Chapter Text
By this point, sneaking out at night was second nature to Flux.
Like clockwork, he'd zip on a needlessly warm jacket for the summer heat, pocket several loose Marlboros, and shimmy himself out the window of his bedroom like a thief in the night, or a teenager on the verge of adulthood acting out in any way that seemed marginally cool. It was a blessing to him that their house was a single floor, and a curse to Elanuelo who had been consistently failing at tempering Flux’s newfound teenage rebellion.
Saparata was already waiting for him at their usual spot, on a grassy knoll by the old train tracks. The night sky shone luminous and bright overhead, little rhinestones embedded in blue-black velvet. He leaned against the singular streetlight, idly bringing a lit cigarette to his lips - granted, this was a rarity for Saparata, but a welcome change for Flux who was used to smoking alone. A wry smile climbed onto his face once his eyes settled on Flux.
"Hey," Saparata said, easy and light. "You good? I was literally about to go to bed when you texted me."
Flux shrugged, evasive. “Elanuelo’s on my case again. Been too long since I pissed him off. Figured this was one way to do it.” He brought the cigarette to his lips, fumbling around his jacket pockets, and groaned internally when they turned up empty. “Crap. I forgot my lighter.”
Saparata laughed, fishing a white lighter with his name scrawled across it from his back pocket. “Dude, you can use mine.” Then, face flushed, he adds, “It’s chill, I know what you’re about. I wanted an excuse to see you, too.”
Flux would be lying if he said that wasn’t true.
When Flux’s alarm blares at 5:30AM for work, he wakes up hyperventilating, and his shirt drenched in sweat.
It takes him fifteen minutes to ease out of the ensuing panic attack, remind himself that there is no starry sky, and no Saparata to come back to.
Flux ruminates over the laundry list of where his life went wrong more than he cares to admit.
Maybe it was the fall of his sophomore year when Ender left for university, or the summer after when he’d start finding Elanuelo sleeping on the living room couch, and he’d promptly picked up smoking in petty rebellion. Or maybe, it was the year he graduated high school and how the subsequent divorce settlement ate through a chunk of his and Cynikka’s college funds, caging them in a town they thought they were one foot out of, while the majority of their peers took flight, promising to keep in touch and never doing so. Or maybe it was the three years after that, balancing bagging groceries in his hometown with part-time school, while applying for university transfers in a desperate attempt to bruteforce his life back on track.
It feels worse when he itemizes it like that; Flux is an acolyte of careful planning and execution, and the last few years had felt like stumbling through a dark tunnel, no light ahead nor behind him, clinging onto walls to decipher any discernible path forward. If he were a weaker man, he would’ve given up by now, and resigned his fate to the stupid grocery store he works at now with the most meagre paycheck, but one that he needs regardless.
But It’s Friday evening, that in itself is enough to rekindle some hope in Flux.
Fridays, in all its punch drunk glory, are for letting every bone in his body fall into place, and release a breath he’d been holding for an entire week, where he can exchange the smoking habit for equally unhealthy disgustingly greasy diner food that he’ll scarf down with Thomas while they commiserate about life. It’s about feeling human, and normal, and molding dreams of leaving Theria into ideas into plans.
When Flux finds his way to the diner on the east end of Theria, Thomas is already folded into cracked vinyl seats of their usual table, scanning a grease stained menu from which they will inevitably order the same items from again. He smiles and waves Flux over, and relief washes over him for the first time that day. Now, he can barely remember what he had dreamed, details fuzzy and clouded - all except for Saparata’s smiling face rendered in shocking clarity.
Lingering over it left his nerves frayed all day; he hadn’t really dreamt of Saparata for a glorious few months, and maybe naively believed he was out of the woods, that he could leave this chapter of his life as an experience the past will devour for itself and he can face the future with renewed joie de vivre.
It would’ve been too good to be true. As certain as Flux’s hand reaches for a cigarette, a ghost will haunt.
He tries for a smile back, and seats himself across from Thomas and his sunbeam smile. The summer has been kinder to Thomas than it has been to Flux; there’s several new freckles dotting the landscape of his tan skin. His face is lighter, too, a weight lifted indicative of the untethered joy of tying up loose ends before leaving a town you hate in the rearview mirror.
If only Flux will be so lucky soon.
Thomas tosses a fry into his mouth and gives Flux a once-over. “You feeling ok, Flux?”
“Didn’t sleep well.” Silently: Do not press this.
“You having those nightmares again?” His tone is casual, but Flux imagines there’s a lick of worry he’s carefully concealing. Flux fidgets with Saps’ lighter; Thomas takes that as a sign to redirect.
