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Figaro stood in front of Faust’s door- closed, and uninviting as always- staring down the wood as if he could will it to open on his own. The paper bag weighed heavy in his hand, and he sighed. It was not like he had never come by Faust’s room- quite the opposite, in fact. He couldn’t count the nights on one hand where he had smiled his charismatic smile, holding a bottle of wine in his hand, only to have the same door slammed in his face again and again. Sometimes, he just hovered outside. Just like he was doing right now.
Figaro was more observant than most would give him credit for. But to be fair, he had known Faust for quite some time. Spent enough time gazing at his amethyst eyes from afar to notice even the subtlest of changes in his typically stiff demeanor. Even as the years passed, the idea that Figaro could still read Faust as well as he used to gave him at least a small sense of comfort. Despite knowing his observations were too often unwanted. Deep down, he knew he deserved it for running away, yet his heart still aches after all this time.
He was distracted from his solemn thoughts by a flash of red. No, it was a spark- a flame, floating in the air above Faust’s room. One flame, and then another. Upon seeing the scene, he realized his assumption had been correct, and felt his stomach sink as he prepared to enter the room with his gift, fully expecting to see a memory all too familiar to the both of them- Faust tied up to the stake, with flames curling around his body from all sides. Figaro knew Faust dreamt of that moment far more often than he wished. Steadying himself, he peeked inside the door, preparing for the always harsh roar of flames and screams of agony he could never seem to quite purge from his mind.
What Figaro saw when he entered the room was...different. For one, Faust’s bed was empty, and did not, to his relief, appear to be enveloped in flames. Scanning the room, his eyes instead fell upon the brown haired man’s figure slumped up against the desk, his hands curled around a book. The scene was so peaceful that Figaro almost wondered whether he had entered the wrong room. But no, this was certainly Faust- Figaro recalled the sage’s earlier words, how Sir Faust had just returned from a mission, and should be left alone for the time being- a warning which of course, Figaro was exempt from.
Faust’s dreams had not overflowed like this since their initial arrival at the manor. Figaro reached for where he knew Faust kept his talisman, and confirmed that it was indeed torn, stunting it’s usability. Well, that’s why he was here, wasn’t he? To drop off the talisman and leave. Figaro had learned many times that lingering where he wasn’t welcomed would only get him in trouble. Yet as he turned to leave, another burst of flames caused him to reel around, and all too suddenly he was met with a projection of Faust’s dream.
Instead of the flames that once ripped the younger wizard apart, these were the flames of...a bonfire. Figures mingled around the open fire, their laughs echoing through the night. And then, there he was- Faust, as Figaro had known him. Purple eyes alive with youth, brown hair curled and falling into a ponytail behind his back. He smiled next to a human who looked at him with respect, as if he was an old friend. And then, Figaro was met with a projection of himself.
Blue hair. Green eyes. The same as always. As he watched himself, he wondered what he did to deserve to stand next to a man like Faust. In fact, he had assumed this night meant nothing to the younger wizard- a dance long forgotten, with a man whom he felt only bitterness towards. Figaro remembered every detail as if it were yesterday. He watched the way Faust had smiled as he grabbed his hand and led him aside. In the dark of the night, with their arms around each other, it had been so easy to pretend it was just the two of them against the world. No Alec, no humans, and no revolution- just Figaro and the man he loved close enough to reach out and touch. Back then, Figaro had known Alec was special. An important figure to the revolution of course, but more importantly, he was special to Faust. Figaro wanted nothing more than to sweep Faust off of his feet, to run away with him, to forever live side by side. The glow of youth in his eyes so starkly opposed the thousands of years of misery Figaro had behind him, and it was intoxicating. He couldn’t stay away.
And that wanting was exactly what scared him. Figaro didn’t want a lot of things, really. A home, maybe- a place to settle down after a lifetime of running away. Until he met Faust, there was never any real purpose in his life. But Faust was different than anyone he had ever known. When they were together, nobody else mattered. Nights spent studying and perfecting spells, glasses of wine shared in a crowd of both humans and wizards, and stolen gazes Figaro always held for a few seconds too long, until Faust was forced to look away. It all made Figaro’s heart race like a young boy experiencing the world for the first time. Maybe he was. Maybe this had been the world he was meant to find all along. The details didn’t matter, but Figaro had chased that feeling, until it ran him into the ground.
Beneath the stars, hands entangled within the damp grass, echoes of the night's bonfire from afar while the night glowed only for them. They had laughed as they grasped on to each other, teacher and student, yet at the same time friends on equal ground. Figaro may have missed the way Faust had looked at him then. Through the projection, he saw it once again. His eyes creased in a deep smile, a light blush dusting his cheeks, invisible in the shadows. No words uttered between them, yet his smile said so much. “Please don’t abandon me,” it begged. Figaro returned the same smile and squeezed Faust’s hand as he leaned in to close the distance between them, drunk on the electricity of the moment. Their kiss a broken promise, lies of love whispered under breaths as the world faded away.
Back in reality, Faust’s words echoed in his mind.
How in the world did I hurt you? I truly respected you from the bottom of my heart.
The next day, Alec had ordered Faust to be executed. Turned on the cause in suspicion, and Faust was suspected of treason. And Figaro wasn’t there to save him. He had already made his choice. He let go of his hand, and chose to save himself. He fled, ran away from the only home he had ever had, with no intention of looking back. A coward, he had been, and always would be.
Even if Alec dies, you will never forget about him until the day you die. In the end, I’m always alone. I can’t stand that.
He hadn’t realized he had inched closer to Faust while engrossed in the dream. Seeing him now, Figaro absently remembered the spark he had seen in his eyes, the same one that drew him in and kept him wanting more. He wondered if the spark was still there, buried deep inside, locked away after centuries of solitude. He wondered if he could bring it back.
The talisman slumped limp and irrelevant in his hands as he moved closer to Faust, careful not to wake him up. From so close, he could see the shadow of his eyebags, stress likely caused by late nights focused on lesson plans for the children while refining his own magic at the same time. He had never been one to slack off, after all- much unlike Figaro himself. Figaro’s hands hovered in front of the sleeping wizard’s face for a moment, before finally coming to rest in his hair. Despite the chilly night in the room, Faust was still warm. Figaro entangled his shaky hands in his hair, gripping the dark curls as if they would run away. With Faust’s breath on his skin and the reality of his touch, Figaro could almost imagine they were in the past once more. Like Figaro had never run away, had never ruined what they had. Like they had lived out their days together side by side, as they always planned.
Under his touch, Faust suddenly began to stir. The whirls of fire that had dotted the room began to fade as he awoke from his sleep. Instinctively, Figaro pulled away. He didn’t want to imagine the scolding he would get if Faust awoke to find him like this. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he tiptoed towards the door, purposefully ignoring the oh-too-familiar feeling in his chest. It didn’t really matter whether he closed the door or not- Faust would know he was there regardless, and wonder how Figaro had known his talisman was worn, probably cursing the older wizard.
Yet, as Figaro slipped out of the room, the image of Faust’s dream stayed fresh in his head. The way Faust had seen him that night. The fact that he didn’t deny the moment they had shared. The blush on his cheeks as they promised to change the world together.
Maybe one day he would be able to stay. Not tonight- it was much too late, and Figaro knew he had some mending to do. But fate had drawn them together in the wizard’s manor, as if giving them another chance.
For a moment, Figaro allowed himself to wish that Faust wanted the same thing he did. But only for a moment, before he disappeared into the night.