Chapter Text
saps :D🌱 @theREALsaparata • 11:38PM • Jul 15, 2025
thank you for your time new york city!! 💥💥its been a dream performing here for all you guys……hope to see you in the next chapter 👀👀🫡🫡
17 retweets | 77 replies | 492 likes
Flux @fluixonaculon_official • 12:15AM • Jul 16, 2025
Can’t believe I saw him live.. Saparata the man you are 🛐🛐
[Attached is an image taken at a concert near the front row, standing in the center of the photo is the out-of-focus silhouette of singer-songwriter Saparata Theria]
229 retweets | 586 replies | 250K likes
Fluixon’s day goes well for a grand total of 20 minutes before everything is up in flames.
The first few seconds of his morning are spent trying to put his consciousness back into his body. Thin rays of faintly diluted sunlight filter through the overpriced black curtains that Thomas had begged Flux not to buy. He was right, of course, as they were currently doing a horrid job at covering the window that stretched from floor to ceiling.
Flux groans as the light hits his eyes, squinting as he fumbles blindly around in his bedsheets. He can feel the slight dampness of his hair, curls loose and sporadic from going to bed directly after showering. The sensation brings him the following thoughts and emotions in no particular order.
First and foremost, Fluixon realizes he can now confidently say he had lived through the best night of his life. The concert. That concert had been a religious experience, worth all the scrambling to get the best seats, and worth all the wait it had been.
Platinum white hair so bright in the dark venue and strobe lights that it almost came off as a shade of blue— periwinkle to match the sweater. The sweater that belonged to Saparata Theria. God, the voice that belonged to Saparata Theria.
Flux was a singer, and hell, he knew that he was good at what he did— at least he would hope that the screaming fans admired him for his talent and not solely something as vain as his looks. (Something that Flux can also admit he isn’t lacking in. Snowbird would tell him to stamp down his ego by now but they would also both know that he isn’t wrong.)
It’s simple, between the black wavy hair, constant RBF, and dark academia aesthetic; Flux isn’t stupid enough to ignore the fact that he fits perfectly into the Cold Edgy Emo Guy™ archetype. Especially when you add on the fact that he sings for an alt rock band that sells out world stadiums. Flux was talented, sure, fast forward a few years and a few more albums and maybe he’d become the voice of their generation— yet it all paled in comparison to Saps.
Saps just naturally had something you only see once in a century. Any vocal skill you could try and name, Saps completely excels in. His pitches? Flawless. (Flux swears that Saps must have relative pitch at the minimum, certainly not something he was able to deduce from watching Saps’ interviews one too many times.) His breath control? Mastered down to a tee. But goddamn, Saps’ vocal persona absolutely breathed perfection; Flux firmly believed that hearing Saps’ voice was the remedy to a broken soul. Honey warm yet clear and punctuated; it was something Saps clearly knew how to use to his advantage. It was very nearly vile how immaculate some of his songs were; of course, Flux believes the actual evil was how under the radar Saps and his music flew.
He was proud to be a Saps fan of three years now. Recalling back, the first time he came across Saps’ music was by pure mistake and coincidence. Thomas had been trying to show the band some new songs they should cover, back when they only made covers instead of originals, and had completely butchered the name of one while typing it in. As a result, in a series of fate driven events, Thomas hadn’t looked over the song title or artist and thus hit play on Jellyfish Planet by a certain pale-haired vocalist. The rest was history. Flux didn’t believe in any “love at first sight” junk but from that point onwards, he believed in love at first listen.
When Flux finally sinks back into his body, the overwhelming Monday morning pressure to get out of bed fully slams into him, and at the 10 minute mark of his morning, Flux drags his body up to his bathroom.
His counter is a solid mess and the rest of his bedroom follows the same fate, littered with clothes and makeup from getting ready for the concert. It probably would’ve been worse if not for the “Bro Saps isn’t even going to see you in the giant crowd of people” text that Snowbird had sent him after getting sick of hearing Flux stomp around in the room above. He had in turn very kindly responded with several swears and “God forbid a man wants to look nice before going out”.
His reflection decides to inform him that his hair is a disaster — one that the media would love to get their grimy fingers on — but he responds promptly with a solid mental plan to do nothing except hang out with the band all day and preferably not go outside.
He’s about to climb back under the covers for another few minutes when he knocks his phone off his bedside table. Flux curses quietly as he picks it up from the floor and realizes his phone is completely dead still; just how tired was he last night, completely forgetting to plug it in?
Now, as if some otherworldly god had come to answer his questions, or maybe Gotoga’s mindreading abilities— which were always disturbingly accurate, half of Flux’s housemates practically bust down the door to his room. Flux remains frozen briefly like a deer in headlights before slowly turning to face his intruders and survey the severity of the situation.
Every person in The Conspiracy who values their life and soul knows very well not to disturb Flux’s mornings. The only other time a similar situation occurred had been when Snowbird and Gotoga managed to break their amp and the several cables connecting to it by spilling coffee and needed to know if they were about to electrocute the entire house. As such, when Flux takes in Rotation’s subtle frown, Thomas’ disapproving dad stare, and Snowbird’s expression of vague panic and distress; he concludes they must have blown up a microwave and that the house was actively burning down.
