Archive of Our Own

When Saparata first stepped into the palace, he wasn’t sure what to think. Only that it was vast, and bigger than he was, and that it wasn’t his. 

Dull, pristine, and white walls boxed him in from every corner; the marbled floors were no different. There was a scent that made the place feel as if it had been scrubbed a mere five minutes earlier, with no trace of dust or dirt. Expensive porcelain vases and a series of portraits of ancestors lined the halls like a warped museum, and the lack of character in the structure made it feel like it was meant to be looked at rather than lived in. There would be no sign of life if it weren’t for the presence of the woman beside him.

The maid—whose name Saparata could not recall among the countless other housekeepers—turns to him with a placid expression, tone leveled as she speaks. “You’ve already been told what your job is, but you mustn’t forget. The young master is a… nice boy, although he tends to have trouble connecting with other children his age. I hope with your help, you’ll be able to improve that. All you need to do is keep him safe and stay by his side. Do remember, you cannot let the young master find out that you are not human.” 

“I understand,” he replies after a beat, nodding his head as he looks straight ahead.

Frankly, Saparata didn’t understand why he had to keep his identity a secret. It’s not that robots were some new and scary thing; in fact, they were extremely common.

He was part of a batch of robots mass-produced in a facility designed for jobs like this one. He was trained and saw numerous androids work alongside him, all with the same goal: to be sent out one day into the real world, where they would work under a handler. 

For Saparata, he was simply another component of a dysfunctional world, a world where high-tech robots like him were not monitored enough, often leading to corruption.

Glancing down at himself, he took in his attire, unable to get a proper look at it until now. He was donning typical butler apparel, the same clothes the male adults in the household wore, smaller in size. It was a black suit with a blazer and trousers, paired with a neatly done black tie; a proper uniform for proper work.

Whoever designed him did a good job at replicating the appearance of a child; he was in disbelief the first time he saw his reflection in the mirror. Pale skin with no blemishes except for the small moles on each side of his cheek, smooth and plastic-like. Mid-length white hair, with bangs that would be stabbing into his eyeballs if they were slightly longer than they already were. Despite all the refined and artificial features, he wasn’t quite able to perfect the youthful appearance. His eyes had a flat, white, almost gloomy look, the line of his mouth straight and unmoving.

He supposed it couldn’t be helped. He wasn’t a human, or a child for that matter. He didn’t look like this when he was initially built, and it was difficult to move around in a severely different body. They likely transferred his memory chip to this smaller form to help sell his role.

Tugging down on his sleeves, Saparata forces down a sigh as he stares ahead at the room door.

The door in front of him looked like a huge black gap, swallowing up his vision with dark, deep blends of woods that Saparata couldn’t possibly fathom the cost of. Not that the cost mattered, nor did money; money had no value to him. 

Diverting his attention to the taller woman at his side, he watches as she raises her fist and knocks it against the door; the sound of heavy thuds echoes lightly in his ears. “Young master? May we come in? It’s time to meet your new butler.”

When he didn’t respond, Saparata thought that the child must be asleep. He quickly scratches that thought when he hears a surprisingly steady and articulate voice speak through the door.

“I thought I told you yesterday that I don’t need a butler; it’s unnecessary.”

“Young master, he’s a very nice boy. I think you’d like him.”

“I’m not interested. Please leave, and tell my father that, again, I don’t need a butler.”

Puzzled, the maid lowers her hand, turning to Saparata as she offers him an apologetic look. “My apologies. He’s like this with all the new employees; he’s not trying to purposely offend you.”

“It’s no problem, ma’am,” he replies, expressionless as he stares holes into the door.

If he’s not liked by his handler, he guessed that couldn’t be helped either.

He heard stories of robots being dismantled for merely being disliked by their owners. Would he also be dismantled because his handler didn’t want him? 

The manuals repeated to him that dismantlement was a mercy that not every android is granted. And sometimes, he can’t help but wonder what it would feel like. Would it be similar to how sleep would feel? He’s never slept before; it’s never been implemented into his systems. He was a machine that ran at all hours of the day. 

It was pointless to dwell on useless and meaningless questions, anyway. He was parts and metal at the end of the day. If he were asked to tear himself limb from limb, he’d be expected to do so. It was only natural with the strings of code and instructions ingrained in his systems.

Another three knocks rhymatically tapped the hardwood.

“I thought I told you I didn’t want to see him.”

The maid paid no mind to the remark. “Young master, your father would greatly appreciate it if you met this boy. He’s about your age. Please give him a chance.”

When the boy didn’t respond for a minute or two, she opened her mouth again to speak, closing it when she was interrupted by a click of a lock unlocking, the door slowly opening a slim amount, revealing a glimpse of the boy inside.

“Will he actually appreciate it?” He peeked through the small crack that divided him and Saparata. His eyes were entirely focused on the maid, colored purple and full of suspicion and doubt. If the child’s odd behavior wasn’t inconveniencing Saparata and he was capable of feeling, he might’ve found the sight amusing.

“Of course. Your father will be very pleased that you’ve made a new friend.” She smiled gently, bending her knees so she could see eye-to-eye with the young boy. “Could you please let us in? It won’t take long, young master.”

The boy narrowed his eyes, skeptical. Eventually, the door gives in a little more, revealing the inside of the chambers and a clearer view of the child himself.

Parallel to the size of the rest of the estate, the room was well-furnished with the same dark and polished wood as the door. Like the corridors Saparata had been standing in, the room held no trace of personality, no hint of the character the owner had. The only object visible to him as he scanned the room was a single, untouched violin, preserved and resting on a stand in one corner, next to a giant wooden bookshelf, rich with multiple works of literature. Classics from authors like Tolstoy and Chekov—books with thousands of pages and words, dense and boring, stuff that children should not have the patience, or the brainpower, to actually get through. Covered in silk and linen was a bed pressed into the corner, curtains attached to the canopy, and neatly pushed to the side.

In the middle of the chambers, standing atop a dark blue carpet, was a small boy.

He was young, around the same age Saparata was designed to look, with short black hair faded purple around the ends and long bangs. His face wore a flat expression, with a mole near his bottom lip. His loose white blouse with the dark purple vest over it reminded him of the various photos he had seen of the boy wearing similar clothing. Below, he had black dress pants and dark brown oxfords for his feet. The crown on his head topped it all off; he looked like the definition of a dignified child.

With the door shutting behind them, the maid gracefully bows to the boy in front of her. Upon noticing her movements, Saparata immediately followed in sync.

“Young master, this is Saparata, your new butler. He’ll be around you from now on, so please do try to get along,” gesturing to the boy beside her. 

“I’ll do my best, sir.” He bows again, one hand placed where his heart would be, the other resting at his side, head dipped down as he waits for the other to address him.

A brief silence stretched across the room before the boy finally let up when a sufficient amount of time had passed. “You can call me Fluixon, or Flux, whatever’s easier. We’re the same age, anyway.” The boy—Fluixon sighs, looking at Saparata emotionlessly.

Nodding, he straightened up.

“That’s good. Getting familiar with him fast will help you two in the long run. I’ll leave you two to it, then?” The maid smiled, flattening down the apron on her long dress. “Please do let me know if you need help getting settled.”

“Thank you, miss,” Fluixon says, his eyes never leaving Saparata as she turns and leaves the room. As she closes the door behind her, the sound of the door shutting echoes, leaving behind an awkward stillness.

The door clicked shut, leaving Saparata’s gaze to settle on Fluixon. Silence pooled between them until the noble eventually drifted towards the window. He stood with his back to him, eyes peering at Saparata’s reflection through the glass, deep in thought.

It wasn’t Saparata who broke the silence.

“Just so that you know, we aren’t friends. I have no interest in becoming friends with you,” Fluixon states.

“I understand, sir.”

The reply makes the once motionless Fluixon’s eyebrow raise, slowly turning his head to finally look at him without reluctance, tipping his head to the side. “I thought I told you to call me by my name. Aren’t you going to attempt to befriend me? Everyone else tried to.”

“No. I respect you and your wishes. If you do not wish to befriend me, then I have no intentions to do so either. My only purpose as your butler is to serve and protect you.” 

A beat. Fluixon scoffs, the immediate compliance unexpected.

“Hm. Sure,” he murmured, turning to the window. “I’ll give you a month. That’s usually how long it takes before they get sick of it and leave.” He climbed onto the windowsill, pulling the heavy book left on the side onto his lap. “Do whatever you like until then, just don’t bother me. We both have better things we could be doing.”

Saparata nodded and stopped replying at that point; it’s not like Fluixon had anything else to say to him, as evidenced by the finality in his words. He could’ve made a better attempt at befriending him; he should’ve. He’s sure that was what Fluixon’s family would have wanted, but it wasn’t in his nature to comfort children. 

He’ll adjust; he’ll have to. There isn’t anything else for him to learn. He’s stuck here till Fluixon dies, or Saparata winds up getting dismantled somehow, and he finds that he isn’t fond of any of those options. 

It’s fine, he thinks. After all, this was all Saparata was designed to do: to adjust and learn.

What happens after that is—well, not much. 

Fluixon doesn’t talk to Saparata, not unless it's telling him to go away or the occasional one-word sentence. The obvious disdain for him made Saparata wonder if he ever managed to get along with any of the previous people who had held his position. He didn’t seem to mind it; he might’ve preferred the silence. It was easier to think when he didn’t have to listen to the mindless blabbering of a child.

The life of a royal was mundane, maybe even more than a commoner’s. All Fluixon did was stay at the palace all day. 

Being homeschooled meant constantly being surrounded by numerous tutors for different subjects, presumably costing a fortune to hire, and they all seemed to bore Fluixon. Whenever it was time to sit down and study, the boy would sit and work without any argument, face blank as he flipped through books.

Saparata wondered how he did it.

Since he can’t leave Fluixon’s side, he’s made to sit in on the lessons as well. He doesn’t listen to the lectures—human education was essentially useless, considering he’s spent the majority of his manufactured life learning. The teachers don’t mind; they don’t acknowledge him most of the time.

When the time came for him to take out a notebook, he would settle for passively watching Fluixon, who sat beside him, leaning his head on his hand, uninterested in the current teacher’s lecture and occasionally jotting notes on a sheet of paper.

He knew his staring was noticeable, and he honestly thought Fluixon didn’t mind. The first few times, Fluixon simply gave him a weird look, then went back to whatever he was focusing on. 

So, the next time he watched Fluixon and the noble’s face abruptly grimaced, pencil stilling mid-sentence, lead nearly snapping as his grip tightened on the tool in a way that evidently told him to knock it off.

Saparata did not knock it off.

And that appeared to tick Fluixon off, because when the lesson ended, and the teacher was out of sight, Fluixon approached him with a finger jabbing into the center of his chest, poking into the fabric of his clothes, the gesture accusatory and heated. 

“What is it?” he snapped. “What are you looking for? Who are you reporting to? My father? Are you noting down every time I lose focus?”

Saparata stared blankly in response.

He didn’t get what the big deal was. Did humans find it bothersome to be observed? He just wanted to understand what kind of person the prince was. He thinks that in any other situation, a child being yelled at like this would cry or maybe attempt to pick a fight, but Saparata doesn’t think he is a child. He never got the chance to have a childhood. 

Looking at Fluixon with a calm look, he tilts his head to the side, mimicking the way humans display confusion, an expression he had observed in the first week of the job. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, sir. I simply can’t protect you if I can’t see you.”

“What type of excuse is that?” Fluixon scowls, gritting his teeth as he yanks his hand away from Saparata, not before giving the butler a shove in the middle of his chest. A barely effective action, considering Saparata’s body was made of pure steel and parts. 

