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“I don’t wanna,” Saps mutters, turning his face into the heat.
A delicate hand pets down his hair which is soft and white and the other tightens protectively around his shoulders and Flux leans in to press a loving kiss to his forehead and whisper—
“Fuck you, Saps, I literally went last time. You’re so annoying.”
“Don’t kiss me and call me annoying,” says Saps, with a smile.
And then Flux frames his face in between his fingers and presses a little kiss to the birthmark right next to the corner of his left eye.
“Whiny,” he says, and then presses another fluttering kiss to the birthmark at the corner of his right eye. “Irritating.”
Then, finally the tip of his nose. “Fool.”
“Your fool,” says Saps, and he grins, even as Flux’s face twists in disgust and he pushes him off of their bed and Saps tumbles in a sprawl on the floor.
“You are not my anything until you return from the market,” Flux declares imperiously. From down here, on their birch-and-spruce checkerboard flooring, he does look a little bit like an emperor, or maybe a king. The early-morning sunlight catches in each pitch-black curl on his head; haloes him like a crown. His eyes are bright, delicate purple, like wild lupine in the late summer. Stupidly beautiful; so awfully lovely it makes Saps’ heart hurt.
Flux narrows his eyes at him. “Stop fawning.”
“I’m not fawning,” Saps says, while fawning.
“Go, already,” Flux says, with a roll of his eyes. “We need cocoa beans and tea and soap. You smell.”
Saparata pushes himself up on his knees; braces his elbows on the bed and sets his face on his hands. “I don’t even, bro.”
“You do,” says Flux. “You most certainly do.”
“Whatever,” Saps sighs. He drops his hands and slides down until his face is buried in their mattress. “Can I at least get a—“
And then Flux is cupping Saps’ face in between his hands and dragging him upwards to kiss him on the lips.
“Oh,” Saps breathes. It’s hot and soft and just as effortlessly good as the very first time. He tastes like coffee.
“There’s your good-luck kiss.” Flux whispers it, like if he said it too loudly, somebody might overhear. His pupils are blown wide and round and black, and Saps can see his tiny white reflection captured in the aperture of his lovely gaze.
“Now,” Fluixon declares. “Get out of my sight.”
“Shit,” Saps says, with a goofy smile he just knows will make Flux throw a pillow at him. “Yessir.”
Flux does, in fact, throw a pillow at him, and the ensuing conflict forces Saps to fall back to a more advantageous position: the doorframe. Here, he has an excellent vantage point from which to plot his next move. Or, perhaps, alternatively—
To stare at his partner, lounging in black on their endless white bed, in their clean and happy room with the windows wide open and the sunlight beaming through.
They built this little village all together; him and Flux and Thomas and Micro and Cynnikka—everybody that was left, after Seraphim got her pearl pulled, back in the Mafia days, and Gotoga joined the Law only to get swept up in one of those massacres, and Snowbird and Newkids both died to the withers at spawn before anybody could pull them out.
Flux and Cynnika bickered the entire time, like siblings do, and Thomas and Micro were just sorta doing their own thing, and Saps hadn’t figured his own shit out yet so he and Flux had built separate homes. There was, then, an empty house in the lot, when he and Flux finally figured it out, but these days they just use it as a storage shed, to keep their jarred vegetables, and the rhubarb jam Thomas makes in the fall, and the dried chilis Cynnikka grows in her garden, and the smoked trout Saps likes to catch in the creek, and the starter seeds for next spring, and Micro’s maple taps and buckets and his big, shoddy, slapped-together outdoor burner he uses to boil the syrup. In the winter last year, right after the Mafia fell, Micro poured the syrup right out onto the snow, and they ate the maple taffy by a preciously-guarded campfire, and when Saps laughed Flux kissed the sweetness right off of his mouth and Saps told him that he loved him.
