Archive of Our Own ^beta

Flins should, by all means, be inebriated. Most of their eclectic group is, their triumph over Rerir encouraging them to let go, even if only for one night, and enjoy the company of unlikely allies. 

He feels the pull to join them – truly, he does, yet his feet remain rooted in the dark corner he’s chosen to reside in. The drink in his hand has gone stale, almost, for he cannot bring himself to lift the glass to his lips. It’d be a good drink, a strong drink, this he knows, yet his thoughts stray and his gaze lingers on one thing and one thing alone: Varka’s silhouette as he stands on the other side of the bar, gesturing with his tankard. Words spill from his lips, spread into a grin as he regales his audience with a tale or other.

Flins can only stare, eyes wide and unblinking. It is not awe, not exactly, that haunts his thoughts, but something heavier, something that makes his heart beat as if the space between his ribs weren’t hollow. One thought alone runs through his mind – that Varka is beautifully, undeniably human.

That much is obvious from a glance, even with his broad shoulders, legendary strength and the frankly intimidating broadsword he carries more often than not. He’s human in the ways that matter most, human in all that Flins will never quite be. They might have similar mentalities, similar bodies, but Varka is etched with scars while Flins is pristine, freckles and the remnants of past adventures adorning his skin where Flins remains spotless. Flawless, one might say. Unnaturally so, enough to deter people from flocking to him the way they do to Varka, all bright-eyed with adoration, with trust.

Flins can understand the urge, as foreign as it is to him when coming from others – but that’s not what he wants to be thinking about, not at all. 

The subject of himself is not one he wishes to entertain on a night as merry as this one, with music and conversation flowing through the air, tangling with the exhilaration of victory, so he allows his thoughts to turn outwards once again. His gaze flits through the room, seeking Varka –

And finding him by Nefer’s table, just where he was before the blip in Flins’ concentration. He’s struck, for a moment, by the dim light of the Flagship’s numerous lightbulbs and the way it falls on Varka’s blond hair, on his features. Shadows play on his face, hopping from spot to spot as he rocks back onto his heels, laughing at something Jahoda must’ve said – at least going by the look on her face, the redness high on her cheeks.

Flins cannot help but wonder, somewhat inanely, how such a color would look on Varka. He’s seen the man flush with overexertion before, but it’d be something else entirely for it to be a blush that adorns his skin, the apples of his cheeks. Flins wonders if it’d spread to his neck, or perhaps his ears, oh so round and uniquely human as they are. If the color would deepen, were Flins to reach out and feel the warmth of that flush for himself.

His mouth dries at the image – no, the fantasy – and something surges through his veins, urging him to reach out and touch even if it’s under the guise of simple camaraderie. He refrains, however, for he’s had enough time to practice dismissing his own desires. Flins has lived a very long life, after all…and Varka is quite the oblivious man.

Still, he cannot restrain himself completely. Perhaps it’s the melancholic turn of his thoughts, perhaps it’s the sounds of merriment echoing into the night, but he finds himself aching for company viscerally, almost, in a way he hasn’t in a long, long time. It’s – strange, really, but most of the emotions this human man has awakened in him are, for Flins didn’t think himself capable of feeling such things any longer. It was…odd at first, feeling such things – enough so that Flins considered distancing himself, but he’s come to embrace the sensation, the thrill of being so intrigued by a mortal, and so he’s helpless to stop himself from stepping out of the shadows.

“ – giving away business secrets free of charge?” Nefer is saying when he approaches, her voice venomously sweet as she places a hand on Jahoda’s shoulder. “Hm?”

“I didn’t,” Jahoda stops, paling. “Oh, archons, I did! I didn’t mean to, boss, you gotta believe me! I know misleading people is important to you!”

Unfortunately, that does nothing to mollify Nefer’s temper. “Jahoda.”

Varka barks out a laugh at the display, the drink in his tankard sloshing with the force of it and it’s not a melodious sound, nothing like the tinkling laughter of his kind, yet Flins finds himself drawn to it anyway. It’s not a conscious thing, the decision to step even closer, to brush their arms together. 

It’s then that Varka’s gaze swivels to him, bestowing upon him the full weight of those bright eyes, as blue as the sky itself –

And Flins cannot help himself. He presents his own drink with a flourish, holding it up for the man to see. “For you, Grandmaster Varka.”

Varka’s eyes widen, then crinkle at the corners as his grin softens into a smile, as he reaches for tankard and says, because he’s undeniably, beautifully, breathtakingly human –

“Ah, thanks.”

Flins’ lips twitch, curling upwards. The words tingle down his spine like a caress, growing even more pleasant when Varka groans, lifting his own tankard as if to facepalm with it before stopping. “...You got me good, huh.”

“You shouldn’t let your guard down, Grandmaster,” Flins chides. “You never know when danger might strike.”

“You’re no danger,” Varka dismisses easily, words barely audible over the clamor of the bar. “Just tell me what you want in return, yeah? If it’s in my power to get it, I will.” 

What do you want, he says. 

Oh, Flins wants. 

He wants so much – wants to do something foolish, something he hasn’t felt the urge to do in centuries. He itches to bare his teeth and sink them into Varka’s neck, into his exposed, muscular forearm till the man takes him seriously, till Varka looks beyond the facsimile of humanity in Flins’ carefully crafted appearance and sees him for the force of nature that he is. He wants to grab Varka by the lapels and press their mouths together, leaving no room between them for interpretation, for Varka’s obliviousness.

