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Chapter Text

The room was scarcely lit by the dimming of lingering embers belonging to the distant flame of a candelabra crackled in the growing darkness. Orange flickered and cast against the walls, and the faces of those sat at the central table fixture. The room was darkened and looming, the weather outside had shroud into an overcast torpid gray. The yolks of each ember had embossed against the two men seated, and sordidly fed up expressions hung heavily limp like lard from their faces; concentration, frustration, and some inhuman amount of pain reflecting in the eyes of either man: expressions of weakness and woe - a common mark in face of every man you’d meet, a guttural disparity of dread and despair.

Disappointments etched painfully plainly into their upturned crescent shaped mouths.

Papers strewn, scrunched up, and neatly piled up on the tables encrusted surface. Marbled glasses of grape and elderberry wine, or wild cherry rums situated amongst these papers - mostly left half full or empty, evidence of a hearty affair prior.

The two men, completely assumed by their own heaps of paperwork were vigilantly brushing through them with a brusque pace.

Thomas took his break. A brief second or so to look up to his leader in a pure moment of silence self possession, admiration cracked out across exhaustion, like the coming of dawn and its gilded rays breaking through the horizon and nights crawling embracive shadows. He hummed, catching Fluixon’s attention immediately.

„what is it?” His gaze narrowed on the brunette, he was now peering over the rim of his frames, his voice was hoarse with exhaustion and complimented by a dryness so arid that it put the Sultanate to shame with its known efflorescence.

Thomas was obviously unresponsive. A frustrated huff resounded from the ravenette.

„This is an outrage, my second in command is a fool spacing out when I need him to finish his stack of cards paperwork.” Thomas said nothing.

„He’s such a dunce,” he delivered a kick to the man’s shin, releasing a dried cackled at his second in command’s expression.

Thomas’ knee in response to the kick had jutted out and went straight into the underside of the table, hitting a metal hinge, and delivering a cold sharp sting up his entire leg. He let out a susurrus sigh at the pain, and gaped out a louder exasperated sigh to see that Fluixon’s little moment of triumph had turned into a pot of spilled ink, and massive splotch of ink across his papers.

„I yield, this is exhausting, we’ve been up for hours , and we’re both exhausted,” Thomas launched himself up and off of his chair. Flux rose his head in acknowledgment, but then shook it.

„I’m not tired, I could go on for a little longer,” the grown man whined, his hand reaching up to tousle his own black spines for hair. Thomas’ attention fixated on where Fluixon positioned his hand, watching how his leader tugged exaggeratively on his hair. He rolled his eyes.

Thomas then groaned. He walked behind Fluixon’s chair, pulled it out and away from the table, flipped it toward him and grabbed the man up by his dishevelled shirt collar. His face was flushed with embarrassment, and he didn’t want to face Thomas directly in the face. Heat rose slowly to his cheeks.

His cold inscrutable expression had warmed and melted away with his reluctant obstinacy, he allowed himself to be pulled up toward Thomas.

“You needn’t worry too much about me Thomas, I’m perfectly fine,” the man stood up, and straightened his posture

In his richly decorated uniform: a rough to the touch textured cotton black suit lined with the thick set of purple velvet he imitated his father quite a lot. There was an aura of affluent charm about his appearance, but something about his eyes gave off that there was an enigmatic beast hiding behind that eminence, something abjectly fragile and about to break out of its bounds. There were an elaborate number of delicate decorations to the suit itself, the Luminarian emblem embroidered into epaulette rank slide with “Vice-president” a desperate monition that he belonged to Luminara, a harsh reminder everyday that he’d broken the trust of many of his citizens, colleagues, and his president 3Below. He stretched out awkwardly, his knees groaning and crackling into life.

He pulled back his sleeves to cover the cooling surface of hairless pale arms, thin as branches, and ineffectually short in proportion to his long slenderish legs- the cuffs pulled to his wrists were littered with gorgeously embroidered patterns, some of which were swirly abstractions of Luminarian history, folklore, and smaller insignificant propagations for the Aculon empire - embellishments his father enforced to be present on his person at all times. A striking insignia, a symbolic branding stating claim over his son, an embarrassing mark of a once mighty successful empire - now failing and buried under nature’s maternally gracious caress, buried under the slurry of spoiled snow. The fresh snowflakes dustings still trying to conceal the blood of a thousand, a cold compress to an otherwise still open and leaking wound. Crimson covered visages, a strong overcoming smell of iron, and the smell of rust. For the blood that ran down the palace’s wall, and that tragically fulgent memory still stained to the metal prosthetic, and its adjacent fleshy companion. The familiarity of his iron confidant, how it hung heavily against his smaller hands, the hilt just barely clamped against his callous hands with recusancy. The strong sense of deep refusal, a memory of his heartbeat disjointed with noncompliance to his fathers wishes. Fluixon remembered how he did not ask to be placed in the army, and at just 17 years old he couldn’t fathom taking another life to stabilise the empire - or further saturate its rivers with more bloodshed, or scar its supple lands with the blood of others and the cuts from misplaced blades. And now, in his 20s he stood across from Thomas as a reclusive mystery, his real intentions and desires having being shrouded by years of brutal conflicts with himself, and masses of armies in the thousands.

Now, Fluixon wasn’t exactly ‘the spitting image of his father Elanuelo’, he took more after his mother Crow, his softer ravenette hair, his pointed features, the slits for his eyes. His dark thorn-like spectacles that he’d sport to read and concentrate on his documents that helped his poor eyesight exactly like his mother. Actually, the biggest connection between the two was his pointed nose, had he ever been able to fly he’d be able to cut through the air resistance forcing him back, similarly as to how he fought with adversion against adversity, and you’d see him do so with his swift soft-spoken demeanour as he cut through the resistance of others.

You’d be able to tell when the man was deeply entrenched in thought, or plagued by  the possibility of something strange, at least Thomas would notice in the way his soft pink lips would curl up into an intriguing smirk, or worse it would cruelly wrinkle up into a sneer - the familial sneer of cold command hereditary and an inherently unpleasant reminder of whose father this boy belonged to.

The last thing, the most important feature of his visage was the malevolently purple orbs he had for eyes. His genetics had been cruel  enough to award him with sharply set slits, and those slits carefully carved out by the delicate hands of a malicious sculptor - its name natural selection. A merciless creator in the way his pitiless unrepentant passions read: survive. Such a message stamped into those glassy lifeless things, soulless indifferences, which tragically read torture.

His humourless laugh was a cold imitation from his father; his temper, sensitivity, and enthusiasm was a learned trait from the late Duke Turkey (his supposed step father).

The man asserted power and a peaceful exuberance, like electric, and with every step he made the elongated heels on the bottom of his blackened boots would clank against the surface with a disjunctive intensity.

He was a curious figure.

However Thomas was different, he did not conform to the same standards that Fluixon held himself to. Although cut from a similar branch, they did not share many common characteristics about how they dressed, acted, or spoke. Thomas was a soft-spoken man from the same aristocratic background as Flux, he thought he’d carried himself precociously so he’d toned down his behaviour, dropped the accent and now spat vulgarity or estranged colloquialisms that those of the worker or miner class would say back home in Aculon. He himself had an autumnally auburn brown for his hair, in warm lighting it would streak with golden oranges and pleasing cosy light browns. He dressed himself with the signature purple in the form of a velvet purple tailored jacket, wore a loosely fitting white cotton shirt that pleated and curved around the cuffs which were held closed by two Luminarian pins. When he was not  wearing his jacket he’d have brown leathered braces that matched his belt perfectly, from his belt hung his diamond sword, a few sharpened drip stone, and a small leather bag to carry important items or documents. He wore long thickly set and tailored trousers that often clung to him in all the right places. From afar Thomas’ almost looked mignonette with the way he dressed in a coagulation of fluid and tight clothes, he dressed in the liminal space between both styles of fitting.

His eyes were a pair of beautifully brown orbs, painted tearily frail like watercolours, and gilded with the Luminarian sunrise.

His eyes were bright, sharp, and had this unrelenting stretch of warmth radiate from them, like a warm toned street lamp reflecting off of a cold calm river; the way light was still reciprocated from such a darkened and untouched surface, trapped in-between the liminal space of self-possession and complete stillness.

Thomas’s face was warmly washed and bore the soft features of woman’s face, nature’s own lustrous hand painted away at each detail to completely fabricate a perfect Thomas. He acted like a delicate watercolour painting, he spoke with the fluency of oil paintings, and dressed like an oily pastel.

The two had become familiar after Fluixon had met Thomas at galas or political events in Aculon or Luminara. The two nations were acquainted with one another, and by the age of 14 Fluixon was sent by his father to grow up in Luminara for 2 years, he was a gift to the president 3Below and it became his duty and honour to serve in their army.

He had taken up the role with acquiescence, a lingering scarlet flush of frustration was present against his pallor skin when trudging through the snow to the carriage that would displace him from the Aculon Empire for 2 years.

Thomas and Fluixon delighted immediately after realising they’d be going through boot camp alongside one another.

This is where a blossoming affection began between the two. They found no issue dressing one another or together, they did not care about sharing germs when using eachother’s clothes, showering, or sharing food together. Anything they did, the two had to complete together - it was an unspoken rule that ignited up after their little discovery that they’d be together for the next 2 years. They made the most out all of it.

