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By the seven-hundredth-and-fifty-first sandstone brick he’d laid, exactly as boring as the previous seven-hundred-and-fifty, Flux stopped pretending he gave a damn about symmetry. He was goddamned exhausted, and if he had to set another blasted slab on this cursed vacation home, he would scream loud enough to rattle even the farthest of his enemies on Island One. Yes, he fucking counted. The guys at the Conspiracy would laugh at him, but those bastards never got it, no matter how many times he’s explained himself.
There was a certain order to laying and counting bricks, a method he had to follow. If he skipped a step, or lost the number, the whole rhythm collapsed and so did he. One could call him overdramatic, but then they’d be dead wrong. And no, the counting wasn’t damn optional. It was the only thing keeping his work here from turning into absolute chaos. Seven hundred fifty-one meant they were one brick closer to the end, meaning his friend’s ridiculous dream might actually stand on its own. He wasn’t doing this because he loved sandstone, or building at that, because he sure as hell didn’t. (Alright, maybe he did, otherwise he wouldn’t be the goddamn architect, but exhaustion had him swearing otherwise). He was doing this because he loved the idiot who asked for his help.
Said idiot, who was waving his hands theatrically while spinning some improbable story to Thomas, oblivious to the way the sun caught the pale sweep of his snow-white hair, lifting stray strands into a halo that glinted faintly gold. An entire day of building, and yet no traces of it showed on the man, save for the hammer loosely carried in one hand. Almost unfair, really—how he could just stand there, wind threading through his hair, completely untouched by fatigue, while Flux’s own arms screamed in protest every time he so much as lifted a finger.
It wasn’t long before Flux found himself tracing the curve of the other man’s shoulders with his eyes, memorizing the casual way he leaned against the railing, the way the sea glittered in his gaze, or how the sunlight didn’t just paint the sky lovely, but him too. He tried not to notice the sound of his friend’s laugh spilling into the warm afternoon, or the faint scent of sandalwood wafting in the air, something that made Flux’s heart tighten for reasons he couldn’t name. He shouldn’t be staring, shouldn’t be noticing, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Gods, what was wrong with him? Saps, his best friend, his constant, his… unfortunate counterpart, an impossible weight on his chest.
Fuck, was he breathtaking. Flux could imagine it now. When they were younger, they’d race each other across the sun-scorched courtyards, the slap of their bare feet against sandstone ringing out like drums between the walls. He remembered how Saps always slowed at the last moment so Flux could win, how he’d throw his arms in mock defeat just to see him laugh. Back then, he hadn’t thought much of the way the boy’s hair caught the desert light, or how his laughter clung to the dry air long after it faded. It hadn’t been anything but friendship of two reckless children devoted to the idea that summer would never end, believing that the sun was theirs to outlast. It wasn’t supposed to be anything more. But now, standing here with years between them, he couldn’t shake the ache that bloomed within him, at how the same boyhood details had matured into a certain gravity he had never learned to look at without flinching.
It’s then that the sun glinted sharply in his eyes, forcing him to blink, and that’s when he realized it was Thomas’ turn to speak. Whatever the engineer was saying, he couldn’t give a damn about it. Maybe later, when things calmed down, after he had forced himself to name whatever this tightness was, or the butterflies dancing around in his stomach, or anything he was actually feeling. But right now, Saps wasn’t looking at the brunette. No, his friend was looking at him. At Flux, whose cheeks flared with sudden heat and whose grip on the ladder tightened until his knuckles ached. It was outrageous—how encompassing the other man was. And he didn’t even realize it. For a dizzying moment, his knees threatened to buckle, and then they actually did, sending him tumbling off the ladder in one chaotic, failing swoop.
What in Island Two's name was wrong with him? He was Flux. Fluixon. Second-in-command of Luminara. A leader of Theria, back when it still existed. Commander of the Conspiracy! He’s orchestrating coups, puppeting governments, directing an entire resistance; and somehow, somehow, he survives it all. Always. And yet here he fucking was, heart hammering, palms slick with sweat, completely undone—all because Saps—the idiot—had the audacity to look at him.