…

But they’re in public and Varka is drunk – has to be, or else he wouldn’t have forgotten himself so easily around a fae. Were he to make his intentions regarding their relationship clear, he’d prefer it to happen in private. At the lighthouse, perhaps with rays of moonlight pouring down from above and framing Varka’s face like a pale, shimmering veil.

Ah…

He’s getting ahead of himself.

He can’t quite say what’s on his mind, not without causing a scene, so he settles for a simple answer, for a tilt of his head. “Why, you could buy me a drink as well.” 

And, oh, something wild beats in his chest, hammering against his ribs as it urges him to make it an order – but he does not want it to be an order. Not quite yet. Not unless Varka asks for it.

Varka blinks. “What, that’s all? I was already planning to do that. Sure, I was making the rounds,” he gestures with his tankard towards Nefer and Jahoda, although Flins barely spares them a glance, “But I was also looking for you.”

Ah. 

Perhaps Flins had been doing more than simply standing in the shadows. He hadn’t meant to cloak himself in the darkness, certainly not, but such things happen every now and then. The overly festive atmosphere must’ve gotten to him, he supposes. “I’m here now.”

“That you are.”

“And,” he says slowly, softly, “I’d like a drink, Grandmaster Varka.”

Varka doesn’t quite smirk – he doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man do so – but the twist of his lips is quite close to it. “And?” He draws out the word, leaning in ever so slightly. “I know how this works, Flins. And besides, I’m not the type of man to go around owing people.”

Flins swallows. His mouth is dry in a way it never is when dealing with others, when other oh so gullible mortals find themselves indebted to him. “Go get it for me. Please.”

Varka grins, leaning away as he does, and Flins doesn’t frown at the distance, but it’s a near thing. "Snezhanyan Fire-Water, yeah? I’ll go see if they’ve got some in stock.”

And with that he’s gone, leaving Flins unable to tear his eyes away from the gait of those purposeful strides as Varka makes his way to the bar.

“...Is this what you meant by weird mating ri –”

“Drink your beer, Jahoda.”

“Yes, boss, yes!”

Flins should intervene. Should question them, inquire into whatever they might be talking about…but his mouth is dry and something beats in his hollow chest in a strange, ancient rhythm. 

He remains silent.

Varka has a problem.

All things considered, he usually does – be it a horse care mishap, those under his command needing guidance or the monthly skirmishes between the city’s several factions. The first two are easily managed most of the time, while the latter requires a touch of delicacy, but still. They’re solvable.

The issue he’s currently facing, however, is slightly different, because it’s not tangible.

Nobody besides him can detect it, that is, nor does it happen to anyone else. Varka’s certain of this, for he’s watched Demyan open several bottles and test them too, pouring a sip and letting Varka inspect it. The color, the smell – everything suggested that the glass should contain alcohol, yet when Varka knocked it back, only water lingered on his tongue, dull and tasteless.

“Maybe you’ve attracted the attention of some ill-intentioned spirit,” Demyan offers after Varka’s fifth attempt at getting drunk fails. “They’re real, you know? At least I think they are. I’ve heard way too many people talking about ghosts for it to be just chatter.”

The words almost make him laugh – would, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s currently sprawled across the countertop in dramatic defeat. “Oh,” he says, unable to stop his lips from twitching. “I’ve attracted attention alright.”

Flins’, that is, for he’s pretty sure no other fae would play such a trick on him – a little nasty, a little unpleasant, but also harmless. Varka might not know a lot about dealing with the fae as a whole, but this seems tame enough, if you ask him. Besides, if Flins took the time to cast a spell – or however it works, Varka isn’t very sure, nor does he know if it’s polite to ask – on him when they saw each other in the morning, then Flins must be planning on seeing him again before the day ends.

And, hells, Varka would be a fool to turn down a meeting with his friend. His closest friend in the whole of Nod Krai, in fact, with the most gorgeous mane of hair Varka’s seen in a long time and with the strangest of gazes, the smallest of smiles.

Still, despite the otherworldiness of it all, Flins has always looked kind. It’s what drove Varka to invite him to drink together the first time he saw the man, after all. Sure, he was a little quiet, a little formal, but that did little to deter Varka. Crepus had been quiet too, when they’d first met, and they’d been the best of friends.

A frown tugs at his mouth as the memory of his friend rears its head, yet Varka doesn't have long to dwell on it; fingers tap him on the shoulder, two of them, and he turns in time to see the smile he’d been thinking about. Small, yet nonetheless lighting up Flins’ face. Even his eyes, shadowed by the remains of sleepless nights, soften once their gazes meet.

“Varka,” Flins greets with a tilt of his head. “I had a feeling I’d find you here.”

“Where else would I be, hm? I heard this place’s got the tastiest water in town.”

Flins simply hums, sliding into the empty seat next to Varka. “I was under the impression you prefer stronger drinks, Grandmaster.”

“Yeah, well,” Varka starts, only to stop, sweeping through the bar with his gaze. Everyone seems engrossed in their own conversations, but still, Varka doesn’t want to take any chances. If Flins wants his fae status to remain a secret, a secret it shall remain – at least as far as Varka’s concerned. So he leans in, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Seems like someone’s cast a spell on me, ‘cause all the booze turns into water when I drink it. Funny, right? Demyan thinks an angry ghost did it.”

