Work Text:
Heavy, lukewarm weight disappeared from Varka’s back. Most similar to a weighted blanket — providing ample comfort.
Beating like a drum, his heart is leaping out of his chest. A thin sheen of sweat covers his neck as he tries to catch his breath. Floating down from cloud nine, his brain was slowly returning to the present moment. As if sunrays were emitting from his body, the soft skin and exhausted muscles are hot to touch; burning him as he drags his hand across his torso. Yearning, needy, recalling the touch of his lover — gentler fingers gliding across many scars on his body.
Incandescent in the afterglow, tangled in midnight black sheets, Varka moves his hips to lay on his side.
The scent of unapologetic human desire has filled the room completely. Even as his lover stands away; he can still smell him,
feel
his hands against his body.
The nearest pillow gets crumpled up into a semi-circular shape and pushed under Varka’s head. Quietly, he observes Flins spread the thick white curtains and crack open a window.
The crisp winter air quickly reaches Varka. The cold air collides against the heat surrounding his body, making the man hiss in turn.
Flins doesn’t do so much as flinch, shoulders back – proudly standing in front of the window. The long hair, fading in and out from black to white, covers the pale skin of his back. Varka has spent many nights drawing shapes and naming constellations of the moles on his lovers’ back, lulling himself to sleep by dragging his lips over his favorite canvas.
Bathed in the light of the full moon, a gentle glow illuminates his naked lover, resembling the fallen angels Varka read about in various fictional books back in Mondstadt. He can imagine vibrant black feathers, dipped in the blood of their enemies, sprouting from the man’s scapulas. They would compliment Flins more than he’d let anyone else know. Slim figure, muscles defined just enough to be delicious to look at, remnants and marks of their shared pleasure… Varka restrains himself from standing up and dragging the man back into bed with him for another round.
Varka pursed his lips to blow air back towards the window, chasing away the cool drift which raised goosebumps on his skin. The same ones which didn’t rise on Flins’ skin… just how coldblooded can one man be?
Caught up in admiring the tall man by the window, a familiar warmth fills Varka once more. Losing himself in his fantasies, desiring more.
The blond man outstretches his arm on the bed toward his lover and gently calls out, “Flins.”
A singular blink is all the movement and answer Varka gets in response. The man stays focused on the view outside the window. Chuckling warmly, Varka pushes his hand through the untamed golden curls, “Sometimes I think you’re fonder of the moon than me.”
Despite Varka’s attempts, Flins offers no response, remaining static for a few more moments. His silence envelops Varka – he elects to ignore it, turning his ears to the faint creaking of the window and dried leaves rustling around the trees outside.
At last, the man moves elsewhere, facing away from the bed as he cleans himself up. Varka groans, “I wanted more.”
“Your hunger is insatiable, Varka.” Flins finally acknowledges the blond man’s presence.
Propping himself up to a sitting position, Varka’s lips spread into a smirk, “And you have always been able to match my stamina. What’s troubling you tonight, Flins?”
The words don’t visibly reach Flins, who ignores them for the sake of crafting up a proper answer. Or, in Varka’s opinion, he’s just being needy.
Without wasting too much time, Flins gets dressed. Calm, calculated movements, ones trained from years of practice, show tremendous grace in his motions. Slender fingers elegantly pull up zippers, button his shirt with zero effort and still make it seem easy, seamless, not rushed.
Gloves cover the very hands that left crimson marks across Varka’s body, a map showing everywhere Flins went, any place he stopped to press and squeeze.
Varka can’t peel his eyes away from the painful sight, akin to a child’s favorite candy being wrapped up and taken away from their hands. Well, this toddler is preparing to throw a temper tantrum – he simply needs more sugar, it’s nothing unusual.
Once more, Flins gazes through the frosted glass of the old wooden window as he pulls the long grey cape around his shoulders. In spite of every layer of clothing he puts on, Varka can still see the vermillion marks blooming under Flins’ jawline, and disappearing below his neck line. Hickeys he created before they were able to get to the bedroom bring a smile to his face.
He cinches his waist in with a belt over his coat. Using the action to avoid gracing Varka with eye contact, he confesses, “I’m tired.”
With a hurried shuffle of sheets, Varka covers his bare body. Using Anemo powers again, he redirects the cold air with a flick of his wrist, “Stay? You can rest here, as always.”