“Fine. I don’t care. It’s not like I can stop you, anyway. Keep following my father’s orders if you want, maybe it’ll make you mean something,” he grumbles, turning around and marching out of the room, closing the door shut.

Saparata stood in a daze for a second, registering what had just happened. Then, he shook his head, promptly running after him, a few steps behind as he called out his name.

“I don’t think you are supposed to be outside at this time, sir.”

“My father won’t notice if that’s what you’re worried about,” Fluixon answered, tone conversational, as if he were without a care in the world. 

The boy was kneeling on the ground, watching ants gather around a single bread crumb on the gravel. 

“Look.” He tears off a corner of the bread he had in his hand and tosses it to the bugs. They greedily swarm the piece. “They’re so quick to jump at opportunities. Reminds me of you.”

“Me?” Saparata observed the scene from above, motionless with his hands folded to his sides. “Why do you say that? Is there anything wrong with being like that?”

Do kids tend to do senseless activities like studying the way ants act? Saparata isn’t sure, though he thinks that Fluixon wasn’t acting like a kid either, at least, not as a typical one would. He didn’t know of any kids as strange as him.

“Not really. This job is the only thing that gives you value, after all. That does sound depressing, though.” He tossed the rest of the bread down, shaking the excess crumbs off his hands first, then wiping the dirt off his pants.

“What do you know about depression? You’re a kid.”

“I think you know by now that I’m not a clueless drooling baby. There’s a book in my chambers called ‘Decayed and Decrepit’ that you should read up on; lots of mentions about depression in it, and there are zombies if you’re interested in that.” Fluixon was deep in thought as he walked, kicking a rock that was in his way. Saparata merely followed behind him.

“Zombies?”

“Yeah. Haven’t you heard about those in games? Kids like fictional stories, I’d assume you’re the same.”

“I can’t say I’ve played any games. I’ve never had the free time.”

“None at all?” He turned, nearly making Saparata bump into him if he hadn’t caught himself. “What kind of conditions do they have you working in?”

“Is it surprising? I’ve never had the opportunity to do anything once work was done,” Saparata questioned, remembering the facilities and the endless tasks he had to do. As soon as his daily requests were fulfilled, he would be sent back to a dormitory where he would “rest”. There wasn’t anything for him in those dormitories but beds and empty walls. He can’t think of an instant when they would allow him to do anything but work.

“Being a commoner must be terrible.” Fluixon visibly frowned. “A life without any sense of autonomy…”

“It doesn’t seem a lot better here, though,” Saparata commented.

He blinks. “Yeah. I guess not.”

There’s a stumped expression on Fluixon’s face as he stood in place, thinking. 

Saparata didn’t know what he was doing, but that didn’t bother him. What was beginning to bother him, however, was the setting sun and the fact that the night sky was forming extremely fast.

“Shall we get going, sir? It’s getting late.” Saparata gestured towards the palace, the estate illuminated by the lanterns, casting them in a soft yellow glow.

“What do you do outside of working here?”

“What?”

“The housekeepers are secretive; they never tell me what they do when they go home. Do you ever leave? I know some workers live in the servants' quarters.”

“Sir—”

“You do look a little younger, but I think you’re the same age as me. Those are for grown-ups only.” Fluixon resumed walking, disregarding the other’s earlier statement about the time. Saparata could only follow.

If Saparata were to give him an answer, he would likely be working another job, considering that commoner wages are astronomically low; they usually work numerous jobs. But that’s only if he were a normal human, which he is not.

“Sir, it’s late.”

“You can still answer. I know some of the housekeepers’ hobbies, things they like; I don’t know a single thing about you.”

What Fluixon said wasn’t a lie; Saparata was an anomaly. He hasn’t met a butler or maid remotely similar to him at all, since all the past ones have been predictable to some degree. The fact that he has been unable to predict him since they met was beginning to tick him off. 

Sneaking a look at the boy over his shoulder, he could tell that at some point, his words had faded into the background, becoming white noise in Saparata's ears. 

“You’re doing it again,” he sighs. His heels clinked against the stone path. “I’m speaking to you, Saparata.”

Saparata’s attention returns at the mention of his name, pace smooth behind Fluixon despite the uneven ground. “I know. I can hear you, sir.”

“If you’re going to lie to my face, at least be more convincing about it.” He spun around, annoyed. 

He meant to keep pushing, wanting to dissect his butler’s mind, but the words stalled as he realized something was off. The stone path beneath him was engulfed by thin vines.

It was then that he noticed the change in their surroundings. Lush and untrimmed bushes, the air strong with earth, recognizing quickly that he was standing in the area that he had been forbidden to go into—the deeper parts of the estate’s garden. He didn’t know why; he never asked.

He found his answer as he looked up, breath hitching.

Emerging from the night was a glasshouse, presumably abandoned, rusting, its white paint peeling like dead skin and covered in overgrowth and vines. The glass panes reflected the moonlight, but half of them were missing, leaving jagged gaps.

“I don’t think we should get too close to that,” the butler tries, and Fluixon shuts it down.

“Hold on. My father never allowed me to go past these parts before. I think it might’ve belonged to my mother.”

“Listen to me.” 

Fluixon went to step on the glasshouse’s porch, intending to ignore Saparata and force him to follow him. The second his foot was about to land, Saparata’s hand shot out, grabbing him by his shoulder with a crushing grip. His tone was startlingly firm when he spoke.

“Wait.”

The word makes his body freeze in an instant, heart rate spiking abnormally high.

He looked at Saparata, expecting to be scolded, but the expression he had was different. It was an expression he had never had before. His eyes weren’t on Fluixon; he was looking above him, eyes widened by a fraction, almost fearful. Fluixon followed his eyes, though when he moved his head, giving the smallest indication of movement, Saparata’s voice cut in, his face neutralizing to that stony, dull expression.

“Something is wrong,” Saparata murmured, his sensors picking up the sound of metal groaning, a sound Fluixon’s human ears didn’t catch. “It’s going to fall. We need to move. Now.”

“What? There’s no way it can—”

Fluixon did not have time to finish his sentence when a high-pitched pang echoed—followed by the sound of a bolt snapping right after. About fifty feet above them, a pane of glass shattered, and shards of glass quickly rained down like hail.

Fluixon might not have the agility for it, but Saparata had been trained for this his whole life. His eyes quickly scanned their surroundings, searching for a possible escape route that would be easy for children their age to escape through. Noting a small path to the right of Fluixon, away from the glass structure, he hastily grabs his hand, dashing straight to the location without hesitation.

As he’s grabbed, Fluixon elicits a surprised noise as Saparata pulls both of their bodies forward. The structure begins to crumble in time for him to turn his head, the walls of glass tearing down like nothing. Dirt and dust spread everywhere in a muddled cloud, clogging his throat and making him cough.

Saparata pays it no mind. 

“Mind your feet, sir.” He accelerated, forcing Fluixon to gather himself, not wanting to fall behind and trip on his feet.

“How did that thing even get like this?” Fluixon, as he peeks over his shoulder, watches in dismay as another section of the roof falls, trailing them as a wave of glass showers on them.

“I would also like to know. Thought being royalty meant that your family was rich,” Saparata steadily replied, gripping onto Fluixon hard, ensuring he kept up the pace. 

“It shouldn’t be possible! The structure was built to last decades—”

“Guess the architects made an oversight. Better go tell your father about that after we get back inside.”

“Are we even going to make it back? It’s coming down so fast—”

“We are. Just believe in me.”

Fluixon did not, in fact, believe in Saparata. But he was all he had in the moment, so he’s going to have to believe it as he’s hauled to an unknown section of the garden he was never allowed into.

Weaving through greenery and shrubs, Fluixon’s head spun as his energy drained, the action too much for a kid who had been sheltered his entire life.

Judging by the glass getting increasingly louder, Saparata determines that they have only a few seconds to spare before the rest of the structure completely collapses. If the glass were to fall onto him, he could handle that. He’ll have to make sure Fluixon lost sight of him before he can properly handle the situation without letting him know he was a robot. If it were to land on Fluixon? That’d be a problem, but he’s not letting that happen if he has any say in it. 

Ideally, none of them gets caught under the glass. 

In the corner of Saparata’s eyes, a shard directly aims for the top of Fluixon’s head. Fluixon felt his feet leave the gravel, and without a second thought, Saparata twists his body, grasping onto him as he shields him, taking the brunt of the fall. Their feet tripped and tangled together, sending them tumbling towards their destination and over the vegetation.

It’s a jumbled mess of limbs and confusion as they lose their footing. Saparata finds himself submerged in a giant bush the next time he opens his eyes, scratched up by the thin, prickly sticks of wood.

He has to take a second to register what had happened, trying to move to find Fluixon. A light groan beside him stops the hurried motions.

A short feeling of relief washes over him before he rushes to slap a hand over the boy’s mouth, effectively silencing him as he peeks out from the leaves. “Don’t speak. The guards will probably come to investigate. Stay still.”

Based on the flash of irritation in his eyes and his body going rigid, Fluixon appeared to have a few things to say. He pushes aside his personal feelings as he follows Saparata’s eyes, opting to stay silent and trust his judgment.

Through the gaps of the bushes, the dust cloud began to settle. The boy shifts, moving to get a better view and shuffling against the leaves, resulting in Saparata clamping his hand down tighter and receiving another glare.

Making a hushing motion with his hand, the corners of his mouth twitched up as if he’d smiled at the fire that burned in Fluixon’s eyes in response. Something was amusing about how adamantly angry the noble was all the time, and he couldn’t help but nearly laugh. Fluixon’s eyes weirdly softened by a fraction at the expression, his shoulders lowering as his posture relaxed, breathing evening out.

The moment faded as quickly as it came as Saparata sharpened his focus. The sound of boots against stone and the panicked shouts from what he presumed were the royal guards approaching them grew louder.

For a while, the two sat in those shrubs, breathing as quietly as possible as they waited. From beyond the bushes, the discussion about the glasshouse was white noise to Saparata, who was focused on how he was going to get Fluixon back inside. Loosening his grip, he releases his hold on Fluixon’s mouth when he’s certain he wouldn’t put them in danger.

That trust is almost immediately ruined when the leaves brush against Saparata’s arms. He’s about to give an unamused look at Fluixon, stopping when he takes in the view.

Fluixon’s head was beginning to fall forward, occasionally jerking back up as if realizing he was still in active danger, and drooping back down again when he calmed. The sound of the stirring caused the leaves to crinkle, and if it weren’t for the breeze of the night blowing the plants surrounding them, they might as well have been caught by now.

Silently sliding himself closer to the nodding off boy with a muted scoff, he nearly jolts him back awake as he guides Fluixon’s head to his shoulder, ignoring the perplexed face he gave him.

If Fluixon weren’t as exhausted as he was, he probably would have had a lot to complain about. But he didn’t complain; he shockingly gave in to whatever Saparata was doing, relaxing his body as he leaned his whole weight on his shoulder.

Ignoring the glasshouse and the guards, the scene was almost peaceful. Fluixon wouldn’t have allowed this, usually. Saparata wasn’t sure if he would have allowed it either, but he didn’t mind. Maybe, for a second, it made him think that this was what life could have been if he were a regular child with regular friends. 

The talking vanished, and if the crunching of the glass nearby wasn’t an indication that the guards were gone, Saparata looked in time to catch sight of the last one leaving the garden, likely to report the situation to their boss.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Saparata stops when the body beside him slumps, head leaning on his shoulder. Fluixon had completely dozed off, asleep with a peaceful expression. 

The predicament made him feel weird. Like it wasn’t supposed to happen.

Allowing this was wrong; he knew it was wrong.

It was wrong to long to be anything more than an android to a human, and yet, just for a moment, Saparata wanted to chase this feeling. For a moment, he wanted to be able to spare a few minutes for Fluixon to rest till they had to head back.