They built this life and this house and they filled it with years; a hand-drawn calendar on the wall, multicolored homemade candles and shelves upon shelves of Flux’s favorite books, little stone memorials in the garden for the friends they’ve lost, the trials they’ve overcome, the memories they carry.
“If you’re still here in five minutes,” his darling Flux says. “You will be banished in the most creative manner I can conceive of.”
“Love you too!” Saps chirps. Then he slams the door shut and hears another pillow hit the other side.
He can imagine Flux on the other side, now—outrageous! he’s probably muttering. This is outrageous. And he’d go on and on with that stupid, stupid smile on his face.
And Saps doesn’t want to go to the market, it’s true. He’d much, much rather be cuddled up in his partner's arms. But it’s good to have market-problems. There were years where he would have given anything to be pestered into going to the market; to have a market or someone to pester him or to have a place to return to.
How achingly good it is to have somewhere to return to.
Saparata is at the market for approximately two hours. It takes half an hour to walk there in his leather sandals and half an hour to walk back and he spends approximately an hour running around the colorful stalls of Merchant City.
His first task is finding soap that he doesn’t think Flux would mind. His dearest (which is something Flux would never let him call him—he barely gets by with “honey” without getting jumped) is picky. Really, really picky.
The soap stall is a weathered, beaten blue tarp stretched over a few posts. The seller is a new face; a pure-white rabbit in an apron-dress and a flower crown. Her nametag says hopperscotch03. He hasn’t seen her around before. Her soaps are pretty, though; marbled artistically in a way he just knows Flux’s vain side will appreciate.
“Do you have anything lavender?” Saps asks, and the lady smiles, and nods.
“Right here,” she says. “I’ll trade for seeds, bread, anything leather.”
“I got a bundle of carrot seeds,” he offers. “And there’s a few seed potatoes in there, too.”
“That’ll do,” she says, and begins to wrap up a lump of marbled light purple and white.
“I haven’t seen you ‘round here, before,” Saps says, amicably. He watches her work; her hands are quick and graceful.
“You can call me Hopper,” she says. “I’m a new player. Joined when King Parrot opened up spawn.”
“Oh,” says Saps, and his smile freezes on his face.
He’s not necessarily against new players. He understands the purpose; he even appreciates that most new players are just coming to Unstable because they want to play, same as him.
It's just—something in his chest squeezes when he remembers how Snowbird was killed instantly; how Newkids lasted a few hours more before the lingering effect of withering stopped his heart.
These new players have it so much easier. And aren’t prices in the market getting higher every day? There’s barely enough to go around as is. It makes him worried, that's all. Just... worried.
“I just joined, but so far everyone’s been so nice,” Hopper is saying, still working. “The market has been so welcoming. They only really care about if you’re good at what you do and fair with your prices. And, well—I don’t like to brag,” she says, setting down his soap on the counter with a thud. “But I’m both.”
She pauses; looks Saps up and down. “Are you feeling okay?”
He unfreezes; lets his smile melt into something more genuine. “Oh. Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I just zoned off a little. This looks great. Thank you.”
And it does. She’s tied up his paper-wrapped soap with a red ribbon. It’s clean, neat, beautiful. Flux is going to love this.
Saps pays in seeds. Hopper invites him back sometime. And in the kaleidoscopic rush of people rushing through the market, Saps thinks to himself—well. She’s not so bad.
Maybe, if a new player, well—earns their place, works as hard as the rest of them—why shouldn’t they play on this server? Hadn’t they all earned their place here? Through blood and death, massacres and the smooth sheen of invisibility, bandit raids and spawn-scars.
Hopper seems nice. Maybe it’s for the best that she doesn’t have any wither-marks.
Saps thinks about this as he does the rest of his shopping. Maybe that’s why he does it slowly—in a bit of a daze. He gets the tea in a little wooden box from _Mister_T_, the same guy who they’ve gotten it from for months, and spends a little bit wandering around trying to figure out what the third thing that Flux wanted was, before spotting a stall selling cookies and having a flash of cocoa-bean-themed inspiration.
