Chapter Text
To love is to desire without possession, wanting intimacy even when distance is sometimes wiser. Like a star, it has no choice but to keep burning, unwavering against the world, only dying when they run out of energy.
To be requited, however, is to have that desire met and recognised, to hear your ache have an echo. Like a star, it will not last forever.
Love is a poison.
It sinks its teeth and clings onto you, providing momentary ecstasy before detaching and leaving you with wounds to stitch and scars to bear. It doesn’t discriminate, between the sinners and the saints, it takes and it takes and it takes.
In the game of love, there are no winners.
Saparata’s biggest mistake was loving Fluixon.
————————————————————————
Saparata sprinted through the trees and vines, heart pounding with every step. His chest puffed at a concerning rate as he swiftly dodged an incoming branch, jumping over it with clean precision.
His hands desperately clutched over his heart, his breathing becoming increasingly arduous as the air around him thickened. Saparata takes a short peek behind him after he slides under yet another branch, wincing as a small rock under him manages to dig its way into his skin.
He spots his pursuers still tailing behind him, looking exhausted as their mouths gasped for air, beginning to stumble on their own feet, even the grip on their weapons began to relent.
They’re persistent, he’ll give them that.
Just a little while longer.
————————————————————————
Saparata collapsed onto the beach floor, sand pilling into his shoes as if it was trying to swallow him. His legs trembled, useless and unsteady as he cursed at himself for being in this pathetic state.
What only mattered now was to keep surviving.
The adrenaline started to wear off after a while, bringing Saparata’s attention to his injuries. The pain hit him like a hard punch.
His ribs started to scream whenever he breathed in too deeply, causing his breath to hitch at the torment. A choked sob escaped his lips, affliction enveloping the area.
Parts of his skin were ripped open while bruises bloomed beneath them, serving a quiet reminder of what he’d just been through.
Saparata sits back up and grabs a golden apple from his satchel, munching on it as if his life depended on it. His head tilts back in satisfaction, releasing a small breath of relief in the meanwhile, fingers digging into the sand. The agony alleviates but never fully goes away, a trace of an ache still constantly surging through his body.
Saparata doesn’t complain, he can’t afford to.
He finally allows himself to think.
What the hell just happened?
.
.
.
Saparata was too late, too late to see through Fluixon’s friendly facade, he’d been fooled through his smiles and empty promises. In hindsight, he should’ve. When every laugh was a touch too forced, when every kind word had an air of tension lingering around it like a blade.
Yet, Saparata had turned a blind eye towards it back then, and when he finally opened them— All he could see was the bodies of 6 leaders and high ranking officials.
It… It happened so fast.
Blood splattered across Saparata’s face as the metallic scent filled the room, overwhelming and pungent. He whipped his head around to only be met with a repulsive sight, gagging him.
The victims’ heads were disfigured beyond recognition with the culprit being a single piece of stalagmite lodged in their necks.
What…?
Maybe he should’ve reacted more. Said something. Scream, even. But all he could do was stare as the chatter was forced to a halt, leaving only a dead silence in its wake.
Something rolled across the floor, tumbling upon the wooden planks as it made contact with Saparata’s foot. He flinched at the sudden touch, hesitating before looking towards the ground.
Korulein’s head, shaved clean off by the drip stone. Lifeless eyes meeting with petrified ones.
His stomach recoiled, and Saparata had to resist the urge to hurl right there and then. Korulein’s eyes were wide open— the man had simply been in the middle of discussing Jophiel’s death and what’s to come of it, and—
The floor boards were tainted with crimson, the fluid already oxidizing and sticky to the touch— the room acrid with the revolting smell of metal, driving sharply into his lungs with a hitch.
He’d never get the smell out of his nose.
It was nauseating.
The room was silent, the only other sound present being the squelching of the fallen.
And soon, when he didn’t, someone else screamed.
Shit.
-
When the representatives screamed and wailed, they pointed their fingers at him— The man with snowy hair and blood on his face.
While the man with clean hands watched from afar, never using his own blade to do the dirty work.
And as he ran, cluelessly and terrified, there were only two things that Saparata knew.
One, he had been framed by his own best friend—
Two, he had to get the fuck out of there.
Saparata fled the scene, ditching the life he’d known behind.
.
.
.
It had started to rain, drops falling slowly, blurring the world just enough to make it hard to tell what was downfall and what was regret.
