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The arena lights dimmed, leaving the rink bathed in a soft, crystalline glow. Every eye followed him as he glided across the ice, each movement precise, effortless, almost inhuman in its beauty. He stood still, head up like a proud bird that never lost, the ring was silent. Actions are anticipated and expected.
Then he moves.
The figure skates beautifully, elegantly, and precisely, drawing much attention in his direction. Captivating every spectator with his every move.
It ended. Everything was nothing but a motion of blur, as if they were hypnotized by his movements, so that they didn’t even realize that hours had already passed.
The crowd erupted in cheers, fans screaming his name, screaming for an encore. Fluixon smiled at the attention, pride swelling from the fans he worked hard to gain.
“That was magnificent, Flux!” his manager, Dean, shouted, clapping, voice brimming with pride. “You were like a beautiful bird spreading its wings towards freedom!”
Fluixon snorted and rolled his eyes, “Very funny, Dean.”
Fluixon’s lips curved in a small smile. He waved briefly towards the crowd and the camera, but his gaze lingered on the crowd as if he was searching for something.
Until he finally spotted him, the familiar face in the stands—bright eyes and an unwavering smile, the one who had believed in him before anyone else.
The one who supported him at his lowest, and at the time when nasty and disturbing rumours about him spread. The White Petal that landed on him and stayed, Saparata. There was comfort in that recognition, a quiet warmth in the midst of applause.
Fluixon waited until the arena was almost empty, so he could be able to have a small conversation with the lad who adored him.
Yes… Saparata adored him far too much, unbeknownst to him that it goes even deeper, and he will soon discover it in the worst possible way.
Fluixon glided across the ice, the sound of his blades slicing through the rink echoing softly in the empty arena. He wasn’t performing for anyone tonight—not the cameras, not the crowd, not even his manager. His eyes were fixed on the figure waiting near the edge.
Saparata's presence was as unnerving as it was inevitable. He didn’t move to block Fluixon’s path or call out—he simply waited, eyes following every precise motion, every graceful turn.
Fluixon slowed, coming to a careful stop a few feet away. “…You came,” he said, voice steady but carrying the weight of unasked questions.
“Of course,” Saps murmured, almost reverently. “I wouldn’t miss it, not at least one.”
Saparata’s lips curved into a small, polite smile. “You were incredible out there.”
Fluixon chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “Thanks. I thought my landing was a mess.”
“You make it look effortless,” Saparata said, his voice calm, measured. “Like you were born to do this.”
Fluixon tilted his head, curiosity lighting his expression. “You sound like my manager… but, uh, overcomplemented.”
Saparata's smile didn’t waver. “Maybe I just appreciate beauty when I see it.”
Fluixon laughed softly, stepping closer. “Well, I appreciate the company and the compliment.” He paused, eyes scanning the rink. “It’s… nice to have someone here who actually watches.”
“Not just because I was popular,” Fluixon awkwardly grinned.
Saparata's gaze lingered on him a moment longer than necessary, but his tone remained casual. “I’m glad I could be here. I wouldn’t want to miss a moment of your progress.”
Fluixon nodded, unaware of the way Saparata's eyes followed his every twitch, every flicker of emotion. “It’s funny… most people just clap and leave. You actually… watch.”
Saparata’s smile deepened, quiet, almost unreadable. “Some things are worth more than applause.”
Fluixon grinned, tying his laces one last time. “Well, I’m glad you think so. I should get going, though… more practice tomorrow.”
“Of course,” Saparata said, voice soft, almost dreamy. “I’ll be around.”
Flux waved, oblivious, and skated off, leaving Saps standing at the edge of the rink. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, simply watching as Flux disappeared into the gleaming ice. A soft, almost imperceptible shiver ran down Saps’ spine. “Yes,” he whispered to himself. “Just as I imagined.”
≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾
Saparata closed the door behind him, the muffled sounds of the streets and vehicles fading into silence. His coat slipped from his shoulders, but his eyes never left the walls.
Dozens of pictures of Flux adorned the room—some stapled haphazardly, others framed with meticulous care. Posters of the skater mid-jump, close-ups of his intense gaze, every fleeting smile captured and immortalized, covered every available surface.
In the corner, a small shrine beckoned. A worn glove, its fabric faintly carrying Flux’s scent, rested atop a velvet cloth. Beside it, a carefully made replica of Flux’s favorite charm gleamed under the dim light. Other mementos—ticket stubs from performances, a carefully folded scarf, a hairpin, and a close-up picture of Fluixon sleeping—each item was placed in its own compartment with painstaking precision, as though a ritual demanded such devotion.
Saparata stepped closer, fingertips grazing the edges of the glove. “You’re… everything,” he murmured, voice soft yet trembling. “My reason to wake. My reason to breathe. My salvation…”
He sank to his knees in front of the shrine, eyes glinting with a mixture of reverence and longing. “Everything I do… It’s for you. And one day… you’ll see it. You’ll understand why I exist, Flux. Why I need you.”
