Chapter Text
There had never been a moment in Saparata Theria's life where he questioned whether he loved Fluixon Aculon.
It was never something he had to think about.
Not when they were children who shared the same umbrella on rainy afternoons because Fluixon always forgot his. Not when they grew into teenagers and Saparata realized that every dream he had somehow included the other boy standing beside him. Not even years later, when his face became recognizable enough to appear on billboards and magazine covers while Fluixon still looked at him exactly the same—as though he weren’t Saparata Theria, the model and public figure; he was just Saps.
Perhaps that was why, despite everything he had achieved throughout the years, the morning of their wedding felt infinitely more important than every accomplishment before it. After all, campaigns always ended, awards gathered dust, and fame was ultimately fleeting.
But marrying Fluixon? That was the life Saparata had wanted long before he ever wanted that fame.
The hotel room they booked near the wedding venue buzzed with quiet excitement. Staff hurried in and out with pressed garments, polished shoes, forgotten cufflinks, and last-minute adjustments that somehow always seemed necessary despite months of preparation. Through it all, Saparata remained surprisingly calm—or perhaps, calm was the wrong word. He simply felt... certain.
A soft knock sounded against the half-open door, It opened before anyone inside could answer.
"There you are."
Fluixon leaned against the doorway, already dressed in his suit, though the tie around his neck hung unevenly in a way that immediately drew Saparata's attention. His hair had clearly been styled earlier that morning, only for him to absentmindedly run his fingers through it enough times to undo half the effort.
"Our wedding’s gonna start in a few minutes," Fluixon said with an easy smile. "Everyone's looking for us."
Saparata didn’t answer, instead, his gaze lingered on the crooked knot around Fluixon's collar. Without saying a word, he stepped forward.
Fluixon laughed quietly as he observed him. "I knew you were going to fix it."
Saparata reached up, gently loosening the tie before tightening it again, his movements practiced after years of doing the exact same thing whenever Fluixon insisted he could dress himself.
"You always pull it too tight," Fluixon murmured.
Saparata adjusted it anyway. "There," he replied softly.
Fluixon looked down at himself before grinning. "See? This is why I'm marrying you."
A chuckle escaped Saparata before he could stop it. "You'd survive without me." He said as he rolled his eyes fondly.
"Barely." The answer came so naturally that neither of them questioned it. For a brief moment, the world outside ceased to exist; There were no guests, no ceremony waiting for them, and no photographers preparing to document the event.
Only the familiar rhythm they'd shared for years. Fluixon reached toward a nearby table where a bouquet rested carefully inside a glass vase.
Sunflowers. Hyacinths. Bright gold intertwined with delicate violet.
"Our flowers made it." Saparata smiled.
"They were always going to." Fluixon lifted the bouquet with careful hands, admiring it for a second before offering it toward him. "You remember why we picked these?"
"As if I'd forgotten."
The corners of Fluixon's eyes crinkled. "Tell me anyway."
Saparata looked between the flowers. The sunflowers stood tall despite their weight, always turning toward warmth, while the hyacinths softened the arrangement with quiet elegance.
"The garden at your house were filled with them.” Saparata recalled, “And they were the reason why we met in the first place, because I was admiring them like a dumb idiot and you just so happened to see me while you were on your way home from our school.”
"Close enough." Fluixon laughed. "You looked that up the night I suggested them."
“Wow, you really got it right, even to the ‘dumb idiot’ detail.” Fluixon snorted.
Saparata only shook his head, unable to stop smiling. A few minutes later, the wedding coordinator peeked into the room, she bowed her head as a sign of apology for interrupting. "The vehicles have arrived, let us know when we’ll head to the venue." She informed them, she was talking about the venue and the guests waiting for them.
Fluixon sighed. "I suppose we actually have to get married now."
"I suppose we do." Saparata agreed easily.
Fluixon carefully grabbed the bouquet he was meant to hold before stepping backward toward the hallway.
"I'll see you at the altar."
Three words. Ordinary. Small. Forgettable. At least...They should have been.
"I'll see you there," Saparata answered.
Fluixon smiled one last time before disappearing beyond the doorway.
The room suddenly felt quieter. Saparata glanced toward his own bouquet resting peacefully inside its vase.
Sunflowers. Hyacinths. Their flowers.
The coordinator called for him again. He straightened the sleeves of his suit, took one slow breath, and stepped into the vehicle.
—
Saparata’s ride arrived faster than Fluixon’s, despite the fact that they left at the same time.
When Saparata stepped out of the vehicle and walked in, he couldn’t help but freeze to admire it; the chapel had never looked more beautiful than it does now.
Rows of white chairs stretched neatly toward the altar, each decorated with ribbons and clusters of sunflowers and hyacinths that filled the air with their gentle fragrance. Warm afternoon light spilled through the stained-glass windows, painting the polished floor in shifting colors.
Friends. Family. Colleagues. Faces he recognized smiled as he walked past them. Some congratulated him. Others teased him for somehow looking calmer than everyone else. He answered with polite smiles. His attention remained fixed on the front.
Only a few more minutes. Then forever.
The music began, conversations slowly softened into silence as the officiant took his place.
Saparata's heart beat steadily beneath his ribs.
One minute passed, then two. The doors remained closed.
He frowned, perhaps there had been another delay. Fluixon had always been the less organized one, after all, if the amount of times he overslept because he forgot daylight savings were a thing wasn’t good enough evidence back then.
Someone near the entrance whispered, the whisper spread farther than it should have—One became three. Three became ten.
The music stopped, and an uneasy knot settled inside Saparata's chest. He turned instinctively toward the entrance.
The coordinator hurried inside. She looked pale—Far too pale, she wasn't smiling anymore as she approached the officiant first, whispering something that Saparata couldn't hear.
The officiant's expression changed. His face slowly drained of it’s color.
Then both of them looked toward Saparata.
He couldn’t stop his voice from slightly cracking as he asked, "...What's wrong?"
Neither of them answered, or more so, they didn’t know how to answer it properly.
Another wedding staff member entered, then another, someone in the back began crying. A phone slipped from someone's hand, striking the floor loudly enough to make several guests flinch.
The whispers stopped sounding like whispers, and once he finally heard enough to register it, his ears rang.
He caught only fragments of what has been whispered: "...accident..." — "...intersection..." — "...ambulance..."— "...didn’t… make it…"
No. That didn't make any sense.
Saparata had just seen Fluixon not even an hour ago at their hotel room. He had smiled, and he had laughed.
He had—Saparata was already moving before anyone tried stopping him. He didn't remember leaving the chapel. He didn't remember the drive. He barely remembered anything except running.
Running until his lungs burned. Running even when someone grabbed his shoulders. Running until the world around him dissolved into voices he couldn't understand.
He only remembered searching.
Searching for the man who had promised him something, a future with them together, and a simple message—"I'll see you at the altar."
Instead… There was only silence.
—
People often said grief came in stages; Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.
Saparata never understood that.
For him, grief wasn't orderly, it didn't wait politely for one feeling to finish before introducing another. It arrived all at once, it hollowed him out from the inside until even breathing felt borrowed.
Days blurred together. The wedding venue was dismantled. The flowers withered. The invitations became meaningless pieces of paper. Somewhere along the way, someone handed him condolences, someone hugged him, and someone asked if he had eaten, all in respective and seperate days. He couldn't remember who. He remembered only one thing with unbearable clarity.
The bouquet. Sunflowers. Hyacinths.
He remembered an officer telling him that it was the last thing Fluixon held in his bloodied hands, even when his face was crumpled beyond recognition, he still held onto the bouquet so tightly to the point they had a hard time removing it from his grasp at the hospital.
Now, he found the same slightly crumpled bouquet sitting alone after the funeral, petals beginning to droop despite fresh water in the vase.
He couldn't bring himself to throw it away, so he carried it home instead.
It remained on the dining table long after every sunflower bowed its head and every hyacinth surrendered its color.
After a few more days have passed, people started calling. His agency. Photographers. Designers. Managers. He ignored them all, because he already knew what they were gonna say, that they were sorry just like everyone else, and that they already confirmed his short hiatus; short—because they were kind enough to give him some days to breathe before going back public, as if grief could be masked with a handsome smile.
The only one he didn’t ignore was his sister, Jophiel.