As he sits back down, gently repositioning Fluixon’s head on his shoulder, he finds himself nearly smiling for the second time that night. 

“You’re not human, are you?”

“Whatever do you mean by that?” Saparata stared at the boy lying on the bed, whose body was covered in bandages.

“You could’ve woken me up. What’s the point in dragging me when I was half-awake? People could have seen.” Fluixon moved around on the mattress, ruffling the sheets and making them uneven.

“But there’s only housekeepers here. I think they’d be more worried about the glasshouse falling apart than me ‘dragging’ you.” 

“That… is actually a very good point. I didn’t know that you were capable of making those.”

“You don’t know a lot of things about me,” Saparata responds as he examines his own body, checking for any visible scratches. He wouldn’t need bandages for minor things like scratches, and he doesn’t know why Fluixon had as many as he did. The nurses acted dramatically when Saparata carried him there, but he chalked it up to them being fond of the boy and not wanting to see him injured.

Besides, it’s not like Saparata wanted Fluixon to be injured either. He’s glad they got out with as minimal damage as they did.

The chair made a soft screeching noise as he stood, stepping away to wash his hands. A few steps in, a voice called for him.

“Hey.”

The clacks on the marbled floor ceased as he turned. “... Yes, sir?”

“Thanks. For—for saving me, I mean. It’s your job and all, but I probably would’ve been dead if it weren’t for you. So, I guess, thank you.”

He stares at Fluixon with a vacant expression.

Unexpectedly, Saparata offers him a small smile. “Does this mean you’ll stop trying to fire me every morning?” 

The smile makes Fluixon’s brain malfunction, his mouth hanging open as a blank look forms on his face, not expecting the gesture. When he regains his composure, he gives a displeased and vexed scowl at Saparata. “If I said yes, would it make you stop being so unreadable?” 

“Yeah. It would, probably. For a little.”

“How about forever?”

“For now.”

“Why did it get worse?”

“Take it or leave it.”

Fluixon disengages as he lies back down on the bed, not willing to entertain Saparata’s games anymore.

It wasn’t a confirmation, but Saparata wasn’t greedy. It was enough for him. 

“If you’re going to give me the silent treatment for the rest of the night, I’ll be going now. It’s getting late, sir. Don’t forget to sleep early. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Humming a pleased tune, he bids him a good night as he bows his head, making his way out of the room.

He didn’t wait for an answer; he knew it wouldn’t come. As the door shut behind him with a clasp of the lock, Saparata stood in the hallway for a second longer than necessary. Smiling when he hears the faint, muffled “good night” through the wood. He casually logged it as an improvement in his systems as he walked away.

“Care to explain why we’re so late today?” 

“I wonder why. Life used to be easier when I was homeschooled and I didn’t have a butler that was floating behind my every step,” Fluixon complains. He was too focused on getting to his destination that his black messenger bag nearly slid off his shoulder from the sheer speed at which he was walking.

“Also, step faster. If you’re unable to keep up the pace, why didn’t you wake me up on time?” 

“You kept telling me five more minutes,” Saparata replied, his messenger bag, the same brand as Fluixon’s, rhythmically shifting against his hip. “Who am I to defy your commands?”

“Do you only listen to my demands when it doesn’t benefit anyone? I swear, you’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what on purpose?”

“You must think you’re hilarious.”

“I am,” Saparata says as he grips his bag, pulling it up higher as he climbs the stairs.

Having Fluixon’s class be on the highest floor was unfortunate for them since it always made the pair late, but Saparata thought it made for an entertaining experience. And it’s not like there were any consequences for Saparata if he were late; he could get away with anything if he wanted to, thanks to the help of the prince.

Fluixon pushes the door open in a hurry, unintentionally slamming it against the wall and making a loud banging noise. As everyone in the room turned to look at them, Saparata plainly stood behind Fluixon, greeting the instructor with a wave.

“Oh,” the teacher starts, then realizing who interrupted her class, changes her demeanor. “Your highness, we are honored to have you join us… even if we are halfway through the lesson. Please take a seat. I’ll provide you with the notes you missed after class. Please share it with your friend as well.” She turned to the blackboard and continued jotting down equations with chalk, turning a blind eye to their tardiness, as per usual.

With a shrug, Fluixon takes a seat as Saparata takes the one beside him. He hangs the black, sleek messenger bag off the chair’s backrest, picking up and doing the same for Fluixon’s bag, left on the floor.

As class progressed, Saparata tuned out the teacher’s instructions to monitor Fluixon out of the corner of his eye, analyzing his appearance and the way he worked. A routine he developed some time back.

The teen hasn’t changed much over the years, looking more aged, but that’s to be expected.

His hair was fairly the same, still short, only that it was slightly more purple at the tips, and maybe a few centimeters longer.

Trailing his eyes down, he took small notes of the way Fluixon wore the academy’s uniform: a white collared shirt with a blue and red striped tie, layered with a gray vest on top and the academy’s jacket. On his lower half were the black standard, tailored black pants that a majority of the students wore. Saparata was wearing the same thing, except he had the optional navy blue cardigan as a replacement for the jacket. He couldn’t physically feel sensations like heat or cold, so he wore what he wanted to without a care, disregarding the students who complained about how hot the uniform could get.

And because Fluixon grew up, he had to grow up as well. He had his model replaced with an appearance more fitting of his age, and like Fluixon, he looked relatively the same. The manufacturers did extend his hair a bit, though it wasn’t anything special; he was still recognizable. 

Fluixon is yet to catch on to the fact that he’s not human. Whether Saparata is surprised, he’s unsure.

It’s not that he acted out of the ordinary; he’s been acting the same since he was first assigned to Fluixon. Surely after all this time, some things would make Fluixon suspect that something was off, especially with how observant he was, like, for example, the fact that Saparata is strangely durable and barely gets injured, or that he’s impossible to move and cold to the touch.

Perhaps they’ve been around each other for so long that Fluixon thought Saparata was simply like that. Saparata could recall a few quirks about Fluixon, too, like how he enjoys going on walks and dragging Saparata along with him, and how he goes on these talks about the structural foundation of the palace’s towers or the puzzles he’s into.

Maybe they’ve grown closer than Saparata thought. 

Saparata’s line of thought stops when Fluixon taps on the wood of the desk. 

“Are you done? Class is over, and you’re sitting here wasting away. You’d probably be less distracted all the time if you stopped with that creepy staring habit that you have,” Fluixon says, head leaning on his hand as he looks at Saparata, who’s staring at him cluelessly. 

“What’s wrong with it?” 

“I don’t like it.”

“So?”

“So stop?”

“I don’t feel like it,” Saparata remarked, standing up from his seat, grabbing his bag as he pushed the chair in. “It’s lunch, right? Are you going to go meet those two?”

“‘Those two’. Can’t you make a better effort to learn their names? It’s been some time since we met them.”

“They’re your friends; I barely talk to them.”

“I can hardly call them friends, but you could at least try, too.” Fluixon facepalms, picks up his messenger bag, and pushes past desks and chairs as Saparata follows close behind. 

The dining hall was decently sized, huge for the number of students attending the academy. It was clean and fancy, the standard for people of Fluixon’s class. Saparata has never been in a commoner school before, but he’s heard less-than-savory things about them.

An attendant serves Fluixon’s plate on the table with a clink, dipping their head to the prince before walking away. Usually, when they have lunch, Fluixon would direct the two to a large round table made out of walnut wood and stainless steel. Already in his seat, he gestured for Saparata to sit.

Saparata looks side to side, first at the empty table, then at Fluixon with a puzzled look. “Where are they?”

“Thomas and Micro? Probably buying stuff at the patisserie,” the noble replies as he stuffs a mouthful of rice in his mouth.

“Oh, so those are their names.”

He shoots him a look that Saparata ignores. Settling next to him, he rests his head on his arms, a pose similar to the one his classmates who slept in class did. With nothing to do and no lunch to eat, he takes to observing Fluixon. 

The meal wasn’t remarkable by any means; it was better than average at the bare minimum. It did what it had to do, consisting of the necessary nutrients and flavors—supposedly. Tuition costs were hefty, and it wasn’t easy getting admitted. It made sense that the academy was generous with portions compared to their commoner counterparts.

“Are you going to keep watching me like that? If you’re hungry, go ask the chefs for food. They can prepare something for you if you ask now.” Fluixon chewed on what Saparata presumed was beef. 

“It’s probably too late anyway, and I’m not hungry.” 

“You’re never hungry. Do you even eat at all? I’ve never seen you eat before.” 

“Of course I eat,” Saparata lies through his teeth. “I just don’t like how the academy prepares food, that’s all.”

“How do you know you hate it if you’ve never tried it? Your stomach is going to cave in if you don’t eat. Go get something before lunch ends.”

“I don’t need to eat in front of you to prove to you that I—”

“As the youngest prince of the Aculon Family, I am ordering you to eat. That is my request, and as my butler, you are expected to follow that.”

“Wow,” Saparata breathes out, “Abusing your power over me? Again? This is what I mean when I say there’s a power imbalance between us.” The table shifted as he sat up properly.

He would love it if he could eat and get Fluixon’s demand over with, but the thing is, with how he was built, he can’t eat without damaging his systems. Unlike certain models that included designs to stimulate eating for social reasons, his model was incapable of it. He knew that if he kept denying Fluixon’s requests, he’d keep pushing until he followed them or some agreement was met. It’s as if he were still dealing with the arrogant child he met all those years ago.

“I’ll eat something, but I’m not getting up and disturbing one of the attendants. You either give me something from your plate, or you’ll have to deal with me not eating,” he proposed, crossing his arms, not budging from his seat.

“You’ve got to be kidding—”

“Hey, your highness! Hi Saps! Nice to see that you guys actually showed up.”

Near the sturdy beams of the dining hall, a boy waves at them, his tan skin glittering with a pretty yellow glow from the reflective lighting.

If Saparata’s memory serves him correctly, Fluixon said his name not too long ago. Something along the lines of Thomas. He had to dig into his memory to recall when he had seen him, not one to recognize or keep personal profiles of people he’s uninterested in. He vaguely remembered him being a part of the student council. 

“Oh, great, it’s you two…” Fluixon groans.

A figure loomed near Thomas like a shadow. Shifting his head to the side, Saparata’s eyebrow raises at their appearance. White, short hair, and two interestingly placed moles on his cheeks. This was the boy that students kept mixing Saparata up with due to how nearly identical they looked. On the first day of the academy, several students came up to him asking if he had a twin brother, and when he was finally able to meet him, he understood the confusion immediately.

“Hey, guys.” He gave a small wave to the two with one hand, his other carrying a basket filled with muffins.

“Hey, Micro,” Saparata automatically replies, blurting the name out without thinking. He thinks he got it right anyway, with the way he nodded in acknowledgment. With a tiny motion, Micro took out one of the muffins from the basket and handed it to him, who took it with no question.

“We bought some stuff. Thought you guys could use the energy.” Thomas grinned.

“This is just to repay for the time I lent you guys money, isn’t it?” Fluixon questioned, unimpressed.

“Um. No? Here, take some, it’ll help you stop being so moody.” He smiled, taking the basket from Micro and placing it in front of Fluixon, giving him no time to register the action and deny it.

“Why’s there so much?”

“We just got every kind of muffin the patisserie had to offer. It wasn’t a lot; we didn’t know what you guys liked. Also, the patisserie looked too cluttered, anyway,” Thomas explains indifferently as he unpeels the wrap off the muffin, sitting next to Fluixon as he pulls Micro with him, who had placed the remaining muffins in his hands onto the table. 

Fluixon wavers and then shrugs. He gives a measly thank-you as he scavenges through the muffins, carefully picking them apart, seemingly looking for a specific flavor.

