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Fluixon’s breath hitched. He’d just ran from an army of people, from world leaders, from innocent civilians, all out to get him. To hang his head. To see him dead, gone. He doesn't know what he’s done. He only knew that he was running from everyone. That included running from him. Saparata.
Recollections slowly came back to him, like tiny pieces of puzzles in a huge jigsaw. Then he quietly remembered, realised. That he murdered a handful of world leaders. That he framed Saparata for it, used him as his scapegoat.
What comes next is the memory of the faces of the people around the corpses he had murdered. Horrified, gut-wrenching. They way their pupils shrinked, eyes turned dark, slowly distorting. Their faces all turned to Saparata.
Saparata was glowing, gleaming. He was like an angel, wearing a white cloak that would’ve gotten him mistaken as an angelic deity. He was, until Fluixon framed him. The shine dulled, distorted, then went away. What was left was the undeniable fear and desperation beneath golden eyes.
He shook his head. He sat, limp, now suddenly on the edge of his bed in the Infernus castle. Cynikka, who was meant to be his sister, took him in. Why was Cynikka here?
This was wrong. Very wrong. Everything was as blurry and fuzzy as a horror film from the internet in the early 1990s, glitchy, distorted, stinging to the eyes. Many allies? Civilians? Passed by — staring straight at him, eyes wide open, walking like automated robots. The only person who he could really tell apart from others, who was real, was Saparata.
Fluixon wished otherwise. He didn't want that Saparata to actually be real.
His head was pounding. Heartbeat too fast to be healthy. This was bad— very bad. Every mirror he looked in, his reflection was wrong. That wasn’t him, wasn't Fluixon. His complexion was a little too thin, eyes too sharp. He couldn't even clearly see it, vision blurring at times.
This was so wrong.
What’s even worse is next thing, Fluixon found himself in a colosseum; he was holding a sword, movements evidently slower and heavier with a full body of diamond armour. He shook his head, really tried to clear his vision. When he looked up he saw him. He saw Saparata. Just as human as he was, but something was wrong. There was a small hint of hatred and the undoubtable presence of anger. He was too, in armour, axe in hand. But that wasn’t Saparata. It really shouldn't be, hair too long, face too rough.
And then next second: they’re fighting. It stung when his sword sliced Saparata’s skin. It pained him when his hands were moving while his mind was telling himself to stop. His body didn't listen. It kept moving, fighting, swinging the sword in his hand stained with Saparata’s blood. Fluixon resisted the urge to throw up.
Even when his own skin was sliced open, arm bleeding, it was painful. Painful physically, yes, but more so emotionally.
Saparata would never let him bleed out on the colosseum floor, torso sliced open, blood gushing out. Several wounds littered his skin, all tainted in his own blood. That’s what he thought, at least. Before it happened.
The look in Saparata’s eyes when he landed the final blow that made Fluixon falter, collapsing onto the ground. Cold. Satisfaction. Fluixon forced himself to look lower, on Saparata’s hands. Sword stained with his blood, every drop of blood ticking down from the sharp of it seemed to just be mocking him.
It was getting harder as every second passed to look. He could feel every cut and gash in his body, he could feel the blood that flowed out, the feeling of acceptance of death. He doesn't know why he’s dying, why he was fighting Saparata in the first place.
What he does know, is that he’s in immense pain, every inch of him yelling for him to die already.
The pain from the blood circulation leaving him, and the pain of being stared down by Saparata’s merciless eyes. Cheers from all around them drowning his own thoughts. Pain from the puddle of his own blood stinging his skin, almost making him unrecognisable.
Okay, fine. Fluixon thought.
This is it then.
Finally, one last strike lands right in the middle of his chest. It’s weird — experiencing death when it’s not truly your body you’re in.
Fluixon accepts it. That’s his fate, death. Inevitable. Fine. It is what it is.
He tried, really tried to stop thinking and quicken the process of bleeding out and dying, filter out the immense pain centered around every inch of his body; feeling his guts spill out.
It’s hard when he’s able to hear a faint voice.
The type of voice where you’re certain is there, but absolutely indecipherable no matter how closely you listened.
Fluixon tried to filter it out, drowning the voice. It shouldn't be that hard; yet unfortunately for him, it is.
It didn't leave. It sounded persistant.
Then, it came again. A small plea.
Again.
“Flux.”
Then again.
“Flux!”
Fluixon jolts awake, breathing too uneven, body too tense. He works his eyes. It’s somewhat dark. He’s in his shared bedroom, which is good. Very good. He fails to notice the person sitting beside him before he feels a soft touch against his face.
