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When Hakka is training, he looks like he’s moments away from taking flight. It’s like he defies gravity with the way he jumps and twists through the air. For all his jokes about being a bird, it’s moments like this that show how true that description really is. He flies across the ground with his spears, alternating movements, attacking and parrying and falling back in well-practised motions.
He’s fluid, but practised. It’s all so carefully constructed, that image of his. Flayon can tell in the way he grits his teeth before he lunges forward, in the flash of resentment that ripples across his face before dissipating as fast as it came. Consistently rattled by life, Hakka sometimes toed the line between perfectionism and recklessness a little too close for comfort, dissatisfaction lingering in his wake as he thinks desperately about how he can be better, be stronger, to become the best possible version of himself.
It’s not his fault though, not exactly, but his heart stutters a little when he thinks about Hakka’s life in the past. How long he spent working to get to this point, where training and diligence become second nature. The fact that he bears it all with a smile, a real one.
He’s just a fundamentally good, considerate person who works a little too hard to burn a little too bright. That’s the Banzoin Hakka that he knows.
While he wipes his brow and begins to put his things away, running a cloth with care to clean off his equipment, Flayon walks over and passes him a bottle of water. When he catches his eye, he schools his face into the most ridiculous shape he can possibly muster and Hakka breaks into a grin on sight, boisterous and starry-eyed. Mission success.
Late nights like these were the best. There was a weightlessness about them, the sense that nothing about them is completely real. Their schedules don’t always align well, sleeping hours shifted slightly apart, but they make it work. Usually it’s through catch-ups before dinner, stolen moments where they can wind down from the day, but these extra moments after a long day were a rare treat.
“Making good gains?”
“Yeah,” he replies, making a show out of flexing his biceps. “Got to get stronger so we can fight that giant anaconda, baby!”
Hakka laughs so hard he barrels headfirst into a fit of coughs and then immediately continues laughing some more once he resurfaces. He liked playing with that idea, the thought that they’d go off somewhere together and fight things with their bare hands and live off the land and have one big ol’ strange adventure.
Exchanges like this were one of the best parts about their friendship. When they’re together, even trivial things become incredibly important and worthy of conversation. Even his throwaway lines are an opportunity to offshoot, to explore something else. It’s comfortable in its unpredictable predictability.
“Maybe it can be our last big adventure,” Hakka starts again, pausing for a moment to catch his breath.
“Last?” Flayon parrots back.
It’s a strange thought. He’s lived for so long but never imagined there would ever be an end, a definitive final endpoint to their shared adventures.
“Not like the last last thing we do because that means we’d probably die there. Somewhere in the jungle. Just like, maybe it’s a goal for the future, something we need to do before we get too old.”
Too old, huh? That's a thought.
There are a million things you can be too old for: sleeping too little, growing taller, eating a little too much sugar. Adventuring isn't one of those things though, is it? Thinking about it too much breeds a few too many worries about settling down and whether or not he can ever get to a point where that feels right for him.
“Do you want to get married someday?” he asks instead, fuelled by thoughts of the future and that unfortunate lack of filter that comes with late night loopiness.
“To you? Sure,” Hakka replies, all levity and humour, completely unserious in his delivery. “Maybe though,” he continues more wistfully, more earnestly. “Everything aside, I think it would be nice someday.”
That’s true though. Hakka would make a good husband, wouldn’t he? And one day he’ll have his own life away from them and he’ll be very happy, which he deserves, but the thought bothers him somehow. Like maybe one day it’ll be his spouse out there fighting big snakes beside him in place of him, that there’ll inevitably be some unknown person who takes priority in Hakka’s life.
Even if they’re not here now, they will be someday, and it is that knowledge, the fact that he was never destined to be the most important person in his life that sticks with him.
The idea of it hurts, but he’s not sure why. Maybe it’s the thought that brotherhood and friendship isn’t something that lasts forever for others like it does for him. All 18,432 lives. But that’s ridiculous too, isn’t it, because who says that a new life means that they have to stop being friends? They can be, it'll just have to be… different. No longer the first priority in his life, not when he hangs up his spears and stops adventuring for a living.
“It sounds nice. I’m not sure if I’m ready yet though,” Flayon responds, opting for the more palatable version of the truth.
The thing about relationships is that what you want isn’t always what you get because sometimes the things that you want aren’t the things that other people want from you and thus aren’t what’s given. It goes both ways too. This isn't something he can just force onto Hakka as if he deserves it the way he wants.
There's something about the special brand of closeness that can only come from constant proximity. At first reluctantly, then willingly, and it is that flip in desire that makes things special. It pushes people together, close enough to burn, and forges unbreakable bonds in its wake. It’s the kind of closeness that breeds the greatest love and the strongest hatred. And the worst option, of course, which is passive acceptance. That’s the one that burns the most, the idea that they could spend years beside each other and it isn’t enough to inspire any kind of emotion at all.