None of them appeared to appeal to Fluixon’s taste, and there were only so many flavors. He did mention not knowing what they sold at the patisserie all that well sometime back.

Saparata takes one glance at the muffin in his hand before he holds it out for Fluixon. 

Fluixon’s hands stopped as he processed the act, glancing at Saparata as he looked at the offered item. 

It was a dark brown muffin with a few chunks sticking out of it—chocolate.

“What?” he asks, a little harsher than he intended.

“Take it. You like this flavor, don’t you?” Saparata extended his hand out further, urging him to take it.

“... This isn’t your way of getting out of eating, is it?”

“Does everything I do have an ulterior motive to you?” When Fluixon doesn’t deny it, Saparata sighs, shaking his head. “If you’re that worried about it, I’ll take another one from the pile. Just take this one.”

Fluixon hesitates. Finally, he takes the baked good, mumbling a thanks as he removes the liner.

Satisfied, Saparata nods. His fingers ran over the handle of the basket, taking a muffin at random, and following what Fluixon did, peeled the liner around it. He peers at the cake, eyebrows twisting at the sight of dark purple pieces randomly scattered in it. 

It didn’t look appetizing, and Saparata doesn't exactly know where to start. Sure, he watched Fluixon eat multiple times before, but he hadn’t had a reason to eat anything or try to until now.

With a determined stare, he convinced himself that this was another task he had to do. He could do it. He’ll have to if he wants to avoid suspicion from his friends.

Well, it was mostly just Fluixon. Fluixon’s the only one who cares about this, after all. He’s also the only one whose opinion matters, with him being his handler and also the one who decides whether he lives or dies. He supposed that he could handle the system problems he would get from it later. 

Grasping the baked good, he gradually guides it to his mouth, movements awkward and robotic-like. If his friends noticed, they did not comment on it.

Expectantly, it tasted like nothing. 

“What flavor is that?” Micro asked suddenly.

“Um,” Saparata stops to look at the cake in his hand. “Blueberry, I think. Looks like it.”

“Taste good?”

“It tastes fine.”

“Maybe I’ll give it a try next time, then,” Micro says, taking no action to take any of the muffins from the basket.

“You’re not eating? You bought them.” Saparata tilts his head, curious. The sensors in his mouth moved strangely as he chewed.

“No, not a fan of sweet stuff. I’ll eat when I get home, probably.”

Saparata didn't question it any further, placing the unfinished muffin on the table after a few bites. 

“Suit yourself,” he replies. His phone lights up with a small gleam as he turns it on to the lock screen, trying to remember the minutes he has till the bell rings. With an emotionless face, he looked up from the device, tone light and casual as he spoke, “Hey, do you guys know what time lunch ends?”

Saparata stands over the giant trash bin, coughing as he tries to hack up the unwanted content he consumed earlier. 

“I should seriously start saying no to Flux more…” he murmured, swiping his finger across his lip, smearing the dark red liquid that lingered on the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t blood; it was a mix of oil and debris, built up over time, that somehow got in his system. The smell of metal was overbearing in his throat, suffocating. He must have damaged one of the seals near that area during the purge, causing internal fluid to seep out.

There were easier ways to get rid of the food. Saparata knows there is, but he couldn’t open his stomach component right then and there. He can’t reach in if he wanted to; there was a bunch compacted down there. It’d be like performing surgery on himself, or defusing a highly complicated bomb that will go off if he barely brushes against it. It wasn’t something he wanted to risk doing at a school, of all places.

His systems were working overtime, the fans inside of him going in reverse to push the food back up, a process it definitely wasn’t designed to be doing. Until he gets home and can properly assess the situation, he’s stuck forcing out as much food as he possibly can this way, and he’s highly considering quitting his job and sending himself off to dismantlement because of it.

In the middle of another coughing fit, a voice interrupts his plans.

“Geez, did it taste that bad? Guess you were lying when you said it tasted fine.”

He swiftly turns his head to find a familiar person with pale skin blocking the entrance of the bathroom, their white hair falling to the side as they give him an unreadable look.

Caught red-handed. 

“This,” Saparata began, his voice raspy, “isn’t what it looks like.”

“Well, it looks like you’re throwing up,” Micro points out flatly. He stepped further into the room, glancing at the trash bin and the dark red liquid in it. “I don’t think throw up is that color, though.”

Saparata takes a second to recover as he sucks in a breath and swallows, pushing down that imaginary lump in his throat—maybe it was the food he’s been working so hard to get out. He doesn’t think he can get out of this with a lie. “... No. No, it’s not. Because it’s oil. I’m not human.”

“I know.” Micro nods, conversational. “I’m not either.” 

The confession was so spontaneous that Saparata’s head went blank. “... What?”

“I don’t eat, either,” Micro said. “I just like to buy stuff with Thomas. I wasn’t sure at the time if your model would be able to eat food or not, but I guess I figured it out. You shouldn’t do that. No idea why you did. You could permanently damage some internal things doing that.”

Saparata looks him up and down, noting the similar appearance they shared, white hair and moles and all. It’s strange how he didn’t notice. Androids had no set appearance, so he thought it was some coincidence that he ended up closely resembling a human. He didn’t know how two robots could be customized the exact same way.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he frowns at how painfully obvious his synthetic skin looks. Too robotic. Maybe Micro’s dark, blank eyes should have been a sign, but humans could have darker eyes, too. It didn’t mean anything. Then he thinks back on how Micro never ate either, thinks of the multiple jokes made about him being a robot, or the stiff movements when he walked, and realizes that maybe he’s been avoiding seeing it for the sake of normalcy.

“I must be blind,” he mumbles.

“I don’t work for anyone,” he continued, dismissing Saparata’s comment. “I’m not the same kind of android as you. My parents wanted a child, but they couldn’t find a way to have one until they had me built.”

“Oh,” Saparata thought aloud quietly, “one of those social ones.”

“Yeah, those.” He nodded again.

For a duration, there were no words. Saparata didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know Micro well enough to gauge the type of person he was. He racks his systems for something sensible to say, landing on a question, “Then you weren’t trained at all?”

Micro wasn’t startled by the inquiries, answering naturally, as if he expected it. “I was, but again, probably not the same way they trained you. I was taught how to act human more than I was taught how to do tasks.”

“Then why can’t you eat? If you’re built for something like family, then they must have given you the ability to eat.”

“I can,” the other frowned. “But I can’t taste anything. I still eat dinner when my family makes it, though it kinda feels pointless and a waste to bother with. I guess that’s just how life is. I’m stuck pretending I’m more than what I was built for. It’s not all that bad, but it’s not the most fulfilling thing either.”

Saparata coughs unwillingly, the words making him feel a strange pang in his chest. Maybe it was his system playing tricks on him; he’s unsure what it is, but he knows that it isn’t right. “Does Fluixon know? Thomas?”

“They don’t. They joke about it, but I don’t think they actually know.” Micro moves back towards the door. “I just wanted to check in on you and let you know you don’t have to hide it from me. I guess… a better way to say it is, I wanted you to know that out of anyone here, I would understand what it’s like to just exist.”

Saparata blinks at Micro. He doesn’t know if he believed that. He doesn’t think Micro—or anyone—could understand. Not his life, at least. The words were meant to be comforting; he knew they were. He knew they were coming from a good place, an honest one. Yet the words made him feel more conflicted than anything else.

“Thanks,” he settled on.

“Of course.” Micro’s neutral, unfaltering face was replaced with a rare smile. “I’ll go tell those two that you’re feeling sick, so Fluixon doesn’t come looking for you. Wipe your face; you’re looking a little rough.”

Saparata looks at himself in the mirror, noting the disheveled hair and the blood-like liquid dribbling from his mouth, pooling at his chin. 

Micro was right to call this. He couldn’t go out looking worse for wear; Fluixon would notice, and maybe he’d get suspicious. He gives him a nod, and something that wasn’t quite a smile, more like the baring of teeth. It was better than nothing. “Yeah. Thanks. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Mhm. Later.”

There’s a bouquet in Saparata’s hands, a mix of purple and yellow flowers bunched together in a distinct arrangement. The colors didn’t have any meaning; Saparata purchased them because they were complementary and reminded him of them, and he figured Fluixon would find the sentiment nice.

The sun was bright, burning hot on the venue, almost blinding. 

Graduation had ended not too long ago, and Saparata lost Fluixon in the sea of students and the cheers and throws of caps. 

He did remember being next to Fluixon, Thomas, and Micro seconds before the caps were thrown into the air. He remembered Fluixon asking him about the flowers and finding them sappy, not knowing they were bought for him. He remembered rolling his eyes, wanting to give them to him still, anyway.

His schoolmates were sweating, complaining about the heat and the burn, smiling regardless of the circumstances as they scrambled for their tossed caps on the grass, yelling about the size of the caps and whether they were theirs. Saparata held his cap tight, having caught it with one efficient swoop, not wanting to struggle in the crowd. 

He tiptoes his way past blades of grass, shouting the names of Fluixon and his friends, careful not to step on anything as he makes his way through. It was difficult to hear through the shouting and celebration, and his feet found themselves cemented in a shaded spot after walking for a while, lost. 

Not knowing where or what he should search for first, he lingers around the area, surveilling people walking by, searching for a recognizable face with no good results. Thankfully, if it wasn’t Saparata finding Fluixon, it’d always be the other way around.

“God, you’re incompetent,” a familiar voice spoke from behind. He spun around to see Fluixon, holding onto a dizzy Thomas and a calm Micro. “I was wondering where you ran off to.”

The first thing Saparata saw was Thomas’s glistening face, covered in sweat and shiny from the sun’s heat. He looked like he was on the verge of passing out. Frowning, he points to him. “What happened to him?”

“Threw his cap up too high and lost it. Ran all over the place to find it and only found it because Micro found it first.” Fluixon sounded completely done with everything. “It would’ve been faster if you were there to help, then you had to go and run off and get lost.”

“Not my fault that you guys couldn’t catch your caps.”

“Not everyone is gifted or talented in useless things like you are.” Fluixon snorts.

“It wasn’t useless when I saved your life multiple times.” 

“I’m not letting you bait me today,” he countered, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

“That’s new,” Saparata smiled. He reaches out for Thomas, one arm out as he holds onto him, helping him stand properly. With his hands full and Fluixon’s empty, he passively hands the flowers over to the boy, “Hold onto these for me.” 

Rolling his eyes and mumbling, the noble begrudgingly accepted the bouquet, hugging it loosely to his chest.

Saparata glances at Micro. “The ceremony’s over. Got any plans after this?”

“My parents are here, so I’ll probably go talk to them. I could catch up with you guys later if you’re both still here,” he replied, staring off into the distance, presumably searching for said parents in the rows of seats.

“Makes sense; it’s been a long day. We might leave after this, so just reach out to us if you ever want to meet sometime or if you need anything.”

“Will do,” Micro nodded. “I didn’t prepare any last messages for you guys, so I’ll just see you both the next time we meet. See you soon.” He waved to the group one last time. As he passes by to walk into the group of students, he leans into Saparata’s ear, whispering, “Good luck out there, man. Hope it gets easier for you.”

Saparata felt himself momentarily lag, looking over his shoulder as Micro disappeared. He was unsure when he would next see him. It probably wouldn’t be for a while, he thinks. After all, growing up required leaving a few things behind. He thinks that he’ll miss his friends, though, as much as he’d hate to admit it. He hopes that Micro can find solace in his existence, too. 

“Didn’t even let me speak before he ran off,” Fluixon scoffed, eyes darting to Thomas, who was finally up and standing. “You good?”