He groaned, flopping onto the ground with all the grace of a collapsing statue. Great. Brilliant. Absolutely amazing. Leader of a goddamned underground conspiracy (he would not call it a terrorist group, no matter how much Ish joked it was), and he fell off a ladder just like a rookie. Somewhere above him, Thomas called his name in alarm, but all he registered was the sting radiating through his back and the sound of Saps’ laughter echoing louder by the second. Damn it. He had to haul himself upright before anyone caught how utterly unsteady he felt; not that it mattered, of course, no one else was here save for the three of them, but the fact didn’t make it any less mortifying.
Thomas, ever the reliable right hand, offered out a steady arm—one that Flux was embarrassed to admit he had grown too used to leaning on. He took it, fingers tightening for a beat longer than necessary before finally swaying upright. “You good, man?” Thomas asked, eyes flicking over him with that familiar, practiced gaze of a soldier assessing his comrade in battle. It was the same look that earned him a place in the Conspiracy, and the reason Flux even trusted him to stay when others would have already run.
“Fine,” Flux grunted, though the tremor in his stance betrayed him. Truth was, he didn’t feel too bad. A fifteen-block drop wasn’t that high, at least not compared to the stunts he’s pulled before. Still, his legs felt like they weren’t his own, moving half a beat behind the sharpness of his mind. Maybe a long day of scaling scaffolds and sandstone was finally grinding him down, or maybe the fall had jarred him more than he wanted to admit. Either way, it was definitely not because of Saps, with his infuriating smile and those ridiculous eyes that had no right to gleam as beautifully as they did.
Thomas’ gaze narrowed, catching the faint bruises already blooming across Flux’s jaw and the small wince he tried to smother when he shifted his weight. The other man exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound halfway between irritation and concern. “Sure you are, bud.” He gave Flux’s shoulder a firm clap, steadying him just long enough before shoving him toward the very man he was trying desperately to ignore (that absolute traitor!). “Stay put. I’ll grab the kit.”
Flux opened his mouth to object, but Thomas was already gone, boots thudding against the packed earth with a steady rhythm that thinned as he approached the sorry excuse of a hut they were crashing in until the vacation home was finished. Soon, only the rustle of leaves overhead filled the silence, leaving him standing there, alone, with Saps.
“Not a word.” He warned as he strode toward the crooked tree perched at the edge of the hill. The horizon was aflame with the sinking sun, and he wanted the excuse of the view to put space between himself and Saps’ watch. Still, he could hear the other’s boots falling in step behind him, light and unhurried, like he belonged there. And he did. Well, sort of. By the time Flux dropped himself down against the rough bark, knees folding up loosely, Saps was already circling to claim the patch of grass beside him. Too close, Flux thought, though the realization struck him as odd. It had never been a problem before, even when their knees knocked together on the grass as adolescents, and the only thing worth noticing was the ginger ale between them. So why did it unsettle him now?
The man in question only tilted his head, oblivious to Flux’s inner turmoil, mouth quirking up into a smile that flashed his pearly white teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” The damn idiot even pressed a hand over his chest in mock solemnity before adding, far too sweetly, “Though if I had to say something, it’d probably sound like—‘Wow, Flux, what a graceful landing. Didn’t know you had it in you!”
A sharp pulse of anger went through him. Was Saps really making a joke about Theria—about throwing himself off that wretched tower like it was nothing? The fucking bastard. He had left them, all those years ago. And for some time, Flux had been the one to hold the nation together, gnawed by the unanswered question of why his best friend leapt to his death. Even now, in this new world, years later, Saps refused to say why.
For half a second, Flux wanted to bite back, to dig his teeth into that grin and tear it apart. But the moment passed as quickly as it came, smothered beneath the weight already pressing down on him. He’d been building all day, drenched in sweat, sand, and sun; seven hundred and fifty-one bricks stacked before he lost count, or maybe he fell somewhere around seven-fifty-two, he couldn’t even remember anymore. And despite all that, he still had to find a way to stop Luminara’s bridge, to rally an entire archipelago while Island One’s invasion crept ever closer. And if his only option was murder, well… he didn’t want to think about that now. Too much to carry, too little of himself to waste on his friend’s antics.