“Flux…” Saparata mumbled, clenching his fists.
Shock was still settling in, it was unbelievable that merely a day ago, Fluixon was someone he could trust, someone who he could willingly lay his life om the hands on. And now…
The rain settled in, claiming the land with its sorrow.
‘How fitting.’
Unknowingly, a tear slid down Saparata’s check, then another, then another. Petrichor wafted in the air, stirring memories in him better left untouched.
Just like the weather, Saparata couldn’t help but weep, tears flowing uncontrollably now. He wanted to scream at Fluixon, he wanted to ask him why he put him through this— why he put them through this.
Saparata clutched his hair, thoughts whirling, spiraling, clawing for a reason. But now? He knew Fluixon would never answer.
And despite it all, somewhere, deep and squirming within his heart— Saparata still yearned for the man with obsidian hair, whose irises once looked at him with a soft tenderness reserved for no other—
‘Please come back.’
That was the last thing he thought when something began to sprout.
Saparata’s chest began to clench and tighten grotesquely, twisting in on itself, sending his hands flying up to clench his torso. Discomfort didn’t even come close to capturing what he was feeling right now.
This is wrong.
Almost instantaneously, his throat started to seize, stealing the air from his lungs, as it made every breath a struggle.
He choked before entering fits of coughs, knees buckling before slamming him into the sand.
Blood spattered on the ground, coating the surrounding sand with crimson. Among it lies a single ivory petal.
Saparata stared at it, unmoving. Not an emotion displayed on his face. For a moment, it was like he was carved from stone.
His eyes flashed briefly with melancholy.
He knew what this meant.
It had been a part of his bedtime stories as a kid, a collection of old folktales.
He didn’t actually think it was real, at least until now.
He stomped on the petal, grinding into the ground, until that softness became pulp. A faint flora scent attached to his shoes, constantly taunting him.
Saparata has no time for this.
From this day onwards, he’d be seen as the villain behind the bloodlustful massacre. Leaders would be calling for his head, offering bounties large enough for one to live the rest of their life in luxury.
He knew that staying in one place was a death sentence.
The jungle was the perfect refuge, he visited the area with Fluixon, once, back when they were still foolish adolescents.
The place was stitched together with memories, far too many of them, of quiet laughter and shared glances. The image of Fluixon catching his wrist as he led him deeper into the forest flashed before him, giggling together, convinced that the world was something they could outmanuver as long as they were together.
The couple of trips they made there already proved the jungle a confusing terrain to travel, with trees preventing light from catching the ground which made trekking through the jungle at night damn near impossible, and tangling plants that hooked onto any piece of fabric it got its hands on.
A wise choice to hide there, it was, but also predictable. Fluixon would look for him there first, guided by the shared memories like it was an instinct.
Fluixon knew Saparata like the back of his hand, Saparata had to be unpredictable, he had to do something unprecedented.
He decided to hide in plain sight.
.
The first step was to erase the man Fluixon would recognise. Saparata took a blade to his snowy hair, hacking it down unevenly.
He hid his scars under cloth and wraps, the same scars that Fluixon used to linger his thumbs over as if he could soothe the past away.
Saparata disguised himself under a simple brown cloak, the ones that lowly commoners used, to draw attention away from himself.
Saparata mentally prepared himself for what he was about to do next.
He made his way towards Luminara.
————————————————————————
Saparata kept his head down, eyes locked to the ground as he slipped pass the guards. He looked as unimportant as the average citizen, blending in perfectly as he joined the crowd.
The street had more guards stationed than usual, presumably because the attempt on 3below’s life earlier that day, tensions were high and the worst thing that could happen to the nation now was to lose their leader.
Saparata quickly makes a few rules and notes in his head.
~
Rule 1: Keep a low profile— no eye contact, no social interaction unless necessary, and definitely no bringing unwanted attention to yourself.
Rule 2: Don’t strain yourself. Talking would hurt you more than it would help, prioritise your health.
Rule 3: Don’t show signs of illness, don’t leave signs of illness.
Rule 4: Do not think of Fluixon.
The roots in Saparata dug further into his lungs, tightening its grip.
His jaw clenched.
“So much for rule 4.” Saparata muttered, irony heavy in his voice.
————————————————————————
Minutes faded into hours, every step Saparata took led him deeper into Luminara.
He hadn’t expected the nation to grow so large in such a short amount of years.