He also buys Flux a little silver chain, and a few cookies in a paper bag for Flux’s sister, and a new trowel for Thomas, and nothing for Micro cause he's pissed Micro keeps leaving the wheelbarrows out when it's going to rain.
At the arcing stone gate of Merchant City, a guard holds up a hand before Saps can leave. “It’s been getting more dangerous recently.”
Saps just waves him off with a hand. Sure, he’s not rich by any means. But he’s an old, old player. He’s seen—survived—a lot. Laden with supplies, the road back home unspools before him, through wildflower prairie and rolling hills of farmland; the afternoon sun slipping south slowly.
All in all, Saparata is at the market for approximately two hours.
Two hours. He’s away for two hours. Saparata is away for two hours. It’s not long at all. Only two hours.
He is not far away from home at all when he begins to smell something acrid and foul and smoking, and he is not far away at all when he sees the plumes rising, and when he drops everything and starts to sprint he is also not far away. It is because he sees their shed stripped by fire down to a shell of itself; blackened collapsing inward like a rotting gourd. Micro’s stove is a lump of metal melded into the dark iron head of a shovel. Outside of the shed is Micro with a spear in his throat.
Outside—outside is—
Saparata sways on his feet.
He puts a hand on one black, charred beam of wood to keep steady; his hands come away soot-stained.
Micro is already dead. The embers are hot; they are only embers. It is silent. He pulls out the spear; throws it aside; closes Micro’s dear black eyes with his thumb. And then Saps is running.
Thomas is suspended in a web by the well. His sword is gone; the raiders must have taken it. His face is slack now but when he died Saps imagines it was twisted in rage. Thomas always was a fighter. Thomas never did give up. Thomas is covered in battle wounds. Saps closes his eyes also.
Cynnika’s house is closest, next; red-and-black and ominous-looking on a good day. Her house is not burnt but the door is swinging open and everything is destroyed and inside she is not sleeping. She’s on her couch and she is still but she’s not sleeping. She is dead. Her black hair is matted with blood and Saps thinks absently that he will have to wash her hair for her before she is buried or burnt because Cyn hated it when her hair got messy. She’s vain like that how Flux is vain like that because they’re siblings.
And then something nauseous and horrifying drops into his stomach and Saps turns on his heels and walks, as if in a daze, to his own home, to the home that he shares with the most important person in his life.
The cows are slaughtered in the fields; butchered on the spot. Only their barely-recognizable frames remain. The chickens are gone. The fields are burnt. So is his house.
It’s worse than the shed; at least the shed still had some skeletal frame to it. Saps and Flux’s house is ashes.
the garden is ashes.
kitchen is ashes. mixing bowls is ashes. tacky multicolored plates is ashes.
The candles is ashes, the books is ashes,
the bed is ashes
His and Flux’s bed is all-gone. There is no sign of Fluixon.
In a dream Saps walks to the basement. It’s hidden; a mossy wooden hatch hidden under a stone, because Flux never outgrew his Mafia-paranoia. The stone is still there. In a dream he moves it; in a dream he climbs down the ladder; in a moment—
He’s woken back up again by a figure curled up in the corner of the basement, who gasps and catches Saps in a wild, desperate hug and Saps clutches him close.
“Flux,” he says. It takes all the air out of his body; all the breath in his lungs into one name. “Flux.”
His partner just shudders quietly and rocks in place, weak and silent.
“Are you hurt,” Saps whispers. “Flux, Flux, Flux, honey, are you hurt?”
Flux is quiet. He’s trembling. “Yes.”
“Where?” Saps breathes. “Take my hand. Show me where. Show me where, Flux.”
Flux’s precious hand takes his and holds Saps’ palm to his stomach. His stomach is wet with blood. There is something hard and inorganic and thin sticking out of his gut. This is an arrow.
So Saparata holds his bloodied palm to Flux’s mouth and he snaps the stem in between his fingers; slides the weapon out of his gut and presses down very hard with his other hand when blood bubbles thick.
