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After Flayon’s less than stellar week of disaster, he’s hoping today will bring some sort of respite. Except the rest of his day just keeps getting undoubtedly worse; little trivial things piling up that wouldn’t have been worth getting upset over had they occurred separately.
Smart kids shouldn’t stumble on their words when ordering a routine supply of equipment.
(How hard is it to follow a simple script?)
Intelligent kids shouldn’t trip over their own two feet, toppling headfirst into the back of an unsuspecting older lady, sending her groceries flying.
(Watch where you’re going, idiot.)
Genius kids certainly shouldn’t falter at the zenith of an important battle, being the driving cause of extensive injuries to his guildmates, and a hell of a lot of damage to repair.
(You’re meant to be a prodigy, so start acting like one.)
In the midst of his internal rumination, the left strap of his backpack gives out, right in the middle of a busy intersection. And it would’ve been just a mere annoyance, had Flayon not promptly let out a frustrated yell, inviting the concerned stares of onlookers passing by.
With growing pink in his cheeks, he collects his scattered things and sets off for the Guild Hall.
It’s quiet this time of day. The only discernible sounds are the creaking of the floorboards and, if Flayon listens close enough, faint laboured breathing coming from Shinri’s quarters.
“That guy,” Flay mutters to himself. “Always trying to make himself a martyr, huh.”
Those scolding words only betray his true sentiments - that type of courage and self sacrifice that comes all too natural to the ronin is something short of a distant dream for the supposed ace pilot.
Flay’s hand hovers over the doorknob, but ultimately decides against it as he stalks off towards the common area, the weight in his hands mirroring the heavy burden of a title only few can acclaim.
It’s not like he has room to complain. This is exactly what he wanted, right?
He tosses his bag of newly acquired materials haphazardly onto the tabletop and descends into a seat. As if on cue, C-TRUS emerges into view, battered and adorned with fresh chips and dents in its metal.
“You’ve seen better days, buddy,” Flayon comments with a wry smile. “Let’s get you fixed.”
Night falls sooner than expected. It’s easy for inhibition to fade away as Flayon gets lost in the sauce, working diligently at his makeshift workstation, uncharacteristically silent.
Before long, a familiar set of footsteps bound closer. Flayon doesn’t need to look up to see who it is; he can recognise that sound from miles away.
“Thought I might find you here. Was wondering what took you so long at the store!”
He doesn’t respond as Altare sidles up next to him, bumping knees as he does so.
For a moment, neither breaks the silence that follows after. Altare’s gaze simply trails Flayon’s movements as the latter continues tinkering with his ‘plaything’, as the guild leader had dubbed it. Nuts and bolts and screwdrivers of varying sizes lay askew whilst C-TRUS sits obediently in front of the pilot.
“He’s a cute little guy,” Altare finally comments, an easy smile settling on his face.
“He’ll be even cuter once he’s got a scuff-free faceplate,” Flayon remarks, steely eyes hyper focused on the task at hand, making a conscious effort to be gentle with the fragile piece of metal in his otherwise brawny grip.
The unequivocal lack of energy in his response doesn’t go unnoticed. Altare, ever perceptive, catalogues every single microexpression and takes it upon himself to prod even further.
“You’re the only one doing all that maintenance work on him, right? I’ve seen you in your little workshop with all your blueprints and whatnot. You really are a genius.”
At the mere utterance of the word, Flayon’s jaw clenches ever so slightly, and it’s the implicit confirmation Altare needs to know he’s hit bullseye.
It’s like he’s transported back to school in that stuffy little classroom, the collar of a dress shirt strangling down the answer to a question he’d already forgotten - hushed whispers and scrutinising stares from his peers as his face burns hot with embarrassment.
Remnants of a past life he’d soon rather forget.
Instead, Flay maintains learned restraint, responding with a non committed mumble. C-TRUS seems to answer in his absence, letting out a chirpy, mechanical hum.
“You seem uneasy,” Altare observes, brows furrowed in thought. “Wanna talk about it?”