Outside, the city moved on, oblivious to the quiet worship happening in a small room, a life revolving entirely around a single person who had no idea he existed beyond the ice.
≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾
As another competition of Fluixon passed, the white-haired lad did not hesitate to spend his money to observe him, watch him, and soon exchange numbers with the skater.
“Asking for my number so suddenly, I wonder why?” Fluixon looked at the other with a teasing look. With a practiced and measured act, Saparata made a sheepish expression. “I just want to treat you sometimes,” he lied. “You’re my first friend after all.”
Fluixon looked at the other lad in surprise and let out a giggly-like laugh, “Alright, as long as it's your treat, ok?” The skater pats the white petal’s shoulder before they exchange their goodbyes.
As soon as Fluixon’s silhouette disappeared from Saparata’s view, the white-haired lad gripped the shoulder where his beloved salvation touched him.
Saparata sank onto the ground, staring in the direction where his beloved walked away. “He touched me,” he whispered, voice husky, almost reverent. “Just for a second… and it was enough. Enough to feel… alive.”
He buried his face in his palm, his eyes gleamed in full adoration… and obsession. “He doesn’t even know… but now he’s part of me. Every thought, every breath… every heartbeat.”
“Everything I do… It’s for him. And one day… he’ll understand. He’ll see. He’ll have to.” Saparata mumbled to himself.
A shiver ran down his spine, but it wasn’t fear—it was anticipation, excitement, and thrill. A smile stretched slowly across his lips, soft and dangerous. “He’s mine. He doesn’t know it yet… but he will.”
≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾
Fluixon and Saparata started hanging out a lot, knowing each other even more, and have grown very, very close.
But… Saparata wanted it to be much closer.
One specific day, Fluixon had the bold idea to surprise Saparata by tracking down his house from the address that the lad accidentally told him and surprise him with a visit. Saparata told the skater to forget about it, but the skater refused to do so.
Fluixon quickly disguised himself and left his hotel room without informing his Manager, Dean.
Walking on an unfamiliar road, Fluixon finds himself lost a couple of times before finding the right path to Saparata's abode.
Fluixon arrived at the front of the building just as the streetlights flickered overhead, casting uneven shadows across the pavement. The quiet hum of the city felt distant here, muted as if the world itself had taken a breath and held it. He crouched, examining the door handle with a trained eye. A quick twist—locked.
Fluixon frowned for a moment and started thinking. He soon started to circle by the entrance, scanning for any hidden compartments or tricks, expecting perhaps a decoy for a burglar or some prank.
That’s when his gaze landed on a small glint beneath a weathered flower pot. Carefully, he pulled out a tiny brass key, its surface worn smooth by use. It fit neatly into the lock, turning with a reluctant click.
“Probably just a trap for some petty thief,” Flux muttered under his breath, keeping his tone casual though unease prickled at the edges of his mind. He pushed the door open, stepping into the apartment, his instincts alert.
The air inside was heavy, tinged with faint incense and an underlying metallic tang that made him pause. And then he saw it.
Every wall was a shrine to him, a gallery of his own image. Photographs—some candid, some posed—were stapled, taped, and framed meticulously. Posters of him mid-spin, mid-leap, caught in the perfect moments of his routines, covered the surfaces. Every flicker of emotion, every angle of his face, every subtle expression had been captured, displayed, and preserved.
At the corner of the room stood a small shrine, elevated on a low table. A worn glove lay atop velvet cloth, beside a replica of his favorite charm, and other personal items he didn’t even recognize—carefully arranged as though in some ritualistic devotion. The sheer intensity of it made his chest tighten.
“What…?” The skater asked, his eyes blown wide in disbelief. “What the hell is this…?”
Fluixon’s fingers itched to touch, to examine, but a creeping instinct told him not to. His eyes darted around the room, searching for any sign of life—but there was only stillness, oppressive and heavy.
Then, without warning, something pressed against his mouth. A damp cloth, saturated with an acrid, chemical smell. He tried to pull back, to scream, but it was futile. His struggles grew frantic, his limbs flailing, but the grip was unyielding. He could feel the air slipping away from his lungs, the room spinning, and then darkness claimed him.
Even in unconsciousness, he could sense it—the weight of the room, the eyes he could not see, the silent reverence of the man who had orchestrated this entire space around him. Somewhere behind the shadows, Saparata watched, waiting, a soft, almost reverent smile playing on his lips. The door clicked shut with deliberate precision, sealing the world out and locking Flux in a place where obsession had taken physical form.
≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾
Fluixon’s eyes fluttered open, and for a brief, disoriented moment, he thought he was still dreaming. But the reality hit almost immediately—warmth, a crushing closeness, the undeniable weight of another body pressed against him. Panic surged through his veins as he realized whose arms held him.