For Thomas the family from which he’d strayed away from many years ago played an enormous part in the Luminarian political field. He had fled a house of regulations, and spent the majority of his life performing a character he himself had become so invested in that the first few nights in the bunker gave him an identity crisis. Coming from the cyclical lifestyle of such mundanity, his mood was flat, and his humour was polite. He laughed with the fragility of a weeping new born babe; he was quite charming though, Fluixon had known the man long enough in his lifetime to gauge that he was just nervous. Meeting in the army was a helpful coincidence that helped flare up the fire of revolution that had been just mere embers in their hearts, and to Thomas this escape from his mandated lifestyle helped stoke it even more.

-

Half an hour had passed since the men had gotten up to get ready for bed, and they had come back at Fluixon’s discretion to finish a few papers before the morning. It was now well into the early morning, and they were still sat down. Pyjamas on, slippers thrown to the sides, pens uncapped, and were both heavily invested in their paperwork.

Hvyrotation and Snowbird walked into the room. Exhausted yawns as they stepped toward the table. A brown envelope enclosed between them. Passed it to Thomas, and left for the rooms at the other side of the room. The letter was for Fluixon.

-

Fluixon held in his hand one thing; his grip was tight, the envelope was torn discarded on the floor, and the letter with its contents had long been crumpled into a disfigured and illegible mass in his trembling fist.

His knuckles were white, his knees were poised still- his immediate rise from his desk caused them to bow and throttle in anger and anticipation; he had bitten, clawed and chewed at his lips in a fierce act of defiance, and he had forgotten to mind himself for the glass placed next to his work.

The second in command himself was now propped up and lent against the deep slate walls, his demeanour unusual, but nonetheless curious. Fluixon sighed and looked to the rustic table in front of him- it’s brownish auburn wood curling and peeling away with ages of neglect. His rational brain erratically skipping from thought to thought, the plush chairs bested with age, weight of each conspiracy member had sunk them down, and plush velvet stripped down to a fuzzy uncomfortable texture bad enough to give you pins and needles- all a cleverly concisely cultivated attack to the old crushed velvet chairs; the walls of the meeting room were a deep grey and the wooden supports were coffee stain brown, and the old look of the candelabra candles had burned and disintegrated into exiguous notches. Any embers had long been extinguished, and the too men stood in the gentle trickling light of the sun’s subtly gilded morning rays. The rarity of light gave the meeting room a look of an institutional setting, the gently blended contrast between warmth and a frost-bitingly cold mist that swept amongst the room in simultaneous waves.

//

Dear Fluixon,

I recognise the sheer amount of absence, and distance I have taken from you and you life may leave your current perceptions of me and my character as your father. I understand that our prior relations have been purely politically charged for my image, and in contacting you with this sudden decision is entirely impossible of me, but having searching for you and hearing about all of your exciting endeavours recently, and paired with your current marital status, and of course you being well over the marital age (probably) ; I have recently met with the Queen of Tricolor Jophiel, and she has a son named prince Saparata. And I have enclosed a date on this letter inviting you to your own wedding to take place.

Pleasantries of course,

Elanuelo.

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//June 5th XXXX// The wedding of Prince Saparata of Tricolor and The accursed Prince of Aculon, Fluixon.

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-

Trust Elanuelo to be rather sweet, gentle, and fatherly. Even in his cold letters that read more like dissertations or a list of commands, there’s that risible cold indifference that causes Fluixon’s cool resolve to dissolve into frustration.

Fluixon’s hand was still trembling with a terrifying vigor, and his knuckles were as white as the fields of Aculon. He’d always been this brutal toward his children, some kind of cruel amalgamation of ‘tough love’ and straight up neglect. Similarly Ender and Cynikka had suffered the same treatment, however not quite managing to estrange themselves from the family tree just yet, both of them still residing in the Aculon castle.

Thomas noticed the rise in his temperament and softened immediately, made his way to his leader, and pat the architect on his shoulder reassuringly.

“Is your father always this loving?” Thomas forced a chuckle, trying to wrangle humour into the mix in order to lighten up the situation before him. He too was not happy with this revelation. The two knew of the crowned prince of Tricolor, they hated him, and they’d tried to frame him for many misdemeanours years ago to get him deposed from his claim to the throne.

There was a bitter pang in Thomas’ chest. There was no doubt it meant anything other than a pitying wave of empathy for his best friend, and a strong disappointment, would this put an end to their late night affairs? Thomas knew there was something unusual swirling beneath the surface, something rising hot, something he didn’t want to confess to feeling. He’d miss being able to curl up with Fluixon under the sanctuary of a beautiful sunset, under the covers of a luxurious duvet, or within the reassuring embrace of Fluixon’s long arms constricting around him.

Fluixon said nothing, he was frozen to the same spot. Unmoved, the letter had dropped scrunched to the floor.

“Flux. Are you, okay?” Thomas’ brow creased with concern. His smile melted into a deep frown.

Fluixon’s voice had sung to a defeated, dry,  and susurrus whisper. It rattled with uncertainty, ”I’m not sure Thomas, I wish I knew how to feel right now,” there it was, this was as genuine as the man had sounded in years, and he sounded genuinely scared? There was a rustle of fear.

“I’m off to bed, I’ll see you later,” He left, his head trailed downward.

Thomas was left to the mess in the meeting room, physically and emotionally. He had to clean this all up somehow, he had to clean this up in anyway he could.

Chapter Text

“I’m not going to take this lying down,” Fluixon declared after a long lasting moment of silence.

Thomas had slept in Fluixon’s room last night, slithering under his sheets like some obedient dog, he basically felt like one when he’d guard his leader, protecting the ‘accursed prince of Aculon’, or the ‘revolutionary of Luminara’ : Fluixon. Fervid, callous, and inclement: Thomas was the piolet Fluixon had needed to escape Aculon, betray the whole of Luminara, and hunt Prince Saparata across the entirety of Pandora before he’d gone back to his mother Queen Jophiel.

Now he stood in front of a mirror with Fluixon, helping him dress so that he looked less like a ‘desperately beaten down old man’ (Fluixon’s own words) ; and refined him into the estranged rebel prince that he was.

“Getting a letter from him is like his mode of punishing me for straying away, I never tried to degrade his image to a mush of nothing - he did that on his own accord by being a terrible- absent father, and a selfish dictatorial scumbag,” Fluixon thrashed his hand to the wood lining the side of a mirror like a seam of pine, and his hand rebounded from the wood with the same painfully sharp resultant force he’d hit it with. The impact stung in his knuckle, it trickled down to his palm as if the blood was leaving his hand giving him scorchingly red hot pain, leaving nothing behind except for the numbing that was overcoming his hand. Lifting up his palm he groaned into it as if had acted out bashfully on its own behalf.

Thomas whistled, he’d began tugging on Fluixon’s hand, bringing the knuckle to his lips to kiss it. This warmed a smile on Flux’s lips, a despondent frown still ghosting the corners of his lips, an echoing cry of despair carving out the iris in his eyes, his eyes were a water coloured blur - a coagulation of emotions running haywire.

Thomas was some sort of a tactician, he’d dressed his leader up in the misleading costume of a well and put together leader- despite disliking styling his own clothes - he took pleasure in treating his best friend like an American girls doll. In his political fashion field he’d police whatever the man chose to wear. Thomas always claimed ‘he knew something that’d fit better,’ and it always did - Fluixon didn’t even know what fit him - just like the deep unwavering uncertainty about whether he’d belonged to his roles in life: The prince of Aculon, The accursed prince, his short transition into the Luminarian army, his rise to second command, the conspirator to 3Below’s death, and now the leader of his own ‘revolution’ (moreso a conspiracy) ; and now The Chaired President of Luminara : Fluixon wore every role like an uncomfortable pair of shoes, he’d shifted through roles like he would trying every pair in the shop, and found that nothing quite fit as well as his role now. He was contented by the relief it gave him, he was comfortable in his position, and he did not want anymore or any less power than he had right now. His role was completely substantial in the preposition, and he was delighted by the idea that he could go anywhere, make decisions he saw fit, and benefit from his ‘fellow Luminarians’ - to which he’d endearingly call dearest to him.

“Should I write to Cynikka, Queen of Infernus, your sister?” Thomas turned to angle his face at the mirror so he could get an instant read of Fluixon’s face before he buried his real intentions behind a wall of stoicism. Fluixon’s bottom lip quivered in exasperation, and it didn’t shift, it remained - unlike most of his emotional displays. Anger always seemed to leave an immovable mark on his face, and it always cracked through his beautifully softer features, Thomas revelled, no, delighted to see other bolder more passionate displays of his leader emotions. He loved the way Flux would vulnerably unveil deep into vehemently charged late night conversations by the bridge, or in his chambers. Behind closed doors Thomas watched him unravel and squirm about blowing up Aculon, and sometimes a drunken Flux would rant on about how ‘the woman he’d loved with a painted feminine face, wasn’t a woman at all,” Fluixon had told Thomas fervently on multiple occasions, open declarations about what he’d do to the man he’d loved. He’d also opened up about the brunt of his father’s abuse,Elanuelo was bi-curiously living a frivolous lifestyle of choice, his past affairs had involved the Duke Turkey and Lady Crow. Until now, Elanuelo completely omitted the idea of homoerotic children, he’d wanted his children to bear him heirs for their thriving nation, and any sign of homosexuality from his sons or daughter would get a rise out of him. Now having left it too late, Elanuelo had given up on Fluixon, and made haste to marry him to Saparata - probably in order to gain a strong political solidification from Tricolor in Aculon’s period of public disgrace. He probably still tried with Ender and Cynikka though, no doubt he still wants masses of grandchildren to carry on the throne.

