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The Southern and Eastern wizards were on a job together, to deal with the sunflower valley in the country that is supposedly haunted by a curse. An evil witch who passed many years ago, and had since turned bitter and cold in her heart. Each day she sets the valley ablaze.
Faust thought he had grown accustomed to flames, he felt there was no reason for him to panic and shrivel up at the sight of a fire any longer. He was able to light candles in his room, burn incense, and strike matches like it was nothing. But the fire in the valley was unruly. In the face of a raging inferno he held his head low, just as he always did. He dared to face the heat head-on in order to protect his students.
Heathcliff, Lennox, and Figaro, the few who knew of his history, watching him intently. They worried in silence.
But Faust was the only one that could deal with curses as strong as this. It would be dangerous for the others to interfere— and Faust would never back down versus the very thing he deals with everyday. It’s just a curse. The fire is not real. There is no need to be afraid, Faust.
He was the quickest on his broom when the sage’s wizards took flight and went home. Faster than Rutile, even on a breezy day such as then. The wizards never saw a sign of fear in his face. If only he could keep that same confidence when he shut his bedroom door behind him.
He entered his room just as he would any other day. The only difference? He wishes he could smash all of the pans of water he had laying around. If he could shatter every bit of glass surrounding his candles and never light a match again, he would.
His steps he took toward his bed felt heavy, as if he had been doused in black tar that he couldn’t wash off of his body. His feet didn’t make it far enough; his hands could not even grasp his sheets for support, before he sank to the floor and held onto his knees.
Recalling the burning red and orange, the horror of what happened to him hundreds of years ago, it came flooding back all too quickly. His soul was trembling in front of it earlier, yet somehow it shakes more now that he is alone. No one is around to help him.
The feeling in his hands were all but gone as he clutched his own legs, the shaking remaining as their only sensation. It felt as if he might be gasping for air despite the fact that he was very much breathing. The burning, oh, the burning... the pain a fire can cause.
If only he hadn’t been alone then. If only he weren’t alone now. Tears streamed down his face with ease, his hiccupping was silent but still loud enough that he could not hear the sound of his door opening quietly, and quickly shutting again.
He jumped and turned to look over his shoulder behind him once he heard heavy footsteps from Figaro’s training boots on the wood flooring. They stared at each other, unmoving for a moment, with Faust’s eyes looking like they were one movement away from popping out the sockets.
Figaro was swift to drop to his knees in front of him, gently taking the dark glasses away from the front of Faust’s eyes.
“I didn’t know the fire still pained you this much.”
“I didn’t either.” Faust tries desperately to keep his cool but it’s nearly impossible.
He drags his hands in front of his face to hide himself, to stop himself before he’s embarrassed in front of his old friend. He doesn’t want to be seen with flushed cheeks and a wet face. But it’s hard to keep them in place when the room looks like it’s spinning around him.
Figaro takes his hands into his, moving them away from his face. He instead places them on his own shoulders, trying to give Faust better support. In times like these, it’s probably better to have someone with you. Next to you. He pushes Faust’s hair away from his face.
The strands scatter and lay on his head messily, slicked with sweat from his forehead. It feels so hot. Like the room is burning. It’s like he’s on the stake again, but it hurts so much more.
“Faust...” Figaro says gently with a smile, trying to bring him some ease.
It’s not an appropriate time to smile, but he doesn’t want to bring anymore stress to Faust by suddenly frowning in front of him. He would give anything to take away this burden of his.
“You’re not in the field anymore. There’s no need to cry. I’m with you.” Figaro says.
His fingers brush past Faust’s cheeks, wiping the stray tears. They caress his soft skin and his lips leave small kisses on his temples. He hums to the sound of Faust’s sobbing, as if he were singing him a lullaby to make him feel better soon.
“You don’t need to do all of this. I’m fine.”
“Nonsense. You’re not fine at all. Do you still feel like you’ll burn up? Like everything will go up in flames if you linger for too long?”
Faust doesn’t want to answer. He only nods. Frankly, Figaro didn’t need any more than that.
He wraps his arms around Faust. His lips make way to his forehead, and to his nose.
“I’m with you this time. I won’t leave you again. You don’t need to hide your feelings from me.”
“Liar. You always say you won’t, and then you do.”
“I’m being honest.”
“How should I believe you?”
“You know me well enough to know when I’m lying. And you know me well enough to judge whether or not I truly care for you. I’d hope you know by now that I do. Although care is... not the strongest word.”
Faust looks up at him even though his face is practically buried in his chest. “Can you swear you won’t say a word of this to anyone?”
“Swear on my life. I’d rather turn to stone than to leave you alone again.” He brings his face up to rest in the crook of Figaro’s neck.
The tears flow again, but slower this time. They are nothing more than a peaceful stream. They’ll stop, eventually.
“Thank you.” Faust says.
“I don’t deserve a thank you from you. I should have taken care of you better all of those years ago.”
“Thank you anyways, then.”