She visited almost every day. Sometimes she cooked, sometimes she cleaned, but most of the time, she simply sat in the apartment because silence felt less lonely when someone else occupied it. Neither of them spoke much, there wasn't much left to say, because they were both thinking of the same thing anyway; The apartment felt impossibly large with only one heartbeat inside it.
One evening, nearly two weeks after the funeral, rain tapped softly against the windows. The city lights beyond the glass blurred into streaks of gold.
Saparata sat alone at the dining table, the dead bouquet remained before him—Its petals had long since dried.
Still… He couldn't throw it away.
"You've always been sentimental." The voice came from nowhere. Quiet. Gentle.
Familiar enough that Saparata's entire body froze before he slowly lifted his head, someone stood near the balcony doors.
A stranger.
Their features seemed strangely difficult to focus on, as though the rain itself obscured them despite standing indoors.
Yet their voice… It sounded achingly familiar.
"Who are you?" Saparata asked a little too sharply.
The stranger smiled faintly. "A grieving man rarely asks who." They tilted their head. "He asks how."
Silence stretched between them. "...How?" Saparata whispered.
"There it is." The stranger stepped closer. "Let’s keep this short and sweet; Saparata Theria, do you want him to return to you?”
“Yes.” He answered before he could even process who this stranger is, why he knew he had just lost someone, and why he was asking this question in the first place.
“Eager, just like I expected.” The stranger laughed softly. “Alright then, here’s my bargain—I can return him to you, but with a few conditions.”
The sentence should have sounded absurd. Impossible and cruel, even. Instead… Saparata believed it before he had the chance to question why.
His fingers tightened around the stem of the dried bouquet. "...What do I have to do?"
"Two weeks." The stranger's voice remained calm. "For two weeks, Fluixon Aculon will walk beside you once more."
Saparata forgot how to breathe.
"But understand this." The stranger's expression hardened ever so slightly.
"You may never speak to him, you may never acknowledge him, and you may never look directly at him and into his eyes. If he addresses you, you must remain silent, If he reaches for you, you must pretend he isn't there."
“And lastly…” The stranger let out a short exhale ."You must tell no one about this bargain."
The apartment grew unnaturally still, even the rain seemed to quiet. "If you complete the fourteen days..." The stranger looked toward the wilted bouquet. "...he stays."
"...And if I fail?"
The answer came immediately. "There will not be another bargain for that."
It wasn’t a threat, nor was it a dramatic warning, it was only certainty.
Saparata lowered his eyes to the brittle flowers in his hands; Sunflowers that no longer sought the light; Hyacinths that had forgotten their color.
If fourteen days were the price… It wasn't a price at all.
"I accept." Saparata said calmly, almost too calmly.
The stranger smiled, and for the first time that night, the voice sounded almost warm. "I knew you would."
The lights flickered, and the rain resumed its steady rhythm against the windows. By the time Saparata looked up again—The stranger was gone.
—
[ DAY ONE ; 13 days remaining. 312 hours remaining. 18,720 minutes remaining. 1,123,200 seconds remaining. ]
Saparata did not remember falling asleep.
He only remembered sitting at the dining table until exhaustion claimed him, the dried bouquet of sunflowers and hyacinths resting quietly before him as the rain drummed against the windows. Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, the world had dissolved into darkness.
The first thing he noticed upon waking was warmth.
Morning sunlight spilled through the curtains, bathing the apartment in a soft golden glow that felt almost foreign after days of keeping every blind shut. Dust drifted lazily through the beams of light, and for one fleeting moment, everything appeared painfully ordinary.
Then he heard movement, not outside—Inside.
A cupboard door creaked open, ceramic lightly clinked against ceramic, and footsteps.
His heart stopped. Slowly, almost fearing what he might find, Saparata stepped out of the bedroom.
The kitchen came into view first, A familiar figure stood with his back turned, humming absentmindedly as he searched through one of the upper cabinets.
Messy dark hair with the same purple streaks, an oversized shirt that definitely belonged to Saparata, and the slight habit of shifting his weight from one foot to the other whenever he couldn't find something.
Every detail was so achingly familiar that Saparata's vision blurred.
“Where did you put the coffee again?" Fluixon spoke without turning around, how he knew Saparata was there and wide awake, Saparata didn’t know, what he did know was Fluixon sounded more annoyed than anything else. "I swear you reorganized these cabinets just to confuse me."
His voice. It was exactly as Saparata remembered. Warm. Sleepy. Comfortably teasing.
Alive.
Saparata instinctively took a step forward. Every instinct inside him screamed to answer—to laugh and wrap his arms around Fluixon before he disappeared again.
His lips parted, but nothing came out. The stranger's words echoed through his mind with terrifying clarity. You may never speak to him.
Fluixon finally turned around. "There you are." His expression brightened the moment he spotted Saparata. He had a smile that could have stopped time itself. "I thought you'd already left."
Saparata's breath caught painfully in his throat.
Fluixon was looking directly at him.
He couldn't—He lowered his gaze before their eyes could properly meet. It felt wrong. Every fiber of his being resisted the movement, yet he forced himself to look instead at the kitchen counter, where a half-open bag of coffee beans sat beside two empty mugs.
"Hm?" Fluixon tilted his head. "Still waking up?"
Silence.
"You look exhausted."
Silence.
A faint laugh escaped Fluixon. "I know I'm handsome, but at least say good morning."
Saparata's fingers curled into trembling fists at his sides—Good morning—two words, that was all it would take to break the silence that had settled between them. Instead, he walked past him, every step felt heavier than the last.
He reached the cabinet Fluixon had been searching, retrieved the coffee without looking toward him, and placed it gently on the counter.
Fluixon blinked. "...Thanks."
Saparata didn’t even nod once in acknowledgement, as he busied himself with preparing breakfast. It wasn’t because he was hungry, in fact, doubted he'd been hungry since the wedding. His hands simply needed something to do before they betrayed him.
Eggs, toast, fresh fruit, and coffee, prepared exactly the way Fluixon liked it—with just enough sugar to sweeten the bitterness without masking it entirely.
He knew every preference by heart. He always would.
The apartment remained unusually quiet except for the occasional sound of cookware against the stove. Several times, Saparata caught himself almost turning toward Fluixon whenever he spoke. Each time, he stopped himself just before it happened.
It felt unnatural, like deliberately pretending the sun no longer existed.
Fluixon watched him for several long moments before pulling out one of the dining chairs. "...Did something happen?"
No answer.
"Are you upset?"
Silence.
"If this is because I forgot to buy detergent yesterday, I was literally going to do it today." The attempt at humor lingered awkwardly in the air before dissolving into disappointment.
Saparata finished plating breakfast.
He set one plate before Fluixon, while the other remained untouched across the table.
Without a word, he grabbed his jacket from the chair and headed toward the front door.
"...You're leaving already?" Fluixon asked with a puzzled expression.
He reached for the doorknob.
"Saparata?" He uttered his name, after weeks of not hearing it.
It sounded different coming from Fluixon after believing he'd never hear it again, he found himself closing his eyes for a second because of it.
Then, he stepped outside.
—
Work felt less like work and more like punishment. Every studio he entered buzzed with familiar energy, makeup artists greeted him, and photographers complimented how well-rested he looked—a statement so absurd that Saparata almost laughed.
His day went on just like that; Stylists adjusted his clothing, assistants handed him bottled water between takes, he answered every question with practiced professionalism.
Years in the industry had taught him how to smile on command, how to maintain perfect posture, and how to become whatever the camera required.
None of it required him to feel anything.
During lunch, one of his coworkers dropped into the seat across from him. "You disappeared for a while," she said gently. "Everyone was worried."
Saparata offered a polite smile. "I needed some time."
She nodded, understanding enough not to pry further. Conversation drifted toward upcoming campaigns and magazine covers.
He answered when spoken to, and listened when necessary, yet every few minutes, his thoughts wandered home.
Was Fluixon eating? Had he remembered to water the plants? Was he still confused? Had he smiled at breakfast despite everything?
The questions came endlessly.
Saparata hated that he had no way of answering any of them.
—
By the time he returned home, dusk had settled over the city.
The apartment lights were already on, and the smell of food greeted him the moment he stepped inside. Fluixon stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something inside a pot.
"You actually came home before midnight." There was relief in his voice. "I wasn't sure if you were working late."
Saparata carefully slipped off his shoes without looking in Fluixon's direction. Dinner had already been served—two bowls, two sets of silverware, and two glasses of water—everything was exactly as it always had been, except for the fact that only one person sat down to eat.