As punishment Fluixon often spent his nights being forced to chop wood till his arms arched with the laborious sign of manhood, and thanked his father for his treatment graciously. Thomas always wanted to inject himself in here, confess his estranged affections for the inscrutable man, he was positively esurient for the sucker, and every second apart eclipsed his warm heart and thrust it into the pits of desolation.

Thomas’ internal monologue was interrupted by the gilded silky sound of his commander’s voice.

“That’s why he’s doing it then. He’s disgraced that - me - his own son doesn’t want for his own empire, or colony, or have an influence powerful enough to please his standards. I had taken 3Below’s life, not just to benefit the conspiracy by controlling Luminara, but I’d done this all so that he would finally get off of my damned case. Though I guess even ‘The Chaired President of Luminara’ isn’t a role large enough to satisfy his lust for control, I wouldn’t even consider joining Luminara to the empire - believe me, he’s asked of that before. I am not his child, not a political pawn for his empire, and not going to go through with this wedding,” Fluixon thrust his head defiantly up toward the ceiling, Thomas sighed, he’d known Flux would say this, but something about his father’s eminently powerful status told him there would be no refusal in this proposal. What his father said was final.

“Flux, we both know that no one would, I myself and the conspiracy would all agree that this is insane, a steep expectation to hold on your shoulders, I know you’re torn to side with your father, or you’re probably plotting to kill him“, Thomas paused and shuffled awkwardly, the concept of the conspiracy members fighting against Elanuelo and his surrounding armed forces, a united front against a small army of 5 men + Newkids.

Deep down Thomas wanted Fluixon to himself, all these meandering distractions brought nothing but tribulation to the conspiracy, and he himself felt the many agonising consequences from each distraction as the wretched grasp of jealousy would consume his entire being, envelope its knobbed crusted fingers around his heart, and contorted it into a shameful amalgamation of disordered irritation.

Thomas had gone on secretly hating Newkids, holding his tongue against his leader’s prized assassin, at first he’d tried to convince himself that this wasn’t jealousy - that he was just a bad influence on Fluixon. Well.

“Oh, and don’t tell Newkids to assassinate your father for you - don’t be a crass idiot.

I know you haven’t proposed the idea, but I sense you’re already considering it. There’s been enough assassinations that you’ve made him carry out for your own benefit,” Thomas straightened Fluixon’s collar, twisted it toward his chin, and then let it hang comfortably tilted at a rebellious 80° angle. Flux smiled affectionately at his companion, his expression zealous and pleased, perfectly displaying the relief he’d had for his second in command to be dressing and hyping him up throughout this.

“You know,” Thomas paused to mock consider something while busing his hands with Flux’s tie, his eyes had glinted with that familiar playful malevolence, “your father’s probably invited half of the world right now, they’re all going to be expecting the accursed prince of Aculon to lay down his life for the prince of Tricolor, they’re expecting a show Flux,” Thomas chuckled, pausing to focus to straightening the tie, his hand smoothing over Fluixon’s chest, “you’ve performed before. Do it all over again,” Fluixon let out the breath he’d been holding in, he was preventing himself from lashing out at Thomas for his stupid statement. ‘Performance’? He didn’t think he was performing.

“Oh how beautiful your performance will be, I’ll dress you in the borrowed robes of a great king , ship you begrudgingly down the aisle, and-“ Thomas paused for the dramatics, “you can murder your husband, finally eliminating Saps, after so many feigned efforts,” Thomas clapped his hands together, the bronze rings aligning his fingers clinking together in a disjointed cacophony of some tragic old hymn.

“I’d even let you marry me just to escape this retribution,” Thomas smiled at the subtle implication as it birthed from his mouth and hung like a heavy understatement. He’d delight marrying Flux, even just to perform to keep Elanuelo away, he’d kiss that man a thousand times if it meant anything for his freedom - and he’d probably kiss him in private, just for fun.

Thomas had been long finished with preparing Fluixon for his announcement to the rest of the conspiracy, now just pretending to dust Fluixon down as an excuse to squeeze his shoulders and feel down his sides as he watched Fluixon try to hide any signs of enjoyment in the mirror’s reflection. “You needn’t worry too much about the final touches Thomas, I think you’ve committed a wonderful labour of love  in order to brush out my wears into this,” Fluixon paused to gesture up and down at his haute suit, “I’m perfectly fine, thanks to you, always,” the man straightened his posture, and turning to face Thomas his coldly stoic visage broke a second to wink playfully at him.

Like yesterday Thomas had similarly replicated the same look: a lavishly decorated uniform, opting for a textured suede black suit lined with the thick set of purple velvet, rather than yesterday’s cotton. Thanks to Thomas’ eye for creating a look that could work with Fluixon’s affluent charm, and one with the sole purpose to impose his status over any Luminarian citizen. Thomas considered factoring in the enigmatic beast hiding behind Flux’s rich eminence, such beast Thomas had come to tame and enjoy including the abjectly fragile insides threatening to break out at any moment.

Fluixon’s subhuman exterior was a fright to behold, at 14 years old had been a just a pallor boy amongst the frozen tundra hills that would expand rolling out for hundreds of kilometres.

At 16 the boy had become cold, callous, and at times a cruel, deplorable human being - being discharged from the Luminarian military to be ‘reformed’, he ended up overstaying his welcome for a third year in Luminara, and much closely resembled his father - only before being placed under 3Below’s watchful eye for a year, and ended up remaining in Luminara permanently. He was taught a whole new scale of the soldiers auxiliary, cavalier, and cheap sword tactics to ensure a victory: he learnt the ferocious dynamism behind continental wide agreements, treaties, and vivaciousness of customs. 3Below was a political tactician who employed an elegant performance of unwavering loyalty to his citizens, and was somewhat of a democratic virtuoso.

Thomas did his absolute best to give his president credit, having watched his best friend unmoor into a shameless bloodied executioner, having seen the man entangled  in emotional destitution - extremely convoluted and deprived of empathy, having watched him side with political neutralists and trail-blaze a perfect path for his Luminarians whilst beside 3Below. He had successfully lamented Aculon, a great bemoaning grief of being a prince to such a maniacal tyrant, and now having fully integrated into Luminara, he would never forget those arduous 14 years of torture.

A quick reassuring smile at his best friend in the mirror was just ample enough to satisfy his antsy companion, but not nearly enough to alleviate all of his anxieties unfortunately.

Thomas mischievously tucked his head into Flux’s collarbone to softly press his lips into them, this had been a commonplace for him and Flux, and the two often felt weirdly emboldened by the gesture.

Thomas made to grab for the toothed instrument beside the mirror, instead accidentally brushing his hand against Flux’s right hip, flushing before snatching up a wide comb and fixing his president’s hair to place.

He gazed up to the mirror, gracing his hand along his leader’s chin and repositioning it to gaze upon himself in the mirror.

“You’re ready — a true luminary in my eyes, my goddess,” Thomas clasped a hand to his mouth, scratching his unmanicured hand across his pasty face, “fuck- you’re so good at dressing up, so compliant, everything compliments you, and you’ll absolutely captivate your advisors at the meeting today— Prince Fluixon,” Thomas’ opinion on titles, using titles, and acknowledging them was extremely rare - it’d been probably 6-8 years since Flux had heard himself actually referred to as prince, and it made him hopeful. He was enthralled, enthused, and a glaringly white-hot surge of determination warmed his insides — his pallid, gaunt, and sallow face painted with a the rosey pink of pride.

Sometimes, and not often enough, did Fluixon actually look contented by things - at least, this was uncommon to people not amongst his conspiracy, but even more common around Thomas. Thomas weirdly enough, thought Fluixon perfectly resembled a crustacean — the oyster never let anyone in, he’d refrain from anything more than civility and polite niceties, he’d often come off as some solitary brutalist who’d soften the political blow with a humourless chuckle, or closing the door to whatever discussion was ongoing. His harder outer exterior shielded the average civilian away, cold and disassociated, but inside lay the vulnerable fleshy insides that were soft to the touch and delectable to the trained tastebud. He was an acquired taste that Thomas had come to love, come to be addicted to.

——

——

They were welcomed back to an adequately lit room, the dimming of lingering embers belonging to the distant flame of a candelabra crackled in the growing darkness was relit and crackling with a fiercely live flame. The yellowing flame flickered and cast against every surface in the room with its brighter and harder light, and the faces of those sat at the central table fixture. The overcast torpid gray had sordidly marched into a exquisitely blue scene of a yolk-like sun. There were now 4 of 6 known conspirators seated - 1 of the two, Seraphim, had been brought down on their own sword with suspected intent to assassinate Jophiel — the other, Newkids, had been held up at the Luminarian quartermasters after an accusation had flown around about their apparent theft of a really priceless item belonging to the late 3Below. The conspirators, their faces etched in concentration, frustration, and some inhuman amount of pain reflecting in the eyes of either man: expressions of weakness, expressions woe - a dire mark in the face of every man you’d meet, a guttural disparity of dread and despair.

