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It's dark. Old. Grimy.
A candle. A dark haired man flips open a lighter, its embers sparking into short-lived flames.
A torch. A match.
The table is dusty, he wipes off the thin layer with his hand, feeling the small particles clump up into every crevice.
Two chairs. One seat.
The man uses the small source of light to navigate the room, every touch of the furniture around the room feels burning. Hot. Like it had been a sacred thing that a fool was not allowed to touch.
The chair creaks, and he takes one hesitant seat.
A radio to the tune, static whishes over the silence, murmured recordings of a young man filter through, albeit with glitches and tremors throughout the duration.
He shifts himself towards the radio, the thing flashes with a gentle melody. It's damaged to a fault. Too old to be fixed. The hitch and pitches make a sound akin to no other.
And the man turns, he finds where that nauseating smell comes from. The source of the spillage on the table, long oxidized and sticky. It lies uselessly on the shelf, various labels and such mostly scratched off. The corpse of a glass bottle lies in its coffin, yet the man lifts his finger to retrieve it, the thing cradled within his hands. He holds it tightly, as if afraid to drop it. Break it. Like it's not already broken beyond repair.
He stalks towards the dusty table. The faulty radio. A storm bellows outside, the culprit of the water leakage through the cracks on the ceiling. A single glass lays empty on the bar table. He knows the other one is in the trash.
The man sits, watching the small flame of the candle drift with the howls of thunder. The radio static slows down to a soft murmur, the chair creaks only once but settles down. That's it. Nothing else shifts for him.
He pours himself a glass. A deeply pungent smell fills the air, purging all other scents in the room with its strong odor. He puts the bottle down with a clink, feeling the scornful textures of the bottle's label and small cracks within the glass surface.
And in front of him, the liquid stays. Dark maple coloured liquor swirls within the cup. The smell is still there, though less with general odour, but more with a deep, revolting nostalgia.
The smell of cheap, old whiskey.
—
He tipped the glass backwards, a finger hinged under the cap of the bottle, sending the top flying off with a small pop sound, adjacent to the soft burst of a floating bubble, as he watched the sky trickle with sullen clouds, small pearls of crystal liquid batted at the concrete. Fluxion shifted as a drop of condensation splashed onto his leg.
“You’re awfully good at this.”
A voice broke him out of the solemn-like photograph that he'd been frozen in. Fluxion blinked purple irises back at the figure, the snowy-haired man raising an eyebrow.
Fluxion sighed, letting the bottlecap rest in his thumb. He slid a glass towards the man, the maple-colored drink splashing at the rims of the cup. “Have a lot of folks round’ me that like drinking. Don't dwell on it.”
Ah, but how foolish of him to have had asked that from Saparata, of all people.
“Figured. I don't take you for one to drink cheap whiskey like this.” The snowy-haired man flashed him a teasing grin, embracing humor within his eyes, “You’d probably drink something fancy like… super aged wine, premium tequila forged from the Amazon rainforest, or…” His eyes lit up at as he snicked at his own joke. “Ooh, I know one.”
He gestured as if he were twirling a mustache, as Fluxion really felt like he was watching an elementary student poking fun of him instead of a grown man. “Château.”
“Shut up.” The darker haired man punched his shoulder, in which Saparata only took it with a triumphant smirk. “You’re like 5 years old.”
“Hitting my 20s, actually. But I’m glad you think I look young for my age.”
“Shut up.”
“Can't use the same phrase twice~”
Fluxion eyed him, “Says who?”
Saparata grinned back, “Me.”
“You're irritating as hell.” The darker haired glared at the other as he poured himself a drink as well. He’d hate for Saparata to be right, but it was true that he preferred drinks that were more.. robust. Though, the stench of stale alcohol grew familiar, with time and time in which he partook in this same routine again. The frankly revolting taste of soggy cardboard that they called whiskey. Fluxion frowned as he took a sip, feeling his tongue recoil in disappointment at his taste buds. Honestly despicable. Why did he tolerate it?
“You know you love me.” Saparata sung back in retaliation.
Ah. That's why.
The rain felt a little lighter, the pitter patter of water against glass more akin to the scuttering of ants, rather than a storm brewing up above. The soles of his shoes were still muddy from the wet earth, a small mist of liquid still inevitably bouncing through the window. Yet, it felt calmer, more at peace.
Endless chatter by his side. Snowy white hair filled his vision.
And Fluxion realized, that he wanted nothing more than to stay in this captured moment forever.
You know you love me.
He did.
“...Maybe.” His answer came a little delayed, and Saparata raised a knowing brow towards him, as always.
“Didn't hear that.” He smiled.
Perhaps it was the alcohol talking, but Fluxion held his head behind his hands, almost as if cowering, hiding as something rosy flushed over his face. “I’m not repeating it.”
“Of course you won't.” Saparata flashed him that never-ending grin. Light hair brushes over his face, as if his smile had been diamonds under the cracks of snow. It might as well have been, as Fluxion felt himself staring. He looked away.
And as if his eyes were a camera, it captured the moment.
White, flowing hair, eyes as entrancing as stars.
Dead diamond eyes. Snow stained with blood.
The clinking of two glasses filled with whiskey.
One shattered. Left for dead. The other old and sticky with oxidized liquor.
Two doves. One white and elegant. One black and dull. The branch is growing too heavy to upkeep them both.
A hand within his.
Blood within mine.
Fluxion sighed as he took another sip, feeling the stale, expired taste of old whiskey burn within his throat.
And by his side, Saparata laughed, his rosy cheeks bellowed with a drunkard’s joy, as if nothing in the world could split them.
“Hey, Sap.”
The man had looked at him, the same diamond eyes shining with curiosity.
“If you could have anything in this world, what would it be?”
He took a breath, as if pausing to think. He thought for a long time. Fluxion raised an eyebrow, nudging at his elbow.
“World peace?”
“Nah. Too basic.”
The darker haired man sighed.
“Hmm, how about…”
Saparata had prodded him on the surface of his nose.
“You?”
He stared. The other stared. Both stared. Then, something stirred within his gut as Fluxion flinched, turning his head away with faux irritation. He swatted at Saparata as if he could manually fan away the heat that was crawling up his face.
“Shut up! Don't be so fucking cheesy.”
“Oh, we’re swearing, now? That means I got you good— HOLY SHIT, your face is so red, AHAHA!”
Fluxion clenched his face in his hands, very thoroughly annoyed. But that feeling in his chest stayed, warm and fluttering, the same revelation muttering within his head.
I love you.
The laughter echoed faintly, the clink of glasses hitting on another in a bout of shared comfort. It had been tender, palatable, so saccharine that it was stronger than the rich taste of syrupy candy.
He wished for it forever.
Even as the laughter dies out, the glass shatters and falls into the floor, the once syrupy candy turns poisonous, wretched.
The beating of butterflies in his heart corroded into decayed, forlorn guilt.
But that had been his own fault, hadn't it?
A sacrifice.
Dead diamond eyes, a look of hopeless betrayal enveloped his features.
Dull purple irises stared back, weapon clutched in one hand, the knowledge of how the newfound rift between them could never be filled. The memory of the bridge between them having once been so close, so intertwined.
It had been necessary. Fluxion told himself.
The ether wept anyway.
And in the present, the man took a sip of the rotted drink.