An empty alleyway caught his attention, its walls were layered with vandalised graffiti. The paint cracked like lightning bolts, revealing the rotting history behind them.
Clean was the last word Saparata would use to describe it, but that characteristic would be the place’s only deterrent, devoid from human life and most importantly— attention.
Ironic.
This evoked a memory, a time when him and Fluixon—
A violent cough escaped from Saparata, piercing and bloody.
He doubled over, every cough wrenching his body forward, forcing air out of his lungs faster than he could breathe it in. He knelt there, gasping for air while roots felt like it was coating his lungs.
‘You’ll still continue to haunt me, won’t you?’
Petals propelled themselves onto the ground, stained rosey from the blood. They looked oddly familiar, like he’d seen it before.
He tries not to pry further into his memory.
He lies down on the cold, hard stone floor, barely able to keep his eyes open any longer.
~
“Where are you taking me?” A snowy haired figure asked, clutching a gloved hand as he led him down a field.
“You’ll know soon enough,” The man replied, raven hair glistening under the sun’s rays.
They were surrounded in nature, flowers bloomed in every inch, covering the land in flora. The winds brushed gently against the two faces while it swayed the grass below them in return.
Saparata recognised the two people now.
“This place is breathtaking,” He breathed, admiring the scenery. It looked like a place straight out of a fantasy book.
Fluixon smiled at the remark, “I used to come here as a kid to watch the sunset, it’s the second most beautiful thing I’ve seen.”
He plucked an ivory flower and held it carefully between his fingers, gently spinning it. “This clematis really reminds me of you,”
Fluixon combed through Saparata’s long hair, before tucking the flower behind Saparata’s ear, his hand lingering there longer than it should.
Saparata’s cheeks painted rosy, an obvious contrast from his pale face, his golden eyes turning to meet the violet ones.
“What— what was that for?” He asked, his voice almost staggering.
Fluixon leaned in just a little closer, letting his violet eyes catch the light
“I wanted to see if you noticed… and look at you, all flustered already,”
Saparata wanted to wipe the smug smile off his face.
The sun began to set, its beams slowly softening.
Oh, how Saparata wished to stay in this moment forever.
The two sat down onto the grassy ground, inches away from each other as they silently admired the setting sun that transformed the sky into a tapestry of pink, gold and purple.
“You said that the sunset was the second most beautiful thing in the world, what’s the first?” Saparata questioned, raising an eyebrow as he shifted his gaze to the boy beside him.
Fluixon turns his head away from the atmospheric artwork, locking eyes with the latter.
Saparata notices how Fluixon’s eyes softened, followed by how a smile curled onto his lips.
.
“You.”
~
Saparata awoke on the cold pavement, every stone digging into his back. His whole body ached, sore from the unfit ground. His heart still pounding loudly against his chest.
Saparata turned his body around to look at the bloody mess he made yesterday.
“Clematis, huh?”
A tired smile forms on his face.
For a second, he swears he sees someone beside him, dressed in elegant clothing with gold accents, inky hair obscuring their face.
Saparata hesitates before reaching out, trying to touch them.
They disappear before he reaches them.
Saparata can’t tell if he’s hallucinating because of the illness or because he’s missing Fluixon.
He groans as he drags himself to the nearest wall, propping himself up before leaning against it.
A sudden rush of footsteps breaks the silence— too fast, too close. Saparata’s sense of self-preservation screams at him to leave.
With a deep breath, Saparata tugs his cloak back and makes a break for the alley’s exit.
—————————————————————————————————————————
The snowy haired man weaves his way through the dense crowds.
He pulls his hood down harder, gripping it like it might tear loose.
His eyes fixate onto the floor, every step he makes is calculated, careful enough to avoid everyone but smooth enough to pass as natural.
News of the assassination must’ve reached cities by now— hell, maybe even small towns may have heard of it too.
Paranoia continued to stir up in Saparata, every eye felt like a sniper aimed on his head.
It was no doubt everyone would want him dead, anyway. His ‘acts of genocide’ shine every stage light on him, a man who despite his gentle appearance, cannot— and will not be trusted.
A part of him scowls at that thought. He was completely innocent. How could they be so blind?
But truly, in Fluixon’s presence, Saparata had been just as blind.
He starts to pace faster, paying less attention to the crowd and more to his apprehension that seemed to cling on his thoughts like ichor.
