Work Text:
The war had ended weeks ago, but Saparata still hadn’t moved on.
The silence was more deafening than the screams of terror the war brought. He can still remember the war cries ricocheting off of every corner.
The world was rebuilding, cities were thankfully coming back to life, and the remaining survivors were counting the very little of what was left.
Among those survivors was Saparata
He stayed at his own house most of the time. It seemed like the war had also thoroughly affected his base. Ah, the Acropolis. It was one of the only things left that he could call 'his'.
He hadn’t seen Flux in days. Weeks, maybe. He didn’t want to admit it, but the thought of him not seeing the man ever again brought emptiness to him.
————
SAPARATA POV: (with added narration)
It was a normal day, at least it was normal enough for a war aftermath.
I was rotting in the Acropolis, alive, but barely.
After the war ended, I have come to a conclusion that my days would be spent boringly waiting for when something was going to come, and I didn't even know if something was to ever come.
The routine that I practiced everyday had been emptier than that of when Fluixon and everyone else was alive. The most remarkable thing of it was probably waking up.
Out of boredom, I found myself walking outside of the Acropolis.
Standing outside with my feet embedded into the sand, I was encircled by the fragments of what once belonged to me and Fluixon—the fading sun that seemed to shine brighter than my forseeable future, the endless waves that fought and thrashed together in a mantra, the quiet between breaths-
and I can't help but wonder, when it had all slipped from our fingers?
The memories pressed on me, heavy and unyielding. I still remember everything.
It wasn't like I could forget it.
I still remember the gentle brush of a hand that no longer reached for mine. Every familiar scent and sound now felt like a reminder of Fluixon's absence, and the weight of it made him ache in ways he couldn’t name. For a long moment, I simply stood there, caught between the past and the present.
Fluixon left me to remember everything.
He left me with the memories that could not possibly go away. The only thing left that I ever had of Fluixon were the nightmarish flashbacks that seemed to bounce off of every surface that I could spot with my eyes.
The quiet pressed on him lingered until it became unbearable, an unspoken command that he could no longer ignore. With trembling hands, he nmoored the boat and let it drift into the darkening waters, each push of the oars a labor against the heaviness that clung to him. The wind bit at his face, carrying the faint, familiar tang of salt, but it did nothing to ease the hollow ache that he felt.
I could still see the foggy vision of when Fluixon used to sail these same waters with me.
—————
He blinked, and suddenly the world softened around the edges — he was no longer alone in the boat. He could see himself and Fluixon, younger and unburdened, rowing side by side across these same waters. The sun had been gentle then, casting gold onto the ripples, and their laughter had tangled with the breeze. Fluixon’s oar dipped into the water with a steady rhythm, and Saparata matched each stroke.
The vision quickly faded out of sight as soon as Saparata knew that it wasn't real
——————
Fluixon's base slowly came into view, a quiet shape against the fading light.
The boat scraped against the dock. I climbed out and took a look of the structure
The base was quiet and somehow peaceful, like the war forgot to lay it's fingers on it.
Inside, I saw that tools were Scattered across the tables, Papers were littered in small piles, and a coat was thrown over the chair. The drawings of architectures were undeniably Fluixon's.
He moved through the rooms slowly, almost reverently, as if he was careful not to break something.
Finally, I made my way to Fluixon's room.
The bed was messy, and the desk was cluttered with half-finished notes, pens lying across papers.
Fluixon was never someone who would clatter their belongings, weird.
After scouting the area, I spotted a journal that laid on a nearby night stand.
Saparata sat down carefully on the bed while his hands rested on his knees. He stared at the book for a long moment before opening it carefully.