Flins is slower than usual to respond, dark eyelashes grazing pale skin as he blinks. Varka’s never really one to pay attention to small details like that, not off-duty, yet he can’t quite look away from Flins. “I see. And what do you think?”

“Oh, me?” Varka can barely keep the grin off his face. “I think it was a little fairy, actually.”

And it’s funny, isn’t it, to call Flins little when he towers over most people who aren’t Varka. The word clashes with Flins horribly, comically, yet the man doesn’t smile. He simply lets his gaze drop to the countertop, a sound escaping him – something a little too sharp, too amused to be a sigh.

“There’s nothing little about the fair folk,” Flins says, eyes still averted. If Varka didn’t know any better, he’d think Flins embarrassed…or maybe he is, truly, and Varka’s wrong. The possibility makes his stomach swoop with something like nerves, makes his hands itch for something to fiddle with, to grasp. The hilt of his sword, perhaps, or even Flins’ long, gloved fingers.

“I don’t know about that,” Varka says once he’s gathered his wits enough to dismiss that last thought of his. “Most people are tiny to me.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Flins says slowly, words a mere murmur as his gaze finally returns to Varka – lingering not on his face, but his shoulders, his forearms, exposed as they are by his rolled up sleeves. Varka doesn’t usually think much of such attention, but he can’t help wondering if Flins likes what he sees. Not to brag, but he’s put a lot of effort into his build. To earn the respect, if not the admiration, of someone like Flins, it’d mean…a lot.

He wants Flins to look at him, he realizes.

“Grandmaster,” Flins’ voice, low and pleasant, draws him out of his thoughts. 

Varka holds up a hand, waves it. “I told you, drop the title. No need for that among friends.”

“Very well then,” Flins allows, the hint of a smile gracing his lips. “I wanted to ask, Varka, if you’ve considered the intentions behind the, ah, spell cast on you.”

Varka shrugs. He reaches for the last glass Demyan had set out for him, eyeing the amber liquid inside before bringing it to his mouth. As expected, it’s water that washes down his throat, cool but still tasteless. “Maybe they’ve got something against me.”

Flins hums, his gaze affixed to Varka’s finger as it traces the rim of the glass. “A wise supposition, but I don’t think that’s quite the case here. A fairy with a grudge wouldn’t stop at something so harmless.”

“Harmless?” Varka echoes, aghast. “I can’t get drunk on my day off.”

“Perhaps there’s more to days off than indulging in alcohol,” Flins suggests delicately, looking at him from between his eyelashes. Varka has the strangest urge to reach over and – and do something. He isn’t sure what. Maybe tug him closer.

“Yeah?” He leans closer, drawn to Flins like a moth to a flame. “What would that be? Does the little fairy have any suggestions.”

Flins exhales. Varka knows, can feel it graze his cheek, brushing a few strands of hair aside. “They don’t, but I do. If you agree to it.”

“What exactly is it, hm?” Varka can’t help asking. Flins isn’t dressed for a patrol, not exactly. Sure, his clothes remain the same Lightkeeper’s uniform they’ve always been, but his polearm is missing and his gloves look new, the fabric spotless and glimmering under the bar’s dim lights.

“I was wondering,” Flins pauses, a moment of hesitation so fleeting that Varka would’ve missed it, were he not used to the Flins’ mannerisms, “If you’d be amenable to dining with me at the lighthouse this evening.”

Varka blinks. Feels some sort of way, starting in his chest and ending in the tips of his now tingling fingers. “You don’t eat,” he blurts.

“Not usually,” Flins agrees, his eyes trained on Varka. “But I could make an exception. Is it not customary to eat with your…companion?”

Well, that tracks. It answers the question of why exactly Flins cast a spell on him. Sure, he could’ve invited Varka over the normal way instead of going through all this trouble, but…

Ah, well, he surrounds himself with interesting people for a reason. Besides, there’s no world in which he’d even dream of turning Flins down.

“Sure thing,” spills from Varka’s lips as easily as breathing. 

Flins looks taken aback for a second, his eyes widening the merest bit before softening, falling into something half-lidded. “Shall we be on our way then?” 

“Dunno,” Varka makes a show of stretching, aware of the way Flins’ gaze lingers. “Depends. Should I get us a bottle of wine or will it taste like water?”

“Who knows?” Flins shrugs an elegant shoulder. “Spells work in mysterious ways, Varka.”

“So we’ll just have to test it and find out.”

Flins says nothing. He just keeps looking at him, a faint glimmer of something in his eyes, so Varka leans over, raising a hand as he calls for Demyan.

The bartender comes over within minutes, wiping his hands on a rag as he does. “Yes, yes, right here. What can I get you two esteemed gentlemen?”

“Your finest bottle of wine, if you’d please. Put on my tab and make it quick,” he reaches over, clasping Flins by the shoulder. “My pal and I have dinner to get to!”

And if Flins happens to twitch in his grasp at the words, Varka doesn’t pay it any mind, too busy discussing the unfortunate state of his tab.

“Done for the night?”

