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His own face was crushed below his armoured boots as Thomas ran through the pouring rain, the wanted poster crumpling and dissolving into the mud.
It wasn't the copper tinted one that he once wore, some while ago tossed away carelessly to keep undercover. In this aspect, he’d also had to part ways with his beloved scarf. He had it burnt one night along with the wood he’d collected to stay warm, using it as fuel for his fire.
And yet, the fire within himself had continued to dim. The loss at the battle of Infernus was too recent and too… much to think about.
Thomas panted under the darkened sky. The clouds above him only condescended further together, spewing its angry pellets of water down like gunfire. At least, that’s what it felt like, the droplets thin and heavy—piercing.
Through the fog, he could suddenly just barely make out a mountain of stone. His boots trudged their way towards it through the muck, filthying themselves with the remnants of rotten leaves.
He spotted the little slash marks in the wall—his own markings. After digging through with a pickaxe, he quickly blocked up the way behind him again with smoothed stone he still had leftover from previous traps.
The pelting rain against his head had finally stopped under the cover of his makeshift shelter or cave. His fingers fumbled into his pocket, searching for his lighter. With a simple click, a blaze lit up and just barely illuminated the room with its flickering and warm hues.
The light bounced off the walls and he began to light up the rest of the torches slowly. He counted them without meaning to. There were enough to last the night—not enough for another.
They revealed the tattered blankets in the corner of the room, a shitty attempt at sleeping quarters. He threw the rest of his items halfheartedly into the broken chest beside it and shrugged off his damp coat. It hung over it and looked as tattered as the rest of his stuff.
He rested his forearm against the stone, leaning his forehead into it as he continued to try and catch his breath. His limbs screamed at him with exhaustion as he lifted the last bit of stolen bread he had to his mouth. The texture was all-too stale, but he ravaged it regardless, the empty feeling in his stomach too aching to care.
He hadn’t had a full stomach in so long, and it was barely fulfilling, but so long as it sustained him, it didn’t matter.
“You’re late,” Flux finally spoke from the back of the room.
His voice didn’t echo within the cave; it came out crisp and clear, like the way Flux always spoke. He was resting his back against the back of the cave lazily, his arms crossed and a shadow cast over him, the light from the torches too far to reach.
“Sorry,” Thomas replied, his voice cracking. He was still holding himself upright on the stone as he finished the remaining of the bread. “Security’s getting tighter as of late."
Flux took a step forward out of the darkness and the light flickered off of him, just barely, and scattered into irregular patterns. He looked rather pale.
“It wouldn’t be a concern if you just stayed here,” he said.
Thomas sighed, trying to wipe his face with his shirt, but it was just as damp.
“We already talked about this.”
Flux paused, considering, and yet somehow, he was already by Thomas’s side. He tapped a finger on the stone absentmindedly, right near Thomas’s elbow.
“Is it so bad that I want to keep you here?” Flux asked, and as Thomas turned to look over, he could see the cheeky smirk on Flux’s face. It didn’t crease though, just remained upon his all-too smooth features.
Thomas' eyes didn’t linger on it, only smiled warmly at the comment.
“No,” he responded, but his throat felt dry. “You’re why I always return.”
Flux slowly moved his finger from the wall to Thomas’s arm, tracing the edges of softened muscle lightly.
“You’re losing weight.” Flux noted.
Thomas’s smile wavered, his voice quieting. “I know.”
The fingers on his arm stilled, then slid more carefully along Thomas’s arm, like Flux was afraid of pressing too hard.
“You just don’t take care of yourself when I’m not watching,” Flux huffed out.
Thomas let out a tired breath. “I come back, don’t I?”
Flux didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted over Thomas’s face, lingering too long on the hollows beneath his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged.
Thomas felt strangely bare under it.
He should step back. He knew that.
But Flux was here, solid and familiar, and Thomas was so tired of holding himself together alone.