“G’morning Flux, has the sleeping beauty decided to check what he’s done to Twitter yet?” It’s Thomas who speaks first, tone almost humorous but tired as if he’s already done the damage control— but, for what? What crimes could Flux possibly commit on Twitter?
“...My phone’s dead,” Flux’s still sleep-addled mind slowly replies.
“Not anymore,” Snowbird chimes in— and he’s right, Flux’s phone lights up showing a sliver of red on two-percent. And as Flux unlocks it under the watchful gaze of his bandmates, his mind grapples at anything he could have done or said in the past 24 hours. The only thing that comes to mind is the Saps concert, but why the hell would Twitter cancel him for going to a concert? Was going out as a celebrity suddenly illegal? Did he kill 12 world leaders in his sleep? Did that nosy reporter Sidefall find out and expose all his crippling family issues? The last two thoughts sounded almost probable enough.
Twitter-wise, all he had done was post that one picture from the concert in the drunk-like haze induced by the adrenaline and euphoria that came from seeing Saparata Theria in the flesh. Even still, that had been done on his private account, so unless all of Flux’s information had been hacked and leaked, nothing should have been amiss on his otherwise fine morning.
Thomas must see something in his expression because he quickly adds in, “You’re not getting canceled Flux, chill— Never mind actually, you probably could get canceled…” Thomas pauses and considers, grimacing as if it's a possibility he hadn’t yet thought of, spiking Flux’s anxiety by tenfold, “But it’s, uh, an almost equally dumb fuck-up. Just… for a different reason.”
Flux narrows his eyes because, well, What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“Thomas just tell me what ha- why I am tagged a thousand times.”
“Check what account you tweeted on,” Snowbird is smiling the widest Flux may have ever seen, and he’s managed to make Rotation start recording. And as Flux follows Snowbird’s order, he distantly feels the life being drained out of him. (You know how they say “curiosity killed the cat”? Case in point.) His heart promptly and effectively plummets to his stomach as a heavy blanket of incoming doom wraps itself around him. What account had he tweeted on? He swears it was his private, it has to be. He works on autopilot as he clicks on one of the reposts tagging him and, fuck, his own words stare right back up at him.
His reaction must have made Thomas and Snowbird both start laughing now, and Flux has half the mind to mentally vow to kill them both later. Before that though, he puts himself on the list because how was he stupid enough to forget to switch accounts— these are the types of things to happen in movies as a poor plot device! Not to Flux!
The little white words of text swim in front of him, “Saparata the man you are”? Flux must have been possessed when he typed that. No, this must be a dream, because there’s no way two hundred fifty thousand people would have liked some dumb tweet about some dumb concert that dumb Fluixon Aculon went to- Holy shit has Saps seen it?
“Is it too late to delete it yet?” Flux almost wails, putting his head in his hands.
He can barely hear the misery in his own voice over the sound of his friends laughing at him.
Saparata’s day goes well for about an hour before he nearly dies from a heart attack.
Saps combs through the slightly wavy platinum hair at the nape of his neck with his fingers as he stands in front of the full-length, gold-framed rectangular mirror leaned against the chipped tiles of his bathroom wall. His reflection stares back at him: messy locks tied up in a half-up ponytail; soft, hazelnut brown sweater over an off-white, collared top; deep, golden irises that match the sunflower earrings on his helix and lobe.
He sighs, a pleased exhaustion settling into his bones from the concert last night. From the horror stories he’d read online about disastrous live shows, and even despite having performed several concerts before, Saps had been worried and anxious nearly the entire day yesterday for all sorts of things that could go wrong: the lights not turning on, the backing track glitching out, the mic cutting off mid-song — the list goes on. But, to his pleasant surprise, everything had gone smoothly for once.
Tugging on the black, elastic band keeping his hair together and out of his face, Saps steps out of his studio apartment with his phone and AirPods in hand. He strides over to the parking garage nearby and swings a jean-covered leg over the hot pink Ducati 1299 Panigale sitting comfortably in the first parking slot. Saps pulls the onyx helmet over his head, strap fitting snugly under his chin. His motorbike (which might as well be his biological child at this point with how well he treats it) roars to life as he pulls out a matching key, inserts it, and turns it clockwise. He pulls out of the parking lot apace and speeds into the streets of downtown New York City, wind tousling the snow-white hair peeking out from under his helmet.
Saps parks his motorbike by the curb of the sidewalk lining the local Panera Bread, locking it because, even in broad daylight, he wouldn’t put it past some jerk to steal it. He hops off and secures his helmet on the side, then casually strolls into the restaurant. As Saps waits in line, he instinctively reaches for the phone in his pocket, but stops himself when his brain sensibly decides that it’s too early to deal with the screeching crowds of know-it-alls on Twitter.