Disappointments etched painfully plainly into their upturned crescent shaped mouths.

The table setting was quite vacant, devoid of the usual marbled towers of white paperwork stacked beyond architectural limits, the impossible amount of cups of coffee or glasses of wine, and the occasional blemish of ink stained from an exploded pen.

“So that’s it, that’s everything, boss?” Gotoga sounded woefully confused by the whole thing.

“I can’t believe it, after the best of 4 years you’re just expected to desert your chair and become some pratt’s bride?” Snowbird was irrevocably distraught.

“And this means it’s what? All over?” Hvyrotation was miserably in the trenches with it all.

“Save for at least your best man,” Snowbird turned his sharp gaze onto Thomas, who in the moment looked to be trapped in some narcotised tranquility, completely and utterly disassociated from the moment in front of him, Snowbird expectantly clicked his fingers for Thomas’ attention, nothing. He continued, “I can’t believe Jophiel would agree to this, I can’t believe that Saparata is proposed to marry OUR leader, this is perpetually perplexing me,” his voice was low and his tone bestial, mocking and frustrated.

Fluixon continued to sit on in some self-possessed silence, save for regurgitating the same thing twice over — he continued to be unresponsive, waiting, marginally hoping that all his men could just leave. This proposal dissipate, and life swallow him up as maggots encroaching on and dissolving his corpse, save for the feeble self-congratulatory bag of skin that so appallingly entangled with his bones - maybe when the maggots had tasted his supple flesh: kneaded, beaten, and sweetened by the saccharine sugars of his life’s laudable moments — perhaps the taste of Thomas’ affections would drive them to suicide, the lack of having gotten to meet the man, yet the taste of his warmth laden thick into Fluixon’s being- buried so deeply. They’d know of the man he’d loved, Thomas.

——

——

“You know, I was really starting to enjoy having you around you old bugger,” Thomas’ salty breath was thickly enchanted with the alluring smell of cherry wine, Harbour Bloom’s (arguably) only specialty, and the boys had been busing themselves downing 3-4 (they’d lost count by now) bottles of the expensive vintage.

Thomas’ cheeks were flush with a peppering patch of roses, they gorgeously adorned his usually slight tanned face.

His eyes were once a pair of brown orbs expertly painted frail like watercolours, usually gilded with the Luminarian sunrise, but now they prickled with the tears of overconsumption and inebriation.

Fluixon was enamoured by the boy beside him in this state, abandoned by the conspiracy themselves for their beds, the two had a moment of complete silence to take advantage of. Drinking alone would be against their morality, but drinking with the group would imply some kind of celebration was afoot - this would be prove to be a bizarre way to celebrate the miserable outcome of the letter’s arrival, its contents, and the unfortunate verdict of the meeting.

Flux couldn’t help it, his hands moved without any command from his mind, they answered the desire bleeding from his heart. He enclosed himself around his second in command, his clothes were already inappropriately loose - tie had become lax and lay limp against his chest, and the top portion of his buttons had come undone to the rising temperatures in the bunker. His hands slithered down to Thomas’ waist, securing themselves to each hip, and pulling the two infinitely closer together. Thomas’ face, pink with intoxication slowly flushed in reaction to their proximity.

Fluixon connected the two with his soft lips - they moved clumsily, carelessly inexperienced, and melted into the rough texture of Thomas’.

Thomas brought his arms to Flux’s shoulders, languidly lowering them to press onto his chest.

The two breathlessly pulled away, thoughtlessness sprawled across their faces, the excitement of a new endeavour approaching their eyes.

They reconnected, Flux throwing himself into the table, bringing Thomas with him, and allowing the brunette to fully press up against him. All a desperate attempt to feel each other’s proximity, and revel in it, ravishing each other’s scents and getting the feel for one another’s heartbeats.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” Thomas slurred out. Fluixon grunted in somewhat of an aggressive agreement.

Thomas slot his hand into Flux’s hair, gripping the ravenette’s thorny strands, and yanked his head up to face him.

“You’re not going to marry him, are you? I won’t let you marry any man, save for me,” Thomas let his grip slack, his hand just gently ghosting the sides of Fluixon’s temples.

This thought was tortuously sobering. Gnawing at his insides.

Fluixon wouldn’t have to marry Saps would he? His mind was probably still clouded with the intoxicating embrace of Thomas’ warmth, and the pit of cherry wine in his stomach.

He desperately craved to pause time right now, selfishly desired to relish Thomas’ warmth a thousand times over, frozen in the moment of their love, but he knew it’d never last.

If only his passions were strapped into place, so much for loosening the bridle for just this once, after a while.

He’d been unable to answer Thomas in enough time to alleviate the anxiety, alcohol was enough to make you float around weightlessly irresponsible , but it was also a depressant powerful enough to settle into your bones and rip you out from within with anxiety.

——

Fluixon lay tangled up with an exhausted Thomas dozed, and comfortably snoring away the alcohol in his system.

Flux lay wide awake, anxious, but glad he could reaffirm the brunette curled up in his lap. They never made it to his chambers, Flux would just use his jacket as a duvet.

No doubt his back with ache, his neck would ache, and his mind would go on painfully aching, craving, and desperate to relive this night again and again. That familiar crick in his neck had begun to creak in, and suddenly his cold fingers were wrapped around the steel hilt of a diamond blade, his men in steel were in front of him, and road against the Luminarian cavalry towards the distant villages on the outer rings of Aculon.

Suddenly the all too familiar scent of iron, steel, and sleet was overwhelming his senses.

And then there was nothing.

Save for the soundlessness of sleep.

Chapter Text

Fluixon had been awoken to the sloppy sound of kissing, and the cold sopping feeling of soused kisses being pressed to his  radiantly, clammy, and pallor skin. His bare chest was exposed against the crisp and frigid Antarctic morning winds within his bunker, his mind was hazy and his vision was swept up in a pleasing blur, everything before him looked like a slurry of dust. In exception to the tanned blob above him.

His vision focused, sharp, and quickly fastened onto the man above - his acorn autumnally brown hair sloped down loose from his ponytail - bobble pulled free lazily leaving strands of hair still entangled together in the bobble, and others estatically sprung in the air. His hair warmed in the calm lighting of a single taper on the spruce table setting which still seemed to remain quite vacant, devoid of its usual company, the impossible amount of cups of glasses of an eloquent vintage wine, or save for the occasional blemish of ink stained from the frantic mishaps or spills during a furious session of scrawling down notes or signatures to documents.

The room itself had set with a Smokey morning mist, save for the combination of luminous scarfs of golden oranges and pleasing cosy light browns. Grazing, reassuring, and healing: Thomas’ lips came into focus as he moved from splotch to spot, bruise to nick, gash to cut — the brunette’s mouth moved rhythmically against Flux’s injured chest, scarred by years of unresolved traumas and conflict. His passions were fiercely branded onto his skin like the medals of a celebrated war hero. Thomas’ lips had become a little chapped and corrupted from the previous evenings lecherous activities, his mouth continued to move against injured skin like clockwork - the process becoming overwhelmingly calming. Thomas was licking each wound like a dog would with their young or their owner, protectively covering each nick with another layer of his warmth.

Flux lifted his left arm languidly jerking his thumb to the bottom of his best friend’s lips, parting them and feeling Thomas accept it, allowing it penetrate itself in. Thomas’ eyes lidded vicariously at Flux’s steer of cold command, he felt himself jolt against the man’s chest, rubbing himself in and further smothering his leader with that irresistibly pulverising scent of his. Flux removed his thumb and replaced it with his own lips, smooth skin slipping against the chapped surface of Thomas’, he’d bitten them in apprehension, he’d eaten away at his own flesh - just for Fluixon’s touch. So anxiously anticipating this moment.

They pulled away, mid-panting. Fluixon’s vividly grating gaze began to strip Thomas apart, limb from limb, vessels to his aortas, and from his mind to soul. Those hungry maggots tore in at his flesh, the feeling was delightfully chilling, and spread about his body in a dangerously infectious manner. Something about the idea of his best friend digging into his flesh with those utensils for eyeballs, those penetrating slits a piercing purple. Without his glasses on they shrunk, and his gaze seemed less jarring.

“You’re awake,” Thomas’ eyes were bright, sharp, and had this unrelenting stretch of warmth radiate from them, they were inked with the impression of a vibrant youth, yet something sinisterly imprinted an unrelenting truth about his troubled upbringing, something underneath those alluring orbs still revealed the fragile soul that swam underneath, as well as this surprisingly mischievous spark, “See after last night and the beating you’d received to your ego, and well  — Flux, I thought you’d be up and that you would’ve lef—“ Thomas looked down, his eyes swirled and revealed that fragile underbelly, submitting and presenting itself to Fluixon with credence and admission “see I understand what we did was-“ Thomas paused for an awkward moment to rearrange his thoughts to phrase this better, “I thought you’d—“ He stopped immediately embedding himself into Fluixon’s sensitive sternum, he jolted upward moving away with a shiver that could only be described as electric, he shifted his weight upward placing his head into Thomas’ suprasternal notch. Thomas coughed to the rise in heat in his stomach.