Conversation comes easily. They realise they have a common shift at the grocery store tomorrow, and Flux silently thanks whatever gods may be for freeing him from that damned annoying brat Rotation for one more shift.
Thomas announces that he finally went all in on this ugly 2007 Toyota Camry he found on Craigslist, and Flux agonizes over the waiting game that is the university transfer application he’d been incrementally working on, while Thomas bemoans the process of apartment hunting now that he’d accepted an engineering internship out east. It’s a shared sentiment, how close they are to prying the world open like a safe, if only someone would hand them the fucking crowbar.
Friday night passes in a lacklustre but familiar cocktail of silverware clinks on plates, greasy bacon sizzling, and jukebox music so bad it makes them both cringe until they laugh.
It’s close to 1 AM when they begrudgingly decide to call it a day, comfortable silence the entire walk down to their street. As he waves goodbye, Flux can’t help but think that Thomas is the gravity tethering him to Theria, how he probably would’ve lost his mind way sooner if it weren’t for him. He can almost forget that he’d dreamt of Saparata just last night.
It should have come as a surprise when Thomas says “I like you,” in that straightforward, frank way only Thomas could make a confession of love sound, but it does not. Flux is at the cashier till, forehead pressed on the cool glass countertop, and Thomas is restocking apples. Green ones. The fan hums, straining and loud, cicada burst.
Flux closes his eyes. The sun burrows in the crook of his neck, hot and honeyed. “Thomas, I-“
“I know you’re still-“ he grimaces, “ - but, Saps is-“
“Thomas,” Flux hisses. “Thomas. Please.”
Thomas doesn’t try to finish the thought. His baseball cap shadows his face from view, but Flux can already imagine the exact wounded puppy-dog look he’s hiding by the tremor of his hands alone.
They scarcely talk for the remainder of their shift, and Thomas mutters some flimsy, barely audible excuse before leaving five minutes early. As he drives off, Flux feels something cold, mercurial ladled over his limbs, clamping around his heart.
Later that night, Flux projects the memory of Thomas’ silhouette against the sun on his bedroom ceiling, dark and hazy, his unusually solemn eyes, the tempo of his voice. Flux can’t place why it makes his chest ache. Looking down the barrel of a shotgun, his phone lights with a message from Thomas: hey. you still up?
Nestled in a valley between four mountains of obscene proportions, is a town called Theria, which bears no emotional significance to Flux beyond the unfortunate fact that he was born and raised there. This also meant that despite how much he hated it with every inch of his soul, he also knew it better than himself. He cried when his childhood playground got demolished to construct the grocery store he now works at, he’s tried everything on the diner menu at least thrice over and created a meticulous mental tier list ranking every ordered item, he could walk to Thomas’ house, or most places, with his eyes closed.
It’s how he knows where Thomas is without even asking for a location.
Balmy breeze takes the place of arid heat as the sun falls, and Flux decides on the scenic thirty minute walk to the train tracks on the outskirts of town. Tall blades of untended grass ripple like the ocean under dark blue skies.
Thomas is cross-legged on the grass next to the tracks when he clears the hill, absent-mindedly ripping out chunks of grass by the handful. Wordlessly, he joins Thomas on the grass with a thud, fishing a cigarette and Saps’ old lighter from his pocket as he does so. It takes him a second to get a flame steady in the breeze, but once he does, it’s a reliable functional reset, nicotine cushioning the awkward air between them. Head lolling backwards, he exhales smoky rivulets into the moon. The grass feels soft and cool under his touch.
Thomas wrinkles his nose at the smell, swats with his hand and says something about how many loads of laundry he has to do to wash the smell off. They’ve been through this enough times to know that despite his badgering, Thomas wouldn’t do anything about it.
It’s considerably harder to quit now, anyways, with how much a once occasional habit ballooned into an emotional crutch. Flux had picked up smoking in his junior year, but in his defence, most people would with the state of his family that fall. Begrudgingly, it sort of helped at the time - it made Elanuelo furious, and while Saparata joined him occasionally, he thought it was corny enough he’d kept a tally of how much Flux smoked in an attempt to shame him out of the habit. (Bitterly, Flux thinks, it’s too bad he didn’t stay around long enough for that to stick).
Nowadays, the emotional reprieve bears the equivalent satisfaction of biting his nails, something he did with the same absent minded complacency. He takes another tongue-numbing inhale and digs his fingers into the palpable silence of the present.