“The heat is killing me,” Thomas huffs, shaking his head. “I feel like I’m being burned alive. Why would the board schedule us to do the graduation outside when the sun is burning at ten thousand degrees? I argued so hard for an indoor graduation, and they still did this. What’s the point of being student council president if they ignore everything I have to say?” 

“It’s not that bad,” Saparata noted, releasing Thomas’ arm once he determined he was in stable condition.

“You wear cardigans in the middle of the summer, Saps. Your opinion is automatically invalid,” Thomas deadpans, dusting off his black gown. “Where’s Micro?”

“He just left to go greet his parents.”

“Oh! Perfect. I need to ask his father about that summer internship, anyway.” Thomas decided with a grin.

“He’s talking to his parents?” Saparata responds with genuine confusion. He could’ve sworn that family matters were personal for humans.

“Yeah, and also, why do you guys keep running off together?” Fluixon stepped in and was promptly ignored.

“I’ve met them a dozen times before, so it should be fine if I stopped by and said hi. They’re used to me,” Thomas says, feet already moving before the two of them can stop him, “I need to catch up with him before he goes too far. I’ll catch you guys later!”

At a loss for words, they both stand awkwardly at the lack of their friends’ presence. Saparata can’t say he’s surprised; knowing those two, there was definitely something up with them. Anyone could tell if they took one look at them. Clearing his throat, he looks over at Fluixon. “So, any plans?”

The area was gradually quieting as the venue emptied, students leaving to find their loved ones or hang out with their friend groups for the last time in a while. Saparata might honestly miss this.

“You already know my father isn’t here,” Fluixon dully states, grasping the flowers tighter out of instinct. The feeling of his fingers grazing against the flower’s petals makes him stop moving momentarily. “That reminds me… You knew that, so it’s not like you had to make a show to impress anyone. What’s with the flowers?” 

“They’re for you. It’s a big day, isn’t it? I wanted to show you that I cared, somewhat.” He shrugs. High school graduations were typically described as a significant part of a human’s life. He thinks it’s important for humans, similar to how leaving the facility is important for androids. He didn’t get flowers or a celebration when he left the facility; all he got was Fluixon. 

“Why would you need to show me that?”

“Uh, because…” Saparata trails off. 

Come to think of it, he doesn’t know why. Lately, at night, when he’s not performing tasks or training, he finds himself reflecting over the years and rethinking interactions, and he realizes that maybe he hasn’t been the greatest person, not in terms of acting or being one. The more he thought about himself, it became apparent that there should be a change to fix himself. He wanted to care more; he did. That’s why he bought flowers. He just didn’t know how to express that to Fluixon.

“... Just take it. Isn’t it a good thing that I’m being nice?”

Fluixon’s face distorts, “I guess? I don’t know. You’re being weird.”

“Then just take it as an apology for the past few years.”

“Apology for what? Talk to me; I don’t understand you. You make it sound like you’re leaving.”

“I’m not leaving. You know I can’t, anyway,” he mutters. “This is how I’m choosing to acknowledge your contempt for how much of a stone wall I am, so this is my gift to make up for it.”

The prince appeared uncertain as he spoke, voice quiet, “Yeah, but I’m used to the stone walls. The palace is full of them.” He looks down at the purple and yellow flowers. “But thanks, I suppose. For the weeds.”

“They’re purple orchids and yellow oncidiums, actually. But you’re welcome,” Saparata corrects with a scoff. “We should get going. The sun’s hot. I’m sure your father would want to hear how the ceremony went as soon as we get back.” Ignoring the odd thoughts blooming in his head, Saparata was already halfway towards the exit, taking quick steps across the field.

He decided it’s a thought for another day, when he’s ready to confront whatever it is. His systems could have a logical explanation for it, then.

The breeze of the wind is making Saparata’s hair flow in all kinds of directions, white locks occasionally obscuring his vision. Moving his bangs out of the way with his hand, he leans his other arm on the railings as he peers down at the ground, taking in the street lights and the passing cars from outside the castle’s gates.

The balcony is high. Saparata figured that the palace was big and tall, but he never thought it would be this high up.

The usual lights that would illuminate the palace were off; everyone else was undoubtedly asleep at this hour. Saparata didn’t do a lot at night; he had a room at the servants’ quarters with a bed and a place to lie down at the end of the day, but he wouldn’t say he enjoyed idly waiting for the sun to rise. The inability to sleep left him on standby until either Fluixon wakes up or he gets an order from someone else. Sometimes, he’d stay in Fluixon’s room till morning, sitting in a chair as he read one of the heavy books on his shelves. 

It makes him think back on the one time he did sleep—kind of. It wasn’t anything special; his power cell failed at random while he was cleaning. There were no thoughts in his head at the time, only darkness and a serene quietness. It hadn’t been scary, just sort of felt like everything was done, like that was all that there was to it. Looming over the ledge, he wonders if he were to fall, it would be the same thing, or if the moments before he hits the pavement would be different than that. 

Unlike Saparata, Fluixon was human. Humans were fragile. A fall from this height would probably break a human, end them, too. If Fluixon died, lives would likely change, and routines would be different. There’d probably be a huge controversy, being a prince and whatnot. He wouldn’t stop hearing it for weeks. But if Saparata stepped off the balcony today, it wouldn’t change a thing. It’d be silent after the initial sound of metal hitting the ground. He’d dent and crack, and then he’ll be repaired and recalibrated, and if it wasn’t that, he supposed he’d be reused somehow, metal wasn’t cheap after all.

The latch on the doors clicked, a sound Saparata’s audio sensors had picked up on long before the doors scraped against the floor. He didn’t turn, leaning his weight on the railings, eyes fixed on the stars glimmering in the dark sky. The scenery reminds him of when he was first adjusting to life beyond the facilities, and how his first glance at the outside world was that very same sky he started to admire. If there had been snow, the scenery would’ve imitated his memory perfectly.

“Can’t sleep either?”

The noble’s voice was thick, heavy with fatigue and exhaustion. Stepping out onto the balcony, Fluixon shivers from the night air, the silk pajamas he had on not helping with the breeze.

Slowly turning his head, he gives Fluixon a light, practiced smile, one he had done numerous times in the past. “Something like that, sir.”

“Drop the ‘sir’ bit, we’re the only ones up,” he muttered, moving to lean on the railing beside him. He looks down at the drop below, then back up at Saparata with a curious look. “You look… I don’t know. Pale? Ghostly? You look like shit, is what I mean. Kind of scary how you’ve been standing out in the cold for like, twenty minutes now.”

Saparata hums in response, the moon glowing on his face, highlighting his soft, artificial features. Twenty minutes does seem pretty long for a human to stand perfectly still. But for Saparata, who was forced to spend every second of his consciousness up, it felt like nothing. A fleeting moment at most.

“I was just thinking about something,” he expresses, voice smooth, unworried. “Past stuff, you know?”

“Anything I should be concerned about?” Fluixon questioned, unserious. 

“Nah. Just reflecting about who I am as a person.” 

Fluixon raises a brow at that. “Can’t you be philosophical another time and not when it’s like, 3 in the morning?”

“You could always go back to sleep, asshole,” Saparata laughed dryly.

“Not sure if I can, you’ve been standing out here for so long, I kept wondering if you were already frozen solid.” The other yawned, blinking slowly.

“Thanks for caring about me,” he says sarcastically, tapping the rails with his fingers as he thinks. The smile didn’t last, eventually fading away. His thought slipped out before he could stop it. “Should I start treating you differently?”

The question seemed to take Fluixon off guard. “Huh?”

It also took Saparata off guard, whose systems lagged as he processed the mistake. He grimaces, weighing his options. After some brief internal debate, he decides that he might as well bite the bullet now that he is unable to take it back. “I don’t know, I was thinking about it recently. I don’t act like how a butler should, do I?”

When Fluixon didn’t respond, simply staring at him, he continued. “I mean, I don’t address you as formally as I should. Never cared when you snapped at me either, and I sometimes do things to purposely piss you off.” 

Saparata takes a deep breath in, a habit he picked up while mimicking Fluixon, “Maybe you’d want me to change that. Maybe you’d like it better if I changed completely.”

He turns to Fluixon, as if to look for any kind of validation to his thoughts, but the way he stares back, with his brows knit together and face slightly scrunched, makes him wish he had never spoken.

“I don’t… get why you would do that,” Fluixon says after a while. “I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t get the sudden decision.”

Saparata, for the first time in his life, felt something similar to regret as he looked back at the drop. “I don’t think I’m a good person. Not to you.” 

“Why?” he asks. “Why would you think that? I don’t think that way about you at all. You’re already a good enough person to me.” 

“No, you don’t get…” Saparata trails off, like he’s picking the next words he says carefully. “I want to apologize to you. I feel like I should.”

“Yeah, and I’m telling you there’s no reason to. You don’t owe me anything.”

“But I do,” he whispered. As he looks at the drop, he thinks back on the dismantlement manuals he was made to read in the past. If there was one thing they kept consistent in those texts, it would be something along the lines of how dying is a mercy for systems like him—that there was nothing better to fix a broken system than with an end.

At what velocity would it take for him to be fixed?

He didn’t have the time to calculate that, not when he’s grabbed by his shoulders, and with a jolt, he’s face-to-face with a distraught-looking Fluixon. His eyes shifted down to his hands, seeing how they trembled as he held onto him. Whether it was from the cold or something else, he didn’t know, just knew that he didn’t understand why.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I don’t care. Whatever you think about yourself doesn’t matter to me.”

He’s quick to open his mouth to retaliate, and Fluixon doesn’t give him that chance.

“Stop,” Fluixon commanded, voice strained as his grip tightened on Saparata’s shoulders. “Do you think you’re doing something noble by forcing yourself to change for me? I don’t care about the formalities. I’ve never cared about that. If I wanted someone to bow to me and listen to my every command, I’d just talk to the rest of the staff.”

He looks up, his eyes searching Saparata’s, trying to read into his thoughts. “I know the kind of person you are, and it’s not whatever bullshit you’re trying to pull right now. You’re the only one in this entire palace who actually has a personality—who treats me like I’m something more than my title. So why? Why are you trying to change? Just stay the way you are.”

Saparata felt a strange, cold pressure in his chest, even when he knew there wasn’t anything there but a shallow space filled with circuits and wires. Maybe that’s all he’ll ever amount to, a shallow space, a void of a real person. But watching as Fluixon’s eyes glisten, the moonlight bright in his eyes, he realized that he didn’t know what he was, or if he could ever come to comprehend it.

He reaches up and places his hands over Fluixon’s, the ones still holding onto him tight like he’s afraid he’d go, attempting to soothe the shaking. He tries to mimic the same warm tone he’s grown to know, “Alright. I get it… I get it, so let’s go inside. You’ll get sick if you stay out for long.”

Fluixon didn’t accept that. He knew how he acted when he wanted to run from things, knew his habits like he knew the back of his own hand. “Oh, shut up. It’s always ‘Flux, Flux, Flux,’ when it comes to you. What about yourself? Do you ever care about yourself?”

Saparata’s fingers twitch against Fluixon’s hands. “It’s—it’s my job? I don’t have time to care for myself; that shouldn’t even matter.” 

“Are you even listening to yourself? You’re so obsessed with following guidelines that you completely forget that you’re human and that you’re real. Why are you so afraid of just… existing?”

He was fighting a losing game. Fluixon always knew the right words to say to tear into him and crumble his barriers like they were nothing. He knew that, and yet it couldn’t stop him from lashing out.

“So what if I am afraid?” he snaps, “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m standing here, I’m talking to you, I’m doing what I have to do. Isn’t that good enough for you?”

The hold he has on Fluixon loosens, growing completely limp before he lets go of him, head bowed in shame.

“It’s good enough for everyone else,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t get it. “You keep asking me for ‘more’, but I don’t have ‘more’ to give you. This is all I am.”