So instead, he exhaled, let the anger slip away, and grumbled, “Oh, shut up.”
Saps huffed out a laugh, the sound warm and irritating all at once. It lingered even after it ebbed, curling under Flux’s skin like an itch he couldn’t scratch. When his friend spoke again, his tone came softer than Flux expected, gentler in a way he wasn’t used to. “Seriously though. You good?”
“I’m fine,” Flux admitted, straightening against the bark as if that alone could make him steady. The truth of it stuck somewhere in his throat, lodged behind everything he wanted to spit back: that he wasn’t fine, hadn’t been since Theria. Since that day. Since watching his best friend leave him with a broken nation to cradle in shaking hands. The truth pressed bitterly against his teeth, but he forced himself to swallow it down.
Should he have argued with Saps, demanded an answer he’d been owed for years? Should he have ripped the silence open and forced him to bleed out whatever he’d been hiding all this time? Some part of him yearned for it, but another didn’t want to—not now, not when the sun was so low and Saps’ voice was so uncharacteristically soft. Weak, his ego demanded. Weak to let the moment pass, to let the weight of their previous empire settle back into the dark corner of himself where it always festered.
Before he could change his mind, Saps hummed, leaned back on his palms, and tilted his face toward the sinking sun. For a while he said nothing, then murmured ever so softly, “Thanks for sticking around today. You know, helping… with all this.” He gestured vaguely toward the building behind them with averted eyes and a sheepish expression to his face. “I know you’re busy, with Luminara and all. Means more than I can say.”
Flux couldn’t help but let out a sigh. Perhaps not today. Still, when he looked—really looked—at Saps in the tint of the golden sun, something at his core pinched unbearably. Too much softness in the way Saps carried gratitude, in how easily he let it slip between them. Why couldn’t Flux handle it like anyone else? Surely this wasn’t the first time. Surely he hadn’t felt it before now. Restless, he scraped at his jaw, trying to shrug off the weight of sincerity pressing down on him.
“Don’t mention it,” he muttered. “Wasn’t like I had better plans. Besides, you know the guys.”
He meant for it to land dry, sharp enough to cut through this… thing twisting up inside him, but the words snagged in his throat. Saps wasn’t even looking at him, just sat there with the last light of day painting his face a lovely shade of orange while he gazed into the ocean, expression serene as though he hadn’t heard Flux at all, even if the faint twitch of his half-smile gave him away. For as long as Flux has known the man, he’d carried himself this way: untouchable, like the world couldn’t break him, and maybe that was why he had followed him into a thousand foolhardy adventures without ever stopping to think.
Flux had always known, even as a child, that Saps was beautiful. That the boy’s laughter had a brightness to it that cut through the gloom of their days, that his stubbornness carried a grace Flux could never imitate. When they ran through fields until their legs ached, when they collapsed into the dust with grass tangled in their hair, Flux would still catch himself staring a moment too long. Even when they had grown, and Saps became ruler to an empire, Flux could not help but notice how command sat on him like it had always belonged there, how the weight of a crown only sharpened what was already present. At his funeral, Flux had thought, bitterly, that beauty this fierce should not have been allowed to end.
Now that they meet again, with all the strangeness of death undone, Flux finds himself unmoored. He cannot stop looking, cannot stop remembering. There is something steadier in the way Saps carries himself now—weightier, more assured than he had ever seemed in those gruelling hours lost during council meetings. His shoulders might have been carved from the same stone as the halls they once walked, but his posture was as unyielding as when he was king. Even the worn lines along his hands struck Flux as a kind of testament. And though he would never admit it aloud, he imagines those hands must be soft, that beneath the callouses and the history etched into them, some gentleness lingers, one he was never meant to touch.
Before he even notices the drift of his own thoughts, Saps had already moved on, speaking with that familiar, restless ease about something else, some detail of his journey of a half-forgotten story only he could bring back to life. Flux catches stray mentions of Tricolour, of Jophiel, of how she’s doing well at her role as Queen, and how he wishes her well. The details pass through him like background music, of which he barely registers the substance. What he hears instead is the cadence, the warmth threading through Saps’ voice, drawing Flux closer despite himself.