“Mnmn…” he gasps, his voice muffled.
Saparata’s lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile, his head pressing deeper into the crook of Fluixon’s neck. The scent of him—the faint mix of perfume, detergent, and something uniquely, obsessively Saparata—filled his senses. It was overwhelming, possessive, intimate.
“You should have forgotten my address,” Saparata murmured, his voice low, almost velvety, “But you… " You were so stubborn, voluntarily placing yourself in danger,” Saparata murmured, his face still buried in the skater’s neck.
“You don’t know how much I want to see you… touch you… have you.” Saparata hummed, Fluixon’s body shook, not from warmth, but from fear. He tried to push away, to wriggle free, but Saparata’s grip was ironclad. Every protest, every frantic motion, was met with a gentle, yet unyielding tightening of his embrace.
“I’ve watched you,” Saparata continued, his words flowing like a soft chant, “Every leap, every spin, every flicker of your expression… you’re my light. My reason to breathe. My devotion, my adoration, my obsession… it all belongs to you.”
Fluixon swallowed hard, his mind racing. Fluixon tried to speak, but everything was eaten by the cloth around his mouth.
Saparata silenced him with a quiet shake of his head, burying his face further into Fluixon’s neck. “Shh… don’t speak. Not now. You’re here… in my arms. And now… I won’t let you go. Not ever.”
Every word pressed into Fluixon’s chest like a weight he couldn’t lift. His heart pounded violently, but he was powerless against the intensity, the closeness, the suffocating adoration that emanated from Saparata. In that moment, it was clear: Saparata’s world had narrowed to a single point—him—and nothing else mattered.
Fluixon’s mind screamed for escape, but Saparata’s presence, warm and unrelenting, was already a cage he couldn’t see, couldn’t understand, and couldn’t yet break.
≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾
Days blurred into a nightmare for Flux. Trapped in Saparata’s obsession and possessive embrace, his body shook violently, tears streaming down his face. Fear, anger, desperation—all collided inside him, and the damp cloth over his mouth only muffled the cries that threatened to escape. Every attempt to push away, to scream, to make Saparata release him, was met with a suffocating, almost tender restraint.
Outside the apartment, the world had begun to notice his absence. Dean, Flux’s manager, paced frantically in the office, phone pressed to his ear for the hundredth time. Messages went unanswered, calls rang endlessly, and no one had seen or heard from Flux in five days. Panic clawed at Dean’s chest as the weight of dread grew unbearable.
By the fifth week, the disappearance had reached the news. On live television, Aven, as the assigned reporter about the case, addressed the nation with a tone of cautious concern.
“…Renowned ice skater Flux has been reported missing for nearly a week. Authorities are still in search of the beloved Ice skater and are asking anyone with information regarding his whereabouts to come forward immediately. Flux’s manager, Dean, has expressed deep concern and is urging the public to assist in any way possible. If you have seen anything unusual or have any leads, please contact local law enforcement or Ms. Dean directly.”
The television flickered in the corner of the room, the soft glow illuminating Saparata’s face as he sat behind the chained skater. Flux’s body slumped forward, exhausted, eyes red-rimmed from crying, his energy sapped from days of fear, desperation, and restraint. Every movement he made was heavy, sluggish, weighed down by the crushing reality of his captivity.
Saparata’s fingers traced delicate patterns along Flux’s shoulders, his touch unnervingly gentle, as if comforting a fragile treasure. “There… there’s no need to cry anymore,” he murmured, his voice soft, intimate, and possessive. “You’re here… with me. Safe. Mine.”
The news anchor’s voice echoed through the room, reporting again on Fluixon’s disappearance, the world outside scrambling for answers, concerned faces flashing across the screen. Saparata’s lips curved into a faint, almost reverent smile.
Fluixon lifted his head slightly, eyes barely, catching glimpses of himself on the screen—his own image, hollow and tired, being discussed by strangers as a missing person. A fresh wave of despair rolled over him, but Saparata held him close, one hand cradling his head, the other resting possessively across his chest.
“Can you see?” Saparata whispered, brushing hair from Fluixon’s damp forehead. “Everyone out there… they’ll never understand. But I do. I’ve always understood you. And now… you’re mine. Only mine.”
Fluixon’s body shuddered, a mixture of fear, exhaustion, and disbelief, but there was nothing he could do. He was trapped not only by the chains and the room, but by the terrifying, unwavering devotion of the man who had reduced his world to this single, inescapable embrace.
Saparata leaned closer, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, his breathing slow and steady. Outside, the world continued its frantic search, but inside these walls, only two existed—one utterly broken, and one utterly consumed by obsession.
And in that dim, oppressive light, Saparata whispered again, almost lovingly, “Forever… you’re mine.”
-End