Flins looks up from where he’d been checking on his lantern, meeting Varka’s gaze. He looks good, blond strands messily swept sideways by the wind, but then again, Varka could have twigs in his hair and Flins would still deem him attractive. Perhaps even more so than usual, if twigs were the only things adorning him.

“I’ve run out of sugar sculptures, so I suppose so,” he answers, a beat too late.

“Awww,” Varka says as he steps closer, peering into the box by Flins’ booth. “And here the kids were having so much fun.”

Flins hums, peering inside as well. Only a few hours ago, the box had been brimming with sugary confections, but now it’s empty save for a few crumbs littering at the bottom. Flins hadn’t expected his booth to be quite so popular, but perhaps he should have – children have always been partial to seemingly inanimate talking objects. “Everything must come to an end, Varka, even fun things.”

Varka considers this, his eyes flitting from Flins to the booth. “Well,” he drawls after a second, “I was thinking of prolonging this fun little evening a little more. Care to join me?”

Flins is a little bit tired – socially speaking, that is, for he’s had to entertain hordes of children in a very short span of time, yet he finds himself agreeing. “...What do you have in mind?”

“Haven’t got anything specific in mind,” Varka scratches at the side of his neck. “How about we just walk around and see what we can find? I’ve seen lots of pretty interesting booths, so…”

“Sounds acceptable,” Flins says, then, gesturing to the still messy booth with a tilt of his head, “Just a moment, please.”

“Need any help?”

Warmth fills his chest at the words, the oh so casual offer. Varka has even extended a hand as if to reach over and start helping without prompting, and Flins has the strangest urge to remove his gloves and take that hand in his own. He’s more than tempted despite the impropriety of it, the surprise it’d cause Varka, if only to make his intentions clear once and for all. Perhaps such a gesture would succeed where a dinner hadn’t.

Because it hadn’t. Not in the slightest. 

Oh, Flins had certainly thought it would – how could it not, when he went out of his way to make sure Varka’s free day would remain that way, when he took the time to sample and purchase dishes the man would enjoy, all with the Traveler at his side to advise him on what would remind a Mondstadter of home the most?

But it hadn’t worked. 

Of course not. 

Varka, who could predict the weather by the way the wind blew, missed all of Flins’ carefully placed hints and oh, Flins should be angered by the mere memory, yet every time he thinks of it, the sound of Varka’s laughter – loud, bright, painfully oblivious – returns to mind, followed by the image of the man himself: Varka, sitting across him and leaning back in his chair, gesturing as he regaled Flins with some tale or other. His mouth had been red, stained by the wine in his glass, the palest hue of pink blooming on his face as he took more sips, and Flins hadn’t wanted to kiss someone more than he did in that moment.

He’d ached to do it, in fact, but he held back, for Varka had taken his invitation – his meticulously acquired meals, the meticulously decorated inside of his house – as one of celebration, not of confession. So Flins had kept his mouth shut, rehearsed words rolling on his tongue and begging to be spilled, as he stared at the man he oh so desperately wanted to both throttle and kiss.

Now, faced with the same man, he once again wrestles with those desires.

“Flins?”

Flins wonders if he’s blushing. If Varka can see the color of his face so late at night. “Just a moment,” he repeats and it’s not quite an answer, but it’s all he can give.

Varka nods, stepping away and giving Flins much needed breathing room. “Sure, have at it.”

Flins does. There’s very little left to do before he can officially close down the booth, yet he takes his time with it, drawing each task out. He’s not normally one for nerves, has never been, but the look in Varka’s eyes as he watches Flins flatten a cardboard box and leave it under the table for the Frostmoon Scions to collect – there’s something about that look that leaves him on edge in the most pleasant of ways.

Varka has a plan for tonight, it seems, even if he’s yet to share it.

“I’m done,” he says after a few minutes, brushing the dust off his coat. “Shall we, Varka?”

Varka shoots him a grin. “Yeah, c’mon. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

Flins quirks a brow as he falls into step beside Varka. “Oh? Any reason in particular for being in such a hurry, Grandmaster?”

Varka sighs. “I know you’re just using it to tease me, so I won’t say anything about the title.”

You just did, Flins refrains from pointing out. “Will you ignore my question too?”

“Ah, that?” Varka raises a hand, scratching at the side of his neck. “Well, not really. I just thought it’d be a pity to let the Moon Goddess have all the fun, you know?”

That is quite the transparent lie, considering the whole festival has been organized to let her enjoy a night out without being recognized. Still, Flins lets it slide; if Varka wants Flins’ company, he shall have it.

Conversation flows easily as they walk. Their arms brush as they hop from subject to subject, as Varka tells him about the tasks he and Albedo spent the entire day on, all so that Alice’s booth could be set up in time. With every graze of exposed skin against his sleeve, warmth seeps into him – Varka’s warmth, so deliciously human – and Flins not only lets it, but he steps closer with a murmured excuse about the crowd, about how he’d hate it if they were to get separated. Varka buys it, perhaps more than Flins thought he would.

“No need to worry about that,” he says, as self-assured as ever. “You’re pretty easy to spot.”

Not always, Flins goes to say, but then Varka throws an arm over his shoulder, pulling him closer and his mind goes painfully, startlingly blank.

“Better?”

Flins can only nod. The difference in their heights, although negligible, is much more noticeable from this angle. 

“Great,” Varka proclaims, and with that he moves on, philosophizing to himself about the differences in cuisine between Nod Krai and Mondstadt.