“You’re telling me you thought I’d be embarrassed? Would’ve hated it? Ran away like some clumsy coward?” Fluixon’s voice came out as a low, raspy, and guttural sigh. He rubbed his head reassuringly into the visible dip between the clavicles and sternum of Thomas’s chest, rhythmically dipping into the sensitive part of his chest. The man shivered against him.

“H-hey stop that, cut it out — you missed out how much I hate you, you also missed this-“ Thomas pulled the darkened envelope from the beside with the taper still burning strong against the sheer bitingly cold winds of the bunker, save for the sun’s low effort at warming the room “I guess if you were to run I’d become a little disturbed, they’d have me institutionalised, go figure,” Fluixon didn’t choose to acknowledge this statement, it dripped with a culpability, entrenched with the sore stinging feeling of dereliction. He did not want to remember how he’d have to abandon his interest in Thomas.

“Do I get to kiss you like that again, orr is that against the best friend rule?” Fluixon’s tone plunged into a quiet bewitching sultry, he grabbed Thomas’ chin between his index finger and thumb, pinching his flesh a little too hard, accidentally leaving his own scarlet imprint. At least he’d leave a lasting mark on Thomas, maybe nobody would want to take him if he’d been marked, if he could come back to him.

Who was he kidding, the noose the wedding between him and Saparata had already begun to tighten around his neck. It encroached his desires, blunt his dagger which had been sharpened in years of revolt, and extinguished his dreams. The rope had begun to asphyxiate him, he was suffocating under the pressure, and his desire to crawl up and bury himself deep into Thomas’ embrace was stifling off his breaths, and siphoning the life from his heart. Every time he was around Thomas he was anxiously awaiting something to happen, whether it was to feel the reassurance of his warm palms placed atop his shoulders, and few the release of each worry through each breath leaving his mouth as those palms rubbed warm circles into his shoulder to lower back. Thomas would pull away after a while and apologise saying he was just “fixing a crease”, the only corrugation was the way Fluixon folded like a fabric under those trained artisan hands.

He felt like a pastry under a baker’s rolling pin, pinched in all the right places.

This rope tightened further, the envelope in Thomas’ hand earlier, sealed by the same crest that would take him away from here. The seal that would join with Tricolor, the political preposition, the union that would overrule any decision in Fluixon’s mind — save for his heart who’d bleed out and lambaste in need to override this stupid proposal.

Every vessel in Fluixon’s body twinged painfully comfortably in, and he was sure Thomas’ did too in the moment their eyes met, reciprocated the same feeling at the same time.

They both knew what was supposed to happen. This was wrong.

Flux braced himself, unclasped Thomas from his waist as if he was velcroed down, attached by imaginary threads, connected by the sliver of red ribbon that so audaciously brought them together, and Fluixon was the one to cut it.

He’d pulled the envelope towards him, tugging it away from Thomas’ bawled fist, and tore out its contents like some ravenous giant with clumsy fat fingers, gutting it like he would with a fish.

He sighed at its contents and realised it back inside the envelope, undisclosing its message from Thomas.

Just this once, please, give me a moment.

Thomas sighed watching as Fluixon lifted him from his lap to the table, pushed him down for a chaste kiss and then pulled away, his body jolting from side to side and swaying like a drunken bugger would’ve as he made for his room.

This would probably be the last time Thomas got to dress him, talk to him, and well kiss him. He’d wanted to for a while, saving himself for years, hoping that one day he’d be able to.

He hadn’t imagined that his first few kisses would be one of the last things he’d share with Flux.

——

——

The kissing, the longing, the contact: it wasn’t real. Come on Fluixon, Wake up darling prince of Aculon, he can never love you - just as you can never love him.

Aculon, Tricolor, and Saparata were more important and demanded more of him than Thomas.

And it was his duty to, he owed that to his ‘father’, maybe one day he’d get to take things for himself too. He’d just have to bite away at the skin of his lips for a while, conceal his real desires deep down, and lick the wound himself. Desires must never bleed, one singular trail would be enough to summon a river.

He’d be sat in his room a while until the carriage came, he’d only let Thomas in to dress him appropriately for Aculon.

He’d only let Thomas in.

——

——

Fluixon woke up in a bed beside a cold hardened pillow, had he been embracing it before he took his rest?

The room was scarcely lit, the windows were boarded and barred off with some old rusting pipe, the window was a casement made up of a suede looking spruce linoleum. Had much time passed at all since he’d laid his head to rest? Here in Aculon the 8pm sky looked just as similar to that of the 8am sky. There, that ugly cold lump of nausea rippled low in the cavern of his stomach, the frigidly icy reminder of his old life - routine, a numbingly bleak memory of how he used to go 12 hour days to 12 hour nights. Like the mundanity of an unrelentingly ordinary shift pattern, obstinately frozen to continue in the same dull rhythm day in - day out. The routine of a prince tore him inside out and left his skulkingly bloodied flesh to rot and smell overtime. The smell and visibility of his rot could of course be disguised by the thousands of cosmetics readily available and accessible at his kingdom’s disposal had he asked for it. And that he did back then — only now he wouldn’t.

Skulking back into the Aculon empire yesterday was disorientingly exhausting, and already caused his mind to deteriorate to a small degree.

He hated this wretchedly depressing place, and he’d hated it the moment he’d been cut from the umbilical cord to be brought into it.

Its polished marble columns - resembling nothing but a clinically cold sanitarium, alike his father the palace lacked no personality whatsoever. Just the paternally familiar warmth of a frosty reception.

His cheeks were flushed, against own admonishment and own discipline - he had dreamt of Thomas last night — there was a vociferous contrast between the consoling warmth of the scene between him and Thomas, and then combined with the freezing welcome back to his room in Aculon. His awakening was all too confusing, and his questions arose quickly bubbling to the surface to be popped unresolved.

One still remained, ‘why was he so fixated on dreaming about his morning and when he’d kissed his best friend Thomas?’ It wasn’t anything special, it meant and changed nothing. Thomas was inherently not here, was this his mind’s cruel way of planting a sneeringly callous reminder that his best friend had been immediately called to the Luminarian state parliamentary building for a meeting just 30 minutes before Fluixon’s departure, and paired with the unforgiving letter he’d received from his father requesting that he leave his ‘advisor’ in Luminara, and move on forward to Aculon. He’d been ordered to take carriage named cemeteries, board a direct route to Aculon via boat, and exchange for the carriage named desire. Did that fact that Thomas not fight him to harshly on his father’s request mean this was a sign that Thomas hadn’t needed nor wanted anything of Fluixon the morning prior, did heafter everything he’d given him the night before - even in the depths of intoxication helping to alleviate the anxiety of kissing his best friend, not want anything to do with him? The thought was still dauntingly more sobering than the cold breaking him out of the intemperance of sleep. He’d mulled it over and in a non inebriated state he’d still kiss Thomas over any man or woman in the world. And he wished the evening and morning’s events had lasted longer.

He solely only desired to kiss Thomas, over and over again, savouring the moment, selfishly tearing one another apart in some starved fashion. So it had to mean something, right? At least, it did to him. Thomas may had strayed to the governors meeting and left him high and dry, but Fluixon still needed him.

But he also needed to let him go now.

——

——

The choice of his room was coincidentally a personal attack on Fluixon’s behalf - Elanuelo had to have placed him in his childhood room. Although this wasn’t much like a room, it’d always felt like a chamber for Elanuelo to conceal one the kingdom’s greatest shames. Fluixon had been dismissed all too early from his father’s vision - something about him ‘being a lost cause since the finalisation of the divorce’. As well as his wish of not wanting to remind himself of Turkey, and thus took out his rage on the child who bore the most resemblance to him in mannerisms and humour: Fluixon.

The room was darkened and looming, the weather outside had shroud into an overcast torpid gray. The light had begun to blot its way through, as if on its regularly scheduled cue. The dulled yolks of each gilded ember of sun had embossed against the window panes and sordidly clambered through and clung to each object available in its line of attack. The lack of any curtains or netting to line his window not only welcomed him to the cold morning air everyday, but also made him the subject of a rude awakening.

Disappointment etched and settled itself painfully into Fluixon’s scornfully plain face, his head turning back to the pillow still clamped within his sturdy grasp.

“Where is he when I need him most?” Fluixon’s voice was velvety soft with dissatisfaction and laden with the strong pang of yearning. His eyes fluttered closed with dismay, “now that he’s gone, I need him, I want Thomas, I want to feel him pressed up against my side in a familiar fashion, I need his warmth, I need that body - those lips,” Fluixon embarrassingly hurried to bury his flushed cheeks within the comfortable confines of the white silk pillow beside him.

He groaned loudly into the pillow’s folds, the noise muffling against the ruffled surface.

Fluixon was disturbed by his newfound sensitivity, he hadn’t wanted nor needed for anything before, he’d never have to ask - thus he’d never felt as let down as he did now — hopeless, he felt hopelessly dispossessed and deprived.

He never had to ask for anything because it was usually always handed to him without question. Thomas was an opportunity offered up to him on a platter, and an opportunity to which he’d have to let slip away.

Out of all the fishes in the ocean, Fluixon had wrung in a mermaid, and this one he couldn’t keep.

