Work Text:
It has now been a week since the Battle of Infernus, since the world could go back to their homes, finally rest after the long stretched conflict.
Everyone got to go back, rebuild their lives, continue living with those who survived, build graves for those who didn't, since some semblance of normality returned to everyone.
It's been a week since Saps came back... to his acropolis.
It was difficult to tell when the days passed, all blurring together in routine.
Wake. Shower. Eat. Clean. Fix the roof.
Wake. Shower. Eat. Clean. Build Flux a grave.
Wake. Shower. Eat. Clean. Clear out the garden.
Wake. Shower. Eat. Bring some flowers from the garden to Flux's grave.
Wake. Eat. Replace the wilted flowers with fresh ones.
Wake Eat Shower...?
Wake...
It's the middle of the night, everything around him shrouded in darkness. He's lying in the sand. He's...
In front of Flux's grave. Seems like he fell asleep sitting there, lost in his own mind for too long again.
It's a difficult task to pick himself up and reach his house, each step to his bed more sluggish.
The morning is the same as always, he wakes up, remembers to eat this time and leaves his cutlery in the sink.
He stares out the window for too long again, and in his daze doesn't notice as he accidently bumps his elbow on the mug sitting on the counter.
The sound of the mug shattering on the floor is at stark contrast with the silence in the kitchen.
He turns to look at the mess he made and stares at it wordlessly.
A coffee mug, beautiful white ceramic, great craftsmanship, hyacinth patterns dotted on it.
Bought from a market in Luminara, one of a pair, the one that belonged to Flux.
He looks up at his shelves, the other of the pair sitting there. This one made of the same ceramic but with sunflower patterns. The one he kept for himself.
The empty space next to it is mocking him.
A reminder of what he's lost, of what he will never get back. That he broke with his own hands, and never be able to forgive himself for it.
The empty space on the shelf is a pale mimicry of the empty space in his own heart, the vacuum that has been left behind in his own life.
The tears come as he is staring at the shelves, and as he looks back at the broken mug, that is all it takes to break him.
It was a sad sight that fell upon those who decided to journey to his island a few days later, when they found his body laying cold on the kitchen floor, his whole body cold, grey and lifeless, laying in his own dried up blood.
The cuts were deep, and stood out greatly against his own pale skin and the shards of broken ceramic scattered around him, as if they too were bleeding for him.