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“Welcome back,” Saparata should have said.
Instead, burying his face in the other’s hair and tightening his embrace, he murmured; “I wish you were real.”
And Fluixon didn’t respond.
He never will.
The ghost of Fluixon first appeared a week after he died. Saparata was walking around the island aimlessly. He did loops through the forest until he could navigate the place with his eyes closed. Wandering listlessly, he somehow found himself on the beach opposite to where he had settled. The stars twinkled in the night sky like gemstones, and the moon beamed down on a rough sea that broke against the sandy shore. His feet sank into the wet sand, and he stared out at the crashing waves.
A storm was coming. A cloud bigger than the island itself darkened the sky over the horizon. The world was small in the face of the storm. He couldn’t stay. He had to leave. But he watched the dark mass creep closer, obscuring the stars one by one.
He looked back down at the sea, and he saw him. He floated serenely in the dark waters. Carried by the waves, he washed ashore as if fate itself restored him onto this island. Fluixon’s hair was as dark as the storm. His skin was pale. His clothes clung to him, weighted by the water darkening the fabric of his shirt. Moonlight illuminated him, and Saparata found himself approaching. Fluixon’s eyes fluttered open as he got closer. His irises glowed like amethyst beacons as they looked up at him. He tried to sit up, struggling weakly as if his body was weighing him down.
“You–” Saparata murmured faintly, speechless.
Fluixon grimaced at him, propping himself up on one arm. Saparata closed the distance, instinct somehow bringing them into an embrace he himself wasn’t expecting.
It was like he reanimated by some force unexplainable. It was like, after the days of endless regret, his wishes came true. But deep down, Saparata knew it was a lie.
So he ran, foolishly thinking that would be the end of it.
Where Saparata used to live, a pathetic heap of mud and dripstone marked the spot where his greatest nemesis lay. It was the last thing Saparata saw before the waves cut between them, reminding him to look forward, rowing his small boat until the imperceptible curve of the earth became an obstacle between them. Now, if he tried to look back in search of the grave, he only saw crystalline snowflakes falling in the pure white plains.
Once upon a time, Saparata built a tower here to die in using packed snow and ice. Now, out of wood and stone, he built something more permanent.
His house was small, a structure dwarfed by the vast emptiness and the greenhouse behind it. It was the only visible imperfection in pure white, sticking out like a sore thumb. Saparata tried to make it more homely, but he was never good at that. He could not bring himself to like the place. Part of him still feared accumulating things and growing attached—he was waiting expectantly for the next incident to happen where he would need to run, to abandon everything he had here and start anew in another corner of the world. He reminded himself that he shouldn’t get attached.
Then he reminded himself that he did not need to run. That nobody knew where he went, when he disappeared from his island after he battled Fluixon in the colosseum.
Nobody knew, except Fluixon himself who followed him like the ghost-pains of a wound on an appendage he had long severed from the rest of his body.
He was everywhere Saparata was. When he woke every morning, violet eyes stared down at him from the edge of his bed. When he went outside, he saw a mop of black hair behind him, bowing as he tied his shoes. It instilled a strange, uncomfortable calm in him, seeing Fluixon with him every day, the two playing some domestic farce. Each time he vanished, Saparata felt a strange pang in his chest; regret, like he was losing him all over again. He tried to convince himself that it was normal; that seeing Fluixon here was something to be expected. He decided to treat him as if he was supposed to be here. He even spoke to him sometimes, as if he would respond.
"What are you thinking?" He asked absentmindedly as he prodded the melting ice in a bucket over the fire. He was preparing to water the garden. He'd almost forgotten as he wasted the whole day thinking about the rest of the world. Fluixon sat next to the fire, his hair falling over his eyes as they tracked Saparata's motions with some unreadable expression.
Fluixon raised his eyebrows, a secretive smile playing on his face. It made him even more beautiful, like he was untouchable, like Saparata was beneath him. It was so different from how other people looked at him now; like he was a hero, a saviour. Saparata sighed, his breath rising in a cloud of mist in front of his face.
He could stay here forever, just him alone with Fluixon. They could live out the rest of this half-life here in the tundra. They didn’t need to return to the island or Pandora or wherever the rest of the world wanted him to be. It could be perfect. But for that, he needed to make this work.
"Why won't you talk to me?"
Fluixon's smile faded and he averted his gaze. Part of him immediately regretted speaking.
"Come on Flux. Please?" He tried to plead, but Fluixon made no move to look at him again. His heart sank. He reached out tentatively, aiming to put his hand on Fluixon's, but it only planted in the snow. He looked up in confusion, expecting to see silky black hair.