It’s also the worst kind of bond, the kind that makes you wonder if you’re only close because you have to be. He likes to think it’s not true though, not for them, not for any of them.
Flayon's always wanted Hakka to be mean to him to steel his heart and temper his expectations. He just wanted to preemptively prepare himself for that inevitability. It’ll hit different when it’s not a bit, not an attempt to rile him up. The thing is that Hakka isn’t trying to be mean here. He never really is. He’s just being honest, just playing along. One day they’ll get older, and he’ll find someone to love in the right way, and it’ll hurt because that means they won’t be together anymore, not like this.
Two skaters pushed apart in opposite directions. Conservation of momentum. What once was at rest must, in some way, balance once they start moving again, even if that means flying apart on vastly different paths.
No more cosy summer nights. No more expeditions.
Here’s the thing. Hakka is someone who loves you even when you don’t feel like the best version of yourself. Even he has a limit to his patience though, to the amount he’s willing to entertain people.
Flayon has always been scared he’ll hurtle towards that limit, miscalculating how much he can really tolerate even when he never seems to mind, so he holds back. It’s always been the safest option.
Beside him, Hakka’s cheeks twitch slightly in the way they always do when he’s about to say something stupid, gearing up to preeminently suppress the resulting smile. “Yeah well, your mom.”
It’s endearing.
Leave it to Hakka to find some way to try to brighten his day because that's just what he does, fighting off demons without even trying.
People can’t belong to each other, so he can’t be jealous. There's nothing to even be jealous about. That’s not how things work. But calling it envy instead feels too distant, too wrong, too reminiscent of all the reasons why he forces himself to bottle things up and hides it all away.
They go to sleep quietly that night, separating off to their individual beds, and that initial separation is the hardest to bear. It’s going to be the first of many though, so he has to get used to it. There's no other choice.
The night stretches onward, blanketing them in its vast indifference.
-
Being the kind of person that he is, Flayon takes to channelling his energy out into something productive. It’s photography this time, a whole album of moments kept safe in the R-TRUS. It’s special because they’re his, because they’re things that no one can take away. No one could ever deign to take the R-TRUS away from him and by proxy, no one can take away these moments. He’s roped the others into it where he can.
He remembers when they first met, when they first properly met.
“If you ever need help, I’m here.” Hakka’d said, all bravado and unfiltered sincerity. Entirely undeserved after they literally kidnapped him.
Flayon nodded back, sure, that’s what a good teammate is supposed to say. You’re supposed to have each other’s back. But then Hakka rushed forth and clutched his hand and squeezed it tight like it was something precious. “No, really. I need you to understand. If your life is ever at risk, if you're ever in danger, there’s nothing you could ask of me that would be too much. Nothing.”
It would be nice, in retrospect, if he could have blinked his eyes right then and there and snapped a photo. Their real first meeting as friends. The start of it all.
Some of them are better than others. In this one, Flayon’s not even looking into the camera. His eyes are directed towards the edge of the photo, at the part where Hakka likely resides, just off-screen. He’s got that warm, soupy kind of smile on his face, something filled with all the love he feels for everyone in Tempus.
He thinks about the good things stored there, the love captured against these pages. And then, naturally, he thinks of the bad.
The fact that Hakka isn’t there with him. The fact that they’re not going to be like this forever. The fact that even this permanence is only temporary.
It’s nice in a way, but deeply unsatisfying. Proof of happiness while also being proof that things are going to change because pictures can never do the real thing justice. They’re just a cheap imitation of reality. Maybe it’s selfish to want to keep things forever, so it’s only fitting that all attempts to preserve it are inevitably going to fail. The real world doesn’t work like that.
Flayon keeps them bound in albums, bound to himself like an ugly secret only worse, because they are all manifestations of his own feelings and no one is going to tell him that it’s okay to feel like this.
-
It’s a few weeks out and he’s getting lonely.
His guildmates stay with him the rest of the evening though, stubborn and solid in their affection. He can hear Altare’s comms buzzing incessantly and catches Shinri yawning behind his hand as he sips at his drink. It’s a reminder in a way of how separate they really are, 8 waves converging for one great moment before inevitably running apart, running parallel. But when the sadness slips in and he begins to frown at them, they just frown back and Magni is there to wordlessly ruffle a hand through his hair or Axel is drawing him back into another energetic story.
They do it without even asking.
Bettel entertains his desires, his newfound interest in taking pictures of every moment together. He pushes everyone together to get a group shot, their smiles preserved forever in film.
They stay with him until the evening draws out into night and fireflies begin to cluster across the fields below. They stay with him until the excitement winds down and they’re just offering nonsense at each other, little snippets that make them burst into snorts and giggles for no apparent reason. Flayon feels really lucky to have friends like them.