Flins listens, pitching in where he can, humming attentively where he cannot. Varka asks him questions about this and that and soon enough, tales are spilling from his own lips as well, continuing even in between the little games offered by the festival's many stalls.

They don’t try any of the activities per se, but they certainly stop by each and every stall run by a person they know, starting with Dori – whose money-making endeavours are acidly criticised by Hat Guy the entire time they’re there – and ending with Aino, who offers them enough stickers that not even the hilt of Varka’s greatsword escapes unscathed.

Eventually, they find themselves atop the deserted roof of one of Nasha Town’s many buildings – not at Flins’ initiative, but Varka’s, for he’d been the one to wordlessly change direction and lead them away from the festival area. Here, silence reigns – or it would, were it not for the buzz of nearby decorations and the echoes of merriment from below.

“So,” Varka says, gaze flicking from Flins to the cup of cider in his grasp and back. “Nice night we’re having.”

“Quite,” Flins agrees, more absent-minded than anything. 

He hadn’t had the chance to admire it till now, not fully, but the way Varka looks bathed in moonlight, blond strands turned a shade approaching silver by the gentle rays of the moon – oh, it’s better than anything he could’ve imagined. He looks away, afraid of his face turning a rather embarrassing shade, yet there’s nowhere safe for his gaze to land. The mere sight of Varka’s arm, bent at the elbow as he holds his cup, is enough for phantom sensations to flare up his shoulders, his neck, leaving tingling in their wake. He remembers the warmth of that thick arm across his neck, the way Varka’s warmth had not only seeped but seared at his nape, covered as it was.

Flins swallows. He wishes, rather suddenly, for some cider of his own.

“Look,” Varka begins, startling him out of his thoughts. “So I’ve got something to ask you, I think.”

Flins’ lips twitch. “Ask away, Grandmaster.”

“No, no,” Varka flaps his free hand through the air. “Call me Varka for this. It’s personal – and kind of embarrassing if I get it wrong. Well, if Jahoda got it wrong.”

Oh? How intriguing.

Flins steps closer, enough for the knuckles of Varka’s cup-wielding hand to brush against his coat. “Do tell.”

“Right,” Varka exhales. His eyes flick to his cup, then upwards and Flins is forced to face the full force of his earnest, sea-blue gaze. “So, unless Jahoda and the Traveler are really confused about something, that time you had me over for dinner wasn’t just two pals sharing a meal.”

Praise be to the Gods, both old and new, Flins thinks.  It’s a senseless thought, one that quickly fades from his mind as realization settles in. Finally, Varka’s figured it out!

“Yes,” he says – quicker than is polite, but he’s animated by nothing by pure exhilaration, by the fear that this stupidly gorgeous man might misunderstand him yet again.

“Huh,” comes Varka’s somewhat baffled response. Then, his brows furrowing: “You always did laugh just a little too hard at my jokes.”

“They’re amusing, truly,” Flins insists, voice as sweet as honey. Something thuds in his chest – something that shouldn’t even be there, let alone behave as it’s currently doing so.

Varka barks out a laugh. “Not that amusing.”

Flins indulges him with a snort, as inelegant as the motion feels, then steps even closer, nudging Varka’s cup aside. He wouldn’t usually be so bold, yet the look in Varka’s eyes, the easiness with which he’s accepted the reality of Flins’ intentions – they tell him that he’s welcome to do so, to act so.

And he’s right, for Varka only smiles, his eyes aglow as he takes Flins in. “Well, hello there.”

“Salutations,” Flins murmurs, raising a hand and touching it to the fabric of Varka’s lapels, caressing the material – the skin hidden underneath. “I must ask, Varka, just so that there are no further misunderstandings between us – what do you think of my intentions?”

“I’ve gotta say,” Varka starts and Flins can barely focus on it, for a thick arm encircles his waist, pulling him even closer. "It's the first time I’ve been courted by a fae, so I don’t know how it’s supposed to go, but would it be rude to say that I really, really want to kiss you right now?”

Such honeyed words. Tantalizing too, enough so that Flins considers giving in to temptation…

But he must make sure. 

His hand fists in Varka’s collar – not to hurt, to choke, but to tug the man closer until the tips of their noses are touching, Varka’s breath hot and smelling of cider as it. “Do you mean that romantically, Grandmaster? Or is this another thing you do with all of your pals?”

“Dunno. Maybe I’ll tell you if you kiss me,” comes the response, accompanied by the smuggest grin Flins has ever seen on Varka.

His eyebrow twitches and before he can think better of it, the ancient magic in him stirs, surging to the surface as Flins leans forward, brushing his nose against Varka’s cheek. The touch has the intended effect, backed by a hint of electricity as it is: Varka yelps and tries to rear back, only for Flins’ tight grip on his collar to keep him from moving.

“Fiesty,” he says after an exhale, lips parted and eyes wide.

“That is the least of what I can do,” Flins assures him. Then, tugging him close once again, so much so that their breaths mingle: “Answer me, Varka. Would you be willing to see us as lovers?”

There’s no hesitation when Varka’s mouth twists into a smile, when his fingers dig into Flins’ waist. “Yeah. Took me a while to catch on, but yeah. I’d be willing. Very willing.”