Fluixon was gone.
How could he forget?
It wasn't always peaceful. Sometimes, it left Saparata on edge, searching for enemies that weren't there. Fluixon would appear in his house holding dripstone, preparing a trap, or he would lunge at him with his axe and Saparata flinched back realising he was completely defenseless. Sometimes, he walked through the corridors and expected to fall to his death, or to open a door and find someone waiting to kill him on the other side. But no traps ever appeared, and nobody showed up.
Saparata stumbled into his bedroom, falling onto the ground in front of his bedside table as he scrambled for the knife in the drawer. He was inexplicably aware that Fluixon sprinted in after him, pausing to pant noiselessly—the sound of it drowning in the ringing in his ears—and lean one hand against the open door as he scanned the room. His gaze landed on Saparata and his diamond axe tilted in his hands. He pushed himself off, one hand covering his wounds as his metal arm pointed the axe.
Saparata turned just in time, throwing the small dagger as he turned, hoping it hit something. It clattered harmlessly on the ground as his bleary eyes looked up at Fluixon who held his axe just below Saparata's chin. The blade grazed his neck. Blood poured between Fluixon’s fingers from the wound, but it never fell, only pooled and stained his purple shirt.
Their chests rose and fell in sync as shallow breaths escaped his lungs. The air was thin. He wasn't breathing. Fluixon adjusted his grip and the axe dug into his throat.
It sunk into his throat torturously slow. He was aware all at once that he couldn’t breathe. He needed air. He couldn't get any air. All the remaining oxygen in his lungs left through the gaping hole cut in his neck.
His eyes blurred. He was going to die here from suffocation, from bleeding out, in front of–
His hands came up to grab at his throat, to try to dislodge the axe. But he couldn't feel it. The pain consumed him to the point where he couldn't pinpoint the source. He swore it was there.
His hands slid down, but where he expected them to find a diamond blade they passed unobstructed until they fell into his lap. He looked down at them heavily. Tears fell into them rhythmically: one, two, three, four.
The ringing in his ears slowly died down.
His fingers twitched. He heard himself breathe before he realised he could. Air slowly returned to his lungs, filling a bit more with each breath. He was coming back to life. He was alive. He survived. He survived! But that meant that...
He looked up, and just as he thought, Fluixon had vanished without a trace.
His knees came up to his chest. He thought he was about to cry, but found that he didn't have the energy to.
He didn't remember how the fight began. He only recalled the sudden glint of a weapon, then he was barreling through his own house, rushing to reach the closest weapon he could find. He was thinking about his house again, wondering what people were doing with it now that he was gone. And as the thought of the grave crossed his mind, its inhabitant attacked.
He was free now. It wasn't real. He knew that. He sat there staring at the dagger on the ground until he fell asleep.
There were times that the mirage was cruel. He could never imagine Fluixon like that in life, but whenever it happened it was so right that he couldn't imagine things any other way. It was fire blazing gold in the black knight. It was ice drowning him frigid silence. Saparata burned, then froze over, and he became one with the tundra.
He was stargazing on the roof when Fluixon grabbed Saparata's hand gently. He allowed it to be guided up to the other's face. For a moment, he thought his thumb brushed against skin, but the sensation was gone as abruptly as it came. Violet eyes held him in place. Gloved hands guided him like a puppet. He was only half aware of what was happening, his attention anywhere but the person in front of him. It landed on the night sky, where he stared at the numerous constellations he couldn't name. He memorised the sight, so when he closed his eyes, he could still see it.
He imagined something against his hand again.
To each star he dedicated a memory.
His cheek tingled, as if something had brushed against it feather-light.
Each constellation was a lifetime.
A kiss on his lips, as soft as starlight.
He opened his eyes.
Then the sky seemed dimmer, as if the brightest stars had faded away, and Saparata couldn't help but feel like it was incomplete. He saw the clouds returning, and the smattering of lights burning above him were snuffed like a flame.
The greenhouse reflected the candlelight inside, casting a glow that made everything he owned look like gold. Saparata breathed in the warm air. He tipped the watering can and sprinkled water into the flowerbeds.
He grew both flowers and his own food in the greenhouse. Potatoes and carrots were planted in the beds by the windows. Everywhere else were the flowers, different colours staring back at him wherever he looked.
A bird hooted as he set the watering can in a cupboard. He saw an owl land on his windowsill, its eyes shining in the darkness.
It took notice of him as he stepped outside, immediately alighting on his outstretched arm.