It’s everything he’s always wanted.
Isn’t it selfish then, that he lets his mind wander, that he can’t help but look at Hakka, shoulders raised in raucous laughter, and wonder what it'll sound like when it’s all going to end.
-
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he accuses him, cornering Flayon as he slinks off to his room. Hakka’s voice is soft but insistent. Heated but tender.
Yeah, he thinks, because I can’t stare at you for too long without thinking about everything else.
If it was anyone else, maybe he’d just say that outright. Better to speak your mind and live with the consequences after all. But it’s Hakka, and he still feels awkward around him, and acknowledging that he feels that way is acknowledging that there is a real problem and that his fears are real and one day their fragile bond will be broken by time, so he doesn’t. Instead, he tries very very hard to not think about it and how depressing it is that he’d ever get to the point where he needs to avoid talking to him at all.
The floor of the guild hall is so interesting, isn’t it? And the weather is nice today, something warm but not so warm to get unpleasantly sticky. And today’s dinner was pretty good, though maybe next time he should make that chicken curry he’s been planning on for the last few days. And Hakka is-
He fails. Completely. Because he can't even do this one thing right. He’s already feeling depressed and he hasn’t even given a proper response yet.
“Yeah?” Flayon says, fiddling with the hem of his coat. “We literally just ate together,” he says carefully. The words feel especially off-balance, carefully constructed to hem the line between himself and the tension in Hakka’s back.
It’s not that hard, honestly, to hide behind his walls. He doesn’t want to, though, doesn’t want to be that person separated from people behind these invisible barriers that only he’s privy to. He wishes he could lower them, not just edge around them and slowly create new ones. He wants to be known, but it’s hard to get himself to a position where he can be. That’s another problem.
It’s an ugly cycle to get into. You push people away. Then they leave. Then you hate that they left you even though you’re the one who told them to do it.
He doesn’t want that to happen with Hakka of all people.
I’m fine. Don't worry about me, Flayon wants to say, as normally as he possibly can, but the words refuse to come. He turns around briefly to face him instead, grabs Hakka’s hand for a second and entwines his fingers around his, because it's all he can manage right now. It lasts for a second before he turns away again, bristling before it becomes too hard to leave.
The slam of his door resonates through his mind, the finality of it lingering longer than he’d like to admit.
-
Flayon’s lived a long life, even if he doesn’t always show it. It’s not so much the ageing that gets to you, nor the number of lifetimes you’ve lived. Time has always passed and he’s always had to change because of it. He’s long since accepted that.
He finds it hard to fully understand, even within the confines of his own brain. It’s not even like his feelings towards Hakka dwarf the affection he has for the others, not in the slightest. His time with Tempus is something that’ll stay with him forever, this eight-way bond that’ll stretch across time and space and inevitably bring them back together time and time again.
It’s just that somehow his feelings for Hakka are a patchwork tapestry, something woven of a different material. It’s got the same base threads but there are parts where it diverges, parts that don’t get to see the light of day. It’s just as important, but a little different. A little more gentle, a lot more shy. It makes him feel bare as he brushes his fingers along the fraying edges.
He’s tired of being sad, of staring at the space that Hakka leaves behind whenever he leaves the room.
And so he goes to Vesper, who sometimes feels like another flavour of himself, another version of himself living a different life in a different place. Vesper, who in all his worldliness and wisdom can maybe understand a little piece of what he feels if he can find some way to share it. Or maybe he won’t, but that’s fine too because maybe he can just make him feel a little better.
Flayon opens with something easy, something close enough to what’s really been eating at him.
“Have you ever thought about what happens after we retire?”
“It’s going to happen someday, I guess. When we get older and grow out of all the heroics all the time,” Vesper responds placatingly, something safe and neutral but still vaguely comforting.
“But aren’t you on, like, your 100th season of being 28? Why do things have to end?” Flayon questions, a little petulant and a lot sad.
He hates it a little, the way that it makes him feel childish when Hakka’s not a toy, not a thing he owns or should feel possessive over losing when nothing’s even happened yet. But it will some day. It will, won’t it?
Vesper pats his head and brews him a cup of tea. Chamomile, a soothing choice. Cinnamon is his favourite but bad for his voice, bad for something like this.
“Some things change and some don’t, Flay. But change doesn’t have to be bad.”
“And what if I don’t want things to change?” He asks softly, not trusting himself to go much louder than a whisper.
Vesper sighs as he looks at him, soft but not scolding. Fond. Nurturing.
“Just talk to him about it.”
The words linger long after his tea has gone cold. Just talk to him, sure, as if that’s so easy.
He thinks about the good: dancing around the same kitchen, shouting in mock offence about the best flavour of ice cream. He imagined brushing hands in the dark, tracing sweet nothings in the soft planes of his face. He thought about pulling him close, about sharing clothes and meals and lifetimes together.