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Note: R̶e̶s̶e̶a̶r̶c̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶f̶l̶o̶r̶a̶l̶ ̶d̶i̶s̶e̶a̶s̶e̶.̶ ̶(̶u̶p̶d̶a̶t̶e̶)̶ 26435
Ground rules:
M̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶s̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶n̶o̶ ̶s̶i̶g̶n̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶i̶l̶l̶n̶e̶s̶s̶,̶ ̶a̶v̶o̶i̶d̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶m̶a̶k̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶l̶i̶e̶v̶a̶b̶l̶e̶ ̶e̶x̶c̶u̶s̶e̶s̶
̶G̶e̶t̶ ̶r̶i̶d̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶e̶v̶i̶d̶e̶n̶c̶e̶,̶ ̶d̶o̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶l̶e̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶h̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶a̶ ̶s̶i̶n̶g̶l̶e̶ ̶t̶r̶a̶c̶e̶
̶F̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶a̶ ̶c̶u̶r̶e̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶f̶a̶s̶t̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶y̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶
̶D̶o̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶█̶█̶█̶█̶,̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶s̶e̶e̶m̶s̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶r̶i̶v̶e̶ ̶o̶n̶ ̶i̶t̶
̶G̶e̶t̶ ̶s̶o̶m̶e̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶s̶t̶r̶o̶n̶g̶e̶r̶ ̶n̶e̶x̶t̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶,̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶d̶r̶u̶g̶s̶ ̶s̶t̶a̶r̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶w̶e̶a̶r̶ ̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶m̶o̶r̶e̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶u̶s̶e̶
̶M̶o̶r̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶c̶e̶a̶l̶e̶r̶
̶D̶o̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶,̶ ̶d̶o̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶d̶r̶e̶a̶m̶,̶ ̶d̶o̶n̶'̶t̶.̶ ̶J̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶t̶r̶y̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶s̶t̶u̶n̶t̶ ̶i̶t̶s̶ ̶g̶r̶o̶w̶t̶h̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶l̶o̶n̶g̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶p̶o̶s̶s̶i̶b̶l̶e̶
C̶o̶n̶s̶i̶d̶e̶r̶i̶n̶g̶ g̶e̶t̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ a̶ s̶u̶r̶g̶e̶r̶y̶
Brace yourself
(S: A cure? Did Flux have a disease of some sort?)
Have you ever thought about how you want your life to end?
I, for once, never thought it would end this way.
To make one person the center of your world is bound to end in disaster. There are too many factors outside your control. Well, including this disease.
What a foolish way to perish, indeed.
Seems like I was wrong, after all.
Alas, regret is useless now. We have gone too far to draw back.
I never knew the name of the flower I was coughing up. Never bothered to, to be exact.
(S: Coughing up... Flowers?)
They call this shade of bloom “hyacinth”. Its name is derived from a tragedy, where the mighty god of healing could not save the one he loved.
Funny, how a prideful mortal like me tried to do the thing even a God couldn’t.
So… Since the type of flower varies from person to person, what does it say about me, then?
There’s this excerpt from a botanical encyclopedia:
“Its regal shade and delicate blossoms are symbols of profound and heartfelt love. Tracing back to the older era, the purple hyacinth was often given as a plea for forgiveness. As such, these blooms serve as poignant tokens of remorse, sorrow, and an earnest yearning for reconciliation. “
What a stupid, stupid thing to do, wishing upon a star that had already fallen and hoping it would grant what you desire. You shot it. What more do you want?
“A plea for forgiveness,” “an earnest yearning for reconciliation”?
“Profound, heartfelt love”?
I… Just, riddle me this.
If what I call “love” is nothing more than a parasite lodged deep in my chest and twisting my lungs, born from the foolishness of a former self, then tell me, is this agony still something heartfelt?
If my bloodied hands have long since destroyed any chance of healing, crushed the cure before it ever had a name, is my love a true thing? Or am I just grieving something that I never had the chance to own l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶g̶r̶e̶e̶d̶y̶ ̶s̶o̶n̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶a̶ ̶b̶i̶t̶c̶h̶ ̶I̶ ̶a̶m̶?
Heh… Look at me, being all poetic, even if he was the one who hummed shitty made-up songs and poems.
How shallow and pretentious.
There’s one thing that will remain true, though.
A monster doesn’t deserve to love and to be loved.
Guess I didn’t hold the strings back hard enough, huh?
End of note.