He jerks his head slightly to the side, the hand shrinking back with that. There, sits Saparata. His golden eyes blinked once, then twice. Nothing but pure concern is laced beneath them, undoubtedly a small hint of relief meshed between too. Flux hears him when he exhales.
Fluixon stares. At Saparata, his eyes, his hair. Short hair, a longer piece tied into a braid. Eyes, a pretty shade of yellow. Flux argues it’s the prettiest he’s ever seen. The shine in his eye is there, highlighting it. His moles, still there, innocently dotted.
Yeah, that’s him. That’s the actual Saparata.
The voice disturbs his thoughts. “You’re awake.”
Yeah, I am, he wants to say. His mouth seems glued together. What if that’s not the actual Saparata? What if that’s the one in his dream, the one that killed him?
What would he do then?
Fluixon swallows. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't even question why Saparata is sitting by his bed, watching him wake. He just continues to stare, look at Saps, as if the second he turns away and looks back, he’d change or disappear. The most Flux can ask for right now is for him to stay.
He looks away anyway when Saparata speaks again.
“You’re shaking. Sit up.”
Fluixon doesn't question anything. He sits up, only now realising how quickly his heart has been beating, how hard he’s been breathing, how much he has been trembling.
Saparata nods. He looks at Fluixon. Really looks. He speaks before Flux is able to.
“Stay still. Just try to breathe, okay?” he says in a low tone, voice steady and reassuring. Fluixon could listen to his voice every morning when he wakes up and not get tired of it.
He does as he’s told. He sits still, as still as he can, and tries to breathe steadily. He blanks his mind, forgets about whatever that horrifying dream was.
Inhale. Exhale.
After a brief moment, he feels the trembling subside. He has never seen himself tremble before, being someone who never really physically reacted to the cold or any type of thrill. It’s obvious that the dream has taken a toll on him, and even Saparata has noticed.
Fluixon would usually find that mortifying — being seen so vulnerable. But it’s Saparata, and he has better things to worry about right now such as his heart rate.
His heart is still beating too quickly for it to be normal.
He settles again, relaxing his shoulders. He doesn't know why a stupid dream is having such a massive effect on him. He’d say the dream wasn’t that bad, except that it was, and it shows. He still feels borderline weird in his skin. He still somehow feels an ache in his stomach, his hand making sure his skin is still intact.
It’s stupid, but relief washes over him when he confirms it is. He doesn't seem to realise how tense he’d been until that soothing voice speaks again.
“You’re staring a lot, y’know that? I’m still here.” Saps chuckles. An attempt at lightening the mood.
Flux nods before turning away. “Yeah. Sorry.”
Saparata frowns. He tentatively inches his hand closer, eventually landing it on Flux’s arm. The latter almost flinches at the contact. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to.
“Bad dream?” Saparata guesses.
Fluixon shrugs. That usually means you’re right about something. Saps doesn’t pester him further, only nods simply. He knows Flux well enough.
Saparata breathes out. “Okay. I’ll be here if you wanna tell me about it.” His hand remains on the other’s arm, fingertips brushing his skin where the raised up sleeve ends. Saps knows that Flux isn't exactly the one for physical contact, yet he knows when he doesn't want him to leave. It’s easy to learn things like these when you share a dorm.
“Thank you,” he says, voice quiet and feeble. Flux’s expression is a mix, uncertainty, reassurance, distaste — yet content. It’s never that easy to read Fluixon, and even Saps would agree. He chews on the inside of his mouth, eyes laying low as if something is bugging him.
That isn't completely incorrect. It sounds stupid, foolish enough to make him sigh. But the memory of Saparata piercing his axe through his stomach, his blood splattering out, guts spilling, knees collapsing — it’s hard to shake off. Even more when the real version of that person is right before him, providing him comfort and reassurance.
He swallows, and tries very hard not to wince.
Those eyes. Those eyes weren't Saparata’s. Too dull, too brutal. The thought of it makes him upset and frustrated.
Saparata would never. Saparata would never do that, right? Absolutely not. He’s too kind, too good for that kind of thing. The Saps he knows would never. He’s sure, very sure, extremely sure yet he still finds himself wondering whether Saparata would do something like that to him.
It’s stupid, Flux knows.
What he doesn't know is how tense he’d been again for the past minutes; practically staring at his hands, not a single muscle moving yet the tremble is persistent. He only realises when Saps wraps his hand around his arm, squeezing it lightly.
He relaxes. Then he looks up after a moment.
“You’re doing that thing.” Saparata comments. “When you suddenly go silent and unresponsive, lost in your own world.”