They know you’re here.
They know you’re here.
They know yo—
He slams into someone hard enough to jolt him back to reality.
He glances briefly to spot a man with midnight hair, dressed in elegant clothing adorned with gold acce—
His heart drops as his eyes shift to violet ones.
Oh shit. This can’t be real, this CAN’T be real.
Out of all people—
All Saparata feels right now is his heart stuttering as the world around him begins to spin. He tries to ignore how thorns clawed their way up his throat, as he swallowed the metallic fluid down.
He can taste the mockingly sweet petal in his mouth, taunting him for being such a lovesick fool.
For a split second, time seemed to stop.
All he managed to mutter out was a quiet apology without looking up, already bracing for the grip on his arm.
.
It never comes.
“Watch it.” The man grumbled, as he barely spares him a glance, irritation replacing interest as he gets swallowed into the crowd.
.
All it took was the familiar sound of the man’s voice to cause Saparata lungs to choke with flowers.
The heat in his throat, the metallic taste on his tastebuds, the way his lungs felts too small for the air they were supposed to hold.
No.
Not yet.
He pressed his palms against his mouth, biting on his tongue as petals threatened to spill out. His eyes frantically scoured the area, searching for anywhere that wasn’t overrun by the public. A shady alley, an empty house— anywhere would do.
The cough punched its way out anyway, muffled and coarse. The soft blossoms brushed against his lips, smearing vermillion across them.
He caught them in his hands, crushing them immediately. Anyone who saw it wouldn’t think he was plainly sick,
They’d think it was strange.
They’d look closer.
He wiped his hand on the inside of his cloak, grinding the remains into the fabric, then regained his composure.
The crowd resumed around him, the overlapping voices of the citizens drowning out the pounding of his heart.
His body, traitorous as ever, chosen now to remind him who he was dying for.
——————————————————————————————————————————
At first, the flowers only presented themselves at night. Saparata learns to sleep upright, back uncomfortably against brick or concrete depending where he hid those nights.
He buries the petals under loose soil, burying the evidence before another eye lays on it. He washes the blood off him through leaking pipes, or water of any source. He tells himself it’s manageable, and he moves on.
By day 5 he’s starving, the food in his satchel has ran out, leaving him to resort to theft. Every loaf of bread stolen, every apple swiped— his heart races with adrenaline every time.
The disease deteriorates, running tugs the stems in his lungs tighter, every breath he takes feels restrained.
He takes longer paths around the city, avoiding hills and stairs, or anything that demands more of his lungs than he can give.
At the end of the week, he stops keeping count of the petals, being too many to count. They spew out in clusters, painting the surfaces in a gorey sight. His voice is now coarse and rough from the bruising the petals left as they forced their way up his throat.
Through torture, he’s made a realisation.
Loving Fluixon wasn't a choice anymore. Not loving him wasn't either.
—————————————————————————
Saparata wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping as his hand hurriedly tries to grab the person infront of him— of course, there was no person there.
He dreams of Fluixon every night, his mind constantly reminding him of the memories they’ve used to share.
Saparata wishes to relive these moments again, despite how even the mere thought of them causes him to choke on a panicle of petals.
He knows he can’t keep living like this.
-
It’s one of those sleepless nights again, those where they refuse to loosen their grip no matter how long he lies still. The air around him feels too heavy, his thoughts too loud, so he gives up on rest entirely and lets his feet carry him elsewhere.
The streets are dark and empty, the only source of light being the occasional street lamp, blessing the ground with its warmth.
Saparata wanders around the streets aimlessly, drifting along them without a destination. He spares a periodic glance or two at the shops that are still open at this unholy hour.
At least he isn’t the only one who can’t sleep.
He’s halfway through the street when something catches his eye.
A bar, dimly lit, as its contrasting neon sign hums lowly. Light bleeds through the windows onto the lacklustre environment, dull amber streaks filling the empty air.
He doesn’t particularly want the noise, people or the need to participate in conversations— that’d just get him caught anyways.
But he sure as hell needs a drink.
After a brief hesitation, he sighs and pushes the door open.
.
The door closes behind him with a muted thud, a tiny bell jingling at the action. The bar inside is dim and narrow, illuminated solely by the amber lamp hung at the middle of the ceiling. The shelves are stocked with all kinds of liquor— ranging from low end wines to high end whiskey.