Flins blinks. Warmth has begun spreading through him, a soft and nebulous thing filling the void hidden behind his ribs. “Then kiss me.”

Varka needs no further instructions. Before Flins can even blink, Varka’s pressed their lips together, the cup of cider clattering to the floor as another arm comes to lie around him, pulling him impossibly closer.

Varka is warm, he registers dimly as he’s walked backwards, the roof’s railing digging into the small of his back and Varka’s muscular build crowding him against it. He has no complaints whatsoever, for a tongue’s tracing the seam of his lips, seeking entry.

Flins grants it. He’s powerless to resist now that he finally has Varka where he wants him, where he’s been aching to have him: in his arms, tugging at Flins’ coat as if offended it’s there, plundering his mouth like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing. Flins very much agrees with the sentiment – he too can think of nothing better than exploring the expanse of Varka’s shoulders, of digging his fingers into his shirt and wrinkling the fabric beyond repair.

Desire surges through him, urges him to sneak his hand under Varka’s collar and feel the softness of his skin –

Crackling rings out from behind, followed by several bangs as the sky above them lights up. They break apart, startled, and Flins barely has the time to mourn the separation before Varka’s callused hand is on his chin, tilting his head up.

“Look,” he whispers and oh, he sounds wrecked, undone by the simplest of kisses. “The fireworks are starting.”

“Yes,” Flins’ gaze darts back to Varka, to the small reflections of colorful sparks visible in his eyes. “I can see that.”

“Happy moon festival,” Varka tells him, a smile playing on rosy lips.

That’s not it, Flins wants to correct. Abstaining, he leans over and presses his mouth to Varka’s again.

It’s cold when Varka wakes up – colder than it would’ve been with Flins by his side, hair sprawled across the sheets as he burrowed into Varka’s warmth. He’s pretty sure that’s what wakes him, in fact: the distinct lack of a Fae clinging to him, nose tucked into his shoulder as he rested.

He shifts, tugging the covers closer, only to hiss through his teeth when the blanket touches him. It’s just as cold as the rest of the bed – the rest of the room, really – if not more. The lighthouse has never had the best insulation; Varka was keenly aware of that from the first time he set foot into it, yet it seems to hit him just now. Perhaps it’s because he’d been too busy to notice last night, too wrapped up in Flins and the way his skin reddened as more and more clothes fell to the floor, the way he clung to Varka with hunger in his eyes and sharp teeth that caught on his lower lip with every meeting of their mouths.

Warmth rushes through him as memories flicker through his mind, replaying the events of the night before like a Fontainian film. He recalls, vividly, the way Flins tasted, the way he smelled faintly of cologne and something ozone-like, almost – something fierce and inhuman. The way his form shimmered under Varka’s ministrations, the tips of his hair flickering into flames, curling blue and harmless around his fingers. Flins even bared his teeth by the end of it, giving in to Varka’s provocations and sinking those sharp fangs into the meat of his shoulder. 

Even now, he can feel it. It’s not deep enough to scar, for Flins retains his self-control even when goaded to let go, but it’s certainly bruised. Varka doesn’t need more than a press of his fingers to confirm it.

A mix of emotions curls low and pleasant in his belly as he does, as the vague ache of a bothered bruise radiates down his arm. There’s pride, smug and self-congratulatory, at having reduced oh so composed Flins to such a state, at having driven him wild enough to give in to the fae instincts he pretends he doesn’t have. Then, there’s giddiness – because of course there is. He’s the one that Flins chose to welcome into his bed – not only that, but into his life as well. He chose Varka of all people, actively pursued him despite all the setbacks Varka might or might’ve not unintentionally created.

…

He feels a little bit bad about that dinner, in retrospect, but he couldn’t have known it was with romantic undertones that Flins invited him over. Really, he couldn’t have. He might be a seasoned traveler, but he’s still used to the ways of Mondstadt, where people tend to either say what they mean or leave you to decode their intentions through the puzzle of old-fashioned courting traditions. Frankly, Varka hadn’t paid attention when the latter was first explained to him, so he mostly relied on the former when it came to social interactions. It was more his style…and, besides, why complicate things when being direct would work just fine?

Perhaps he simply didn’t get it.

Well, even if he did, something tells him he still wouldn’t have been prepared for the force of nature that is Flins when he’s enamoured. It could be a fae thing, sure, but he’s hung around Flins and seen enough of his coin and bone collection to know that it’s a Flins thing, the attention. Not smothering, never, but ubiquitous nonetheless. The quiet persistence and the small gestures, the way he gravitated towards Varka regardless of who else was in the room. The way he’d make his way to the Flagship despite his mild dislike of such crowded places, all to spend time with Varka.

…

All things considered, maybe he should’ve seen this – them, the two of them intertwined – coming. But then again, there’s no sense in dwelling on such things when they’re finally together, when he can just reach over and pull Flins into his arms, delighting in the way the man relaxes, tension bleeding out of him as if it were never there to begin with. He wishes to do that now, but there’s no Flins to be found besides him. His side of the bed is cold, sheets only somewhat wrinkled; he must’ve gotten up a while ago.

Hm.

Varka’ll have to go find him, then.

With a shake of his head and a moment taken to stretch, he hauls himself up and begins rummaging around for his clothes. They were taken off in a hurry last night, so it takes a bit to locate his undershirt – which made its way under Flins’ desk, somehow – and his pants, hanging neatly off one of the bedposts. He runs his fingers through his hair a few times, tries pressing the wrinkles of his shirt into submission with nothing but his bare palms, then heads downstairs.