The sound Flux makes is muffled by his hand. It’s wounded and small.
“Shh,” Saps whispers. “Shh, shshshsh, Flux, I got you. I got you. I’m right here.”
He takes his hand away from Flux’s mouth; finds the curve of a glass bottle in his bag. Emergency health potion. They don’t have much but they could afford this and they did and now Saps is so grateful for it as he tilts the opening of the bottle to Flux’s lips and the bright red disappears. He can feel the skin melding beneath his hand; the pressure of blood beginning to ease.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “Good, that’s good. Yeah, okay. Okay. Okay, Flux, hey, we’re okay.”
A little bit of color comes back to Flux’s face, and for the first time in an awful eternity Flux really looks at him. His pupils are blown wide and round and black with terror.
“Saps,” Flux says. His voice is hoarse and keening.
“We’re okay,” Saps says, again, bracing their foreheads together, cupping Flux’s face in between his bloodied, soot-stained hands.
Flux just shakes his head. He shakes his head silently and little tears roll down his cheeks and collect on Saps’ fingers.
“I know,” he says, leveraging his weight under Flux’s shoulder and hauling him up. Flux—proud, perfect Flux—makes a sad little whimper of a sound. “I know, I know, I know, but you—but I’ve got you. And you’ve got me. We’re gonna—we have to be—”
Saps lets go for just a moment to reach for the ladder.
Flux crumples; Saps catches him.
“Flux,” Saps begs. “Flux.”
Saparata’s partner just doubles over and retches blood onto the stone floor.
In his luminous lavender eyes there is something surprised and distantly sad. His partner reaches up and fumbles clumsily, feebly, for Saps’ face; tugs at him weakly and Saps goes and then Flux kisses him.
A gentle kiss; the last time just as good as the first time. He tastes like copper.
Good luck, Flux mouths.
What happens next Saparata will never understand and never forget and never be able to explain to any other human being.
Saparata could have saved him.
The arrow was tipped with poison; it ate corrosive holes through the body of the person he loved most in this world; it made Flux bleed on the inside where Saps couldn’t hold it in with his hands.
Saparata could have saved him.
If the cows hadn’t been slaughtered; if the market wasn’t so far away; if they hadn’t burned their village to the ground; if they hadn’t banned his best friends in their fields, maybe they could have helped; wiped the blood from Flux’s lips and turned him on his side while he seized, could have run to the nearest farm and got a bucket of milk from them or a golden apple or another health potion to give them more time—anything. Saparata could have fought off the poison. Could have made it better.
Saparata could have saved him—if it wasn’t for them.
The thing is; he doesn’t stop loving Flux even after he’s gone. He doesn’t stop missing Micro and Thomas and Cynnika; doesn’t stop feeling the urge to feed the slaughtered cows. Those feelings are all still there.
Directionless, they rot. Stagnant, still water, they fester. It’s a kind of sepsis; the same poisonous infection that made Flux very very cold and very very still.
If it wasn’t for them.
He tries to understand it. He builds a tower. He spots a stranger on his burned land from that tower.
It’s the first time Saps kills another player. It’s a fresh-spawn, wandered into the ruin of his life and he holds them down and cuts their throat and even as their eyes go glassy and distant he still doesn’t understand it. It’s not the same as when Flux’s eyes went glassy and distant.
He doesn’t feel better, exactly; he just feels something.
If it wasn’t for them.
Bleeding dry a stranger isn’t the same as when Flux went away. And it’s not the same as when his friends disappeared into the fire. Therefore, Saps decides, they are not the same. One was and is worth much more than the other.
And if it wasn’t for them—for those strangers—he’d still be there, in that room, in the sunlight, in Flux’s arms. A kiss to the birthmark right under his left eye and then the right; a kiss on the tip of his nose.
Fool, Flux would say, lovingly. Fool, fool, fool.