Flayon adamantly shakes his head. Unsatisfied, Altare persists.
“Come on, Flay.”
“Not interested.”
“Tell me.”
Flayon blanches at the sudden firmness in tone. He knows better than to cross the Holostar, Regis Altare, leader of Guild Tempus. Yet in spite of this, he allows himself to indulge in stubborn immaturity. Gritting his teeth in growing frustration, Flayon can feel the rise of anger within him; a feeling he wishes he wasn’t so intimately acquainted with.
“I said I’m not interested-”
He cuts himself off as the tool in his hand suddenly snaps in two, unaware of his own strength, grimacing at the realisation he’d have to get it replaced. Again.
“...Sorry.”
“I’ll accept your apology…” Altare begins, before a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “only after you tell me what’s on your mind. There’s obviously something bothering you.”
The guild leader almost laughs at the way Flayon’s brightened expression immediately wavers, grumbling reluctantly at his clear victory.
Millions of thoughts buzz around in Flayon’s mind, yet he can’t seem to verbalise any of them. Fortunately, Altare is a patient man.
“I thought it was cool at first, y’know,” Flayon begins with a murmur, fiddling with his fingers. “Being blessed with practically all the knowledge I could have ever asked for. Being able to pilot anything in an instant. Having people place their faith in me . That trust and assuredness I’d never known until now. But…”
There was always a but.
Altare waits politely for his companion to continue, offering that kind gaze of his as a silent encouragement to keep going.
“All I wanted was acknowledgement,” Flayon adds, fighting the resurge of an unwelcome tickle at the back of his throat before it constricts; eyes stinging and glassy. “to be worth something. To be told I could be relied on. Not…”
Living and dying and reexperiencing each iteration of life the exact same as the last.
“...Not me living some life that’s not mine to live.”
Flayon briefly wonders just how many lifespans he’s going to mull over this exact dilemma. He supposes he doesn’t really care at this point, anyway. He’d stopped counting after the first hundred times.
The redhead doesn’t say much more, but he doesn’t need to. The tears that are threatening to spill finally do; tiny rivulets meeting to form cascading waterfalls down his cheeks, emerald-crimson eyes veiled by a cloudy sheen.
Altare, though surprised, doesn’t outwardly react at his friend’s sudden show of emotion. The last thing he wanted was for him to feel judged for daring to cry.
“You were given this opportunity for a reason, Flayon. We wouldn’t have you in the Guild if you were anything but worthy.”
Flayon opens his mouth to retaliate, but is interrupted by his leader’s ongoing soft consolation.
“You’re your own worst critic sometimes, y’know,” Altare notes, shaking his head like a disapproving parent. “If the roles were reversed, you wouldn’t want Shinri blaming himself for what happened. Why would it be any different now?”
At the lack of reply, he exhales, producing a handkerchief from his pocket.
“Here, clean yourself up a bit. You look a mess,” Altare lightly chides. “And for the love of God, please don’t use your jacket sleeve.”
“What are you, my mother?” Flayon playfully sneers. Regardless, he accepts it gratefully, wiping his dreary eyes.
“Might as well be. You know how hard it is wrangling you people sometimes?”
The quip evokes a small laugh from the pilot before he can stop himself. Altare reclines, pleased at the outcome.
“This new diner opened up recently, just down the road. You should join us.”
Flay eyes the toolkit askance, still unattended atop the sleek marble of the Guild Hall’s table. C-TRUS meets his gaze with a cat-like stare, seemingly prompting him to hurry up and accept the invitation.
In a commendable attempt to disguise his intrigue, Flayon blows his bangs out of his eyes, feigning disinterest. Altare merely grins, raising an offer he just knows the pilot won’t be able to resist.
“...There’ll be strawberry milkshakes.”
In any other circumstance, Flayon would hate to be baited like some sort of naïve child. But for the time being, he’s glad to be stripped of the accolades imposed upon him, even if it’s just for a fleeting moment.
Not a prodigy. Not a genius.
Just a kid.