He quietly moved one of the bowls into the refrigerator, not because he wanted to, but because if he sat across from Fluixon, he'd eventually look up, eventually smile, and eventually speak.
He couldn't risk any of it.
Behind him, Fluixon remained standing. "...You're seriously not going to eat with me?"
Silence.
"...Okay." The word was quiet. Too quiet.
Saparata gripped the refrigerator door harder than intended before gently closing it. He retreated toward the bedroom.
Just before shutting the door behind him, he heard Fluixon murmur to himself. "...Maybe he's just tired."
Saparata rested his forehead against the closed door.
The wood felt cool. Solid. Real—Unlike everything else.
He stayed there until he heard the faint sound of dishes being washed, and when he heard the bathroom door open wide just for it to be clicked shut when Fluixon entered, only then did he allow himself to slowly walk back to the living room.
His chest ached with a pain so overwhelming that it almost eclipsed the miracle itself.
Fluixon was alive. He could hear him. He could walk beside him. He could even share the same home again.
And yet Saparata had never felt further away from him.
A soft knock interrupted the silence, just from the three measured taps, Saparata already knew who it was. He wiped quickly at his face before opening the bedroom door.
His older sister stood outside carrying a paper bag filled with groceries. "I figured you forgot to buy food again," she said, offering a tired smile.
"I made enough for both of—" Her voice stopped completely. The smile from her face disappeared shortly after.
Her eyes drifted past Saparata's shoulder toward the living room, as someone emerged back from the bathroom.
She didn't move, not even blink, as the color slowly drained from her face. "...Brother." It was barely above a whisper.
Saparata didn't need to turn around to know what she had seen.
Fluixon looked up towards their front door. "Oh." He smiled politely. "Hi, Jophiel."
The grocery bag slipped from her hands. Oranges rolled across the floor with dull, uneven thuds. For a long moment, no one spoke.
Jophiel stared as though the world had tilted beneath her feet.
Then, without taking her eyes off Fluixon, she asked in a trembling voice, "...Can we... talk?"
Saparata understood. He stepped into the hallway, quietly closing the apartment door behind him. The moment it clicked shut, Jophiel grabbed both of his arms.
Her hands shook. "...Tell me what you did."
Saparata lowered his gaze.
“...Saparata.” Jophiel started, "He died."
Silence.
"We buried him."
Silence.
"I—We watched them lower his coffin into the ground." Her voice cracked. "So tell me right now, why in the ever loving god is he inside your apartment?"
Saparata's jaw tightened. He couldn't answer, not because he didn't want to, but because he had promised.
Jophiel searched his face desperately, waiting for something—anything—that might explain the impossible.
Instead, she found only exhaustion, grief, and silence.
"...Brother." Her grip loosened. "What happened?"
Saparata slowly shook his head. "I can't." Two words, it was all he could give.
Jophiel stared at him for several long seconds before looking back toward the apartment door, every negative emotion crossed her face in painful succession.
Finally, she stepped away. "...Whatever this may be..." Her voice had become frighteningly quiet. "...I hope you know what you’re doing."
She picked up the fallen grocery bag without another word and gave it to him, the oranges remained where they had rolled. Saparata watched her disappear down the hallway until the elevator doors closed behind her.
Only then did he return inside, the apartment was warm, and the lights were still on. Fluixon looked over from the dining table and smiled as naturally as he always had. "Was Jophiel in a hurry?"
Saparata's fingers tightened around the doorknob.
He walked past him.
The countdown had only just begun, and yet it already felt impossible.
—
[ DAY TWO ; 12 days remaining. 288 hours remaining. 17,280 minutes remaining. 1,036,800 seconds remaining. ]
Saparata had always believed that loving someone was easiest in the little things.
It was not in grand confessions, not in expensive celebrations, and not in promises spoken beneath a sky full of stars.
For him, It was remembering how Fluixon took his coffee, buying his favorite snacks without being asked, and replacing a worn toothbrush before it became unusable.
It was also seen when he stopped by a flower shop on the way home because sunflowers had just come into season and hyacinths reminded him of the garden where they met each other.
Love, to Saparata, had never been loud. It lived quietly in routine, which was perhaps why the second day hurt far more than the first.
Routine remained, but everything else had been stripped away.
—
Saparata Theria left before sunrise, not because he wanted to, but because another campaign had been rescheduled after nearly two weeks of delays, and his manager had called late the previous evening, sounding more relieved than apologetic when Saparata agreed to the reschedule.
He paused at the front door. Behind him, the apartment was still. Fluixon hadn't woken yet, and for a dangerous moment, Saparata considered walking back to the bedroom.
Just one glance, just to make sure yesterday hadn't been some elaborate dream.
His fingers tightened around his car keys as he shook his head, and with that, he left.
—
The flower shop stood on the same corner it always had. Its owner looked up from arranging a display the moment the bell above the door chimed.
"Saparata." She smiled kindly. "It's been a while."
He returned the smile politely. "It has."
Her expression softened almost immediately. News traveled quickly, especially news like his. "I'm glad to see you outside again."
He nodded once, unable to trust himself with more words. As she wrapped a bouquet for another customer, his eyes wandered across the shop until they settled instinctively on a familiar arrangement.
Sunflowers and hyacinths, even after everything, it still looked as beautiful as they had on the morning of the wedding.
The florist followed his gaze. "The same as always?"
His throat tightened. "...Yes."
She didn't ask who they were for—she already knew. By the time he left the shop, the bouquet rested carefully on the passenger seat beside him.
For the first time in weeks… The apartment would have fresh flowers again.
—
The photoshoot lasted nearly the entire morning. "Perfect," the photographer called. "Eyes here." Saparata looked toward the camera. "Good." Another shutter clicked. "Now smile."
He did. The smile came so naturally that it almost offended him, he wondered whether grief had become just another expression he knew how to hide beneath expensive clothing and perfect lighting.
During a short break, his phone vibrated—It was Jophiel.
He stared at her name for several seconds before opening the message.
Jophiel:
Are you okay?
Another appeared almost immediately.
Jophiel:
Please answer honestly.
His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, eventually he typed a response.
Saparata:
I'm okay.
The lie looked small on the screen, she replied before he could lock the phone.
Jophiel:
You're a terrible liar.
Nothing followed after that, Saparata slipped the phone back into his pocket, he wasn't sure whether he felt relieved or guilty.
Perhaps both.
—
By late afternoon, he stopped by a grocery store before heading home. The shopping cart filled itself almost automatically—fresh vegetables, chicken, milk, coffee beans, fruit, the cereal Fluixon always insisted tasted better than the expensive brands despite costing half as much.
Then his eyes drifted to a familiar box; A pancake-mix that was so cheap and niche, as other popular brands always outshined it.
It was also his favorite because that food held sweet childhood memories of him and Fluixon eating it together for breakfast after his twin sister—Cynikka Aculon—made it for them before school.
Saparata reached for it without thinking, only after placing it inside the cart did he realize what he'd done.
His hand lingered over it, he should have put it back, but instead he bought two.
—
The apartment door clicked open.
‘I'm home.’, the words nearly escaped him before he caught himself, his lips pressed together, as the greeting remained trapped inside his chest.
Footsteps approached almost immediately. "There you are." Fluixon leaned casually against the kitchen entrance.
"I was starting to think your agency kidnapped you." His eyes drifted toward the grocery bags. "...That's a lot."
Saparata carried them into the kitchen, Fluixon followed close behind. "You went shopping?"
Silence.
"For both of us?"
Silence.
He unpacked everything carefully. Vegetables into the refrigerator, coffee beside the machine, fruit into the bowl resting on the counter, then… the bouquet.
He removed the wrapping paper before placing the flowers into a clean glass vase. Sunflowers. Hyacinths. Fresh and alive. The splash of color immediately brightened the apartment.
Fluixon smiled. "...You bought flowers."
Saparata adjusted one of the sunflowers so it stood a little straighter.
"I was actually thinking about buying some yesterday." A soft laugh escaped Fluixon. "Guess you beat me to it."
Saparata's fingertips brushed lightly against one of the violet hyacinths.
He remembered another bouquet. Another day that should’ve been perfect—"I'll see you at the altar."—The memory passed through him like a blade.
He stepped away before it could linger.
—
Dinner came together quietly, Saparata moved through the kitchen with practiced ease.