A single bartender manned the counter, hands busy with wiping off a glass while their eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
Saparata pauses at the entrance, questioning his life choices before pulling down his hood, as he moves towards the counter. He takes a seat at the far end, choosing the seat with the most shadows and least amount of attention.
He barstool creaks beneath his weight as he rests his elbows on the counter, his fingers idly tracing the scratches people before him left with their own reasons for staying awake.
“So, what’ll it be?” The bartender asks in a heavy accent, voice warm but tired.
Saparata ponders for a second, taking a look at the labels on the shelf. He doesn’t care for taste, just something to take the edge off the night.
He doesn’t plan on paying anyway.
“Whatever’s cheapest.” He finally responds.
The bartender takes one look at him and snorts before looking away, Saparata could tell they didn’t think he could afford otherwise.
He rolls his eyes at the gesture, offended by the bartender’s assumption although they weren’t entirely wrong.
Soon, a clink sounded. A poured glass of golden whiskey sits before him, alluring as ever, tempting Saparata with its numbness.
The pungent smell of the whiskey hits him, replacing the once faint smell of expensive liquor that filled the room.
He swirls the drink, observing the way the ice danced with the liquor, before tipping the glass towards his lips.
The burn arrived fast, scraping its way down his tongue and throat, coating it with unrefined bitterness.
It didn’t matter, its job was to numb him, and it was doing a good one.
Saparata gets through his first glass, taking it down so quick that it looked like he was going to choke on it. He hissed softly through his teeth, lips pressing together.
Bittersweet, to be so free and so alone.
“Another one.” He requests, raising the empty glass.
The bartender nods and gets to pouring another drink for the outlaw.
“Tough day, huh?” An unfamiliar voice calls out, followed by a figure taking a seat next to him.
Brown hair fills his vision, although Saparata can only pay attention to the man’s unfashionable choice of clothing. The sight of the bold purple jacket and a bright yellow bandana makes him almost chuckle.
“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” the man says to the bartender, who willingly obliges.
Wait.
Saparata freezes.
He recognises that voice.
Fu-
The clink of two glasses hitting the counter snaps his thoughts short.
“Enjoy,” the bartender says, hands gesturing to the pair of glasses filled with maple liquid.
The man takes one sip of the liquor before spitting it out, face contorting in disgust as he sticks his tongue, desperately trying to wipe the taste off with a handkerchief.
“Jeez, dude! This is absolutely foul!” He exclaims, “Ergh… I think I’m gonna puke…”.
And then it finally clicks— the last piece finally sliding into place.
It’s Thomas.
Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but he feels no urge to panic and flee, instead, he sits there and relishes the taste of the golden liquid.
“I’m broke and troubled, it suits me,” Saparata responds, his voice so rough and cutting it barely resembles what it once was.
A small chuckle escapes from Thomas, “Well, at least we have one thing in common.” He clears his throat before continuing, “I haven’t got an actual break in a week from this shit show.”
Thomas swirls what’s left in his cup, eyes fixed on the liquor.
“Chasing a man who doesn’t want to be found,” he mutters, “Maybe I’m just bad at seeing what’s in front of me.”
Saparata doesn’t answer right away. He tips the glass back another time instead, swallowing far more whiskey than he should, the burn cuts through the haze briefly before sinking into something dull and distant.
He snaps his fingers at the bartender, signaling for yet another glass.
“Most people don’t realise what they’ve lost until it’s gone, it’s not your fault.” Saparata drawled, grabbing the freshly poured cup, downing it as fast as it arrived.
The door to the bar creaks open, letting the cold wind seep in through the gap. The sound of boots break the silence, thudding heavy against the wood.
Thomas glances over his shoulder, shifting his posture towards the door.
Saparata doesn’t turn right away, instead he sneaks a gulp of Thomas’s drink while he’s not looking.
“Hey, Flux!”
The sound of the name almost makes him spit out his drink. A thin line of whiskey trails slowly down his chin, although he wipes it away with the back of his hand hurriedly.
Sure enough, there he was— standing at the entrance, elegant and composed.
The same man who’d been haunting him.
The same man who’d eventually kill him one way or another.
Saparata sets the glass down, his fingers trembling and unsteady as he tightens his grip around the glass.
Thorns tightened around his lungs while petals scraped his throat with every shallow breath. He could feel the vines clawing at him, demanding attention he couldn’t afford to give.