“So.” Thomas is the first to speak. His voice is a little shaky, ears pink at the tips, and deliberately avoiding eye contact. “I’m sorry for springing it on you like that, it’s unfair-”
“I want you to kiss me,” Flux interrupts, breathy and exhilarated.
Thomas visibly blanches, head turning owl-like towards Flux. “What,” he says breathlessly. “Huh?”
In his stomach, in his heart - a bitterness, a loneliness, a last ditch effort - takes root, and blossoms under the moonlight. “I thought you said you liked me.”
“I-I did, but-”
“But? So you don’t mean it?”
“I meant it! I just don’t-”
“Show me. Right now. Kiss me.” God knows he doesn’t take pleasure in pulling Thomas rubber band taut, only that he knows he does it best. There’s a part of Flux, loud and in utter opposition to whatever is pouring out of his mouth, that this is needlessly cruel, that there’s a better way to do this, but Flux shoots it down, goes ten toes down on it instead. Lowly, he adds: “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I- can’t, you’re-“
“Saps isn’t here anymore,” Flux finishes. His voice comes out more papery than he’d intended. “I know exactly what you meant, Thomas. I’m not stupid.”
Thomas opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, equal parts bewilderment and skepticism. The air reeks of cigarette smoke and summer sweat and pure, chemical loneliness free-flowing from a broken dam. Thomas’ eyes dart between Flux’s mouth and eyes with a glazed, slack-jawed shock. His pupils are blown so big, Flux can barely make out the hazel brown of his irises. Neurons fire and gears turn in Thomas’ head, wrestling and debating with himself, and Flux nips it all in the bud when he grabs Thomas by the collar of his flannel and tugs him to his own lips.
It’s quiet, save for the crickets chirping. Their teeth bump, and Thomas tastes coppery, and neither of them know what to do with their hands.
They fumble and readjust, but, sure enough, Thomas kisses him back. Summer holds its breath and exhales.
“Flux. Flux!” Saparata half-whispered. “I have a question.”
Flux doesn’t look up from his Calculus problem set. They’re all congregated around a singular round table in the Theria library, or rather, the several rows of bookshelves filled with 90’s bodice ripper novellas featuring covers of incredibly chiseled men and swooning women that constituted as the Theria library. Sighing, Flux whispered back, “Better be math related.” He’s on the verge of a headache, and this wasn’t doing him any favours.
Saparata grinned, smug and self-satisfied. Dread built in a wave in Flux’s gut. “Gun to your head, if you had to pick between Thomas and I to kiss, who would you pick?”
Thomas covered his face with his hands, muffled groaning. “Why am I a part of this now?” But Flux knew a half-assed answer is better than complete evasion, especially when Saparata was the one goading him. So he obliged. “The gun would go off, killing me instantly and changing the trajectory of your lives forever.”
Thomas quipped, “He’s going to keep bugging you about this,” at the very same time Saparata said, “I’m going to keep bugging you about this until you give me a real answer,” earning Thomas an irritated glare. “Oh my god, dude, get out of my head.”
The dull ache at the base of his neck was starting to hurt. “Fine. I'll pick Thomas.”
“Wha-? Why?” Saparata sputtered. Several other people turn to shush him.
“Because I’m normal and you’re a freak?” Thomas supplied unhelpfully. Saparata shot a look at Flux, as if to ask ‘Is this for real?’ to which Flux gave a mocking confirmatory nod.
Saparata sighed, putting his pencil down, and leaned across the table with his hands steepled. “So you’re saying if I became less of a freak you’d kiss me?”
“That’s very clearly not the implication at all. You’re being obtuse on purpose,” Flux half-whispered, completely aghast.
“Nuh-uh. Too late. I’m running with it. I will earn this with my own hard work and charming wiles.”
“Oh my god. Fucking study,” Flux snipped, but there's little he could do to hide the ghost of a smile on his lips.
Waking up in cold sweat is starting to become a habit for Flux.
The routine finds Thomas and Flux without them intending it to, and they fit into each other like lock and key. The rules are never spoken out loud but were understood all the same: this was temporary, this was casual, and this would not be something they’d actively bring up outside the act of it.
It starts with vampire hour meetups and when they disentangle - livewire electric, matching arrays of fresh bruises - their shared body heat fills in the gaps where words fail, and any semblance of rationality was swiftly pushed aside in favour of how fucking good it felt. This, too, they’ve endured enough times to know that despite his badgering, Thomas wouldn’t do anything about it. And the more they collided, the more they acclimated to their new routine.