——

——

He’d given an arm and a leg to drag himself out of bed, and cursed his soul away at least a thousand times whilst dressing himself haphazardly in front of his mirror. Its cracked surface become second to the massive obstacle that was fixing his tie into place, shaping his collar, and God-forbid the slurry of curses that strained away from the tip of his tongue when he’d brought a brush through his hair - trying to tame each strand, knotted and entangled with the vivacious atrocity of his sleeping positions. His ebony birds nest of bed hair was the image of his depravity.

Say- if Cynikka hadn’t made a sudden appearance to greet him home at his door, he’d probably not been able to save the condition of his image. It had gone from a manifestation of his guttural despair, to the princely amenity, and his hair reshaped and groomed to proudly crown him with assuagement rather than a growing, hollowing despondency.

He’d tried so hard to dress himself, he thought it would bring comfort to dress himself like Thomas would. He brought himself in front of the mirror, his bare skin was impaled with his life’s mistakes, letting people pierce their blades into his skin, embed it with immovable scars, and he’d taken them like a fabric would by an embroider. He was a tapestry marked, and woven with life.

His pallid skin would glow radiantly around Thomas, save for now it looked sunken in, concave and putrid with mildew. He looked cold, comatose, inert: in anyway you could depict a lifeless man — Fluixon was a deadman.

He looked old, wrinkled, and ugly; desperation and thought had seared its way into his forehead and ugly passions had carved and branded his lips in an irreparably, irresistibly, and beautiful way.

His mind ran rampant gazing at his gaunt figure, he could’ve sworn just yesterday his body had looked healthy, could’ve sworn his soul away to an omnipotent being that his figure had been more filled out yesterday. He looked like he’d skipped years of meals.

Did Thomas like this gaunt figure of his?

Did Thomas maniacally do something to him, trickery? Did he resentfully ruin his body in spite of him having to go to Aculon?

Thomas was a selfish being.

A selfishness his still heart deeply craved to be consumed by. He wanted to die in Thomas’ palms, cruelly watching his friend bend down to catch him bleeding out, and hopefully weep at the sight.

Fluixon had unsuccessfully placed his dress shirt over his head, the buttons were messily down up in the wrong holes, and his collar wasn’t ironed and steamed in the way he liked it - it would usually flip up a perfect 45° and Thomas would shape it into a fulfilling 90°. Fluixon rewarded himself with a curt kiss to his knuckle, like Thomas had usually done. Except, the domestic scene of him receiving affectionate kisses was torn to a grisly image of a desperate man bent over his knuckle. Fluixon was frustrated, he bared his teeth, and his incisors tore down into his skin. A cruel grin submersed itself into his face, etching further, and creasing him entirely. His stomach did tucks, darts, and pleats: he buried his teeth in deeper, piercing the delicate surface, and punishing it accordingly for its misbehaviour. He began to lick himself clean, frenzied by the taste, smell, and texture.

He’d just pulled his trousers up by the help of his shaky grasp when Cynikka walked up to his door, ajar, and pushed it open to reveal her sibling; grotesque, shrivelled up, and worthless: Fluixon unfurled himself from his zipper to stare a gapingly destructive smile at her.

“So father let you know Id be back?” Fluixon said with an unreadable note of discouragement embedded deep in the rhythm of a shaky voice.

“You looked dishevelled, miserable, and glum — you almost bear a passing familiar resemblance to your old self, I just had to step in and repair the damage,” Cynikka smiled at him in the mirror, the seams of cracks against the reflective surface enhancing the ghoulishly perturbing curve of her lips. The ingenuity behind it was surfacing fast. She was up to something, probably been sent up as some informant, perhaps so Elanuelo- or father - could revel in this bluntly visible disappointment on his face. The disparity of his excursion to Aculon also painfully exposed by his indiscriminate ordeal of dressing himself. Half of his clothes weren’t even on when Cynikka had so precociously barged in.

“Of course,” Fluixon’s voice was tonelessly edged with the braces of monotony, “anyway, where’s Ender? Thought this should be a familial event to bring everyone back together behind the wrought iron gates of this wretched palace,” A pang of anger had arisen accidentally, the unextinguished embers of a poorly put out fire. He also believed that Cynikka coming to his aid was humiliating - he could dress himself, couldn’t he? No, he couldn’t (Thomas could).

This was all a tactical attempt to embarrass him; first engage him to Saparata (which to his knowledge, the real ceremony for his engagement was to take place tomorrow evening at dinner, which would be just 37 days away from his wedding on the 30th of April XXXX) ; force the two to accompany each other, and then the regrettably inextinguishable date of his wedding.

A smaller attempt to embarrass him was definitely through the means of separating him away from what he’d acclimatised to.

“You’re still so pouty and melancholic, you could put on an amazing performance you dramatic shrew,” Cynikka chuckled, her voice resumed with that familiar warmth, and her words bore the same languidly rhythmical chirp. Her nose was brimmed with the same feverishly red glow, and it shrunk inward on itself when she laughed.

He felt his lips curve imperceptibly into a delighted smirk, and his eyes dizzied themselves watching her hands work away with the domestically frantic pace she’d always applied when caring for her brother.

“Oh yeah? Like your angsty behaviour at 13 wasn’t any commonplace, and still seems to remain the same now” Fluixon’s eyes playfully rolled as he lowered his voice to an indistinguishable whisper at the last part, wishing not to be heard by his teasing big sister.

Cynikka was brushing his hair neatly before she rammed the brush a little into the back of his head, “you cheeky git, so, changing the subject. Your weddings pretty soon huh? Didn’t tell me about that, did you?” Cynikka’s brows furrowed, not in frustration, but a visible disappointment? Fluixon couldn’t tell that well from the sun’s beams establishing themselves all over the mirrors fragmented surface.

“Seems like father didn’t tell me about it either, it was just a cold letter in the post as of,” he paused, his eyebrows furrowed in thought, “2 or 3 days ago now?” Fluixon forgot.

Fluixon said nothing, patiently accommodating the long silence, waiting for  Cynikka to rephrase her thoughts — she just laughed, it came out naturally and gaily.

“So you too, for your own wedding as well?” Her eyes were wide with this outrageous abstraction of curiosity.

“I mean- I’ve met Saparata and I can honestly say he’s a prosperous young man, very intelligent, very interested in you as well,” Cynikka paused to wink at him in the mirror, pausing to brush the bit of hair that she’d yanked upwards by the brush. Fluixon’s face was painted in some offended chagrin, Cynikka’s smile drooped into the form a frown, some sympathetic half moon resting against the rosey temples of her luxuriously tanned skin, “what’s wrong?” Cynikka’s tone had shifted completely and done a full 180, and she’d removed her hands from his hair immediately putting the brush down flat on his bed.

“Come on, out with it, you might think you’re somewhat difficult to read — I can tell, something’s bothering you — call it an older sister’s hunch,” Cynikka’s face flatlined to crease fully into concern.

Fluixon looked away, his gaze drifting off outside the window, his mind wondering off hundreds of miles back to Luminara where Thomas would presumably have wrapped up with the meeting by now, assuming everything was seamlessly moving along as usual.

Maybe Thomas was thinking of him too.

——

——

Cynikka had long been gone to help collect Ender and some of his belongings from the West coast of Aculon. This left Fluixon alone fully entranced in his own thoughts. Trapped.

Chapter Text

Thomas quickly realised that today would mark the painfully sobering moment that this would be the last time he got to dress him, talk to him, and well kiss him. Of course that daunting thought lingered with him — he’d wanted to kiss Fluixon for a while, saving himself for years, hoping that one day he’d be able to call him his boyfriend - at least rather than “leader, president,” or the dreaded, best friend.”

He hadn’t imagined that the first few kisses would share with the man would be one of the last things he’d actually share with Flux. Supposedly leaving their relationship on a lighter and happier note wouldn’t be so bad, if only they were younger, more aware of themselves, and able to explore this more. Out of the furthest distances they’d travelled - from Luminara to Aculon, or back in reverse - the furthest distances they’d travelled was with the harrowing ribbon that bound each other together.

With the impending reminder that his time with Fluixon was a taper, and burning out at the base of the wick — Thomas would fully capitalise this god given opportunity, this last unseemly morning, and he was going to go to town on this man’s wardrobe. Fluixon cannot pack, the man has no sense of what goes with what, and how to put everything together. Thomas knew that, and he understood what to do. As for now? He was languidly layered over Flux like a lavish blanket. His hair was fluffed out, knotted with the previous evenings passions, and physically knotted together in a heap - haplessly kept together in a weak bobble.

A lazy smile had risen on his face like the sun, and the lazy beams of light burning their way through the bunker painted him like the nuclear solar giant itself.

He’d fancied himself another few luxurious kisses from Fluixon and took advantage of this opportunity, at least while he still had him conveniently beneath him.

He loved Fluixon — now, he didn’t love anything, the word was too strong a commitment to throw around, but he loved Fluixon — love was all he could say because how are you expected to express everything you feel about someone other than love. It was the purest sense of asseveration.

It was an intonation from what he’d said about their relationship before, a change in pacing.

