. An unreadable book, a text written in an undiscovered language, something Saparata could never decipher even if he cracked his brains open.
Saparata almost forgot that traces of Fluixon's blood is still seeped inside his clothes and fabric, he doesn't want to wash it off, he can't bring himself to wash it off—despite the stain and odour.
Looking at the sun over the horizon, tears welled up in Saparata's eyes, silent, distant, and mournful—it's been a day since he lost him. Since everything had changed, since the world had flipped upside down.
Saparata hasn't thought of what he plans to do to spend the rest of his days. Alone, lonely, quiet, just him and the wind—blowing the hyacinths around, scattering around in awe. He used to plan his days to align with Fluixon's schedule, but now, even living seemed hard to finish per day.
"I wish I could touch you," Saparata utters quietly.
If Fluixon were here, Saparata and him could've been out in the sea, fishing for fishes—maybe even setting up a store to sell their catches to the people of Pandora, at least if Fluixon could stay by his side. Always.
Some things are just too hard to let go off.
Sometimes, it's your entire soul.
ᯓ🪼₊⊹
Watching his boat touch the ground of his island, Saparata let out a meagre sigh of relief, anchoring it to his island. The place looked familiar and nostalgic at the same time. The same place where he first developed feelings for Fluixon, and the very place where Fluixon broke everything off.
A cluster of feelings released out of his throat in an instant, he felt like throwing up the knot lodged in his throat. The dream was still fresh in his memory, haunting him as he approached closer to the estate.
Climbing up the stairs he once built by his hands, Saparata's gaze drifts off to the flowers he so painstakingly planted at the sides of the stairs—with most of them still somehow intact. It's been a while since he's been here, but nothing looks like it had been changed. The place looks and feels normal, an eerie feeling crawls up his chest when he reached the top of the stairs, and where he finally reunited with that damn meeting place.
Saparata slowly walks into the meeting room, carefully taking his steps with him looking up at times. The place looked better than ever, spotlessly clean—no blood, no trace of what slaughter had took place, almost as if it were simply erased from history.
Saparata's legs almost gave out, his hand latched onto the edge of the table, holding onto the weight of his body with everything in his hands. His breathing quickened and a lump formed in his throat. Saparata shook his head, repeatedly, repeating, "no, no, no, no, no—"
There's only one person in the entire world who fulfills the two criteria of: 1. Knowing that Saparata wasn't the one who killed all the leaders and 2. Cared enough to go to lengths of this much for him.
Fluixon.
Flux was here. He visited his island often, during the times Saparata was forced to seek asylum in Yggdrasil. He cleaned up the mess, watered his flowers, and kept the place habitable—for a future where Saparata would return back with him. He did this all for him, despite knowing that Saparata might never see it.
On the table, there it laid a letter, a letter that the sender expected the recipient to never receive, a letter that didn't have a guaranteed purpose, a letter written out of pure love for the recipient. Saparata practically jumped over to touch it.
He held the letter in his hands, shaking and crying to himself silently, feeling the burning sensation of tears cascading downwards, slow and a sign of faith he clinged onto for so, so long, deep inside his chest.
Saparata opened up the folded letter, water already dripping onto the paper.
Dear Saps,
I know you might probably never read this from me, seeing how far gone the situation has gone, it'd be best for everyone if you stopped fighting it. For a very, very long time, I have held something close to my heart, something in which I so begrudgingly denied to myself all the time. It's simple, and I hate that I've been troubled over such a simple thing.
I vividly recall our first encounter together, just you and I, and a world of cobblestone surrounding us. We met inside a mine on this island, going for the same priorities and goals of getting as much money as possible to get further ahead of others. We teamed up, shared pickaxes, and mined with a conversation to entertain the both of us in the wearisome process of finding diamonds. Eventually, I had forgotten the time I had spent inside that cave; and you were the reason I could. It didn't matter to me on how much diamonds we had found on that day, what was important to me was that I had found you—in the most unexpected place, and yet, you were the most beautiful man I have ever seen, even in the gruesome circumstances of a mine. That day, I went back home to Luminara, with thoughts all about you and how you could be so elysian in a dark corner. I supposed that I never had the courage to ask you it, maybe it was just me being too much of a coward, I don't really know Saps. I don't know a lot of things in this world, but I do wish to know more of you—if I still had a chance to.
I talk a lot about saving a thousand people, being a world renowned hero of the island, the saviour of Pandora, and all these shitty titles. But, now that I think of it, does it really matter to me? Is being a well-liked man really what I want for myself? Is losing you really what I wanted for myself? In the end, I realised this too late for myself, I have thought of hundreds of genius ideas to manipulate people, but I was too foolish to think that I could truly be complete in a world without you. I am the most foolish man of this world, I had everything—and I had lost everything. All for nothing, a trade of everything to nothing, only fools and idiots would do such things.
And now, I have nothing to lose.
And I can continue on this path without a fear of losing anything ever again. But you Saps, you just had to painfully exist and be the prettiest flower to grow in a garden I planted with no passion. You just had to get in my way, and you could make me lose myself without ever needing to lay a hand.
I hate you Saps, why won't you just perish?
Fluixon
Fluixon's handwriting looked messy, shaky, like he just wrote it with everything pilling up inside his mind. Saparata was on the floor now, knees down, the letter slipped through his grasp and blew against the sudden wind before coming to a stop.
His body flopped down, lying on his sides, Saparata began to break down. Tears poured out faster than rivers flowed, his face was red, flushed—puffed up from the amount of emotions he had held in for so long. The feelings he had for Flux, the aching pain he carried around his chest when he was away, the prolonged strain in his throat that kept him from screaming his lungs out.
I love you. I love you so fucking much that I had become the worst version of myself that I had ever seen in the mirror. I'm greedy because of you, I'm selfish because of you—because I want you so bad despite you betraying me and trying to kill me off.
Maybe that's why I killed you.
Maybe it's because I'm too selfish to share you with others, so you wouldn't become stupid for them.