Secretly, shamefully, Flux is grateful, because their enmeshment meant that he didn't have to re-endure how hard it was to ask for it in the first place. This, in itself, is a careful testing of limits to gauge just how much they could stretch themselves without snapping. The balance they hold is fragile, but, if you look at it from afar, Flux thinks it almost looks like love, and maybe it was, in his own cloying need.
How much would it take to tear them apart?
The man Thomas shares his bed with is his best friend on some days and lover on the others. Sometimes he’s sarcastic quips wrapped in a silky cocoon of practice and posture, or a reticent spectre waxing affection only as the sun sets. Sometimes Flux leaves him marooned in his own bed, and there are other times where Flux calls for him, chasing his own high and vices and summer storms, while Thomas swims after him.
As a result, or maybe consequence, of their closeness, Thomas could peel back the layers of Flux’s words to glean “don’t go” from “kiss me”, or “hold me” from “don’t stop.” Maybe Thomas is the only person Flux could have even asked for this, something entirely too novel to elucidate beyond the language shared exclusively by himself and Flux, something along the lines of inexplicably warm, ephemeral light curling around his ribcage when they find themselves sprawled under a full moon, hot breath ghosting over flesh, punched laughter.
This is where Thomas finds himself, dizzy on the comedown with Flux lying on his side next to him on his too-small twin sized mattress. And it's a little unfair how pretty Flux looks, tendrils of black hair clinging to his sweat damp forehead and cheeks, violet eyes shining in his afterglow. He’s peering up at Thomas too starkly lucid in the aftermath of a tenderness they’re still learning to partake in; it makes him a little self conscious. But, oh is it beautiful, the sort of thing he’d see as a burnt-in afterimage on the back of his eyelids for the rest of his life.
What looks like love, and feels like love, but isn’t love?
They’re anything but romantic, at least not in the usual sense. But there is something between want and need, between company and reliability, between Thomas’ palm settling where Flux’s neck meets his shoulder, and how Flux curls into it with an almost cat-like affectation. He marvels and pockets all these new quirks he learns about Flux, saves them for a rainy day.
Flux shifts to rest his head on Thomas’ chest, stabilizing himself by planting a cold hand on Thomas’ bare skin. He’s lithe and fluid even in the moonlight, something Thomas doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving by the end of the summer.” He can feel the vibrations of Flux’s soft murmuring ricocheting in his thoracic cavity. Maybe Flux can hear the kick drum beating in his chest - this sort of thing wouldn’t slip past him. It throws Thomas off completely; there’s something entirely too open and vulnerable about their shared body heat, and the unusually candid way Flux is speaking with, territory too new for Thomas to have a means of navigating intelligently. For the first time, Thomas is completely lost.
“You’ll be, too,” Thomas assures. “We’ll both be.”
He’d meant it as reaffirmation for the future they’re both approaching, to the beautiful, bright life they’d been fighting tooth and nail for, but it comes across more nail in a coffin.
The ever-growing chasm in his gut is overshadowed by a desperate want to wipe the loneliness etching Flux’s face. It’s odd, how despite the dip in his mattress that indicates Flux’s presence, the smell of him, the moonlight draped on his collarbones and back, Thomas has never felt so alone in his bed before. A little helplessly, he adds: “Sleep for a bit.”
The muscles in Flux’s back tenses as Thomas’ tentative grazes his back . “Can’t. Bad sleep these days,” he mutters, mattress squeaking as he rises to reach for that stupid fucking lighter on the bedside table. “It's throwing me off. I’ll be back.”
“Sure,” Thomas says, staving the hurt from seeping into his voice. “Left the front porch light on for you.” A beat, and he asks: “Do… Do you have to do this now?”
Flux gives a curt nod as he shimmies into a pair of sweatpants and hoodie from his bedroom floor. Dimly, Thomas realises they’re probably his, as he watches an expanse of spine and pale skin freshly splotched with mauve disappear under gray fleece.
At least Flux has the decency to look guilty when he says, “See you soon, Thomas.” And with that he’s shuffling out of Thomas’ bedroom. For once, he’d said goodbye, instead of the usual occurrence of Thomas waking up and finding himself perfectly alone except for the bitter aftertaste of Flux’s mouth on his. Thomas curls deeper into his sheets, covering his face, tries to console himself by inhaling the sharp pine and ash of Flux’s scent until he can almost taste it. Somehow, this will have to be enough for Thomas.
It’s stupid, it’s so stupid, how he still feels like he’s losing Flux to someone who isn’t even here anymore, and the guilt that guns through him for even thinking that is enough to make him sick at himself all over. But Thomas can only be as honest as Flux gives him space to be.