Flux leaned up, caressing Thomas’s collarbone with his slender fingers. His lips moved slowly from Thomas’s cheek, down to his jaw, pressing feathered kisses too light. Too gentle. The cold slip of his tongue against the crook of Thomas’s neck. It wasn’t wet, it was just dry, coarse like sandpaper, scraping across his bare skin like rusted steel.
It wasn’t how Flux used to kiss him. Too gentle, too… careful.
Thomas pretended not to notice.
He only shuddered at the shock, lifting his head to let Flux get a better angle, for easier access.
But then with his teeth, Flux nipped at the beating pulse on Thomas’s neck. It didn’t draw blood (it couldn’t), but it was hard enough to make him wince.
Thomas sucked in a breath, his fingers curling uselessly at his sides.
“You don’t need this anymore,” Flux said, his breath just as cold and heavy beside his ear.
“Don’t say that,” Thomas muttered, though he wasn’t sure what this meant at this point.
“You don’t need to hurt this way,” Flux continued, voice almost kind. Strange, it wasn’t like him, but Thomas was just starting to get used to it. “I can take care of you.”
Flux’s fingers traced slowly down Thomas’s sides, unhurried. He rested his forehead just beneath Thomas’s chin, nuzzling into his chest like he belonged there. Like how he had always belonged there.
Thomas let out a weak, breathless laugh.
“If I remember correctly,” he said, hoarse, “I was always the one taking care of you.”
Flux didn’t respond right away.
Thomas became painfully aware of his own heartbeat, loud in his ears, erratic from exhaustion. Flux’s ear pressed closer to his chest, his finger suddenly tapping against his chest along the rhythm. It was as if he was counting it, as if he was memorising it.
“It’s still going,” Flux murmured, ceasing his movement.
Thomas’s throat tightened.
He didn’t want to think about it. Couldn’t bear to. Didn’t allow himself to.
Thomas only wrapped his arms around Flux, pulling him closer, pressing that cold, unyielding body against his chest like he could warm him through sheer will alone.
Flux’s presence flickered at the edges—not visibly, but in the way a thought slips if you don’t hold it tight enough. Thomas only held on tighter without even meaning to.
He was so tired. And tired was dangerous.
Flux’s hand slid up and down Thomas’s back in a slow, grounding rhythm.
“You should sleep.”
Thomas shook his head immediately. Too fast. “No.”
Flux tilted his head. “You’ll break yourself like this.”
Thomas laughed under his breath, thin and humourless. “You’ll leave again if I do.”
Flux tsked. “You’ve grown soft.”
“Says you.” Thomas muttered, considering the fact that Flux was still pressed close, nuzzled into the space beneath his jaw.
“I’m just giving you what you need.”
“And what’s that?”
“Me,” Flux said, like it was obvious. Like there had never been another answer.
He stayed there, patient, watching Thomas’s face like he was waiting to see which way he’d bend.
The silence pressed on, heavy and expectant.
Thomas didn’t respond. There was nothing to say, and he couldn’t quite refute it if he tried.
Something unreadable passed through Flux’s eyes—calculation, sharp and quick.
The expression on Flux’s face shifted. The warmth drained from it first, the cold of his body reflecting in his eyes. He pushed himself off Thomas’s chest—the sudden absence almost painful—and faced him with furrowed brows and a frigid frown.
“What do you even have left out there anymore?” Flux asked.
“Plenty.” Thomas tried to joke, to lighten the moment, to pull Flux back into his arms—but it only seemed to upset him further.
Flux’s mouth twitched, the smirk fading like it had never been there.
“Answer me properly.” Flux snapped.
Thomas startled at the sudden outburst.
“There’s…” He faltered, scrambling. “I—I have…”
“Spit it out, Thomas.” Flux’s words were suddenly as sharp as his tone. “Ish, you never used to be so hesitant.”
Thomas swallowed hard.
“Saparata,” he tried. “Legacy.”
A sharp, mocking laugh cut through the air, cruel enough that Thomas winced. Then, just as quickly as it came, Flux went cold again—stern, unreadable.
