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He wondered if this was a sick, twisted way of the universe punishing him for the sins of his past life.
One second, they're both bent over plans he had drawn up of their future restaurant, every line sketched out with love and a careful hopefulness for the future. That this time, they could just be them. No politics, no evil plots of mass murder, no betrayal.
Just Fluxion and Saparata. Saps and Flux.
The way they used to be, the way they always should’ve been.
He should’ve known.
He should’ve known.
Next, he's watching the Imperia guards drag away the body of his oldest friend and first love. A love he never got to confess in their past lives, he was hoping this might be the one.
The cold, unforgiving texture of the cobblestone bricks against his hands grounded him in reality. Here, in Snow, where the government promises a fair life and equal opportunities, Fluixon mourns.
He remembers the stone gaze of President Solev's eyes, a dull grey under the flurry of snowflakes around them. His mouth had quirked up into a smirk at Saparata's screams for mercy and forgiveness. After, he had turned to the crowd and announced in a proud voice, "Let this be a lesson to anyone who wants to cross Imperia in the future. Our nation is just, but she is not kind."
His hand squeezes painfully around the brick in his hand. He had to scrap some of his savings to buy the materials for the grave behind their unfinished restaurant. At first, he had wanted to make the grave in a more public place, but had feared that it would be desecrated, or worse, removed.
But Fluxion was also selfish; he always had been. He didn't want to share his grief over one of the best men he knew with everyone else here, citizens who hadn't had their hearts broken the way his had when he saw the white haired man be led out to the firing range, bruises littering his body, hair matted and a dirty grey.
He shakes his head, forcing the images out of his mind. Fluixon tries to remember Saparata as he was, a beacon of light, a fervent believer in standing up for what was right, even at the expense of his safety.
Despite never desiring a leadership role, he embodied it. When Saparata spoke, people listened. They couldn't help it; Fluxion didn't blame them. He, too, had been a victim of the gravitational pull that was Saparata's personality.
And Saparata, he used that power he had to help. To advocate and speak up for those who couldn't.
Always helping, always saving someone. Never himself.
When he had been dragged into the prison for a "talk" with Vice President Schpood, Fluixon had been worried, but held hope. Saparata had been pulled into difficult situations before, and he'd always made it out. But one thing had led to another- and he'd told him, he'd told him not to do it.
Difficult turned to impossible, and impossible turned into being led away by the lawyer he had fruitlessly brought to clear Saparata's name.
He remembers, between placing every brick down carefully, exactly how many times he'd stumbled over his own feet as he was led back to their half-finished home. Eleven times he'd almost face planted, and eleven times he'd wished he could join Saparata six feet under.
Before, even in their past lives, he was bright. He was Fluixon of Theria, Fluixon: Vice President of Lumianara, a man of seemingly infinite reach and power, who somehow always bent the world exactly the way he wanted.
But Fluxion of Snow is no more than a shell of himself. Half a soul, wandering aimlessly around Snow, desperately trying to meet the looks of pity from fellow citizens, ignoring the smug looks and arrogant smiles from Peacekeepers who recognize him.
Once, a guard had asked in a mocking tone if he was still in contact with the Legacy during a spontaneous inventory search. He'd bit down on his jaw hard enough to draw blood to prevent himself from lunging.
Part of him wishes he did, but he knows they wouldn't have killed him. Not for the assault of a measly guard.
He puts the finishing touches on the grave, fascinating the sign to it. He hadn't been sure of what to write, so he'd kept it short and simple.
Saparata, it reads, below it. I'm so sorry
He's heard faint whispers of rebellion, lifting through the streets, carried by the wind to his ears. Promises of an effort to escape the oppressive walls into a better life. Tomorrow, he'll investigate these claims.
But today, head bowed in front of a freshly made grave, behind the half-finished restaurant that was supposed to be theirs, he grieves a life lost and love never blossomed.