[There were blood and stains on the paper, smearing away the ink. Was it droplets from the sea, or was it tears?]
—————--
Saparata read it all. He flipped through the pages and suddenly, it all made sense. Every small gesture, every pause, every moment that had seemed insignificant now carried the weight of a confession he had never heard, a truth that had arrived too late.
It all made sense, Fluixon had a disease that results from unrequited or one-sided love, causing flowers to grow in the victim's lungs, leading them to cough up petals and blossoms.
I had realized that it was my fault. Because of the anger and frustration that shook me, I forgot how to love him.
Foolish, mourning over someone who brought pain to him and to several hundreds.
It was all too late for that, and fate had already written our story.
I was delayed. I should have known sooner.
I could feel tears prickle on the corners of his eyes, and even if no one was there to see me cry over a 'monster' that ruined my life, I tried to hold back.
Saparata let the journal fall shut, placing it gently back where it belonged. He didn’t care if he ruined the alignment of the papers. He didn’t care about anything except that Fluixon didn't want to bring the feeling of pain upon him.
In that moment, all he could ask was 'why?'
Fluixon was gone. Gone to let me hold all the grief by myself.
For a moment, I thought
If what you called love was a parasite lodged deep in your chest, twisting your lungs,
Was it still love when I couldn't care for you like how we promised?
Was it still love when I failed to see the sickness before it stole you from me?
Was it still love if I could only stare at the waves, helpless, and let it happen—let you carry it alone—while I called it my pride, my caution, my cowardice?
If this love was nothing more than pain, nothing more than guilt, then what am I left with now?
You asked if the agony could still be heartfelt, and I think it is. Perhaps too much so. Because every beat of my heart now is a reminder that you existed, that I loved you, and that we both failed.
And yet… I would take it all back if I could. Even the parasite. Even the suffocation. Even the knowing that it was already too late. It was my fault that you died, and I can't undo it now.
He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. His chest ached, and his throat fely dry
I closed my eyes and sat there on the bed that we both used to lay on.
"Why?", He finally asked.
But now, no one answered. There was only the quiet, only the absence of the person who had meant more than he had ever admitted.
He didn’t stay long. He stood, brushing off his knees, and placed the journal back exactly where he had found it. He didn’t look around the room again.
The base was empty, and he couldn’t change that. He could only leave, carrying the weight of what he now knew.
Outside, the wind caught his hair. The water below the dock was calm, reflecting the dull light of the afternoon. He climbed into the boat, pushed off slowly, and rowed.
Each stroke felt heavier than the last. Each stroke carried the grief, the guilt, and the love he had been too blind to recognize.
—————
Once upon a time, in a world torn apart by war and whispers, there lived a man whose heart beat for a man that he loved and for the people that he cared for. Cloaked in wit and bravery, he tried to help the world to his will. He often talked to others with a smile and a tounge of silver.
To him, his heart belonged to an awe-inspiring hero.
But as every tale demands, where there is peace, there must also be war.
And so came the downfall of who was once a savior to others. He started setting his traps with a smile, and betrayed the one he was supposed to love.
Moved by this betrayal, the hero of this story fought and kept on fighting for the truth to be exposed to the light
Where the villain sowed chaos, he built unity.
Where lies festered, he wielded truth like a blade.
Their final battle shook the heavens. Steel clashed under the crimson sky, and the world watched, holding its breath.
At last, as fate decreed, the villain fell. Not because of a blade, but because of the love that littered his lungs.
With blood staining the earth and wickedness spilling from his lips in grotesque beauty, his evil ended, but what also ended was the happiness that the hero was supposed to have. It ended just as the stories always promised it would.
The tale concluded with a s̶a̶d̶ happy ending, where the hero won and the villain fell.
Peace returned, and the people were free again.
The once scorned figure became a legend, the savior of a fractured world, and the scheming monster behind it all lay drenched in his dirty blood, still and defeated, like he was always meant to
What a happy ending.
But far away, where no one could see—
—in the chest of the one who had stood victorious—
a small seed began to take root.
And quietly, painfully,
it bloomed.