Maybe if he kisses Flux hard enough he can inhale the loneliness out of him and keep it for himself. Or if he holds Flux just right, he won’t dissipate into the night like a plume of viscous smoke gushing from his teeth. The reality is that all he gets is bruised lips and a lungful of secondhand smoke.
June air coils around his ankles and wrists, hot and heavy. The summer and its ghosts will imprison them both in time.
July comes, and a three year long fever breaks.
It starts with the Fourth of July, where at Cynikka’s behest, Flux invites Thomas over for the Aculon family barbeque, in which “Aculon family” is really Fluixon and Cynikka in a too-big house where evidently Crow, Elanuelo, and Ender would rather be anywhere but.
It’s almost a relief to Flux, that after so many years of dysfunction, they’ve all dropped the pointless performance of a family so thoroughly they’ve essentially regressed back to borderline strangers with a shared family name. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, or in the Aculon family’s case, makes Flux think good fucking riddance, until he can do the same. He could only handle so many family dinners where Ender or Cynikka are forced to de-escalate screaming matches or errant projectile silverware in his lifetime. At least Cynikka and Flux, while resembling each other very little, share a proclivity for vaguely emo fashion and a preferred Dairy Queen order, which is more than the rest of their family can speak for.
It gives Cynikka something to occupy her time with, because she reigns the kitchen with a grip so iron-clad it would probably give Napoleon a run for his money. When Thomas shows up thirty minutes early with chopped watermelon, he is swiftly relegated to vegetable prep alongside Flux.
They carefully orbit each other, limbs firmly drawn to themselves, as if to prove a point to no one but themselves. There are no stray touches, or lingering glances, no knowing looks exchanged. It’s so unlike how they’ve always been that it leaves Flux a little perturbed and irritated, even if a reasonable part of his brain acknowledges it’s best for them both if this stays their worst kept secret. They were best friends, first and foremost, Flux reasons to himself. He has no reason to be upset.
But he was undeniably so. It chips away at the thin lacquer of indifference he protects himself with.
He’s mulling it over, idly smoking on the back porch. From the open door, he can hear scattered laughter between Cynikka and Thomas, the richness of summer barbeque permeating the air.
This is when the news comes, when Flux absentmindedly opens up the email app on his phone, and there, at the very top, is an email that starts with “Congratulations on your application to University of…” but Flux stops reading, and genuinely, honestly, screams - he’s shaking the entire time when he holds up his phone in stunned silence to Cynikka and Thomas when they run out to investigate. Elation, relief, a tabulated to-do list of things he needs to do, documents to complete, student housing to find - all amalgamate into a beautiful, glittering diamond in his chest, and for the first time in several years, he breathes easy.
The Fourth of July closes with Cynikka opening up an expensive bottle of some champagne Elanuelo had stashed away in celebration. They’re strewn outside on plastic chairs, struggling to balance a piled high plate of ribs on thighs and growing ever tipsier. The three of them toast fizzy glasses of champagne to the tune of the Flux’s sentence in Theria coming to a close, with the fireworks to match.
“I, for one, am glad you and Flux started dating. You guys gonna do long distance or what?” Cynikka is completely, utterly casual and sure when she asks this to Thomas, but her words come down like a guillotine that threatens to break the balance they’ve painstakingly maintained into two clean halves. The look Thomas and Flux exchange is brutal.
“I’m not-” Thomas says at the very same time Flux says, “We’re not-”. They both go deathly quiet.
Heat and dread rise to Flux’s face. Through gritted teeth, he strains, “We’re not… Dating.” His chest is hammering so hard he can barely see straight. The distant sound of fireworks reverberates in his skull, dizzying.
Cynikka’s mouth falls open in a perfect O, apologies tumbling, but Flux’s ears ring so deafeningly loud he can barely register anything. Instinctively, his eyes flit towards Thomas, who’s awkwardly clearing his throat and staring into the can of beer in his hands, the condensation glistening in the setting sun and against his finger tips.
This is the first crack, and from it, everything shall spread, only they do not know that yet.
They don’t talk about it. A unanimous decision is made in favour of ego retention: the Fourth of July didn’t have to mean anything to them if they wouldn’t let it.
Thomas is curled on one side of his twin size mattress, while Flux counts the smattering of band posters plastering the ceiling and walls of Thomas’ room, the two of them knocking feet and grazing knuckles, Thomas’ cheek resting on the crown of Flux’s head. He’s nursing his second cigarette of the day, the stench of it intermingling with the peach tree outside Thomas’ open window. The feeling of wanting to pocket this moment, give it a name, and lay in for the rest of his life comes to mind; just him and Thomas forever, idle chatter about the lives waiting for them and nothing about the ones about to end, overwhelms him. How long do they have left, still?