He orders at one of the self-service kiosks, scrolling through the endless options of bread, cheese, protein, toppings, condiments, sides, and drinks, to name a few. Saps subsequently picks a circular, spruce table tucked away comfortably in the corner of the restaurant to lounge at as they make his sandwich, and clocking in at just around 10 minutes into his idling, he hears an expectant “Saparata?” ring out through the cafe. He hastily picks up his food from the counter, as his stomach has growled at least four times in the last minute and he distantly thinks he could probably actually eat a (A4)horse.
After completely devouring his breakfast of one singular Chipotle Chicken Avocado Melt sandwich at the Panera, Saparata concludes that now is the best time to make the very wise choice of spending his entire morning scrolling on Twitter. However, before he can even tap on the light blue bird and proceed with his definitely not time-consuming and neuron-frying plan, Saps is abruptly interrupted by the absolute deluge of mentions coming from who-knows-where. They alarmingly completely obstruct the top of his phone screen and, upon further investigation, all read roughly of the same thing.
mayotheavery @meridiesfan89 • 1:19AM • Jul 16, 2025
@theREALsaparata DUDE FLUX POSTED ABOUT YOUR CONCERT???????
26 retweets | 11 replies | 81 likes
WIFIES IS ALIVE 🙏🙏 @odysseyduoluvr • 2:51AM • Jul 16, 2025
FLUX IS A FAN OF @theREALsaparata ????/ my worlds are colliding what is happening 🥹🥹🥹🥹
16 retweets | 10 replies | 77 likes
directorfies ☯️ @sherrlock • 4:03AM • Jul 16, 2025
is this a soft launch 💔@theREALsaparata
39 retweets | 12 replies | 105 likes
Confused, he clicks on the first comment he sees, which brings him to a post quote-tweeting a tweet about… his concert last night? Now thoroughly befuddled, his finger hovers over the reply button before he notices the username of the poster.
His first thought is: Hey, isn’t that Fluixon Aculon from The Conspiracy?
His next thought, immediately after his brain processes this piece of information, is: What the fuck.
Fluixon Aculon, of all of the 8.3 billion people in the world, had gone to his concert. He had been in that New York City crowd last night. And, holy shit, of all things, Fluixon had decided to post it on his official, multi-million-follower account. Right. Yeah. What the fuck.
His heart threatens to break his ribcage with how hard it’s attempting to jump out of his chest.
Saparata must be dreaming. Obviously. Because why else would world-famous, lead singer of renowned alternative rock band The Conspiracy, two time Grammy winner Fluixon Aculon have noticed Saps and even attended his show?
He rubs his eyes approximately six times and even puts his reading glasses on for good measure to double-check and ensure that he isn’t hallucinating. Even after he’s finished letting his brain marinate in the floaty, half-elated half-embarrassed feeling that comes from being recognized by who might as well be considered the literal best singer in the world, Saps still can’t get over everything that’s happened in the last 12 hours.
Of course, after struggling to calm himself for the last 30 minutes, Saps’ brain decides that, naturally, the next course of action is to stalk Fluixon’s Twitter account. He taps on the circular icon leading to the guy’s profile, and his breath immediately catches in his throat when his eyes land on the photo in the header.
Holy hell this man is fine as fu- Okay calm down bro. Saparata feels his face flush involuntarily all the way to the tips of his ears and down his neck as he takes in Fluixon’s defined jawline, high cheekbones, and most of all, his striking indigo eyes. His other features aren’t helping at all either — with that slanted, elegant nose and those kissable, heart-shaped lips, Saps already knows he’s a goner.
Seriously, the hundreds of thousands of dollars this man is currently making on tour doesn’t even compare to the millions he could make on the runway.
Saps scrolls through the posts, mostly updates about concert locations and upcoming albums, flustering further every time he stumbles across the occasional selfie or two scattered throughout the profile. He knows his heart’s always been quick to succumb to the nearest pretty face or the latest sweetheart, but he really can’t help it this time. (Or so he tells himself.) Talented, gorgeous, and making six figures? Anyone with eyes can clearly see that Fluixon is the full package.
He spends nearly four hours just browsing Fluixon’s twitter, even heading over to The Conspiracy’s official account at one point to scavenge for more photos of the jaw-dropping man that, in the span of a minute, had seized Saps’ mind with those slender, graceful fingers and refused to relinquish his hold. By the time he looks up from his phone, the sun is already on track to disappear through the gap between the towering skyscrapers outside his living room window. Crap. Was I really that distracted?
After what he considers a brief (very reasonable, if he might add, because how could you blame him when Fluixon looked like that) lapse in judgment, Saparata proceeds to cook himself a delectable dinner, take a brisk shower, and even manage to go to bed early for once.
Even so, his mind keeps drifting back to Fluixon.
By the end of the week, five of Saps’ songs skyrocket to the Billboard Hot 100. And yet, in the moment, Saps can’t even begin to find himself dreaming about songs to come or the potential that the change has for his career.
He can’t begin to think of anything other than to have just one chance with deep violet eyes and lazily tousled raven hair.