“You and I both know those bridges turned to ash long ago.”
Thomas turned his head away, away from Flux’s cold glare. His eyes began to burn all the way down to his throat.
But then he felt Flux’s hand slowly slither up his neck once more to cup his cheek, turning Thomas back to face him.
“You don’t have to look so pathetic, Thomas,” Flux said, caressing his thumb over Thomas’s cheekbone lightly, in contrast to his hold. Yet, Thomas couldn’t stop himself from leaning into that touch. “Why don’t you join me?”
“I—I can’t,” Thomas responded, he averted his gaze to the ground.
“Why not?” Flux’s hand went to Thomas’s chin, lifting it gently, forcing Thomas to look back into his eyes.
They were still as vibrant as he remembered, ever so peculiar in their violet colour, yet adorned in Thomas’s view. In time, Thomas had catalogued and learnt every one of those expressions. And yet, Thomas couldn’t quite place this one—not quite fondness, not quite fury.
“I thought you said you would always follow me.”
Flux’s expression flickered. Hurt, sharp and immediate. He leaned in, close enough that his hair brushed against Thomas cheek.
Something warm slid down Thomas’s wrist.
For a split second, his brain refused it. Warm didn’t belong to Flux. Flux was cold. Flux had always been cold, even when he was alive—especially then.
Thomas looked down.
The cut was clean. Too clean. A straight line across Flux’s throat, like it had been drawn there with intent. Dark blood welled sluggishly, spilling over Flux’s collarbones, soaking into the fabric that shouldn’t have been able to stain.
It kept coming.
“Flux,” Thomas breathed. His hands came up without thinking, fingers pressing uselessly at the wound. There was no heat. No pulse. The blood felt wrong against his skin, thick and slow, like it was remembering how to move. “You’re—you’re bleeding.”
Flux didn’t even flinch.
His grip tightened on his chin instead, bruising, forcing him to look away from the spewage of red.
“Are you disloyal?”
“No!” Thomas shouted, too fast, too desperate. “No—”
“Then why have you left me, Thomas?”
“You—” His voice broke. “You left me.”
Flux’s eyes sharpened, violet flaring, something ugly passing through them. “So you don’t trust my will?”
“I never said that,” Thomas snapped, panic clawing up his throat. “I’d follow you to the ends of the Earth.”
“Then why are you still here?”
The question rang hollow in the cave, louder than the rain had been.
Thomas tried to answer.
His mouth opened, useless. His chest ached, breath shallow and stuttering, hands still slick with blood that shouldn’t exist.
Nothing came.
Flux stared at him for a long moment.
The fury in his expression faltered—not gone, but unfocused, like a blade that had lost its target.
“Oh,” Flux murmured, softer.
Thomas sagged, knees buckling, and he collapsed.
There was a jolt of stone jutting into his shoulder and the sheets bunched beneath him. Then, Flux was there immediately—or Thomas thought he was. His hands guided him down, arranging him into something that resembled rest on the floor.
The red darkened into shadow, into cloth, into the rough wool beneath his cheek.
“I miss you, Thomas.” He heard Flux say, the voice vibrating in his ears.
“I miss you too,” Thomas whispered back, his face squished into Flux’s chest, or the ragged blankets, he couldn’t tell. Neither were breathing.
“We all do, you know?” Flux continued. His hand traced slow circles into Thomas’s back, steady and familiar. “Snowbird, Gotoga, Rotation, even Seraphim and NewKids… we’re incomplete without our Engineer.”
“I’m sorry.”
There was a brief pause in Flux’s movements, but it continued on like there wasn’t.
“It’s alright,” Flux said gently. “You can make up for it tomorrow, okay? We’re waiting for you.”
Thomas didn’t answer.
He let his eyes close. Let the warmth of the torches, the blood, the comfort, and the illusion of company settle over him.
He was just glad—selfishly, desperately—that he wasn’t alone.