Then he thinks about the bad: Hakka leaving him, finding someone better suited for him, telling him that they were never meant to be together at all, that he was selfish for ever believing otherwise. Hakka and his beautiful motions as he dances further from his grasp.
Talking about it destroys the fantasy, the good and the bad, so it’s better to avoid it altogether. That’s the safest option.
-
Hakka’s the one that takes the choice away from him though, tugging his wrist with a rushed mumble of needing a sparring partner. There’s a sense of purpose in his step, grip ironclad as he drags him off to somewhere more secluded.
“Flay, what the fuck’s going on? Did I do something? Because sometimes I have these moments where everything feels fine and I think maybe I’m crazy for thinking anything is wrong, but then I turn around and you’re avoiding me all over again.”
Ah, that’s true. There’s that side of things too, the way that trying so hard to keep things exactly the same subconsciously changes everything too. You can never be exactly like your past self, so any attempts at recreating it usually end in failure, a poor imitation at best.
“Remember earlier when we were talking about marriage? It just got me thinking like… when does it end? Haha. Our friendship. Haha.” It’s out in the open now. Wow. It’s real. It’s really really real.
Hakka’s face pinches up like he’s swallowed something bitter. Which maybe he has.
Flayon’s voice petered out as he slowly got to the end and he buried his face deeper into Hakka’s shirt, averting his eyes. Hakka held him like that for a long time, and although he did not cry, it was the closest he ever let himself get to tears.
Absently, he wonders which part is bitter, and prays it’s not the burden of his newfound feelings, but prepares himself for it all the while.
Hakka holds him so delicately as if he's afraid he'll shatter in front of him and he almost wishes he would.
“Why are you worried about that, though? It’s like… remember when I called you at 3am just to hear your voice?” Somewhere above him, Hakka's probably scratching at his cheek with his finger. A nervous tic. A cute one.
Flayon nodded affirmatively, afraid of how his voice would come out.
Of course he did. He hadn’t gone to sleep yet, still poring over tomorrow’s flight plans, and answered immediately thinking something was wrong. It was cute, a moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability from him. He remembered feeling warm, lulled fast asleep to the sound of Hakka’s even breathing.
“And remember that time I brought you back a leaf from that solo expedition to Xenokuni?”
Of course he did. He kept it pressed in a book in the R-TRUS along with all the other little trinkets from the past year.
The breeze blows across the horizon, softening the sunset’s watercolour glow.
“Yeah, I do. So what? I’m bearing my heart to you and you’re talking to me about fucking leaves. Okay, Hakka. Okay. I get it. You hate me, right? You don’t have to distract me with all this sentimental stuff. That’s fine. It’s fine. Okay? It’s fine.”
It’s not fine, but maybe saying it enough times will make it feel that way. Or it’ll make him believe he’s not hurting, that everything can go back to normal. Or it’ll give Hakka the courage to finally spit out his words so that he can go back home to the safety of the R-TRUS and do a little bit of sulking. Or a lot of sulking.
“Look!” Hakka grabs his shoulders with both hands, grip strong enough to anchor him in place. “Just listen to me. It’s like… I saw it on the ground, that leaf, and I thought about you. So I kept it bundled with my spell tags and brought it back here. For you. To give it to you. So I could watch you smile and say I’m weird for bringing it all the way back, even though we both know you were going to keep it no matter what.”
“I just…” Flayon took a moment to string his words in order. “What if something happens some day? What if I do something and ruin things? It’s not like the rest of my life where I can just respawn like nothing’s happened, right? Because once I fuck up and you leave me behind then there’s nothing I can do to get you back.”
“You literally shot me with a tranquiliser and brought me here in a fucking pillowcase. I cannot possibly think of a worse introduction and yet here we are.”
“Here we are,” Flayon echoes, nuzzling closer to his chest.
“Yeah, so, you don’t have anything to worry about, dummy. I’m in this bestie shit for life, you hear me? And more… if that’s what you want.”
Instead of responding, he jumps forwards, draping his hands around Hakka’s neck. He'll surely understand though. “Carry me, Hakka!” he shouts, feeling the weight slipping from his shoulders. He goes slack against him, forcing Hakka to reach forward with his hands and keep him from slipping off.
“Hey! You’re making yourself heavier on purpose!” Hakka smiles around his words though, laughs like he wants to envelop him in a huge hug and then immediately punt him into the sun.
Hakka carried him off before dropping him softly on the grass. When Flayon settles back, legs flexing back and forth in front of them, he moves to holding his hand palm up, to tracing patterns and words onto his skin with his index finger. His motions spell out thanks and Hakka pulls him into a kiss, something gentle and soft, something hopefully deep enough to communicate the promise that this is their forever.