“Who’s this new friend you’ve got here, Thomas?” Fluixon joked, eyes scanning the unfamiliar person.
‘Friend’ would be a complicated word to describe their relationship right now.
Saparata stole a glance at him, the flicker of recognition sharp in his chest, enough to make it explode with clematis.
His hands instinctively covered his mouth.
“I- I have to go now…” Saparata choked out, clenching his teeth to prevent the blood from spilling out like a river.
The world around him is blurring as the line between reality and delusion is thinning. He stumbles off his chair, brushing a shoulder past Thomas before rushing towards the exit.
“Hey, you alright?” Thomas tries calling out, directing his attention to the distressed man who seemed to be losing his shit by the second.
Instead, he’s met with a slammed door.
He doesn’t know it yet, but Saparata has slipped through their fingers once again.
—————————————————————————
The snowy haired boy tears down the alley, running as fast as his legs would let him. His balance is thrown off by a cough that tears through his body, unrelentless.
His skin scrapes against the rough ground, as he’s sent collapsing onto the surface.
A wet, breathless sound claws its way out of him, almost resembling a sob— a cry for help. Saparata drags himself forward, palms burning as debris embeds into his skin. Another cough tears out of him, deeper than ever, expelling clusters of stained petals onto the ground, some of them finding their place on his lips and chin.
The alley blinks out.
Not all at once, but when Saparata opens his eyes again, the stone beneath him feels smoother. Different.
He frowns at it, dragging his fingers along the floor, taking in every sensory detail of it.
Wood.
Fluixon is there, standing right in front of him.
Saparata forces out a quiet laugh, “You’re… here.” He mumbles before trailing off.
He knows it’s fake, but he still tries reaching out, grabbing the air desperately as his chest tightens. Fluixon’s standing there the way he always used to, relaxed and unwaveringly composed, like a tower in a snowstorm.
The sight of him is so clear it hurts worse than the flowers.
“This is— this is a really shit way to still be in love with you.” Saparata chokes out, words thick and hazy. He clutches his chest, worried he may not live past this night.
For a moment, it’s easy for him to forget the blood in his mouth. The burning in his lungs fade into a background hum, dull and insensate, replaced by an ache of yearning for something he was never meant to keep.
Fluixon looks at him like he used to then, eyes soft but refined, mouth slightly curved like he’s holding back a grin.
“Don’t.” Saparata mutters, his smile faltering, “That’s not fair. You don’t get to look at me like that anymore.”
The image wavers. Fluixon’s face blurs and doubles, before merging and sharpening cruelly. The warmth from the wood fades back into cold stone. Saparata’s breath stutters as a cough surges through him, violent and wet, shattering the illusion immediately.
He chokes, petals flowing freely now, onto stone that seeps into wood midway. He presses his forehead to the ground as he groans, the smell of crummy alcohol and blood fills his senses.
“Bloody hell, Fluixon.” He says hoarsely.
Another memory forces its way in, uninvited. Fluixon’s hand on affirmingly his wrist, his thumb brushing over his hand. Saparata jumps at the touch before grabbing his own wrist, fingers curling around nothing.
“Stop—.” His voice breaks, he can’t seem to find the strength to speak anymore.
But the past doesn’t listen.
It never does.
Fluixon kneels down beside Saparata, too close, too real, murmuring something inaudible into his ear. The flowers in his lungs burst mercilessly in response, stems tightening and grounding themselves in his organs. The pain blooms, and it steals the breath right out of him.
“Figures.”
The alley comes back slowly, but eventually. Cold, dark and empty.
Fluixon is gone.
The alley tilts and Saparata vision tunnels, the little noise around him reducing to thin ringing.
Darkness cuts in gradually, he feels the cold ground against his cheek one last time before his body decides to give up.
——————————————————————————————————————————
Saparata groans, eyes fluttering open. The world swims into blurry shapes, harsh light bleeding in and out of his vision. He’s stuck with the worst headache in the world and his day hasn’t even started yet— the hangover hitting him like a punching bag.
He feels the same familiar petals in his mouth, pinching the inside of it before pulling out pieces of bloody petals.
His body isn’t able to muster up the strength to cough anymore, in fact, it doesn’t seem to be fighting the disease, accepting it with open arms.
One of these days, Saparata knows he’ll choke silently on the flowers, and he’ll never get the chance to even force out the words he’s wanted to say to Fluixon then.