The kitchen – a small section of the lighthouse that Varka can barely navigate without knocking into the corner of some counter or other – is empty, practically untouched save for the teapot that lies on the table, steam wafting from underneath its lid. It smells vaguely of ginger, perhaps with some cinnamon added. Varka steps inside, tempted for the slightest second, but that’s where he stops. As nice as it is for Flins to have made him tea, Varka would like to drink it with him. 

Mind made up, he descends further into the lighthouse to peer into the bathroom. Nobody’s there, but that’s to be expected. Flins rarely uses it – he doesn’t need to, fae that he is, but he likes to brush his teeth nevertheless. He’s told Varka as much in that even tone of his, trying his best to seem approachable, to seem human.

Varka has never put it into words, not to Flins’ face, but he likes it very much when Flins does the exact opposite. Perhaps he should say it out loud. It’ll be a bit embarrassing, sure, but he’s done worse things – he’s called the man pal and buddy to his face shortly after being asked and agreeing to have dinner with him, in his house, alone. 

Yeah, that’ll forever remain at the top of the list of things he thinks about when he can’t sleep. Telling Flins what he likes about him will be as easy as breathing.

To do that, though, he’ll have to find him…and the man is nowhere inside the lighthouse. At least nowhere that Varka’s checked. He could have wandered outside to tend to a grave or console a ghost as he’s so often wont to do, sure, but Varka doesn’t think so. Flins hardly seems like the type of person to sleep with someone and vanish in the morning, especially after the many trials and tribulations he had to face to get Varka in bed with him.

So he makes his rounds again, calling out Flins’ name as he goes. The lighthouse remains empty, only Varka haunting his halls as he wanders in and out of its tiny rooms. Sometimes, the hairs on his nape stand up as the distinct feeling of being watched creeps up on him – it’s an eerie sensation, yet oh so familiar that  Varka doesn’t even think of drawing his sword. Instead, he follows the curl of the staircase till there’s nowhere to go but outside. 

The door creaks as he pushes it open and steps onto the small deck at the top of the lighthouse. Varka squints; it takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the bright rays of the morning sun. Once they do, he does a cursory check of the deck, but there’s nowhere to really hide, even if Flins wanted to. It’s a very small space, after all, barely a few feet separating the telescope from the door.

With a vague sense of disappointment thrumming through him, Varka sighs, turning back to the stairs –

Only for cold fingers to grip onto his shoulder, just a hair’s width away from that delightful bruise. “Boo.”

“Barbatos above,” Varka blurts, startled. Hand pressed to his chest, he swivels around to see Flins, dressed just as casually as Varka and gazing at him with the most thoughtful of looks. “What are you doing? I’ve been looking for you all over.”

Flins hums. “I wanted to try it, I suppose. Miss Columbina’s trick.”

Columbina’s…?

Ah.

“I didn’t know you could hide yourself like that,” Varka says, scratching at his neck. It’s slightly warm to the touch, made so by the discovery of this particular ability of Flins’.

…

He really wasn’t lying when he said he liked it, the distinctly inhuman side of his partner.

“It’s not something I do often,” Flins tells him, eyes flicking to Varka’s shoulder – as if he can see the bruise under – before dragging themselves upwards, meeting his gaze.

“I see, I see,” Varka says, feeling like a fool. He wonders if he looks like one too, but he can’t help it, entranced as he is by the sight of Flins so unguarded – enough so to play a childish prank on Varka just to see if he’d like it. “Well, did you?”

“I must admit,” Flins says slowly, measuring his words. “There is some merit to watching you stumble around trying to find me. It was quite funny,” he adds, the smallest of smiles playing on his lips.

“You’re very funny,” Varka says, not as dryly as intended. He wants to kiss him a little, is the thing, and it’s currently occupying most of his thoughts. It occurs to him that he can, so he leans forward and pecks Flins on the cheek. 

Flins leans into it, something pleased flickering through his eyes. He reaches over, smoothing the stubborn wrinkles of Varka’s collar. “You will find that you’re much funnier, Grandmaster,” he says and he tilts his head, all nice and demure, his shirt falling to the side ever so slightly.

Varka can’t help the way his gaze darts to it – that sliver of skin, exposed but no longer unblemished. A bruise clings to the juncture of Flins’ shoulder meets his neck, put there by Varka’s own mouth. He remembers doing so, yes, but it’s something else to see in the daylight, on a Flins who is soft and playful and relaxed.

“Yeah? Well,” he draws Flins closer as he speaks, wrapping both arms around that lithe waist. “Why don’t you come in and have some tea with me? I’ll let you hear some of my jokes – the really good ones.”

Amusement glints in Flins’ golden pupils. They might look eerie to some, but Varka just thinks of home when he sees the color of them, so similar to that of the lantern he used to find his way home as a young knight, returning from a day of training.

Varka’s pulled back to reality when Flins slips out of his arms and past him, taking the first step down the lighthouse’s long flight of stairs. “You’re much funnier when you’re not trying, I’ll have you know,” Flins says, his voice carrying as he gets further and further away.