Flux lifts his head from where it is buried in the crook of Thomas’ neck and nudges him, an anticipatory grin painting his face. “Hey – do you want to go for a drive? Right now?”
Thomas chuckles. “God, yes.”
When Thomas pulls up in that shitty 2007 Toyota Camry, Flux thinks it's the most offensively decrepit getaway car in history, even with the lick of pride on Thomas’ face when he introduces it. It’s in worse shape than Thomas had initially convinced him otherwise; the air conditioning makes a pitchy droning noise when it's on for more than ten minutes, the back seat is already piled high with boxes of miscellaneous junk Thomas is convinced he needs with him at all times, and it takes him three attempts at turning the key in the ignition before the car wheezes to life. All of this, Thomas indignantly protests, will be fixed by the end of summer. However, possibly the most offensive of all, is the obnoxious pair of fuzzy dice hanging around the rearview mirror (“It came with the car!” Thomas deflects), that Thomas insists is charming but Flux retorts is cheesy.
Still, he can look past the car’s precarious condition for what it is: a key out of Theria, if only for however long a tank of gas will take them, and that promise is all the celebration Flux needs.
The sky and roads take on the same indistinguishable shade of indigo as familiar buildings fade to dirt roads and rolling hills. Constellations Flux had never seen before appear in the inky darkness the further they drive from the light polluting smokestacks of Theria, little pinpricks of starlight glittering over the mountain range ahead.
Thomas is humming along to a Radiohead song on the radio; with all the windows down, eyes closed and face in the cool breeze, he can almost delude himself into pretending he and Thomas are leaving together in earnest. The world stretches endlessly, waiting for them to start living in it, and it makes him feel incredibly small.
He should feel happier about all these pieces of his life finally falling into place, but all there is an undefinable dazed, fluttery sensation in his chest. For the first time, Theria is stunning, and he would never see it the way he does now ever again.
“Thomas,” he says finally, “What do you think leaving will feel like?” The wind is blowing Thomas’ chestnut hair back, making it stick up and curl at odd angles. Flux wants to reach out, run his hands through it, kiss him until the stars in their eyes hold the same constellations.
Thomas contemplates, tapping a finger on the wheel. “Something like this?”
“We won’t be together when we eventually have to pick up and leave.”
“I mean, we’re together now, aren’t we? We can plan our moves around each other. That’ll probably be the case, anyways. We’ll cross it when we get there.”
“I don’t wait to get to a bridge, Thomas. You of all people should know that.”
“I’m saying it because I know you, Flux. We have our rules. We stick to it.”
It unnerves him sometimes, this unfortunate talent Thomas has for cutting right through the heart of Flux’s evasive questioning, the feeling of being rendered transparent.
“We should celebrate, like properly and in a way that doesn’t push my car to what it can barely handle right now. Like a farewell party,” Thomas suggests, a half-hearted attempt at lightening the mood.
Flux snorts. “What? Like consummate the goodbye?”
For a summer with record heat temperatures, it suddenly feels cold. Thomas goes quiet and Flux feels his mouth go dry. There’s a nearly imperceptible shift in Thomas’ expression between the new furrow of his brow and the line his mouth is stretched in - if he didn’t know Thomas as well as he did, he probably would not have noticed. But he does, and that familiarity supplies that Thomas is upset. He looks back down to his hands, itching for a smoke, but settles for reaching in his pocket and closing his fist around the white lighter like that would grant him forgiveness.
Theria fades to a glow behind them; the road ahead stretches indefinitely. If they keep going like this, Flux wonders if they’d drive right off the edge of the Earth together. Flux would like that.
“We should probably head back now. I’m going to fall asleep in your passenger seat.”
So they decide to celebrate.
Regretfully, their options are limited in Theria and its neighbouring towns. The one place that served somewhat passable Italian food closed that spring, and there’s nothing particularly interesting that to necessitate driving outside of it for. What Theria does have, however, is a slew of bars in the heart of the town. Getting drunk is tried and true, and that’s what they settle on, pre-gaming with a precarious mix of whatever the hell is stashed in Elanuelo’s liquor cabinets and siphoning just enough as to not illicit suspicion. Even better, Cynikka’s out of town, leaving them to their own drunken devices.