Rice steamed gently on the counter. Soup simmered in a small pot. Vegetables crackled softly in the pan. Fluixon watched him from one of the stools by the island. "You've been cooking a lot lately."
Silence.
"I don't mind." Another pause. "I actually missed your cooking."
Saparata continued stirring the soup. The aroma filled the apartment. Comforting. Familiar. Painfully domestic.
"I've been thinking." Fluixon rested his chin on his hand. "If work's stressing you out..." He hesitated. "...we could go somewhere after the wedding."
The sentence caught Saparata completely off guard.
After the wedding, of course.
Fluixon remembered the day that had long been finished as a day that hasn’t happened yet. He didn’t know that the ceremony had been interrupted, that he never made it to the altar, and that his funeral is what followed shortly after.
His heart clenched so tightly that it became difficult to breathe.
"I know we talked about visiting that little seaside town." Fluixon smiled faintly. "...But we never actually got the chance to book anything."
Saparata lowered the flame beneath the pot. His vision blurred. Every plan. Every dream. Still alive inside Fluixon's memories.
"...Or not." Fluixon rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I guess now isn't a good time."
Saparata carefully filled two bowls. He placed one before Fluixon. The other remained untouched.
Once again, he walked toward the bedroom with his own bowl in hand. "...You really don't want to eat together?"
There was no accusation this time. Only quiet confusion.
Saparata stopped. Just for a heartbeat.
His shoulders rose almost imperceptibly as he drew in a slow breath. Then he continued walking.
Behind him, the chair scraped softly against the floor as Fluixon sat alone.
—
Later that night, after the dishes had been washed and the apartment had fallen silent once more, Saparata stepped into the living room to turn off the lights.
He found Fluixon asleep on the couch.
The television still played quietly in the background, one arm rested awkwardly over his eyes, the blanket lay crumpled beside him, untouched.
Saparata stood motionless for several moments.
Then, as carefully as he could, as if he was afraid that the slightest movement might shatter the miracle before him, he picked up the blanket, and unfolded it as he gently draped it over Fluixon's sleeping form.
Fluixon shifted instinctively beneath the warmth.
A barely audible sigh escaped him. "...Thanks..." The sleepy murmur was little more than a whisper.
Whether Fluixon knew who had covered him or had spoken purely out of habit, Saparata couldn't tell.
He only knew that hearing gratitude directed toward him made his chest ache.
His hand lifted instinctively. He wanted to brush a stray lock of hair away from Fluixon's forehead, to cradle his face, and to kiss him goodnight like he had done countless nights before.
Instead, his fingers froze halfway. The stranger's warning lingered in the back of his mind—‘You may never acknowledge him.’
Slowly… He lowered his hand. Before returning to the bedroom, Saparata glanced toward the dining table.
The new bouquet rested quietly in its vase, the sunflowers still stood proudly toward the light and the hyacinths remained vibrant beneath them.
Fresh enough that they looked almost identical to the bouquet waiting at the altar two weeks ago.
He wondered whether they would still be blooming by the time the fourteen days ended.
—
[ DAY THREE ; 11 days remaining. 264 hours remaining. 15,840 minutes remaining. 950,400 seconds remaining. ]
Routine has always been comforting.
Before the wedding, it was the kind of comfort Saparata rarely noticed. It existed quietly in the background of his life, woven into the smallest moments he had long since taken for granted.
Fluixon stealing the first sip of his coffee before claiming it tasted better from Saparata's mug, the inevitable debate over whose turn it was to wash the dishes, the way Fluixon always forgot where he left his phone, only for Saparata to find it exactly where he'd predicted.
Routine wasn't exciting. It wasn't extraordinary. It was simply theirs.
Now, every familiar habit had become another test of endurance.
—
Saparata woke before dawn.
The apartment was silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant murmur of traffic several floors below. He dressed quietly, careful not to make unnecessary noise as he buttoned his shirt and straightened the sleeves of his coat.
When he stepped into the kitchen, he stopped. A mug sat on the counter. Steam still curled lazily from its surface. Beside it rested a folded piece of paper.
Saparata's heartbeat quickened. When he unfolded it, the handwriting was unmistakable.
You always leave before I wake up. Figured I'd make your coffee this time.
...I think I remembered how you liked it.
— Fluixon (soon to be) Theria ◡̈
For a long moment, Saparata simply stared at the note, the way Fluixon wrote his name with Saparata’s surname was enough to bring him to his knees.
His fingers tightened around the paper just enough to wrinkle one corner before he caught himself and carefully smoothed it back out.
The coffee had probably been made only minutes earlier, considering the fact that it was still warm. Without thinking, he lifted the mug and took a cautious sip.
It was exactly just the way he liked it—not too bitter, and not too sweet.
Fluixon had remembered. A dull ache settled deep within Saparata's chest. He folded the note neatly and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat instead of throwing it away.
It stayed there for the rest of the day.
—
The agency building buzzed with its usual energy. Everything continued as though nothing in the world had changed.
Sometimes Saparata envied that.
His manager caught up with him just before he reached the studio. "Good timing," she said, handing him a neatly organized schedule. "We've got two campaigns today instead of one."
He glanced down. The page was packed from morning until evening. "You sure you're up for it?"
"I'll manage."
She studied him for a second longer. "...Don't push yourself too hard."
He nodded politely. "I won't."
It wasn't entirely true.
—
The first campaign took place inside a minimalist studio filled with soft white backdrops and oversized lights that made the entire room feel unnaturally bright.
The photographer barely paused between shots, constantly saying instructions that Saparata instinctively followed. “Absolutely beautiful, Saparata!” The photographer praised highly.
The word barely registered anymore. People had called him beautiful for years. It had never meant much.
Not when it was compared to hearing Fluixon absentmindedly tell him his hair looked ridiculous after waking up, or being called handsome while standing in their tiny kitchen over burnt toast.
Those compliments had mattered—these were simply part of the job.
—
Lunch arrived later than expected.
Most of the staff gathered around a long table near the break room, conversations flowing easily between bites of food.
Saparata chose a quieter corner. Not because he disliked company, but because silence required less pretending. Although eventually, someone pulled out the chair across from him. It was one of the makeup artists, she smiled apologetically. "Mind if I sit here?"
He shook his head. "Go ahead."
She thanked him before opening her lunch. For a while, neither of them spoke. Then, she glanced toward the ring still resting on Saparata's finger. "...You still wear it."
His hand instinctively curled into itself beneath the table. "I do."
She smiled sadly. "I think that's... really sweet."
Saparata lowered his gaze. He couldn't explain that taking the ring off felt impossible.
Not because it symbolized a marriage—they had never made it that far.
But because it symbolized a promise. One he intended to keep.
—
The drive home stretched longer than usual.
Traffic crawled through the city beneath the fading colors of sunset, leaving Saparata alone with thoughts he had spent all day trying to outrun.
When he finally unlocked the apartment door, laughter greeted him.
Light. Unrestrained. Familiar.
"...There you are!" Fluixon looked up from the living room floor.
Several shopping bags surrounded him. One had been turned completely upside down, its contents spilling across the rug.
"I went out." Fluixon said, his tone held some sort of pride in it.
Saparata immediately noticed the new things inside their shared home. A pair of new slippers rested near the entrance. Fresh groceries filled part of the kitchen. A small potted plant had somehow appeared on the windowsill.
"You left me with the apartment all day." Fluixon held up the little plant proudly. "So I adopted this."
The pot was painted a cheerful yellow. A tiny sunflower had been drawn onto one side with uneven black lines. "I know we already have flowers." He gestured toward the vase on the dining table.
"But flowers die." His smile softened, it was so unbelievably ironic for Saparata that it was Fluixon who said that phrase. "I thought... Maybe something that lasts longer would be nice."
Saparata's gaze lingered on the plant. The leaves were still small. Healthy.
Someone had tied a tiny tag around the stem. ‘Please give me lots of sunlight & sunshine!’ was what was written on it.
His chest tightened.
Fluixon walked over and carefully placed the plant beside yesterday's bouquet. "There." He took a step back, admiring his own work. "Looks better already."
Saparata remained standing near the doorway, briefcase still in one hand. He wanted to thank him. To tell him it looked perfect.
Instead… He quietly walked into the kitchen.
"Oh." The excitement in Fluixon's voice dimmed, though only slightly. "I... guess you're hungry."
—
Dinner passed much the same as the previous evening.
Saparata cooked. Fluixon talked. The apartment was filled with conversations from only one person.