He tells himself it must be the exhaustion, or the heat, or the hunger gnawing at the edges of his patience. Flux clings to his excuses, searching for anything to explain why he cannot look away, why the sound of his best friend’s voice feels like a tether holding him steady in the silence. Yet beneath all the reasons he tries to invent, he knows the truth he cannot quite say aloud: that this is no passing weariness nor idle fancy, but something else entirely.
For the briefest moment, Flux allows himself to imagine. He feels the steadiness of Saps’ hands threaded through his own, grounding him in a way nothing else ever has. He imagines the press of the other man’s lips—first hesitant, then gentle, then finally certain—something so ordinary it almost hurts to think of it. He sees the quiet of an evening where the world outside has finally fallen away, where there is no wariness left in his shoulders, no walls to keep standing, only the comfort of lying beside the one person who has always been his refuge. It’s a dream so simple, so unremarkable in shape, that it cuts deeper than any fantasy of grandeur ever could. And still, he clings to it, because wanting it feels like breathing, and trying to deny it feels like drowning. The truth coils in his chest until it aches: that he is hopelessly, unbearably, pathetically, in love with his best friend.
How could he be so stupid? How could he allow this to happen? Saps is his friend. Nothing more. The man would probably never even entertain any thought of him in this way. Yet in his own foolishness, he allowed it to grow, stupid enough to believe someone like him could ever deserve something so gentle. A breath left his lips. He should have strangled the feeling the moment it sparked.
“Earth to Flux?” The teasing voice of Saps’ words cuts through, a jarring contrast to the turmoil churning inside him. The other man waves a hand in front of him, leaning close until his shoulder brushes against Flux’s arm. Gods, that look of his, so achingly familiar, so inviting it hurts. It’s an expression that undoes him every time, tempting Flux to abandon restraint, to shatter the fragile walls he has built around himself, to close the scant inches between them and let the press of their mouths do all the speaking he never seemed able to muster.
Instead, Flux exhales and rolls his eyes in a gesture he’s practiced ten thousand times, though the motion feels brittle. He prays Saps doesn’t notice how his pulse trips over itself, or how the fleeting press of their bodies close together brands itself into him, searing deep into his skin like an ember he cannot shake. To anyone else, it would have been nothing but just another meaningless touch between friends, but to Flux, it is everything. And it is unbearable.
“Mocking the wounded, hm? Truly heroic.” He drawls, voice coming out steadier than he feels, swallowing down the dangerous truth that threatens to bubble up his throat, words that would change everything if he let them surface. For now, he holds them back. For now, he lets the ache sit heavy at his core where no one can see it.
Flux doesn’t bring up Theria. He doesn’t mention the nights too heavy to carry alone, or the way the shadows cling to him when the laughter fades. Silence is easier. Safer. Silence keeps the cracks from spreading. No, instead, he clings to the illusion of the ordinary: the crescent-moon curve of Saps’ eyes when he grins, the ease with which he braids joy into the air, the warmth of his touch against his own. Flux holds onto it greedily, because it is the only thing that makes the world bearable. And yet beneath it all, he cannot stop himself from thinking of what is to come.
In a few days, he will betray the one he loves most. In a few days, he will stain Saps’ hands with a crime that cannot be undone, a burden no amount of forgiveness can wash away. The thought gnaws at him, but there is no other path he can see. He tells himself that if he had to betray one to save a thousand, he would. That it is the right choice, the necessary one. But the words taste hollow, a bitter lie he repeats because it’s easier than admitting the truth, that even if a thousand lives hang in the balance, he would still grieve this one. Even if the world were spared, he would be left carrying the wreckage of the only person who ever made it feel worth saving.
Still—right now, with the tips of Saps’ fingers ghosting against his and the night deepening ever so slowly around them—Flux refuses to think of tomorrow. He lets himself linger, clutching this fragile moment of reprieve before the storm descends upon them.