He doesn't expect a response, yet he asks anyway. “What is it?”
Saps was expecting an ‘I don't know’, or a half shrug. That’s usually how the conversation ends when he asks questions like that.
“Bad dream,” Flux finally confirms. It’s obvious to the both of them already, but Saps still hums in acknowledgement.
He looks up a little then to his arm where Saparata’s hand is wrapped around. He doesn't move away. “You were in my dream. Well, you weren't. Because that wasn’t really you.”
Saparata nods. He doesn't ask or say anything, only waits for Fluixon to continue. It’s rare enough to see him elaborating on something so personal, and he doesn't want to break the moment.
“It was a weird dream. We fought,” he explains, voice lowering. “It was in a colosseum. We were fighting. But it wasn't really you.”
Flux swallows. “You had weird eyes. They weren't quite the nice yellow ones you have.” He stops. It’s clear he isn't sure whether he should continue or not.
He continues despite himself. “I think, uhm. I think I did something that made you hate me in the dream. You tried to kill me.”
Saparata's eyes widened. He has so many questions, yet Flux seemed to be just as confused as him, constantly avoiding eye contact, voice quiet. He lets him continue.
“You did. But it wasn't actually you. That’s because I know you wouldn't.. y’know.” he frowns at his own words.
“It’s fine. It’s not even that big of a deal — yeah, it’s stupid. I know. You wouldn't,” he hurriedly repeats.
Since when has Flux become so apologetic?
Saparata simply nods, holding back whatever lecture he would’ve given him. It’s early, their lessons are starting in a few long hours. He knows what Fluixon would appreciate and what he wouldn't, and he accommodates.
“Forget it,” Flux whispers, back slumping into his pillow harder.
Saparata speaks before he stops himself. “Stop saying that. I’m here to listen to whatever you wanna tell me, and you know that.”
He doesn't reply. Not immediately, at least. Saps watches him pick his own nails, before looking out the window, then his attention drops again.
“I know that.”
“You should stop staying quiet, then,” he replies, no bite behind it. Both of them know that.
Again, he doesn't say anything. He nods, and that's that. The statement doesn't need a response.
“And for the record, I’d never do that. I’m Saps, not whatever fraud that pretended to be me is.” He leans a little closer. Flux doesn’t budge away. “I can prove it, if you want me to.”
Saparata smiles. Fluixon isn't even looking at him, yet he knows. He can hear it in his tone, the little grin he wears on his face when he says something he knows Flux would have difficulty replying to. He feels his face go warm a little.
“Mhm.”
“How do you want me to prove it?” Saps continues, clearly enjoying whatever misery he’d put Flux into. A so-called misery that makes Flux subconsciously smile.
“A hug? A kiss on the cheek?”
Fluixon rolls his eyes. He scoots over to the inner edge of his bed. Patting his hand on the empty space beside him, “Come,” he blankly demands, ignoring the former’s question.
Saparata abandons the stool stolen from across the room and climbs in. It’s a single bed. Undeniably cramped, but not a problem.
He lays down beside Fluixon. Their backs face eachother, a mere centimeter away from touching.
Saps nudges his head deeper into the pillow. It’s soft and comfortable like a cloud.
Flux has one of those extremely soft pillows, the ones that make your head sink fully into it, while Saps prefers the sturdier ones; something to do with neck support. Despite that, he doesn't pay it any mind.
It’s comfortable and it smells like Flux’s shampoo. There is no reason to complain.
They rest. One beside the other, backs facing, breathing stable.
It’s a comfortable silence. The room was dark, dark in the way that the blinds block out the rising sun outside, only a fraction of light spilling in. It’s too early for them to wake up, get ready, brush their teeth as their lectures start hours later. He takes this opportunity to rest beside Flux peacefully.
It wasn't uncommon that Saparata would stir early in the morning, earlier than anyone would be awake.
So when he woke this morning, he looked around the room, taking in the dark silence. Still early. Then his vision landed on Fluixon, like it always did. He’d usually find him dead asleep, unmoving.
Today was different. The man’s body faced the wall, curled away from Saps. Yet the slight twitch of a hand that caught his eye was there. So he stared — the longer he did, the more things he noticed.
The way the rise and fall of his chest was uneven, the way his arm kept moving, and the undeniable shaking that overtook his body.
Saparata got out of his bed and sat beside him, trying to get a better look.
He quietly loomed over the man until his face was in sight. He saw an expression of discomfort, almost fear. The way his mouth opened briefly then shut, like a last minute decision to stay silent. It shook him, yet pained him to see his friend like that.
So he made the decision to wake him.