It shouldn't have worked. Conversation wasn't supposed to exist with only half of it spoken aloud, yet Fluixon somehow managed. He filled every silence with stories from his day. "I think the cashier at the grocery store remembered me, for some reason, his face turned so pale.”
A pause.
"I didn’t know why... but I thought that maybe he just wasn’t used to me being the one buying our necessities."
Another pause.
"Also, I bought those apples you like." He laughed softly. "I almost bought the expensive ones, then remembered you'd tell me they taste exactly the same."
Saparata's knife paused for the briefest moment against the cutting board.
Fluixon noticed. "You remember saying that?" Hope flickered across his face, but silence that followed extinguished it just as quickly.
"...Actually, nevermind.” Fluixon’s reply to himself shortly followed.
—
After dinner, Saparata found himself standing before the bookshelf in the living room. He wasn't looking for anything in particular, he was just killing some time.
The apartment behind him was unusually quiet, not until Fluixon seemingly found something. "Found it!" His voice brightened again. He approached carrying a worn photo album.
The dark blue cover had begun fraying around the edges after years of use. "You remember this?"
Of course he did. They had started filling it together during university—trips, birthdays, anniversaries, and even ordinary afternoons made unforgettable simply because they had shared them.
Fluixon sat cross-legged on the couch and opened the first page. "You looked awful here." A laugh escaped him. "Seriously, what was that haircut?"
Saparata didn't need to look. He remembered exactly which photograph it was.
"I still think mine's worse, though." He turned another page. "...Oh."
A softer smile. "Our first apartment." From the corner of his eye, he could see how Fluixon softly placed his palm on the edge of the picture.
It continued on just like that; Another page. "You cried during that movie." Another. "But I told you I wouldn't tell anyone."
Saparata remained standing with his back partially turned. Every page Fluixon flipped seemed to carry another memory Saparata desperately wanted to relive.
Another memory he couldn't even acknowledge.
Eventually… The pages stopped turning.
The silence stretched longer than before.
"...You know..." Fluixon spoke quietly. "I feel like I'm talking to myself."
The sentence wasn't bitter. If anything, it sounded almost embarrassed. "As funny as I am..." He forced out a small chuckle. "...I don't think I'm that entertaining."
Saparata closed his eyes. His nails dug lightly into his palms. He could fix this.
One sentence. One smile. One glance.
That was all it would take.
Instead… He walked silently toward the bedroom.
The photo album closed behind him with a quiet thump.
—
Much later that night, sleep refused to come.
Saparata stepped onto the apartment balcony, hoping the cool night air might quiet his restless mind. The city stretched endlessly below, thousands of lights glittering beneath a cloudless sky.
Behind him, the balcony door slid open. "I figured you'd be out here."
Fluixon joined him.
Not close enough to touch, he was just... nearby enough so that they stood together overlooking the city.
One spoke.
The other listened.
"You know..." Fluixon rested his forearms against the railing. "I've been trying to figure this out."
Saparata stared ahead.
"I keep thinking maybe you're angry." A quiet laugh. "Then I think... no, if you were angry, you'd tell me." His smile faded. "...Then I wonder if you're just tired."
Another pause.
"And I really want to assume it’s just that, but goodness, Saps… You..." His voice grew softer. "...you won't even look at me."
The words settled heavily between them. "...I don't know what happened."
Silence.
"...And maybe I’m overthinking it, but I just..." He swallowed. "...miss you, I suppose." He admitted ever so softly, and on a normal day, that would’ve been a luxury Saparata would treasure because Fluixon rarely showcased his true feelings.
Saparata's breathing became almost painfully slow, every instinct begged him to turn, to tell Fluixon he was right there—that he had never left.
Instead, he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the city lights below.
Eventually, he heard the balcony door slide shut once more. He remained outside long after Fluixon had gone back inside.
Only when the night air had grown cold enough to sting his skin did Saparata finally return to the apartment. The little sunflower plant still rested beside the bouquet of sunflowers and hyacinths on the dining table.
One was rooted, the other had already begun its slow march toward wilting.
He couldn't help wondering which of them resembled him more at the moment.
—
[ DAY FOUR ; 10 days remaining. 240 hours remaining. 14,400 minutes remaining. 864,000 seconds remaining. ]
By the fourth morning, Saparata had learned that silence had different forms.
There was the silence of peace—the kind that existed when two people were comfortable enough to sit in the same room without needing to fill every passing second with conversation.
There was the silence of exhaustion—the kind that followed a long day when words felt like unnecessary effort.
And then there was this, the silence between him and Fluixon.
A silence that was not empty, because it was a silence filled with everything Saparata wanted to say and everything he was forbidden from saying.
It was becoming heavier.
—
He woke before his alarm, he always did now, perhaps it was because his body had adjusted to the strange rhythm of the past few days, or maybe, some part of him feared that if he slept too long, he would wake up and discover that Fluixon had disappeared again.
The thought alone made his chest tighten.
For a few seconds, he remained still beneath the blankets. The room was dark, and the other side of the bed remained untouched—that was something he had not been able to get used to.
Before everything happened, Fluixon had always moved too much while sleeping. He stole blankets. He stretched across the entire bed despite insisting he had no idea how he ended up there. Sometimes, he would wake up with his head on Saparata's shoulder and claim it was because Saparata had moved closer first.
It was a terrible lie, but it was still one that Saparata had always allowed him to keep.
Now, the empty space beside him felt like a cruel reminder of everything he had lost.
Except… It wasn't empty anymore. Fluixon was here, and he was alive, and somewhere beyond the bedroom door.
…But Saparata still could not reach him.
—
The kitchen was quiet when he entered. Fluixon sat at the table, scrolling through his phone while drinking coffee.
The little sunflower plant he had bought yesterday sat by the window, catching the morning sunlight.
For a moment, Fluixon looked peaceful, like the past two weeks had never happened, like the world had never stopped turning.
Then Fluixon noticed him. "Morning." He greeted softly.
Saparata immediately lowered his gaze, Fluixon’s greeting remained unanswered.
Still, he waited for a second, then another. Finally, he looked back down at his phone. "...Right."
The single word was quiet—not angry or disappointed, just acknowledging something Saparata wished he didn't have to prove.
—
Breakfast was different from the previous days, but not because anything dramatic happened—that would have almost been easier.
Instead, Fluixon tried.
He asked questions, small and safe ones. "What time do you have work today?"
No answer.
"Is the shoot nearby?"
Silence.
"Do you want me to make dinner tonight?"
Another silence.
Each question disappeared into the space between them. Saparata watched from the corner of his vision as Fluixon slowly stopped trying.
It was subtle—a hand lowering from where it had been reaching for another mug, a sentence cut short before it was finished, a smile that faded before it fully formed.
Saparata noticed every single one, and that was the cruelest part. He noticed everything, he just couldn't do anything about it.
—
The day passed with its usual demands.
Another photoshoot, another set of cameras, and another room full of people who knew exactly how to get a reaction out of him.
"Saparata, can you give us something softer?" The photographer lowered his camera. "Less professional. More personal."
Saparata almost laughed—’personal.’—That was becoming a difficult thing to understand for him.
He knew how to present himself, he knew how to become the version of Saparata Theria everyone expected to see; The successful model, the confident man, the person who had everything.
But the person who existed when he was only with Fluixon? That person felt impossibly far away.
Still… The camera clicked.
He smiled.
The photographer nodded approvingly. "There. That's the one."
Saparata wondered what exactly they had captured. After all, he was sure of one thing—it wasn't happiness.
—
When he returned home, the apartment was unusually quiet.
No humming from the kitchen. No television playing softly in the background. No Fluixon greeting him from somewhere nearby.
A strange unease settled over him, he placed his keys down carefully.
"Fluixon?" The name nearly escaped, but his mouth closed immediately.
The silence that followed felt almost like punishment.
He searched the living room.
Nothing.
The kitchen.
Nothing.
Then he found him, sitting on the floor beside the bookshelf, the photo album from yesterday rested open beside him.
Fluixon looked up. "Oh." His expression softened. "I thought you were still at work."
Saparata remained standing near the doorway.
Fluixon glanced back at the album. "I was looking through these again." A small smile appeared. "I know. Shocking."
He tapped the page lightly. "I actually found something funny." He turned the album a little, but it was not enough for Saparata to see without looking directly.
Saparata kept his eyes fixed elsewhere.