A tired laugh escapes him, he doubts the fact that he’ll even live past today.
The thought doesn’t scare him as much as it should.
He doesn’t want to die, at least not here. Not in a crappy alley that reeks of alcohol and rust.
He doesn’t want to be found crumpled on the ground pathetically, the last impression of him reduced to a fool who couldn’t control his heart’s desire. He doesn’t want to die in such an exposed and helpless state, left in a foreign nation where no one truly knew him.
Saparata brings himself to his feet, stumbling with every step. The sun hasn’t fully set yet, the sky a pale shade of yellow and the moon still barely a visible grey. He starts making his way towards the direction of the sun, towards a sacred flower field.
Before he goes, he wants to shoot Fluixon one final message.
.
Saparata walks on, the flower field growing closer, a patchwork of soft colors brushing against the pale light. The scent of nature mingles with the cool morning air as peace settles within him.
The fear of being caught no longer plagues him, and escape wasn’t the only thing playing in his mind now.
The flowers stretch endless towards the horizon, a riot of colours under the soft sunrays.
Saparata lowers himself onto the grassy surface, allowing himself to be swallowed by the flora as he dug his shoes into the soil. His hands steady as he takes out a scrappy small journal from his satchel, its pages full with reminders and warnings about the disease.
He carefully tears out a page from the journal, laying it flat on his lap as he planned on what to write.
For a long while, he doesn’t write anything. His pen hovering as he stared at the blank paper like it was judging him— daring him to write something. He didn’t think there was anything he could write that could possibly show how he felt.
When he finally begins, the pen scratches softly, although the sound too loud in the quiet morning.
~
To my dear Fluixon,
Before I leave this world, I want to leave it without regrets.
The moment you are reading this, I am already dead.
I didn’t want things to end the way they did, with hatred harbouring in my heart and despise in yours. I don’t imagine you will receive this letter, but I nonetheless must write it.
The words I’ve wanted to say to you can no longer come out of my mouth, but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be heard. This will be my final message to you.
There’s a good man within you, Fluixon, and I know that whatever the reason you betrayed me for was for a greater good, a good that you cannot achieve without a sacrifice.
And I suppose I was the easiest thing for you to give up.
Sometimes I wonder what went through your head when you decided to use me as your scapegoat. Were you afraid? Hesitant? Or did you do it without a second thought?
Whatever the case, I want you to know that I forgive you.
As I’m writing this, I’m watching the sunset and it is as beautiful as you said it was. I wish you were here with me right now, and I wish you could watch it with me one last time, just like when we were younger.
But I guess fools don’t get their way, do they?
I loved you, and I still do, I’ve never stopped, even when flowers filled my chest and living became a chore— I’ve never learned to stop.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Never forget me, my love.
Love,
Saps.
~
Saparata folds the letter neatly, hoping for it to be at least presentable if Fluixon ever came across it.
.
He can feel the inevitable finally happening.
He snapped forward as the cough took him, tearing his body through relentless convulsions , dragging the breath out of him and refusing to give it back.
His lungs spasmed uselessly, locking shut before exploding as another cough ripped through his throat, so violent it felt it might tear it into shreds.
Petals didn’t fall out this time, instead, full bloomed clematis took their place as his mouth spilled them like rain on a stormy night.
He clawed at the ground, then at his chest as he fought for breath, gagging and retching as his body desperately tried to remember how to breathe.
Each convulsion slammed through him harder than the last, snapping his body forward again and again, till his forehead touched the earthy ground as he clenched his hands around his throat.
His knees dug into the soil, the only thing grounding him while itself trembled involuntarily.
So this is it.
Saparata stops coughing, falling to the ground as he curls up on his side. The flowers now fully block his airway, any further attempt he made to breathe was met with horrific wet muffles.
The world around him fades into a bordering vignette as his eyes grow weary and tired, unable to keep themselves open for much longer. He allows himself to be reclaimed into the earth, after all, what’s a better way to go out than die in a bed of flowers?
In his final moments, he admires the setting sun as it paints the sky in all sorts of reddish and purplish hues. He pretends that Fluixon’s right beside him, just like on that fateful day when he first showed him this place.
He clutches the letter to his chest, whispering a quiet prayer in the hopes that Fluixon will find him and read the words he’s wanted to say for so long.
“Goodbye, Fluixon.”