Saparata exhales through his nose, blinking himself back to the present. He doesn't think before he speaks.
“Flux?” he mumbles, practically whispering against the blanket.
“Hm?” Flux replies, almost instantly.
Saparata goes warm. “Nothing.”
A moment of silence passes, neither speaking up. “How do you feel? Still thinking of the dream?”
Fluixon tightly hugs the blanket, eyes blinking away. He stares at the wall infront of him.
He breathes out, “I’m alright. It’s fine. It was nothing.”
He pauses.
“But thank you.”
“What?”
“For waking me up. Thanks for that.” He sounds sincere, grateful.
Saparata doesn't fight the smile growing on his face. “No big deal. Always.”
He hears Flux exhale beside him, before he shuffles in the blanket. After another brief moment, he blinks awake to his voice.
“Saps?”
“Yeah?”
“Look at me,” he says, turning over to face Saparata. He sounds tired, half asleep.
Why does he want him to do that? Saps doesn't know. But he does as he’s told anyway, and turns over.
The first thing he sees is Fluixon’s face.
Eyes open, a beautiful amethyst colour even in the morning darkness. His under eyelashes, long and sharp, frames them beautifully. It’s hard to look away from them once you’ve set eyes on it. So he doesn't, he continues to look into them.
He watches as Flux scans his face. How his eyes observe his fringe, brushed to the side by gravity, to his eyebrows, to his eyes. Brown in the dark, gold in the light. Flux doesn't look away after a brief moment, still taking in every colour, highlight, and shadow of his eyes, then to his white eyelashes. Flux almost forgets to breathe.
Saps watches when his attention trails to his moles. Below his eyes, on the upper part of his cheeks. Two moles dot on either side. Then to his nose and lips.
His attention flickers back to Saparata’s eyes after, where Saps is still looking at him. It’s hard to look anywhere else when you’re sharing a pillow, faces too close, air too warm. Fluixon relaxes a little.
Saparata grins. “Done checking me out?”
Flux does a half shrug after a long second. “Yeah. Don't worry. You’re still as fine as ever,” he smiles, obvious in his voice.
This makes Saps blank out for a second. He scoffs, then actually thinks about what he said. As fine as ever? His eyes widen. “What?”
“What? Did I say something wrong?”
Flux is honestly just relieved that it’s still the actual Saps laying beside him. They both know. Neither comment on it. They don't need to.
Saps goes even warmer. This closeness, the short distance between them, the shared air. How does Flux say things like that and expects him not to react?
He reluctantly looks away from Fluixon’s eyes. He’s not sure how much longer he’s able to endure staring into them before he actually explodes.
“Well– I don't.. I mean,” he starts, at least attempts to. “You’re impossible.” His gaze doesn't stray far from his eyes. There’s just physically no way it can.
He doesn't miss it when Fluixon grins. “You started this,” he explains.
Saps knows. He knows and he’s somewhat frustrated at that. He’s also frustrated at how slowly his words seem to be coming out, how awake he feels all of a sudden.
“It’s hard to tell if you’re serious when you say things like that, y’know?” Saparata says, hands getting sweatier.
Fluixon seems to get caught off guard. He hurriedly looks away too.
“It’s up for interpretation, if it helps,” he scoffs, suddenly feeling warmer aswell. “But you know I’d never lie to you.”
Saparata forces a small laugh.
That’s too much to think about for now. They can leave it to later, when they’re both fully awake and up. Not now. They’ll very peacefully and platonically get as much rest as they can currently.
Neither of them say anything else, seemingly mutually agreeing on putting the conversation to an end.
Fluixon shuts his eyes and turns over, and tries very hard to ignore everything he had said before. That he wasn't lying and meant what he said. He also ignores how easily and casually Saparata made him feel relaxed again, waking him up and calming him. And how close they are currently, in the same bed. Most importantly, the weird feeling in his chest.
He’ll be able to sleep it off. Probably. Hopefully.
If not, then that’s a thing to worry about when he wakes up.
His thoughts get interrupted when he feels hot air against the back of his neck, and the slight brushing of fabric. And the undeniable feeling of Saparata’s hair brushing his skin. His eyes shoot open, as if he’s going to be able to see anything behind him. He doesn't need to anyway.
Saparata comfortably snuggles up against Flux’s back, head nuzzling into the other’s neck. Saps’ leg brushes his knee. Flux doesn't move away. He doesn't want to.
Neither comment on it. They drift off into a comfortable silence, senses slowly shifting into sleep.
This time, when Flux dreams, he doesn't see a fake Saparata, knowing the actual Saps is right beside him.