Fluixon noticed, and then his smile disappeared. "Sorry." The apology came so quickly that it hurt. "I forgot."
Saparata's fingers twitched.
He forgot—as if Saparata not looking at him was something Fluixon had to remember.
…As if Fluixon was the one making mistakes.
—
That evening, Saparata cooked while Fluixon sat quietly at the kitchen counter.
The difference was obvious.
Normally, Fluixon would talk about random things, something he saw online, a person he met, or about a memory he suddenly remembered.
Today...There was nothing.
The quiet was no longer something Saparata had to enforce, because Fluixon was doing it himself.
That frightened him more.
When dinner was ready, Saparata placed a plate before him.
Fluixon looked down at it. "Thank you."
Saparata couldn’t nod, but he did pause for a while. Before he could leave, Fluixon spoke. "Can I ask something?"
Saparata froze.
He didn't turn. "You don't have to answer."
A pause.
"...I know you won't anyway." The words weren't cruel, they were tired. "But… did I do something?"
Saparata's hand tightened around the edge of the counter.
‘No.’ The answer came immediately in his mind. ‘No, you could never do anything wrong.’
Because it was true, Fluixon had done nothing. He had done everything right— He had loved Saparata, he had trusted him, and he had somehow returned from death and still worried about whether he had hurt Saparata.
His mind was only filled with everything he wanted to say—‘No. You didn't do anything. I love you. I'm sorry. Please stop apologizing. Please don't think this is your fault. Please don't think for even a second that I stopped loving you.’
But none of it reached his lips, as it only sat at the back of his throat.
So with that, Fluxion only received silence.
—
Later that night, Saparata found Fluixon standing in front of the bathroom mirror.
He wasn't doing anything, just looking at himself.
When Fluixon noticed him in the doorway, he immediately stepped aside. "Sorry."
Again. That word. Always that word. Saparata hated it.
"I was just..." Fluixon looked away. "I was wondering if something changed." The sentence was spoken quietly, almost like he didn’t know if wanted to admit it.
"Because I know people change." He gave a small, humorless laugh. "Maybe that's normal."
Saparata remained frozen.
Fluixon continued. "You've been working so hard for years." He looked toward the floor. "Maybe I just didn't notice how much your life changed."
A pause. "Maybe I don't fit into it anymore."
Saparata felt something inside him crack—Not break, not yet, it was just a small fracture. It was almost like a warning.
He wanted to reach forward, to stop those words before they became something Fluixon believed.
Instead, he stepped away, and Fluixon watched him leave.
For the first time since returning… Saparata saw something worse than confusion.
He saw resignation.
—
That night, Saparata stood in the kitchen long after midnight, accompanying him were the flowers that sat quietly on the dining table.
The sunflowers remained bright. The hyacinths still carried their color. The small sunflower plant beside them leaned slightly toward the window, searching for it’s light.
Saparata reached out and adjusted the plant carefully, making sure its leaves faced the morning sun.
A useless action. A meaningless action. Yet it was all he had.
Tomorrow will be day five.
Ten days remained. Ten days to keep a promise. Ten days before he either succeeded… Or lost Fluixon all over again.
—
[ DAY FIVE ; 9 days remaining. 216 hours remaining. 12,960 minutes remaining. 777,600 seconds remaining. ]
Saparata began to notice the change in Fluixon through the smallest things.
That was the cruelest part, Nothing happened all at once. There was no argument, no accusation, no moment where Fluixon finally raised his voice and demanded an explanation.
Instead, the distance grew quietly. A chair that used to be pulled closer, a conversation that used to last an hour becoming five minutes, and a question that used to come naturally now being followed by hesitation.
Saparata had spent the past four days fighting against his own desire to reach out.
Now, Fluixon was beginning to stop reaching altogether.
—
The morning began like the others.
Saparata woke before sunrise, he prepared breakfast, he made coffee, he checked the weather before leaving because Fluixon always forgot to bring an umbrella unless the sky was already pouring.
It was a routine he had followed for years, one that should have felt comforting. Instead, every repeated action reminded him of the one thing he couldn't do.
Tell Fluixon why.
He placed the umbrella beside the front door before leaving. When he turned around, he found Fluixon standing there watching him.
Saparata immediately looked away.
Fluixon remained quiet for a moment, he responded quietly, as if he couldn’t believe what he just saw. "You remembered."
Saparata froze.
Fluixon walked over and picked up the umbrella, a small smile appeared. "You always remember."
The words were simple, but the way Fluixon said them made Saparata's chest tighten. There was no accusation, nor frustration, only a tired kind of fondness. As if Fluixon was reminding himself of something.
Saparata lowered his gaze.
Fluixon held the umbrella against his chest. "Thank you." Another silence. Then, softer, "I know you're trying."
Saparata's breathing stopped.
Fluixon looked at him for a few seconds. Not directly. Not demanding. Just waiting.
Saparata wanted to take that opening, he wanted to explain that yes, he was trying—he was trying to show Fluixon how much he still loves him, even with this silence separating them apart. But the contract remained between them like an invisible wall.
So instead, he picked up his coat and left. Behind him, he heard Fluixon quietly exhale.
—
The photoshoot that day took place outdoors. The weather was cloudy, the kind of gray morning where sunlight appeared only briefly before, everyone around him was busy—everyone except Saparata's thoughts.
His mind kept returning home. To Fluixon standing by the door. To the way he said I know you're trying. The worst part was that he was right.
Saparata was trying. He was trying so hard that it felt like drowning, but alas, Fluixon didn't know what he was trying to do. He only saw the result.
A husband who wouldn't speak. A husband who wouldn't look at him. A husband who showed affection in every way except the one way Fluixon needed.
Though, in all honesty, could one still consider him a husband when the wedding never happened the way it should have?
"Saparata." The photographer's voice pulled him back. "You're somewhere else."
He forced a small smile. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize." The photographer adjusted the camera. "Just come back."
Come back.
The words lingered longer than they should have. Because that was exactly what Saparata wanted; to go back before the wedding, before the funeral, before he had to choose between losing Fluixon and losing Fluixon.
—
He arrived home later than usual.
The apartment was dark except for the kitchen light. Fluixon sat alone at the dining table. A plate of untouched food rested in front of him.
Saparata stopped. He knew that meal.
It was the one Fluixon had prepared, the one he had offered to make the night before, and the one Saparata had never acknowledged.
Fluixon looked up. "Oh." A quiet smile. "You came home."
The words hurt more than they should have. Because they sounded like surprise. As if Fluixon had begun expecting him not to.
Saparata stepped into the kitchen.
Fluixon looked down at the food. "I made too much."
A pause.
"I guess that's still a habit." He gave a small laugh. "I always make too much."
Saparata stood across from him. Unable to move. Unable to speak.
Fluixon reached for the second plate. "I'll put this away."
Before he could stand, Saparata moved to help him, grabbing the plate gently as he placed it inside the refrigerator. It was a simple action, one that Fluixon would’ve scoffed at, but now Fluixon only watched him carefully, because how could he care for the act of service, when it was all merely done in silence?
"You don't have to do that." Fluixon said quietly after Saparata closed the refrigerator.
Saparata’s whole body stilled.
"I can take care of myself." He added, the statement was gentle, but something about it felt different, like Fluixon was trying to convince himself more than Saparata.
Another wave of silence occurred.
Eventually, Fluixon broke it. "Can I ask you something again?"
“Y’know, I’ve still been thinking about why you’re suddenly acting like this,” His voice grew quieter. "And after a while, I thought that maybe..." He stopped.
Saparata turned off the faucet, not because he was ready to answer, but because he couldn't bear the sound of the water drowning out Fluixon's voice anymore.
"...maybe it's me." The words were barely audible, but Fluixon continued. "Maybe I changed."
A shaky laugh. "Or maybe you changed."
That one hurt; Fluixon wasn't angry, and he wasn't blaming him. He was simply trying to make sense of something impossible.
"I don't know."
A pause.
"I don't know how someone can love another person and then..." He couldn't finish, and he didn't have to, because Saparata understood it anyway.
—
Later that night, Saparata found Fluixon sitting on the couch.
The television was on, but he wasn't watching. The screen reflected faintly in his eyes.
Saparata stood in the hallway, unsure whether to leave or stay.
Fluixon noticed him, and for a moment, neither moved, then, Fluixon smiled. "I'm sorry."
Saparata froze.