Fluixon’s grip weakens on his shoulders, eyes wide and shiny with something that twists that unknown feeling in Saparata’s core. The anger was gone, replaced with a silent, exhausted defeat as he gave up, hands releasing his shoulders. 

“Fine,” he whispers, rubbing at his skin, the chilly breeze rushing back. “You’re a stubborn asshole, so that’s the ‘real’ you, I guess.”

Saparata watched him for a second. He didn’t call out for him or grab for his hands. He merely stepped towards the railing once again.

“Yeah. But you still stick around, so what does that say about you?” the android murmurs.

Fluixon gives him a small, weak laugh, arms brushing against his as he goes to stand next to him, the wind gently dying down. It takes him a moment to lean his shoulder on the robot’s unmoving weight, a silence stretching between them as they look forward.

As the night dragged on, the time seemed to finally get to him, and Fluixon slowly tilted his head, resting it against Saparata’s. The contact was meaningless, normal. Saparata shouldn’t have registered it as something more than the physical weight, but he did. A warmth that shouldn’t be possible for him to feel. Placebo, he figured.

Saparata’s systems settled into a steady hum, a low buzz in his ears as he focused on the moon and the weight of Fluixon’s head on his, his gaze no longer tilted down. Maybe there was no need for words. After all, all they ever had was each other. Maybe being ‘real’ in the eyes of Flux was good enough for now.

“Is living like a commoner entertaining for you?”

“Big fan of that question, aren’t you? I’m pretty sure I kicked you out ages ago,” Fluixon mumbled, fumbling with a basket of baked goods as he placed individual pieces onto the displays. The smell of fresh bread made his mouth water, his empty stomach growling.

“You did, but you don’t have the authority to do that—not here. You know that Jophiel adores me,” Saparata hummed, his shadow casting over Fluixon as he leaned over the kneeling boy, watching as he restocked the shelves.

“Because she’s too kind and patient,” Fluixon responds with light disdain, picking up the basket as he stands up. “If it were up to me, you’d be banned ages ago.”

“You wouldn’t,” Saparata gasps in mock exaggeration. “Who would you talk to during your lunch breaks? Or help you stock the shelves? Or entertain you when there are no customers?”

“I can barely call this help; all you do is spout absolute nonsense, and I can’t do a thing about it but listen.”

“I’d make for a pretty good jester then, don’t you think?” 

“I think you would get executed on day one, and it would probably be for the stupidest reason ever.” Fluixon sighs as he gets behind the counter. Standing opposite him with his elbows on the wooden surface and his head resting on his hands, Saparata looks like an annoying customer and not the dignified butler of a prince. For Fluixon, he saw no difference.

“No way. I’d like to think they let me stick around for a while.”

“Not out of their own will; you’re the world’s most slippery bastard. They’ll have posters hung up everywhere requesting your death, and you just won’t die. You would be on the run for ages.”

“Glad you think so highly of my abilities.”

“Don’t take it as a compliment. It’s not.”

Saparata suppresses a grin, straightening his posture as he scours over the bakery. “Whatever you say. Hey, so, where’s Jophiel? I haven’t seen her since Monday. I wanted to help her with this recipe she’s been working on recently.”

“Did you not read the note she left us? They’re on vacation. She likes us a decent amount, so she’s leaving the place in our care for a while,” the noble replies casually. “Really hoping you don’t pull off some dumb bullshit and get me fired while she’s gone.”

“What could I possibly do for that to happen?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

“Whatever. Your lack of faith in me won’t be forgotten when Jophiel comes back and titles me employee of the month.”

“We’re the only employees here, you idiot.”

As of late, this was what Saparata’s and Fluixon’s conversations had begun to sound like daily, and truthfully, the android had no idea when this routine started. 

The bakery was a new environment, surrounded by herbs and overgrown plants that didn’t reminisce of the neatly trimmed gardens of the palace. But it was pretty—prettier than the royal grounds, Saparata thinks. The place was worn down, dusty, and he liked that. It felt homey to him in a way, comfortable, far warmer than the cold and long isolating halls of the castle. It was full of color and life, sort of like a cottage in the middle of nowhere that humans liked to write fairytales about.

Jophiel, the boss who managed the bakery, was fairly nice. She was around their age, not much older, give or take a few years. The bakery was originally her family’s before it was passed down for her to take care of, but he can tell she loved it well. She reminded Saparata of how elves would look if they were real: golden, long hair and sky colored eyes, a freckled face, and a gentle smile. It’s charming how her appearance harmonizes with the bakery and her graceful personality. 

Saparata didn’t know many people; nonetheless, like them. He liked Fluixon, he liked Micro, and Thomas, whose presence he got used to over the years. He didn’t expect to like Jophiel as quickly as he did. 

It makes sense. From the start, she had seemed reliable, treated him well, too. 

She gave off a grounded and steady energy—the complete opposite of the situation he had found himself in on the day they met.

The snowstorm had been going on for a while with no signs of stopping. Specks of white fell from the sky, blanketing the earth in layers of snow, turning the world into a blank canvas.

Harsh winds blew, thrashing around trees and nearly anything without the weight to withstand them. The roads were slippery with ice, making them a safety hazard and a risk to venture out in. 

In the middle of it, two figures were hunched near a tree stump, arguing. 

“What kind of idiot doesn’t put on proper attire before chasing someone into a snowstorm?” the prince snarled, his hands bunched into Saparata’s button-up shirt, shaking him as if it would knock some sense into him.

“I’m sorry, is it my fault you decided now is the best time to ignore your duties? You know we aren’t kids anymore.”

“You could’ve stopped me!” Fluixon pushed him lightly. “You could if you wanted to, you just didn’t because you were bored.”

Saparata glowered at him. He wasn’t wrong. It was his job to keep Fluixon out of danger, though he couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t curious about where he could go during the extreme weather. 

Ever since they’ve grown up and Saparata received his newest model, Fluixon would slip away at night, occasionally dragging his butler with him wherever he went, with the reasoning that he wanted to take a short walk. It was a lie that Saparata didn’t question, knowing that Fluixon was the third-born of the Aculon family; he probably had his reasons for it. His eldest brother, ItzzEnder, was next in line for the crown, and Cynikka, his older sister, as far as he was aware, was a high-level diplomat. Saparata didn’t know the details; Fluixon didn’t tell him about it, but he could see how lonely it made him sometimes.

Which is why Saparata never stopped Fluixon from fleeing. It’s a relief that his father was unaware of the ordeal; he likely wouldn’t be pleased with it. It’d be worse if he knew Saparata went with it; he’d be livid—he’d probably fire him, have him dismantled, too. 

And he would take it because he didn’t have an acceptable excuse to show for it—not in the eyes of the king, but he thinks his personal reasons justified it. Besides, he liked following Fluixon around, liked that it felt like it was just them at times. 

Too bad the other ruins it by scolding him.

“Seriously, can you think for one second? Are you trying to get yourself killed—”

The prince was cut off as he was met with a face-full of snow, courtesy of the chunk of snow Saparata had scraped off from a nearby log. He makes a muffled squawk as he stumbles back, hands gripping tighter onto his shirt as he struggles to keep his footing.

Saparata stood perfectly still in his hold, letting out an airy laugh as he watched Fluixon splutter. “Sorry, I think my hand slipped.”

“You are actually insufferable,” Fluixon managed with a hiss. He releases him with a light shove, wiping off excess snow smudged on his cheek. “God, I don’t even care anymore. Let’s just go home. I refuse to be liable if you end up getting sick.”

“But we’re already here, and I’m not cold.”

“Do you see what you’re wearing?” He looks at Saps like he’s lost his mind. “Where else do you suggest we even go? I know we’re not staying here.”

Saparata looks down at the vestless butler uniform he had on and decides not to comment on it. “I thought you knew where we were going?”

“Oh, for fucks sake…” Fluixon rubs the temple of his nose, hands wet from the icy residue. “No, this is great. We’re out in the middle of nowhere, there’s snow everywhere, and we’ll probably freeze to death in the next hour due to my butler forgetting how the weather works.”

“My apologies for not accounting for you running off during a blizzard,” he responded curtly. “I’m sorry for assuming that a person of royal status would have the slightest shred of self-preservation left. Will you ever forgive me?”

“You are so lucky I have half the mind not to strangle you right now.”

“I appreciate you holding back just for me.” Saparata didn’t bother looking at him, busy analyzing their surroundings. 

They’ve wandered a distance away from home. Fluixon was trudging through the heavy weight of snow for a while when he noticed he was being trailed, which was how Saparata found himself getting scolded.

The snow covered the ground for miles, and judging from the ongoing weather, he doubts they would be able to get home any time soon. They’ll have to find shelter for the night and return in the morning, when the storm has hopefully died down and is safe to travel.

He tapped Fluixon on the shoulder, who, in the middle of his annoyed muttering, stopped talking to see what he had to say. “What now?”

“There’s a light coming from over there.” He points in the direction of a soft, orange glow in the distance. “It looks like a residence. I think the safest bet we have is seeking refuge for the night there.”

Fluixon squints his eyes and seems to consider it for a moment. “You think anyone will let us in? I’m the youngest prince of Aculon, and you’re… you. If I get kidnapped and held for ransom, do you think you can hold them off?"

“It’s a storm, Flux. Who in the world would bother trying to hold you for ransom at this time? Besides, you’re a prince. If it’s not the guilt that takes them out for letting you die, then at least they’d be too scared of getting caught if they tried anything else.”

“So… what? You’re telling me your best plan is manipulation?” 

“It’s worked for twenty years, hasn’t it?” Saparata questioned with his usual expressionless look. “So, I think we should at least try. Unless you have any objections about it?”

Fluixon, having nothing to object, agrees with little resistance. They walk side-to-side—as per the request of Saparata—as they make the journey towards the random light. Usually, he’d try to make logical decisions when it came to situations like these, but he finds it difficult when he’s in the middle of nowhere, stuck with a human who he knew was prone to death.

Despite his fragility, it is amusing how Fluixon cared more about him than he did himself. At one point during their hike, he offered the scarf he had around his neck to Saparata. Though Saps appreciated the sentiment, he instantly denied, to Flux’s dismay, 

As he steps gingerly around the ice, Saparata wonders how the other was handling the cold. The wind was a hassle, blowing hair into his eyes every few seconds. It was likely worse for his partner, who had to deal with that and the numbing chill as well. “You feeling alright?” 

“I should be asking you that.” Fluixon clutched at the wool around his neck, his knuckles white. He looked at Saparata, standing there with nothing but a vestless uniform, pale skin with frosty hair brushing his obnoxiously bare neck. The view makes his chest tighten with a familiar irritation at the lack of… everything about Saparata.

“I’m fine. I think you know by now that I’ve never been prone to the cold.”

“I guess. You’ve always radiated this weird coldness. Guess it fits how you look,” he huffs, breath visible in the air. With the crunch of boots on snow, he suddenly stopped walking.

Saparata turned, curious. “Flux?”

“This is stupid. You’re being stupid,” Fluixon snapped. Filled with confusion, Saparata barely had time to react before Fluixon was in his personal space, hands fumbling as he struggled with the knot of his own scarf. With a jerk, he unwrapped the purple scarf, shivering at the loss of warmth.

“Hey! Wait, put that back on—” Saparata began to protest, reaching out to stop him.

“Shut up,” the prince commanded as he leaned closer, shoving Saparata’s hands aside as he forced him to stay still, folding the scarf around his neck. Pulling the loose ends of the wool through the loop, the butler flinched as his fingers brushed against his jaw.