Pleasantly buzzed and floaty enough, they trudge through rain-damp streets and staticky air for a convenient place to get shit-faced.
The first bar on the strip has an ostentatious neon sign featuring a cowboy hat propped over the establishment, and they can hear music and Saturday night patrons pouring in from it from halfway down the street. Promising, and that’s where they go.
Flux is tipsy enough that the crowd is exhilarating instead of off-putting. It’s full of music and life, and how badly he wants to join in claws at him from the inside out. So, he takes a shot, and another, and another, relishing in the burn all the way down. There’s game in his eyes and Thomas meets him there, matches him shot for shot even if their words and feet start tripping over each other. It’s too loud to talk, anyways.
And the song that’s playing is fucking incredible - this frenetic, sawing violin and guitar that yanks something desperate right out of Flux, like a second heartbeat, and he’s pulling Thomas by the wrist to the sticky dance floor without even thinking about how much he hates dancing. Fuck, is this how it is to finally let go? Is this what life is meant to feel like? The warmth of Thomas’ body pressed against his suddenly feels so brand new in sensation, even if he’s felt it heavier before. It’s syrupy and sweet, how Thomas’ hand slides from his shoulder down to his waist, steadying and pulling him closer.
He can’t stop staring at how Thomas’ throat bobs up and down as they take another shot of something dark and bitter, the drunken glossiness on his eyes as they twirl and orbit like planets on the dance floor. The dim bar lights reflect off the sheen of sweat on Thomas’ beaming face; aglow, and warm, and beautiful.
They kiss when they stumble out of the bar. Flux can’t remember when, or why, or how, just that at some point they’re tangled together and neither of them pulled away. It tastes like sweat and honey-sweet and the kind of bullshit bravery that can only come from being barely-functional adults and unthinkably happy. The summer night slicks sweat against the nape of Flux’s neck, where Thomas has his hand threaded.
In brief lucidity, Flux’s mind supplies that this is the very first time they’ve kissed without strings attached or pretense, that they're about to cut themselves on the razor thin line they tiptoe on, and he mentally swats away a mosquito whine of protest for how good it feels. And when they pull away, breathless and pupils blown like the full moon that night, Flux can only stare dumbly at Thomas with his hair curling in the humidity, thinking how much he enjoys the sight of it, and he says, “Come over, no one’s home,” breath warm against Thomas’ ear.
The flush on Thomas’ face trips something irreversible in his brain.
Every second counts when Flux’s hands are shaking so badly he can barely get his key into the front door. There’s no secrecy, no plans for leaving abruptly, only unbearable impatience and want when they stumble through; clothes tangling, tugging hair, tasting like sour fruit, shuddering and shaking against pinned limbs, and -
The sun rises as hungover as they do in the morning.
When Flux opens his eyes, there’s little he can do to stave off the remnants of hot whiskey and country bar music thrumming in his veins, nor the way his body aches like he’s been folded the wrong way. Last night comes back to him in redacted, half-formed memories, but not unpleasant.
He hears noises in the kitchen, Thomas, he realises, and it makes him glow pink and warm. It could be like this. This could be ok. They could spend the rest of their time together folded in between the vestiges of summer, with terrible diner food and lukewarm coffee, something real and tangible instead of the in between they occupy. They could kiss whenever they wanted to, do more whenever it felt right. It makes perfect sense, even if Flux’s thoughts pierce sharp and stinging with the worst hangover he’s probably had in years. He sits up in bed groaning, thinks he’ll feel better once he eats and showers and stops feeling like he’s been poorly resurrected. But first - a smoke.
He reaches on the bedside table, and his blood runs cold as his hand clamps around nothing. Saparata's lighter isn’t where he’d normally keep it. He jumps out of bed to pat down the discarded clothing on the floor, turning pockets inside out. Nothing. Blood rushes in his ears, dread makes his heart drop all the way to his stomach.
“What’s up?” Thomas enters the room, bleary eyed and gingerly holding two cups of coffee by the rims. He’s wearing a hoodie he stole from Flux’s bedroom floor, which Flux faintly recollects he had stolen from Saparata's.
“My lighter. Fuck, I can’t find my lighter.”
Thomas’ face is indecipherable. “You must have dropped it while we were bar hopping or something. Just get a new one.” It’s a classic Thomas suggestion, a likely probability and an actionable solution, and it's everything Flux doesn’t want to hear right now. All Flux registers is a seething undercurrent suggesting his attachment to it is making him look ridiculous, melding with a hangover so bad he’s seeing stars with every minute movement of his body. And by god, it pisses him off.