"I know I've been asking too many questions." Fluixon looked down at his hands. "I know something is wrong." His fingers twisted together. "And I know you're probably dealing with something too."
Saparata's throat tightened.
"You're always like this." A faint smile. "You take care of everyone before yourself."
The words sounded so much like praise. But they felt like a wound. "...Even when you're hurting."
Saparata looked away.
Fluixon continued. "I just wish..." His voice became quieter. "I wish you would let me take care of you too."
For one moment, Saparata forgot everything; The bargain. The stranger. The consequences.
All he knew was that Fluixon was sitting right there, the person he had spent time grieving on despite the fact he was alive at the moment, the person he would sacrifice anything to keep.
And Fluixon was asking for the one thing Saparata couldn't give.
His lips parted.
A single breath escaped. "Flu—"
He stopped. The name almost left him. Almost.
Fluixon looked up—hope appeared, but only for a second. Then it disappeared when Saparata lowered his gaze.
The silence returned. Fluixon's expression changed back to disappointment, not dramatically, not enough for anyone else to notice, but Saparata noticed, of course he did.
He noticed everything.
—
That night, Saparata placed a glass of water beside Fluixon's bed before sleeping. He adjusted the blanket, fixed the pillow, and turned off the lights.
Every action saying what his voice could not. Before leaving, he stood beside the doorway.
He looked at Fluixon. Not directly. Never directly.
Only enough to see the outline of him in the darkness. Alive. Breathing. Here.
Saparata pressed his hand against his own chest.
For a single fraction of a second, he wondered if going through nine more days will be worth it, when not even a week through, he could see how much this was already affecting Fluixon.
—
[ DAY SIX ; 8 days remaining. 192 hours remaining. 11,520 minutes remaining. 691,200 seconds remaining. ]
By the sixth day, the apartment no longer felt like home.
Not because anything had changed physically; the same framed photographs still lined the shelves, the same couch sat beneath the window where Fluixon often fell asleep watching television,and the same dining table held the vase of fresh sunflowers and hyacinths, their petals still vibrant enough that Saparata found himself replacing the water every morning before leaving for work.
Everything looked exactly as it always had, yet the silence had settled into the walls themselves. It followed them from room to room, It lingered between footsteps, and It stretched across every meal. It even made breathing sound louder than it should have.
Saparata had begun measuring his days not by hours, but by all the times he almost looked at Fluixon—almost answered him, and almost reached for him.
Every day was a collection of almosts.
—
Rain fell before sunrise.
Not the heavy downpour that rattled against windows, but the gentle, persistent kind that blurred the city beyond the apartment glass.
Saparata stood in the kitchen preparing breakfast while the coffee brewed behind him. The smell should have been comforting, instead, it reminded him of the note Fluixon had left two mornings ago.
He still carried it inside his wallet, folded carefully enough that the paper hadn't begun to crease. He hadn't intended to keep it, he simply… couldn’t throw it away.
Behind him came the soft shuffle of slippers across the floor. "Morning." Fluixon's voice was quieter these days. Not weaker, just a bit more careful.
Saparata continued slicing fruit.
"You left your umbrella by the door yesterday." A small pause. "I almost forgot it."
Silence.
"So..." Another pause. "...thanks."
The knife paused against the cutting board for barely a heartbeat before continuing. Fluixon noticed. Saparata knew he did. Because he heard the faintest sigh, one that didn’t sound like frustration—but instead, disappointment.
—
His schedule ended earlier than expected.
The photographer wrapped the final set before mid-afternoon after storm clouds ruined the natural lighting they had planned to use. "You've got the rest of the day."
One of the assistants smiled as she handed Saparata his coat. "Go get some rest."
Rest. The word almost felt foreign.
He thanked her politely before leaving. Instead of driving straight home, he found himself wandering through familiar streets without any particular destination.
Eventually… He stopped outside a small bakery, the one Fluixon loved.
The owner recognized him almost immediately. "You haven't visited in a while."
Saparata offered an apologetic smile. "I know."
"The usual?" He hesitated, then nodded eventually.
A few minutes later, he left carrying a small white box tied neatly with pale yellow ribbon. Inside sat two slices of cake, the flavor was of course, Fluixon's favorite.
—
The apartment was quiet when he returned, as it always has been lately.
He placed the bakery box carefully on the dining table before removing his shoes, and before he could even proceed any further, he faintly heard a muted sound—it was barely audible, but Saparata already knew it came from the bedroom.
His heartbeat quickened.
He approached slowly, the bedroom door wasn't fully closed, only slightly ajar. Through the narrow opening, he could see Fluixon sitting on the edge of the bed, his back faced the doorway, and his shoulders rose and fell unevenly.
At first, Saparata thought he was simply tired.
Then he heard it, a quiet, stifled breath—then another, and another; The unmistakable sound of someone trying very hard not to cry.
Saparata froze; Every instinct screamed at him to move, to open the door, to kneel in front of Fluixon and ask what was wrong, even though he already knew.
Instead… He remained where he was, unable to cross the threshold and leave.
Fluixon lowered his head into his hands, still unaware of Saparata’s presence. "I don't understand..." The words were merely whispered to himself, yet even Saparata knew who it was for.
"So just..." His voice broke. "Tell me what I did."
Silence answered him.
The same silence Saparata had been forcing upon him for six days.
Fluixon laughed once, but it clearly wasn't amusement. It was the sound someone made when they were too exhausted to keep crying. "I'll apologize." Another shaky breath left his lips. "I don't even care if I don't know what for."
Saparata's hand found the edge of the doorframe, his grip tightened until his knuckles turned white.
"I'll fix it."
A pause.
"...I promise."
The room became unbearably still.
Saparata could hear every uneven breath, every tiny hitch in Fluixon's voice, and every second that passed without an answer.
He had endured funerals. He had endured standing beside an empty grave. He had endured believing the love of his life was gone forever.
None of it had prepared him for standing only a few steps away while Fluixon cried because of him.
—
Saparata waited.
Eventually, the sobs quieted. Fluixon laid down without changing his clothes, and within minutes, exhaustion claimed him.
Even asleep, his breathing remained uneven.
Saparata stayed where he was until he was certain Fluixon wouldn't wake, only then did he step inside. Every movement felt impossibly careful—he adjusted the curtains so less afternoon sunlight reached the bed. He retrieved a box of tissues from the bathroom and placed it on the bedside table.
He noticed the room felt slightly cold, so he returned to the living room, picked up the knitted blanket that had been draped over the couch, and unfolded it gently across Fluixon's sleeping form.
The familiar scent of fabric softener lingered faintly in the air. Saparata tucked one corner beneath Fluixon's arm out of habit.
His hand lingered there for only a moment. Close enough to feel warmth. Close enough to know Fluixon was real.
Too close. Slowly, he pulled away.
On the bedside table sat a half-empty glass of water, Saparata replaced it with a fresh one. Then, after a brief hesitation, he quietly returned to the kitchen.
The honey cake still waited inside its box. He opened it, placed one slice onto a plate, covered it carefully with plastic wrap, then attempted to write a single note; no words—He couldn't risk leaving anything that might be interpreted as acknowledgement.
Instead, he drew a tiny sunflower beside the plate. The same simple doodle he used to leave on grocery lists years ago. Nothing more. Nothing that broke the rules.
He stared at it for several long seconds, then crumpled the note in his fist, changing his mind. Even that felt too close.
—
Night fell slowly as rain continued tapping softly against the windows. Saparata sat alone at the dining table, paperwork spread before him that he hadn't read for nearly an hour. Across the room, the bouquet of sunflowers and hyacinths caught the warm glow of the apartment lights.
One of the outer sunflower petals had begun curling slightly at its edges. It was still beautiful—still standing, but no flower bloomed forever. The realization unsettled him more than it should have.
He replaced the water once again before going to bed. As he passed the bedroom, he glanced inside without lifting his eyes fully.
The blanket remained wrapped securely around Fluixon. Saparata stood there for a long time.
Not because he expected gratitude or recognition, but because for a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine that perhaps Fluixon had understood, that despite the hardships they’re going through, he could at least still feel the sliver of love that Saparata can give, despite all the odds against him.
The thought stayed with him as he lay awake long into the night. It was a fragile comfort, the kind that disappeared the moment he remembered that caring wasn't the same as loving, and no matter how many quiet acts of devotion Saparata offered, they would never answer the only question Fluixon had been asking since the beginning.
Why won't you look at me?