Thomas rose up to Fluixon’s face, planted a kiss across his jawline. His sluggish movements mirrored inexperience, and he’d continued to press light pecks to his chin, his skin crisp and exposed — Thomas darted from clavicle to clavicle, sternum to ribs, and eventually returned back to Fluixon’s face to softly kiss his nose. The sound of cold sopping feeling of soused kisses being pressed to his radiantly, delicate and cadaverous

skin. Fluixon had stirred from his rest just before Thomas had dipped from his collarbones to his chest, his eyes were pinpricked through the smalls of each slit for an eye. Thomas was all too presumed by his own actions to notice Fluixon’s presence, but he felt the slight shift and shake that could be akin to someone waking up — he’d hoped that was the case anyway. His own hair, akin to an acorn with his autumnally brown streaks, which had now sloped down loose from his ponytail - bobble pulled free lazily leaving strands of hair still entangled together whilst wispy strays ecstatically sprung chaotically in the air.

Flux’s supple chest was semi-bare, exposed to the crisp and frigid Antarctic morning trade winds from the polar regions of Pandora, his raven furze for hair was clumped and entangled from being smothered by Thomas’ carelessly clumsy hands last night, and the scene before both of them looked fervently incapacitating.

——

——

Thomas had been busily brushing Fluixon’s hair into his usual middle parting, recalling details from last evening, and humming to a tune flowing freely from the stereo on Fluixon’s chest of drawers. His brain had began working on a plan for Flux’s luggage, and planning out a weeks worth of a wardrobe for him, and he’d completely zoned out. His fingers listlessly thrummed against Flux’s collar, and his gaze had been mindlessly skipping from surface to surface - at least until he’d stopped and fixated his gaze onto a lamp tilted over their shared brown chest of drawers next to an old spruce chair, age splintered into its stained surface, and adjacent his bed bested with age, the weight of their many many sleepiness nights impending into its imperfect surface and left sizeable indents where they’d cuddled up together.

Thomas had been such an idiot — to spend all these years together with Flux, to care for each other so deeply, and intimately by caressing or cuddling each other to sleep? All for them to be split up by the rude intrusion of an arranged marriage.

Thomas shook his head and buried it into the top of Fluixon’s hair, he’d just brushed it - so what? Didn’t matter, he felt his nose brush into the plush velvet of each perfectly conditioned strand, and it dipped even further down to the fuzzy uncomfortable texture of his scalp - bad enough to give you pins and needles- all a cumulative attack to the delicate insides of his nose.

Thomas must’ve flinched or something against the texture because Fluixon turned his head to smile reassuringly at his second in command.

“You’re all done, this was a bugger of a task to do, and I can’t believe I can’t come with you,” Thomas’ brows furrowed as he gave Flux and few once overs in the mirror. Its surface was perfectly smooth and had a beautiful reflective sheen.

“Thomas,” Fluixon’s tone shook a little as his narrowed his gaze to his trusty second in command, “get me out of this, I beg, I don’t want to go to Aculon. Take me away from here, kill me, bury my bones — maybe bury yourself alongside me, we can enter the golden fields of Elysium — maybe we’d have to cross the river Styx first — I’d do so just as long as it would be with you. Please, I don’t—“ Thomas moved his lips to Flux’s, he didn’t wait for his ‘friend’ to catch up, and he didn’t waste any time to bite his way into the other man’s mouth.

“You think I have any control over this?” Thomas pulled away with a heavy breath, “if I could I would marry you, and I would take you away. We would get as far away from here as possible,” Thomas rest his chin in Fluixon’s hair, Flux let out a deep sigh he had been holding in for a what felt like a lifetime.

“I wish your words held the gravity that you speak with, I wish the circumstances were different — I think I need you,” Fluixon sighed and looked down at his hands as Thomas slid on the last garment for his outfit - a pair of pristine white gloves, eloquently embroidered with the Luminarian emblem, and vines of silver ivy entwined around the hand. He then dug his fingers in his pocket for a while, clumsily jutting around to feel for the right item - his body jolted from touching the cold surface of it. Thomas pulled out a silvery mirrored lotus flower ring, its gentle smalls for petals glinted politely in the titian lighting, the soft smile beginning to warm the corners of his face reflected back at him as he gazed at Fluixon’s face in the mirror for a reaction, and then he slid on onto his right thumb. He brought it to his lips and grazed over it lightly with a curt kiss. It was short and sweet; he slid the other glove over it concealing the ring - it would be their secret. A promise.

Fluixon’s face flushed a gentle peach, and Thomas could’ve sworn his sharp features distorted into some kind of anxious knot before they loosened and relaxed into a soft contented colour of happiness.

“A mirrored lotus, huh?” Flux chuckled nervously, his face refracting the flickering embers of content, amusement, and confusion.

And then it just clicked, his eyes looked sunken in.

“You’re giving me a ring, why, Is it a promise?” Fluixon wanted desperately to ask what it was promising, and hoped it meant a promise for their relationship.

Flux didn’t know what it meant.

Thomas was defeated, that was his last, and albeit desperate attempt.

——

——

Thomas was back in that adequately lit room. The atmosphere was eerily off, and so was the company and conversation at the table. The previous dimming of lingering embers belonging to the distant flame of the candelabra had been replaced by a stronger more competent flame. The growing darkness was engulfed by the crackling of this fiercely live conflagration. The crimson burning flare quivered and projected its glare against every surface in the room, its light was harrowingly brighter, harder, and the faces of those sat at the central table fixture where overcast with its harsh colouration. The skies had grown torpid, and the familiar welcoming blue, or dismal gray had sordidly dissolved into an exquisitely deep blue scene swimming with dark deep black clouds, and the delightful silvery lunar celestial being. There were now 4 of the 7 known conspirators seated: Thomas, who looked gaunt, lost, and panicked; Gotoga whose face was slightly scarlet with frustration; Snowbird who’d pulled his tricorne hat well over his eyes to disguise his napping; of course, rotation had lost track of time and was running late to the meeting - it had been quarter of an hour since it should’ve started. NewKids had been sent for execution by the conspirators own decision, and was to undergo the process tommorow in the late evening. Seraphim had obviously been executed for their crimes against Jophiel, and of course Fluixon had notably disappeared - his absence hung heavily in the room like a thick gas choking the men out. It was like his lack of presence had begun to haunt the room like some pandering poltergeist.

The conspirators, their faces were usually etched in concentration and frustration, were now overcome by some inhuman amount of pain reflecting in the eyes of each man: expressions of weakness, expressions woe - a dire staining mark in the face — a guttural disparity of dread and despair seemed to melt down the hollows of their eyes, tearing them out to just the fleshy tunnel for a socket.

Disappointments etched painfully plainly into their upturned crescent shaped mouths.

The table setting was quite vacant, devoid of the usual flamboyant flare of bantering men, the impossible amount of cups of coffee or glasses of wine, Fluixon’s meandering curses or speeches about how much he’d despised all of Pandora’s politicians, and the occasional interruptions from each member to add a horrible anecdote into each rant or laugh along the line of Fluixon’s words.

Hvyrotation stumbled into the bunker, drew a few exhausted or fed up gazes from his peers, and seated himself with a large noisy flunk of his satchel to the floor or his boot heels clamping the ground.

“W’ello Rotation,” Thomas had risen on shaky legs and knees that bobbled against eachother.

“You should seat yourself Thomas, you haven’t calmed down since this morning, you look a mess — you’re dressed in the robes of a madman,” Gotoga glanced to the conspiracy’s second in command, their current step in for a leader in Fluixon’s absence.

“Yeah you don’t look so good, man sit down,” Snowbird chimed in and gesticulated his hand with a wave to sign Thomas sitting down.

“M’ -m good, don’t worry, I’ve handled worse, I think,” Thomas definitely wasn’t sure about that last part, to whether he was doing okay with this all was absolutely wrecking him inside out. He let out a frustrated groan as his knees buckled from shaking too much. Thomas fell to his seat with a simultaneous thud.

“I guess it’s not appropriate to ask how everyone’s holding up right now - despite the great outcome of my meeting with the rest of Luminara’s remaining council?” Hvyrotation chirped up, his tone a little brass, and his intentions totally sympathetic.

“Is the plan in motion then?” Thomas’ words came out clumsily is a shaky slur. His head inclined upward in hope, his eyes cloudy from rewinding and rewatching the memory of Fluixon leaving that morning.

“Oh, of course it is, you haven’t got to worry about anything. Luminara goes to Aculon, Fluixon might not appreciate it— temporarily joining up as a colony is the only way to get you into Aculon, as for your speech—“ Rotation paused for a second considering how to word this—“we’ve bargained with Ender’s assistant Burney and you’ll need to perform a speech at both the summit on the 3rd of June and wedding, nothing rash just brief and polite about the engagement of Aculon, Luminara, and Tricolor — Burney is pleased, if Turkey finds out- not so much,” Rotation coughed to the sudden strain of his vocal cords.

“So that’s it, no more Luminarian democracy, we’re actually handing it over?” Snowbird seemed exasperated, and sighed a little despondently.

“It’s for Flux’s sake, and that’s all the matters- right Thomas?” Gotoga clapped a hand to the shaken man’s shoulder.

Thomas was out of sync with himself and his men - he’d just barely felt the pressure change in Gotoga’s pat to a gentle reassurance of a caressing squeeze.