There’s a subtle headshake which Varka nearly misses, Flins keeps his voice firm and low. However, it maddens Varka how the borderline scolding voice sounds intimate, like a secret being shared, “I’m tired of playing dumb.”
The window whines from the strong wind pushing it to close completely, another flick of Varka’s wrist. He wraps up his body in the dark sheets and stands up, questioning the statement, “What do you mean? I know damn well you aren’t stupid, and so do you.”
Flins lifts his chin, clenching his jaw for a moment before releasing the pressure completely. He turned his head towards Varka, “I’m tired of pretending that I don’t know I’m just his replacement.”
Varka flinched at the statement. Aimlessly, his light blue eyes scanned around the room for feasible excuses and Flins could see it from a mile away. Dull, muddied yellow eyes bore into the side of Varka’s head, accusatory without any heat behind them.
If Flins were to yell at him, scream, shout, and throw furniture around, Varka would’ve found it easier to deal with this situation. Instead, a painfully calm and collected man stood in front of him. Scouring any possible thing that could be convincing is proving futile. Varka is damn well aware that when Flins claims something which proposes a change: it is already too late.
Flins had already made his decision.
Varka retorts, “You’re not his replacement. It has been years since him, alright? Based on that, what are you even… What are you on about, Flins?”
Flins turns completely towards Varka. He blinks once, letting the silence stretch out for longer than needed; letting Varka uncomfortably fester. After what feels like eternity, Flins blatantly orders, “Kyryll.”
Blond eyebrows furrow. Slightly shaking his head, Varka places his hands on his hips, “Kyryll? Flins, I’m struggling to follow—“
“Perhaps if you call me Kyryll, we can pretend that when you nearly moan his name that the letter K was the beginning of my name and not his.” Flins’ face remains empty, refusing to portray the hurt, the red-hot anger which Varka can only imagine are raging inside him. Another simple blink from those lightless eyes is all he gets.
To claim he never did that, especially when arguing with his cut-throat lover, would be seen as shameless disrespect. Everything had always gone back to Capitano. Even when he is happy and satisfied and delighted with his lover, it all goes back to the man he loved. The man he lost on more levels than just one.
Varka steps closer to Flins. Immediately, a cold air envelops his body completely along with electricity which makes his hair slightly stand up. Everything is chasing him away. If words weren’t strong enough, the man is radiating barely controlled immense power. One being his Electro vision, and the other one being something far more ineffable.
Desperately, Varka tries to plead his case, faltering, “Please, it has been years since him,” he calmly began only to lose it early on, giving way to his temper - he starts shouting, “Not everything is about him, I’m here right now and we are fucking fine! I’m happy with you, I barely think of the man!”
Flins maintained his tone, accusing quietly, “Is that why you gift me clothing which he would wear?”
Dramatically, Varka throws his arms open and heavily exhales, “It’s just clothes!”
“It is just clothes,” Flins echoes with a layer of sarcasm, “and you never looked my way before my hair got long.” The pools of snake-like yellow, unamused and judgmental, stare at Varka. Wordlessly accusing the blond man of many more things. Unapologetic in any of his claims.
Varka rubs his forehead, biting the inside of his cheek and ultimately deciding to confess, “Flins, I ca—“
“Kyryll,” Flins cuts in without letting him finish the sentence, effortlessly rolling the ‘r’ and extending the ‘ee’ sounds, demanding distance. The intimacy of the nickname ‘Flins’ turning to a gatekept thing; stolen from his lover’s vocabulary.
Varka clenched his fists with a defeated scoff, “…nevermind.” He looks away from the man and towards the mess they made on the bed, a heavenly getaway mere minutes ago. Pure bliss he was living in, unaware of what was festering under the surface. Or perhaps, he was purposefully ignorant of what was happening.
Wooden boards creak under Flins’ leather boots and the window hinges squeak under his ghost-like touch.
Seemingly done with this conversation, this situationship, Flins adds, “Hang onto dead people for long enough, and the living ones will move past you. Sleep well.”
The brooding man disappears with a loud crack of lightning, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Varka slammed the window with a strong gust of wind, lacking control in his technique.
The cold air fills the small room, a looming presence, an unspoken reminder of his lover and his tendency to be cold.
Flins. And Capitano.