“There,” he murmurs as he backs up to get a better look at his handiwork. The purple scarf looked vibrant against Saps’ pale throat. Pretty. The thought flickers in Fluixon’s mind, uninvited. Saps has this exasperated look that made Fluixon snort. “What? Don’t be surprised; I already asked you once. Clearly, you weren’t going to listen, so I had to take matters into my own hands.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Well, if we took a look at what you’re wearing right now…”

“You’re shivering more than I am! Just take this back, I’m being serious.”

“I’m shivering because you’re annoying and you’re agitating me—”

“Hello?”

A voice that belonged to neither of the pair makes Fluixon shut up, whipping his head towards its direction. Saparata's attention was already diverted before he stopped talking.

Emerging from the dark, a woman with beautiful golden locks walks into view, hair tied messily into a bun. A small glimpse of a black apron peeked beneath the giant snow coat she wore. She gives one glance at Saparata and gasps. “Oh, my! You must be freezing; are you two okay?”

Rushing over to their side, she kneels, leveling herself down to their height. Fluixon couldn’t notice it at first, but she was shockingly tall, and carried a scent of something fresh and baked. His stomach grumbles, and he realizes the time since he last ate. He assumed Saparata felt the same, considering he skipped dinner earlier due to household chores.

“Where could you two be heading at this time? It’s dangerous, especially with the few layers you have on,” the lady says, eyeing Saparata specifically. “It’ll be a while till the storm weathers out. Are you going somewhere nearby?”

“Not exactly anywhere specific, ma’am. We’ve been wandering for some time; it’s difficult to see where we’re going,” Saparata replies calmly. He could sense Fluixon’s unamusement as he spoke. “The only clear thing we could see through the storm was that orange light.”

“Oh! That light?” The woman’s expression brightened as she followed Saparata’s eyes. “That’s from my bakery. I left one of the lamps on outside by accident, but I suppose it’s a good thing that I did. If you were already heading there, how about we go together? You can stay for the night or until the storm is over.” She clasps her gloved hands.

It was almost too good to believe. “Would that be alright? We wouldn’t like to intrude, miss.”

She shook her head. “Oh, please, call me Jophiel, there’s no need for the formalities. I insist, I’d feel terrible leaving you two in the cold.”

“Then if it’s not a problem with you, my friend and I would greatly appreciate it—,” he pauses. He offers a small smile, tries to make it as genuine as he could make it, “—if you could help us, Jophiel.”

“It’s no problem, really. Come, now. This way, this way. Watch your feet, there’s a lot of ice.” Jophiel ushers them with her hands.

It didn’t take long for the three to make it back to the bakery. The roof and front steps were layered in white, fresh footprints cutting through the snow and the overgrowth on the walls. Stepping inside, Fluixon was hit by the warm glow of honeyed-colored lights and the scent of cinnamon, a stark contrast to the smell of the palace’s overbearing cleanliness. Saparata’s gaze drifted to the webs in the corners of the walls and the peeling wallpaper instead. He doesn’t say anything about it, just stares. 

Noticing this, Jophiel gave him a meek smile as she hung up her coat on a nearby hanger, hands noticeably coated in flour. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting guests,” she said. “I’ve been trying to get the place cleaned up for some time now, but I would’ve tidied up more if I knew.”

“It’s fine, no need to apologize.” Saparata turns away from the grime to look at a broom leaning against a wall. “Would you like us to help? We’re intruding, after all. It’d only be right.”

“Oh, no, no! Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly ask that of you.” The baker waves her hands around.

“Then, if there’s anything I can do, please let me know. We’ll be taking our leave once the sun begins to rise.”

“Of course. Actually…” She thinks to herself for a second, “There is something I could use help with.”

Saparata looks at her. A mere second ago, she said that she didn’t have any requests of him. He shrugs. He did say to let him know if she needed anything. “Yes, what is it?”

“I baked some bread earlier. It’s nothing new, a typical recipe I’ve done over and over again, but I never had people other than my family give me their opinions on it. I’m unsure if my family is being honest or just being nice when I ask.” 

The implications make him grimace, and he covers the expression with a cough. “Taste testing?” he musters out weakly. In the corner of his eyes, he could see Fluixon looking at the displays cautiously.

“Yes! Exactly that. If it’s not too much to ask for, and if you two don’t have any allergies, I would love to hear what you think about it.”

The robot’s eyes shift between Jophiel and Fluixon. He could claim he had allergies to avoid eating, but knowing Fluixon, he’d call him out on that and have to explain to her why he lied. 

Eventually, he gives in and calls Fluixon over, who was skeptical to be a taste tester, to say the least.

“I don’t usually… consume food from people I don’t know,” the prince muttered, eyeing the loaf like it’d bite if he tried it.

“Oh. Oh, no, that’s fine—”

Saparata’s eye twitched. There is no way he’s going to allow Fluixon to get away from this, especially if he’s forced to purge it later. He made a closed eye smile as he leaned closer to the prince’s side, tugging at his sleeve. “It’d be rude to deny a lady’s request, sir. Don’t you remember your manners? Besides, I can hear your stomach from here.”

Fluixon shot him a murderous look. Shaking his head, he’s about to decline when he stops, catching Jophiel’s tired, hopeful face. With a reluctant sigh, he crossed his arms, shoulders dropping an inch. “Fine. Just a sample… for quality control.”

The baker’s face lights up.

With a crisp noise, they sank their teeth into the grain, the initial crunch melting into a soft and cloud-like texture as they chewed. Saparata might’ve appreciated it more if it didn’t feel like he was chewing on mush—not that he thought it was bad for human standards; he simply couldn’t taste it. Before he could make up some feedback that sounded relevant enough, Fluixon spoke first.

“It’s… good,” Fluixon admitted, slightly surprised. He looked at Jophiel with genuine curiosity. “How long have you been baking? The palace tends to use ingredients of high quality, and yet it doesn’t… feel the same as this.”

Jophiel laughed as she answered with kindness to Fluixon’s questions, explaining the process of baking and even asking him if he’d like to be taught how. As Saparata listened, he oddly found himself thinking how great it would be to have her as a sister, despite not having the chance to have such a figure. He wondered where he had learned that from; maybe from Fluixon’s sister, but they’ve barely interacted in the past. He did find that the princess was nice to talk to on occasion.

Perhaps Saparata should’ve stopped the conversation then. They weren’t supposed to meet the baker again after this, and he heard about attachment leading to bad things. But something was endearing about how Fluixon had an interest in something so… normal. He shouldn’t be surprised at all; Fluixon wasn’t conventional, yet he couldn’t help it.

So, instead of pulling Fluixon away with the excuse of keeping him clean so nobody finds out they’ve been out all night, he watches as Fluixon sneezes on some flour lying around and sends it flying everywhere, watches as he struggles with kneading and shaping dough, watches as the bread slowly rises in the oven, forming into an ugly, malformed lump. It was bumpy and distorted, though Fluixon held it like it was his firstborn baby, like it was something to be proud of.

Patting the prince’s back with her hand and smudging his shirt with white powder, Jophiel beams. “It’s definitely better than my first attempt. You did a lovely job.”

Fluixon gives a small smile.

Saparata couldn’t stop himself from smiling at the scene. It was a mess, nothing like home and the palace, but it felt normal. It felt like this was how his life was meant to be. Together, in a domestic and sweet place without worries of his duties. It made him forget all about having to purge the bread from earlier. Flux tore a part off the crumbly dough in his hands, holding it out with the lousy excuse of checking for safety. There was flour in his hair and a rare spark of warmth in his eyes as he looked at Saps like he was the only thing in the world.

As he grabs hold of the offering, Saps finds himself wishing that the storm would last forever.

“You know, my father’s been thinking about marrying me off soon.”

Saparata pauses in the middle of adjusting the tie on Fluixon’s suit. He takes a second before continuing. “So I’ve heard.”

The music from the ball was a faint sound—background noise that mingled with the chattering and fake laughter. Saparata wasn’t a fan of the parties or the balls; they were stuffy and loud, and had far too many practiced smiles that reminded him of his own. He could tell Fluixon had a similar dislike of it as well; he always went silent whenever it was time to prepare, letting the stylists do their work on him as he sat like a motionless mannequin.

Which is why they stood on the royal grounds next to the frozen fountain, hands on Fluixon’s blazer as he tended to his appearance, Saparata’s voice silky despite his weirdly shaky hands as he explained. “It’s only logical. You’ll have to bear the crown one day, too.”

“I don’t know a single thing about her. Haven’t even met her once.” Fluixon watched as Saparata fiddled with his collar, his eyes difficult to decipher in the night sky. The butler avoided looking at them.

“That’s fine. I could help with that, if you want. It shouldn’t take too long to study up on her. Sidefall News never leaves any royals alone. You’re lucky they haven’t caught onto the whole bakery thing yet.”

Fluixon lets out a laugh, a dry one that dies out instantly in the cold air. “Study? You want me to study her? I’m getting married off without any say in it, and you want me to study up on it?”

“It’s the most efficient way to keep your standing, sir,” Saparata murmured, messing up the button on Fluixon’s collar, fingers grazing against the other’s jaw. He frowns, freezing for a brief period, then tries again. “It’ll make the courting process smoother. Help your relations. Your family would be pleased with the results.” 

Fluixon grabbed his wrists before he could finish.

“I don’t care what my family thinks,” Fluixon snarled, his grip on Saparata’s wrists tightening. “Do you not care about the fact that I’m basically being auctioned off? Does that not bother you at all?”

His hands go completely still in his hold, irritatingly calm as he looks at Fluixon, as if he were dealing with a child throwing a tantrum. “You are the third-born Prince of Aculon,” Saparata reminded him, voice firm but gentle. “And I am a servant. I have no say in your affairs. How I feel shouldn’t affect the process.”

“There you go again, with your processes and ‘I’m lesser, so it doesn’t matter’. It matters to me. You always go on and on about what’s good for me, and you know what I think? I think I know what’s good for me, and I don’t think it’s being fucking sold off like property.”

Saparata looks over his shoulder and realizes how he’s practically being backed up against a wall. He sighs, looking back at Fluixon through his eyelashes, finally catching his eyes in the dark. There’s a wild look in them that made his hands twitch. “I don’t know what you want from me.” His gaze drifts off to the side, weak. “Let’s just go back inside. Your family is waiting, they’re about to make some announcements that you have to be there for—”

“Do you not know when to stop? ‘Oh, sir, oh, your family…’ You never shut up. You just love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?” Fluixon mocked, releasing his wrists only to catch at his jaw instead. Saparata’s eyes went wide, breath hitching as a thumb pressed against his bottom lip, effectively silencing him.

Fluixon leaned in until their foreheads touched, breath shallow, dark eyes pulling Saparata in. “Shut up for once,” he breathed, voice rough with something desperate. “You’re a lot prettier when you’re quiet.”

Saparata’s systems stalled. Something was terrifying about the warmth that blooms in his chest—something that felt scarily close to desire.

Then, Fluixon’s lips crashed onto his.

It wasn’t practical or graceful like a royal—it was all tongues and teeth. The movements were rough and panicked, hands gripping at Saps’ hair with a reckless and possessive force, one that he had not seen Flux act with once before in his life. 

He can’t taste him. He can’t taste Flux, but he can feel him. He can feel the warmth and the hunger—the want and the overbearing need, and Saps decided that maybe it didn’t matter; that it was enough. No, it was better. So much better than anything he could’ve asked for.

Time warps the longer Flux stays on him. Even though he didn’t need to breathe, Saps’ vision burned white at the edges, beginning to see sparks. His mind was growing fuzzy, limbs straining as he pulled the prince impossibly closer.

When Fluixon finally pulled away, the distant music of the ballroom and the night air came rushing back, both shivering—from the cold, or something else, Saparata couldn’t say. They didn’t speak. Just stared at each other like it didn’t matter how they were doing this outside, where they could be caught, or how anyone leaving the ball could find them at any second. Saps couldn’t bring himself to care about the protocols anymore. He didn’t want to.