“Oh, yeah yeah this is all for Fluixon, I need to save his arse from this one,” Thomas chuckled nervously before unseating himself from his chair, it left a tantalisingly loud screech - a solid reminder that the weight of this whole mission rested heavily on his shoulders, it would slowly begin to suffocate him, and drown every last breath of his out.

Chapter Text

The metal band around his finger was cold to the touch of his skin, its silvery surface was slippery and scratchy with all of its beautifully engraved embellished petal pieces — it still felt chilling around his finger. Fluixon’s cheek was reddened with scratches from nuzzling the band straight into his smooth princely skin. The supple surface of his face moulded around the ring forming little lily indents into his right cheek, temple, and leaving little red marks kissing the finger for which it was placed on - his thumb. The way Thomas took his thumb, slid the ring down its once softened surface, and brought it to his lips - he kissed Fluixon’s thumb - Flux’s body shook with a chill, his spine shivered like a maggot moving to devour its prey - flesh.

Flux would like to think Thomas was his maggot - and he absolutely was. The way Thomas would kiss him so passionately like a hungry mammal feeding on its dying meal - Fluixon wasn’t dying; it just felt like it. In reverse to this though Thomas would tease him with gentle gestures like a kiss to a knuckle- akin to how a prince would court or approach his princess, and invite her into his life. Fluixon was the prince here, and yet Thomas would treat him as such - this was all so endearing.

Flux felt his heart pang happily at the thought of Thomas - like a dog’s tail reacting to its owner. His body felt feverish in comparison to the ring still attached to his thumb, Fluixon smiled looking at it, and he traced its petals with his left index finger. His eyes rolling back and forth, around his eyesocket - marvelling its surface and enjoying the promise it symbolised from Thomas.

“You better save me Thomas - I think I’m ready to admit that I feel something profoundly different about you, and I want you as my boyfriend- husband- lover,” Fluixon stammered on each label, he wasn’t sure which one would fit him best — one thing he did know, alike every pair of shoes he’d tried on - nothing fit more than these, he’d like to try them on, he just can’t. The shoes- no, boy he wants isn’t behind some glass casing under the shop’s counter for safety — Thomas was miles away back in Luminara, and Fluixon was miles away into an engagement he’d never consented interest to.

“Thomas…” Flux trailed his finger over the centre where the lotus began to mirror itself on the band. He shifted his body in alert, his ears, and hair prickling at the sudden sound of weighted footfalls against the snowy carpet in his room.

“Thomas..who’s Thomas?” Cynikka had wondered in, her hair tightly packed into beautifully ornate buns adorned by fire and crystals pinning it back to her head - she looked gorgeous, she looked nothing like the pictures hung up on the wall. Her teary faces, trampled with fear, and stamped by her authoritative father’s dictatorial rants on how ‘young girls, princesses’ should behave. She’d always run to Flux or Ender for comfort; she’d come to Fluixon again just more confidently and self assured- she looked happy.

“Hello Cynikka, you look- nice, no, lovely,” Fluixon’s smile melted, shifted, and shook against his ill defined cheekbones. He coughed, smiled against the tears forming behind his eyelids.

“Thank you Flux, I just had to get ready for the dinn—“ Cynikka noticed the silvery band on his thumb, “What’s that you’ve got there Flux,” she chuckled lurching excitedly toward him in just enough time, with just enough a fraction of a second she’d grabbed hold of his right arm and jerked the hand toward her face, “a mirrored lotus, who from? This isn’t Saps’ or Tricolor’s handiwork,” her face scrunched in concentration, “besides you haven’t gotten your betrothal engagement ring — not until tonight actually - so, WHO?” Cynikka bounced from the floor to the bed, letting go of Fluixon’s arm, and seating herself in front of him.

“I didn’t see this earlier whilst putting your gloves on, did you take it off —who’s interested in marrying my brother— is it Saps, did he - get impatient and I don’t know, give you one early? That’s so cute,” Cynikka squealed delightedly repossessing his arm to admire its gorgeous design. Fluixon was so lost, his head spun. Did he even want to confide in someone - tell anyone about Thomas - did Fluixon trust any of his family members, at all?

“What’s a mirrored lotus? Fluixon thought he’d start from the safest threshold before permitting entry into this little secret between him and Thomas.

Cynikka’s eyebrows creased in confusion, “you mean you don’t know?” Her voice softened slightly as she eyed Fluixon up appraising his reaction - he seemed to genuinely not understand her confusion, “you were given probably one of the most romantically profound rings in the world, and you don’t know?

“Don’t know what, what’s the secret?” Fluixon looked a little panicked.

“I should be asking you that, what’s your secret, who’s the lucky one who got to place this on you - and your thumb of all places?” Cynikka seemed even more confused.

“What does it mean?” Fluixon bit back, still unwilling to let her in onto this secret - Thomas needed protecting, and especially from Aculon.

“I’ve got a book you can read, the password is—“ Cynikka smiled cheekily like this was all just some juvenile game, Fluixon was willing to play along if it meant she would tell him the answer to his question— “who’s the lucky guy,” so she definitely knew it wasn’t from a girl, although you could probably tell that from the ring placement alone.

“Thomas, are you happy- can you just tell me—“ Fluixon was cut off by an explosive squeal from Cynikka.

“THOMAS COURTING YOU? Oh my- finally, you two were weird- there was something off about you when you went off to Luminara. Oh, wait-“ Cynikka stopped dead in her tracks, “does that mean you’re still going to marr—“ Fluixon slammed a hand down over her mouth.

“Don’t say it, please,” Fluixon removed his hand, and of course, Cynikka nodded.

——

——

“This will be our little secret, okay? Like when we were kids secretly constructing mud bombs from snow and hiding them in the quartermaster’s pantry- except this time the stakes are even higher, right?” Cynikka smiled, handed him a red encrusted hard cover withered with ages of use, and she ripped his hand up to link their pinkies together, “I don’t think I can do anything to help you— if I could I l—“ Fluixon cut her off with a short appreciative smile and a delicate squeeze her to palm.

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter, thank you for the sentiment though - I’ve been a little crabby since coming back here, it’s nice to see you; I have some reading to do,” Fluixon moved to close his door and watched as Cynikka too turned away to walk off, before she got further enough away to be out of hearing range - Flux thanked her. She nodded acknowledging it, but moved on down the corridor. A smile obviously plastered to her face.

——

——

Mirrored lotus, mirrored lotus - huh where had it been stashed in this book, and why did Cynikka know about it and not him?

Flux’s fingers skipped with a graceful clumsy dance from page to page; reading, scanning, and skipping from word to word, number, and occasionally slipping back to the index to see— it was there. Plastered in a tepidly smallish font: Mirrored lotus - rings, broaches, bands, and bracelets.

And then his eyes skimmed the page patiently pacing himself as to not miss anything, and — eternal love highlighted, emboldened, and scratched was its font. Fluixon chuckled aloud nervously.

What did this mean?

For all man who’d usually been quite bright and switched on — Fluixon was stupid.

“Eternal love, eternal love, eternal- love? Oh, Thomas… you’re so subtle, Thomas I miss you loads,” Fluixon stamped his left hand down onto the pages before lifting his right hand to his lips, he kissed the ring back, and smiled planting himself back into his bed. The pillows felt softer, his insides felt warmer, and most importantly- Thomas felt closer to Fluixon.

“I will call you my boyfriend, eternally, I will love you — Thomas I—“ Fluixon paused to see the door knob shuffle in place, he heard every lock, and hinge jam painfully as the person on the other side took to angrily jutting the door into its frame.

“Love you, my love,” Fluixon whispered to his ring before he got up and moved to open the door—

“Who’s in there, Fluixon?” a rather familiar voice called from the other side of the threshold. It sounded older and gravelly with experience.

——

——

Eternal love. Thomas mulled it over for a while, eying the vendor suspiciously before handing over a year or 2’s worth of his hard work - his earnings. It was worth it, Fluixon would understand it, right - who was Thomas kidding? of course he would.

But what did such a commitment mean to him? Why was he stood here burying his earnings away for some insanely engraved silver band?

I love Fluixon, and even if I can’t love him publicly anymore - or ever again, I’ll love him eternally, even just as a garment or decorative piece in his jewellery box. He can pack me away amongst all of his beautifully shiny stones and trinkets; Thomas would just have to shine and stand out more. Saparata could take his place- being proudly carted around, but Thomas came first and he kissed Flux first- Flux was his, and this ring symbolised that. Even if Thomas was say executed, or unfortunately deceased - his lips claimed by a viral infection other than Fluixon, and lain to rest - dead in a coffin. Thomas’ love for Thomas would live on eternally. He will be kissed a thousand times by a thousand princes - all named Fluixon, and he will rest peacefully knowing that his love was acknowledged once.

‘You’re my boyfriend Fluixon, not someone’s husband, fiancé, or lover — you’re my boyfriend Fluixon, and that cannot be erased or changed in these sands that exquisitely call time. I love you, always, and forever eternal; these are my vowels, do you accept them?’ Thomas wafted away his thoughts, and instead placed the ring in a small pouch before thanking the vendor.

“Your fiancé to be will be delighted by this gift, you’re a loving person, and may your love be requited and forever eternal, God bless you both,” The vendor was now waving Thomas away down the stone jungle for a street - who knew which winding tunnel Thomas would take next?