It simmers in his gut, coming to a boil, when he snaps, “Don’t regurgitate this shit again. Help me look.”
Thomas’ lip curls but he obliges, setting the coffee cups down on Flux’s desk before half heartedly rooting around Flux’s room. It could be a number of things: alcohol, a sleepless night and equally high strung emotions that all puncture his kindness, letting something more bitter and angry bleed to the surface. Thomas is true, but tragically, also human, and it makes itself known. “Fuck, I knew this was a bad idea,” Thomas whispers.
From there, the cistern collapses, and everything pours out with it.
Flux rises from the floor, and turns to shoot an incredulous glare at Thomas. “Says the guy who confessed to me in our place of work,” Flux spits.
“And then you kissed me.” There’s a poison lacing into Thomas’ words that surprised them both. His hazel eyes are rimmed with red, razor sharp.
“No. No. You are not putting the blame on me when you still came back every single fucking time. You’re making it sound like I’m the one who put you up to this. You could have backed out at any fucking moment.”
Thomas face fractures. “Could I have, though?” His voice is so raw and broken, it almost stops Flux right then and there. The implication that all of Flux’s careful and thorough refusal of his yearning for this, the warmth of another person, shone through him like a homing device, wracks through him. Flux thinks he’s going to throw up.
Flux closes his eyes, a dizzying kaleidoscope of red and white flashing behind his eyelids. He takes a barely stabilizing, shuddered breath. “What the hell are you implying?”
“If I left, I didn’t know what you would do. I thought - I thought this would’ve been ok for us for it clearly isn’t.”
He tries to fight the next words that come out, but the avalanche is inevitable.
“Fuck you. You can’t make assumptions about what I can and can’t handle,” Flux’s voice flies in indignance and volume. He ‘s right up in Thomas’ face, fists clenched at his sides, supercell thunderstorm forming in violet eyes.
Thomas grits his teeth, grimacing. He runs his hands through his hair in agitation. In a completely novel sort of bitterness, he says: “Yeah, we’re handling everything for sure. Everything’s fucking peachy.”
“You didn't even like him.”
“Flux - Saps was still my friend! You can’t just invent a reason to push me away!” Thomas’ face twists like a lightbulb filament, and with the same incandescence, he spits: “Have I ever been enough for you? Would we even be sleeping with each other if you weren’t still grabbing for -" He cuts himself off abruptly; it’s clear he regrets the words as soon as they come out, face crumpling. His breath comes out an abrupt shudder. “Fuck, I should go. I’m leaving.”
There’s no use in feeling blindsided when this was inevitable. The nausea is starting to overwhelm, and everything about this conversation is too much too quickly, the cleaving realisation that the tombstone was already engraved right from the start.
Instinctively, Flux lunges to grab Thomas by the wrist as he turns to leave. Words fizzle and die on his tongue, and all can really think about is how much he wants to say ‘don’t leave, please don’t leave me alone’. Regrettably, he thinks of how pathetic he must look right now as tears obviously threaten to spill down his cheeks. He needed Thomas. He knew this but the reminder was shattering.
He can feel Thomas’ hammering pulse under his fingertips; it’s so alive and warm and he’s reminded of them last night, now devoid of all the blissed out joy Flux had seen on Thomas’ face. Thomas flinches as if he’d been burnt. Slowly, hesitantly, like this was the most agonizing thing he could do, Thomas reaches to uncurl the white knuckle grip Flux has on his wrist, one finger at time; it’s too tender and kind and caring for the vitriol they spat just minutes ago. For several stinging moments, Thomas holds Flux’s hand like that, the pad of Thomas’ thumb stroking against Flux’s palm before he finally lets go. Flux’s hand burns.
“I… I’m leaving,” Thomas repeats. He brushes his eyes with the back of his wrist, and storms out of Flux’s bedroom.
Only once he’s sure Thomas has left his house does he let his knees buckle under him. The world tilts, and he curls into himself on the peeling hardwood, lungs wheezing and nausea coiling in his stomach. His head hurts. His chest hurts. It could’ve been minutes or hours elapsed between Thomas leaving; but he can’t bring himself to pull himself up. All seven trillion nerves in his body freeze in agonizing shell-shock. The coffee on his desk grows cold and stale.
It’s only then, out of the corner of his blurred vision, he sees it on the bedroom floor, just partially obscured next to leg of his bed, next to the shirt he had unceremoniously thrown off in the heat of last night: a white Bic lighter, with ‘Saps’ scrawled across the front.
The heat haze shatters. Flux barely makes it to the bathroom before he throws up.