“Flux,” he tries, voice cracking.

Flux didn’t need to say anything else as he leaned in again.

A loud kitchen timer goes off, making the android jolt from the noise. He fixes his posture as Fluixon rushes over to the oven, gray mitts on his hands as he pulls the oven door down, steam arising in large amounts as he picks up the tray.

“I thought I told you to watch the oven for me.”

“Sorry, kind of forgot,” Saparata mumbled. He looks down at the hot pan, frowning at the cookies placed in neat rows. It was a nightmare and a pain to clean if he were to eat one, but he heard that customers liked the cookies Fluixon made. He pulls the wire rack closer, helping him with arranging the baked goods.

“You like these? They’re the only things you’ve been making recently,” he hums.

“They’re hard to mess up,” Flux remarks as he puts the tray away. “Kind of stupid how you refuse to try them.”

“Sorry, you know me. I don’t have a sweet tooth.”

“Trying one won’t kill you.”

The funny thing is, it probably could if Saps weren’t careful. “Probably not. I’m not one to take chances, though.”

The conversation fades away into obscurity, replaced with a placid calm. Saps sorts through loaves of bread, putting them inside small plastic bags and tying them tight with different colored ribbons. Flux was in the back somewhere, probably checking for ingredients to see if he could make a different batch of goods. It was a standard schedule that made him feel alive.

Humming along to the tune of the radio on the end of the counter, Saps didn’t know the exact name of the song playing, but it had been played often enough that he knew all the lyrics and beats by heart.

Fluixon soon returns with a new tray in his hands, accidentally bumping into the wooden pole placed inconveniently in the middle of the room in the process of placing it down on the counter. Saparata didn’t know about the specifics of why it was there, merely that Jophiel told them not to move it too much and that it was temporary. 

The tray tilts dangerously, sending a few of the carefully arranged cookies towards the edge as it clinks against the wood. Fluixon makes a sharp, frustrated breath, gripping the metal as he attempts to save the unbaked dough from falling. The number of times this had happened in the past few days is ridiculous, and it had been testing his patience since the wood was first lodged into the floor. 

“I’m moving this,” he grumbled, setting the tray down on the counter, dust particles from uncleaned flour evaporating into the air. “Jophiel said not to move it too much, but she didn’t say at all. It’s literally off-center anyway.”

Saparata didn’t have time to turn around before his sensors registered the ghastly sound of timber sliding against the floor as Fluixon lost his grip and sent it askew. He drops a ribbon when he notices dust falling from the ceiling.

Funny how things could go from zero to one hundred so fast. Life was strange like that. He would’ve never guessed that something so ordinary would change everything forever. He would have never guessed it would happen in a place he considered home. 

It takes him a split-second to get up and lunge for the frozen, shocked boy, his arms wrapping tight around Fluixon, causing them to fall to the ground.

The weight hits Saparata immediately, a pressure on his back that makes him let out a heaving hiss. Fluixon heard it first. A dreadful clinking noise, followed by what sounded like glass shattering, makes his vision blur in an instant, a buzzing sound whirling in his ears. His eyes dropped down to the boy he was shielding, his hold loosening as his shoulders slumped, suddenly weak in the limbs. Fluixon had this terrified, wide-eyed look, a look he hadn’t seen before. The closest to that was the face Flux made when the glasshouse fell apart all those years ago, and even that was barely anything.

“Saps? Saps, get up. Get up, we have to—”

Saparata lost focus. His systems were failing, vision starting to fade into static. He opens his mouth, wanting to say something—anything. This wasn’t how he wanted Fluixon to find out, but he couldn’t muster the power to speak. He tried to reach for his memories—the cold-hearted boy, the weight of the bouquet, the feel of the purple scarf against his neck, the warmth on his lips, but it all slipped away.

Coughing, he splatters dark red oil onto Fluixon’s shirt, chest aching with a terrible burning pain. He wonders if it’d stain or not, and he thinks Fluixon was speaking to him based on the way his mouth moved, though he couldn’t quite make out the name he was calling out for.

“Stay,” Fluixon sobbed, grabbing Saparata’s overly cold hands. “Don’t you dare leave me here.”

The words made him want to laugh; he really hasn’t changed at all. He gives Flux a smile with the last of his strength, vision graying out the same way it did that day in the cleaning closet. He always wondered how sleep would feel; he probably wouldn’t have to for long if he broke what he thought he did. At the very least, he’s thankful to have his first actual sleep besides Flux. Could robots dream? He doesn’t know. Maybe he’d dream about Flux. He hopes he does. 

As his vision dwindled out, Saps felt his third and last instance of warmth as Flux’s hands pressed against his.

Metal parts were sprayed across a clean white table, with fragmented silicon that was split up into pieces visible in the back component of a robot’s head. Not any robot’s head, but Saparata's, detached from the rest of his body. He couldn’t look at his face, but he knew it was him, could tell by the silver machinery cutting through the similar soft white hair he’s grown to know over the years.

It made Fluixon want to throw up.

The bastard—Saparata, had protected the rubble from falling onto him completely, and he was forced to drag his cold, heavy body from underneath the debris. He saw it: the bashed-in part of Saparata’s head. At that time, he was too shaky and panicked to think about it, focused on bringing him to safety despite the boy shutting down in front of him. He didn’t think much of it later when he called for help, hands covered in his blood, nor did he think about it as the engineer explained the damage.

He only snapped back to reality when the engineer told him that they couldn’t do anything about the memory chip—the shatter he heard that apparently held all of Saparata’s memories. 

“What?” he breathes. He leans in closer, desperation seeping into his stance. “What do you mean you can’t do anything about it? Figure it out and fix it,” he hisses.

The man backs away, clipboard in hand, as he looks at him clinically. “I’m sorry, sir. The chip is completely destroyed. It’s impossible to repair it due to the gravel falling directly onto it. As we said earlier, the model can be reused, but there simply isn’t anything that can be done about the chip.”

“Okay, but I’m telling you to figure it out,” Fluixon grits out, hands twitching in place as they nearly shoot out towards the engineer’s shirt. Why was it not clicking for him that this wasn’t a request?

“Fluixon.”

The single word from Elanuelo, his father, felt like a bucket of cold water. Shoulders lowering, he clenches his fists as he bit down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood.

A practiced bow was all Fluixon received. “I’m sorry for your loss,” the voice offered, already moving on to address his father. “We’ll restore the other parts and have the model delivered back to the palace once it’s fully repaired.”

“He has a fucking name.”

With a sigh and a tap of his pen against a clipboard, his outburst was ignored as the engineer wiped off some flour and dirt from the neck joints with his glove. “It’d be done in around a week,” he said to Elanuelo. “The model hasn’t had maintenance in a while, so we’ll update a few protocols as well.”

Fluixon didn’t stay to hear the rest. He turned and walked out. He didn’t want to hear about protocols or repairs or anything at all. All he wanted was Saps. That was all he wanted, all he ever had, and even that, he couldn’t have anymore.

“Sir!” the butler calls out as the door shoots open. “This is important—your father requested you to meet him in his office; he wants to discuss with you about…” he trails off as he realizes that Fluixon was nowhere to be seen. That is, until he looks towards the balcony.

Oh, he thinks, watching the male frantically wipe at his eyes with his sleeves, his body leaning against the railing of the balcony, doors wide open as the wind blows in.

“Leave,” Fluixon rasps out. He didn’t look at Saparata, ears burning red as he stared at the floor. “I thought I told you to knock before you barge into my room like that.”

Saparata takes a good look at him, hesitating to respond for a second. He places his hand on where his heart would be, offering the noble a bow. “My apologies, sir. Your father said it was an—”

“Don’t call me that. Or… actually, never mind. Do whatever you want. He never listened to me anyway.” Fluixon clicks his tongue, resting his weight more on the stoned railings, looking out at the drop. The way he was positioned was weird. He was further on the left side, leaving enough space for a person to slot beside him, as if he wanted someone to. Fluixon turns his head to the side to look at the empty space. “You know, he used to stand here a lot.”

The android freezes, confused. He tries to jog his memory, recalling the few conversations he had with the other. Sucking in a breath, his jaw tightens when he realizes who he was talking about. “I know, sir. You tell me about him all the time.”

Fluixon taps the railings with a finger—a habit he supposedly did all the time—his voice quiet, exhausted. Like all the life from it had been wiped clean. “He always stood here in the cold—guess it wouldn't feel that cold for him, anyway. Sometimes, he stood for so long, I thought that maybe he’d jump. I think he wanted to. He probably did. Wish he wasn’t such a stubborn asshole that he would have told me why.” 

The vacant look in his eyes made Saparata uncomfortable. There was a gloom to them, the glossiness not quite making it shine; it just looked wet and ugly, full of bitterness and unspoken words. Messy and out of place for someone of such dignified status. Fluixon didn’t care. “I don’t know. I never understood why he did the things he did. That was the thing about him; he never knew when to stop and when to pull back.”

He couldn't get himself to speak. He was technically talking about him, though he knew that it wasn’t him he was actually talking about. Just another guy who supposedly shared the same name, same mannerisms, same everything, except for the memories to complete it. 

“I’m sorry,” Saparata decides to say, the apology wrong on his tongue, like he shouldn't be the one saying it. There was nothing for him to feel guilty for; he knew that, yet what was he supposed to do when his presence caused as much grief as it did? 

Fluixon laughs dryly, like it hurt to get out. “It’s not your fault. I know you’re not him, not really. But it’s hard to think otherwise when you’re exactly like him in every other way—it feels wrong. Everything’s been wrong since he left.”

Saparata knew little about his past self. He knew a few bits and pieces from the stories he heard, a ton being from Fluixon, or his supposed friends—the ones that the old Saparata hung out with—that he wasn’t allowed to see. The official reports had told them he had gotten in an accident and wouldn’t recover for a while, and they often sent him messages about missing him. He wasn’t allowed to read those either; he could tell the other version of him must have meant something, though. 

“I’m sure he appreciated you as much as you appreciated him,” he says gently, smooth and perfectly leveled. “He seemed very loved. I’m sure he knew that.”

And that seemed to make Fluixon crumble apart. He chokes back a noise.

“Why do you have to be so… polite?” Fluixon’s voice cracked, voice ragged. “He was such an asshole all the time. All he ever did was argue with me and make my life difficult. He made my life a living hell. But now he’s—you’re… everything he should have been. Perfect and compliant. It would’ve been fine if you were like this from the start, but now, I can’t stand looking at you.”

Body stilling, Saparata stood in silence as the other gathered himself together. He slowly inches closer towards him, hand reaching up to pat at his shoulder, or maybe grab him and comfort him—he hasn’t decided, wasn’t sure which would be right in this situation. He ran out of time before he could decide.

Taking a deep breath in, Fluixon shook his head, pulling his hands away from his wet face. “I’m fine. Tell my father I’ll be out in a few and to just… give me a second. Go. And close the door behind you.”

Saparata’s fingers twitch in place, quickly retracting them as he stands up straighter. “Of course, sir. I’ll see you in a bit, then,” he flatly responds. He spins around for the door. He’s not sure how he’d act if he stayed another moment longer. He didn’t want to acknowledge that weird aching feeling in his chest. Must be a system thing—always is.

A voice makes him stop on the spot.

“Oh, and Saparata, could you do me a favor?”

Glimpsing over his shoulder at where Fluixon still stands, back turned to him, gazing down at the drop, Saparata silently wondered what expression he had, if it even mattered at all. “Yes, sir?”

“Knock before you come in next time.”

 “... Of course, sir. Whatever you wish.”