"Hello," he cooed quietly. His voice was a bit raspy. "What do you have for me today?" He scratched under its beak. It leaned into his hand, causing him to notice the letter on its leg. The owl took off as soon as he untied it. He watched it fly away, wondering how it was able to navigate to him so easily.
He watched the clouds cover the last slip of sky. Looking up, all he saw was a swirling mass of black and gray like the void.
Later, he returned to the greenhouse to finish his gardening. Hail thudded on the roof as he lit the candles and torches. Fluixon accompanied him this time, following him inside and fiddling with the flowers. Saparata didn't acknowledge him but he was aware of Fluixon's movements. He noticed him staring at the letter peeking out of his pocket.
"Flux?" He glanced at the mirage over the flowerbed. His eyes widened, a flush abruptly colouring his pale features. Saparata smiled slightly, unable to stop himself from feeling a bit endeared. "What's on your mind?" He tried.
Fluixon bristled, then gestured with his eyes to the letter.
"Oh, that." Saparata looked down at it, shoving it deeper into his pockets, out of sight. "It's– nothing."
Fluixon narrowed his eyes.
"Really!" He faltered. "It's nothing important, at least."
Fluixon continued to stare at him. The way someone who wasn't even here could make him feel this way—Saparata didn't understand it.
It was this thought that let him acquiesce. "Alright, fine." He looked back at the flowers, refusing to look at the other. "They want me to come back."
Silence, as expected.
Much quieter, he continued; "But I don't know if I can."
The letter contained some concerned queries and askings of his whereabouts. It was from Cass, but she also reported the other nations sharing her aforementioned sentiments.
He didn't know what he would face if he returned. He wasn't sure why they tried to contact him. Nobody had bothered to visit him before or ask how he was. It could be a trap. He was sure it was a trap, actually. And besides that, he had no real reason to return. Their words alone won't be enough. But he couldn't say no to them, could he? He couldn't afford to disappoint anyone. Not after everything that happened.
Suddenly, he thought of the grave again.
He could see it clear as day, especially behind closed eyes. The tombstone he had carved by hand, the dripstone he placed around it to honour the past.
He remembered Fluixon, the way his eyes clouded and then squeezed shut with pain when Saparata had landed the final blow. The blood pooled around him. Saparata's hands came away crimson when he felt his own clothes. Somehow they patched him back up. Somehow, he continued living. He convinced everyone to let him bury Fluixon near his house. It was unceremonious and quiet, something he knew the other would have hated.
His eyes opened. He felt sick remembering it. He scanned the room for the illusion of Fluixon, but once more, he was completely alone.
Another month passed.
Time slowly spiralled into a point, moments accelerating sharply before stretching out until there was no end.
Saparata found the tower again.
He stilled in shock, golden eyes tracing over it, then apprehensively made his way to it. The chests were untouched. His things were exactly how he left them. The structure looked slightly unstable, but it was intact enough that he could still climb up the ladder to sit at the ledge on top and look out on the endless snow.
The storm still clouded the sky, but no hail or snowflakes fell. Everything was quiet, the only sound being the occasional howl of the wind through the mountains.
He looked down. It was a long fall. He would die if he just leaned forward, let go of whatever he was holding onto. He made it very easy. If he really wanted to, he could do it instantly.
Then, his body will lay there in the snow, and he will eventually be forgotten. These hallucinations will no longer plague him, and the blinding white will eventually give way to all-consuming black.
He could be at peace.
Was that what he wanted? To run? To die?
It didn’t seem like him. He fought for months to survive, to be forgiven. Why should he give it all up now?
Why did he come here, all the way to the middle of nowhere?
When he returned to the house, he found Fluixon waiting for him. He leaned against the door, his arms folded against his chest. He caught sight of Saparata staring at him. Saparata’s heart gave a confused flutter. Then all at once, it drowned in grief.
Fluixon pushed himself off the door, mouthing something that Saparata didn’t understand. His breath didn’t cloud the air like Saparata’s did. He didn’t leave footprints on the ground nor a shadow where he stood. He wasn’t real. Everything since that day on the beach wasn’t real.
No matter how hard he fantasized, Fluixon was still dead. Why couldn’t he understand that? He kept telling himself that it was the truth without fully believing it. Now here he was, trying to live out his life the easy way. His life wasn’t supposed to be easy.
He couldn’t keep pretending.
Somehow, this was what made him gather the last of his resolve. He took a stash of food from his stores without acknowledging the figure trailing behind him. He picked a few flowers from the greenhouse, hoping they will last until he got home. Then he looked back at the house he’d built and walked away.
And for the second time in his life, Saparata left the tundra.