—
[ DAY SEVEN ; 7 days remaining. 168 hours remaining. 10,080 minutes remaining. 604,800 seconds remaining. ]
One week has passed, and half of the bargain had already slipped through Saparata's fingers.
Seven days. One hundred sixty-eight hours. Ten thousand eighty minutes. Six hundred four thousand eight hundred seconds.
He had spent every single one of them convincing himself that enduring the pain now would mean never losing Fluixon again. He repeated that thought to himself every morning—every night, every time Fluixon smiled at him and received nothing in return, every time he almost spoke, every time he almost looked.
It had to be worth it, because if it weren’t… Then there would have been no point in surviving the first funeral overall.
—
When Saparata woke, the apartment was unusually bright. Sunlight poured through every uncovered window, illuminating the living room with a warmth that had been absent since the wedding.
It took him a moment to realize why.
The curtains had all been opened, every single one, Fluixon had always done that. After all, he hated dark rooms, he used to tease Saparata endlessly for preferring to keep the blinds closed whenever he wanted to sleep in.
"You're going to turn into a vampire one day."
Saparata had rolled his eyes every single time. "Then you'll still love me?"
"Unfortunately."
"Wow. That's romantic."
"I'm extremely romantic." He had laughed.
God… He had laughed so easily back then.
Saparata stood motionless in the hallway, sunlight warming his face. The apartment finally looked alive again.
But the people living in it? Not so much.
—
The kitchen smelled faintly of burnt toast.
Fluixon stood in front of the stove with an expression that suggested he'd already accepted defeat.
"I messed it up." He held up two slices of blackened bread with an embarrassed smile. "I got distracted."
Saparata quietly walked over. Without a word, he took the ruined toast from Fluixon's hands and dropped it into the trash. Then he reached for another loaf.
Fluixon watched silently. "You don't have to."
Saparata continued anyway, the toaster clicked, eggs sizzled softly in the pan, and coffee brewed beside them. Within minutes, breakfast sat neatly on the table.
Fluixon looked down at the plate. "...You always fix everything."
The words weren't meant to hurt. Yet somehow… They did, because Saparata couldn't fix this, not the way Fluixon needed him to.
—
Saparata surprisingly had the day off.
One of the campaigns had been postponed after unexpected scheduling conflicts, leaving him with an entire day free for the first time in weeks.
Normally, Fluixon would have celebrated. He loved days where neither of them had anywhere to be: Lazy mornings. Movies. Ordering food they definitely didn't need. Walking through the city without any destination.
But today, the apartment remained quiet. Fluixon disappeared into the spare room sometime after breakfast.
Saparata occupied himself with cleaning, when he passed the spare room, he noticed the door was slightly open.
Inside, Fluixon sat on the floor surrounded by cardboard boxes. Old photographs. Ticket stubs. Birthday cards.
Memories.
He had opened nearly every storage box they owned. Saparata stopped walking. From where he stood, he couldn't see Fluixon's face, his view only showed his hands that were carefully sorting through pieces of a life they had built together.
One photograph slipped from the pile, Fluixon picked it up.
A long silence followed. Then… A quiet laugh. "You hated this picture."
Saparata remembered it instantly—It was a beach trip, the wind had blown his hair into complete chaos.
Fluixon had insisted it was his favorite photo because Saparata looked "human."
He had complained about it for weeks, but eventually, It had become one of his favorites too.
"I still think you looked handsome." The compliment was spoken so naturally that Saparata's heart clenched.
.Even after six days of silence, Fluixon still looked at photographs of him with affection.
Saparata quietly continued walking before temptation convinced him to stay.
—
Around noon, the doorbell rang, Saparata answered it.
Jophiel stood outside holding two containers of homemade food. She looked tired, like she hadn't slept well. Unfortunately, neither had he.
"I made lunch." Her voice remained gentle. "I figured neither of you would."
Saparata accepted the containers with a grateful nod. She didn't move, instead, she looked past him, "...Is he here?"
A careful question, one Saparata answered with another small nod.
Jophiel closed her eyes briefly. "I still don't understand." she exhaled a shaky breath, neither did Saparata, if he was starting to think about it more carefully now.
"I've tried." Her voice cracked ever so slightly. "I've spent days trying to convince myself I'm hallucinating." She laughed once, yet it lacked any humor.
"But every time I see him..." She swallowed. "...it's really him."
Saparata looked away.
"...I haven’t told Micro, or even Snowbird, y’know.” The words came quietly. "I haven’t told anyone."
Another pause.
"I mean, how do I even explain something like this?" She laughed brittly.
He had no answer. Jophiel studied him for several long seconds. "You look worse."
Saparata forced a faint smile, but she didn't return it. Instead, she reached up and straightened the collar of his shirt, just like she used to when they were younger. "You've always carried everything by yourself."
She sighed. "I just wish you didn't have to."
Before leaving, she hesitated. "If..." She struggled to find the words. "If there's something you can't tell me..."
She looked directly into his eyes. "...then at least promise me you're not doing this alone."
Saparata almost laughed at the irony.
He had never felt more alone.
He simply nodded.
It was another promise he wasn't sure he could keep.
—
The afternoon drifted by quietly.
Fluixon eventually emerged from the spare room carrying one of the old photo albums again, he placed it back onto the bookshelf with surprising care. Then he noticed the containers Jophiel had brought.
"Oh." A small smile. "Did Jophiel come by?"
Saparata didn’t nod to confirm, but he knew Fluixon already knew the answer to it anyway.
"I missed her." Another pause.
"I kinda wanna call her later, do you think she’d answer?” He smiled to himself. "I don’t want her to think I forgot about her."
The sentence struck Saparata harder than he expected.
Jophiel would answer that call, but he’s unsure how she’ll bear to hear her supposed brother-in-law's voice without wondering whether she was speaking to a miracle… or a farewell.
—
Dinner was simpler than usual.
Jophiel's cooking meant Saparata didn't have to prepare anything himself. So for once, both plates were already waiting on the table.
Fluixon sat down. Saparata did not, he remained standing near the kitchen counter.
Fluixon slowly lowered his chopsticks. "...Can you just..." He stopped. "...Never mind."
Silence.
"I was going to ask if you'd eat with me." A faint smile crossed his face. "But I already know the answer."
He looked down at his food. "You know..." He laughed softly. "I've been thinking a lot this week."
Saparata's breathing slowed.
"I don't think people stop loving someone overnight." The words were calm, as though Fluixon had spent days rehearsing them. "I don't think that's how it works."
Saparata's fingers curled tightly around the edge of the counter.
"So..."
Another pause.
"...maybe it wasn't overnight." His chest tightened. "Maybe it happened slowly." The room felt smaller. "I was just too happy to notice."
No. No. No—Every thought inside Saparata screamed the word. He loved Fluixon now exactly as he had loved him yesterday, as he had loved him on the day they first met, and as he would love him for the rest of his life.
Nothing had changed.
Nothing.
But all Fluixon could see was the silence. "I keep asking myself where it started." His smile had disappeared completely. "Was it months ago?"
Another pause. "After the engagement?"
Saparata felt sick. "Maybe you stayed because you felt guilty." Every sentence landed like another stone placed upon his chest. "I wish you'd just tell me."
The plea was barely above a whisper. "Even if the truth hurts."
Saparata lowered his head.
Because if he didn't… He was afraid he'd forget himself and look.
After several long moments, Fluixon quietly stood from the table.
He carried his untouched dinner to the sink. "I won't ask anymore." The words stopped Saparata's heart. "I think..."
A shaky breath.
"...I understand."
He didn't, Fluixon was so far off it actually felt like Saparata could bash his own head on the wall because of it, but Saparata wasn't allowed to tell him that.
Fluixon washed the dishes in silence. When he finished, he walked past Saparata without another word, and the bedroom door simply closed softly behind him.
—
The apartment felt emptier than it had on the day of the funeral.
Saparata remained standing in the kitchen long after the food had gone cold, his eyes drifted toward the bouquet on the dining table.
The outer petals had begun to loosen, he reached out and gently caught one sunflower petal before it could fall onto the table.
It rested weightlessly in his palm. Beautiful. Fragile. Already beginning to fade.
Seven days remained, and for the first time since accepting the bargain, Saparata realized he was no longer fighting only against the rules of the contract.
He was fighting against something far more terrifying.
The possibility that, by the time the fourteen days ended… Fluixon might already believe he was no longer loved.