Varka blinks. “Hey,” he calls, more clueless than offended. “What does that even mean? I’ll have you know my jokes are appreciated by people far and wide!”

“Let’s have tea, shall we?”

“Oi, Flins –”

A flurry of steps resounds down the stairs, then Varka pops his head in. “Hey, have you seen my coat? I can’t find it.”

How peculiar, Flins doesn’t say. Instead, he drops a few sugar cubes into his cup, watching them melt into the heat of the tea before beginning to stir his concoction. “Have you checked upstairs?”

Varka – who had presumably disappeared to check the small coat hanger he’d insisted Flins install in the hallway – pops his head back in. “Yeah,” he says, faintly perplexed. “It’s not there.”

“My drawers, then?” Flins suggests. His spoon clinks softly as he sets it down in the sink. “You’ve left several of your things there before.”

“Oh, I didn’t think of that,” Varka shoots him a smile, unstated gratefulness clinging to the corners of it. “Nice one.”

Flins gives him a nod, eyes flicking to the door just in time to catch a glimpse of Varka before the man vanishes upstairs, steps echoing through the lighthouse. 

The tea on the counter steams, unattended, as if waiting to be drunk. Flins gives in to temptation – he has nothing else to do while he waits, after all – and reaches for it, lifting the cup to his mouth. He savours the sip, letting the sweetness linger on his tongue before swallowing.

Good enough, he supposes.

Flins is not one for sweets, has never been, but they’ve grown on him. It’s unavoidable, he supposes, having let a man with such a sweet tooth into his life. The man can’t resist bringing back something every time he goes into town, be it actual food or just a recipe borrowed from the Traveler. When it’s the latter, he often coaxes Flins into baking it with him and he usually agrees, if only to see how badly Varka will mess up the measurements this time.

Muffled cursing echoes from upstairs, followed by the thud of a drawer sliding shut. The sounds break him from his thoughts and Flins suppresses a chuckle as he reaches for his Varka’s cup, setting it next to his own and taking a seat at the table. He leans back ever so slightly, squinting at the portion of the sky visible through the kitchen’s small window. 

Varka’s right to be frustrated, it seems. Judging by the height of the sun in the sky, it’s long past morning. He should’ve left at least an hour ago.

“It’s not upstairs either,” comes Varka’s voice, words interwoven with the creaking of the storage room’s door. “You sure you haven’t seen it?”

Flins’ gaze flicks from the window to Varka’s chair, sitting empty and unoccupied save for the black and teal draped over the back of it – exactly where it’s been ever since Flins woke up and placed it there, careful to smooth out any wrinkles and brush off any of the dust that might’ve been clinging to it. “Have you checked downstairs? Maybe you left it at the very entrance.”

“It’s not there,” is Varka’s quick reply, voice raised for Flins to hear. His words are tinged with frustration and for a second, something deep and primal flutters with satisfaction inside Flins. “I don’t know where I put it, but Nefer’s gonna tear me a new one when she finds out why I was late.”

Perhaps you shouldn’t go at all.

Flins swallows back that response – it’s a bit too greedy, a bit too truthful for him to let slip so early in the morning, without the cover of the night and Varka’s touch to steady him. “How unfortunate,” he says instead.

No answer comes. Flins takes a sip of his tea, contemplating the right course of action: should he repeat himself, or would it be easier to simply get up and aid Varka in his search, fruitless as it’s bound to be?

He has no time to come to a decision, however, for the door gives a long creak as Varka makes his way into the kitchen. Flins blanks; his partner looks good this morning, with messy hair, a shirt that’s riding up ever so slightly and the faintest hint of displeasure clinging to his furrowed brows.

“Still no luck?” he says, a beat too late.

Luckily, Varka doesn’t seem to notice, too busy pulling his chair back to sink into it. “Nope. None at all. It’s like the thing just vanished.”

“How unfortunate,” Flins doesn’t coo, but his tone could qualify as such, were one to pay close attention.

Varka looks up at this, eyes narrowing. “...You did something to it, didn’t you.”

Yes, and it took you quite a while to catch on, Sir Varka, Flins doesn’t say. Something must give him away, however – perhaps the glint in his eyes, the minute twitch at the corners of his lips. Or maybe it’s the way his finger’s tapping against the warm porcelain of his cup in a show of agitation that he doesn’t even feel.

Whatever it might be, it has Varka leaning back in his chair, pressed against the very coat he’s looking for as he barks out a laugh. “Scared I won’t come back, Kyryll? Think Nefer’s gonna eat me?”

“Given your lateness, it’s certainly a possibility,” Flins answers. Then, softer, tone dropping to something like a murmur, “Besides, I wouldn’t presume to know which way the wind will blow, Varka.” Nor where it’ll take you.

A shadow of emotion flickers across Varka’s face, but it’s too quick for Flins to fully catch. It’s impossible, however, to miss the way his features soften, the way his eyes glint with something heavier, stronger, than even fondness. “I’d come back even if the wind took me over the seas to Inazuma. But,” he adds, distinctly more light-hearted, “If you wanted to spend the morning together, you could’ve just said so.”

Flins feels – soothed is not quite the term, nor does he want it to be. Suffice to say, the sharpness that had gripped him when he awoke, brought on by the blurry vision of Varka’s back as he departed, never to return – that sharpness dulls considerably. When he exhales, it is with a chuckle that carries across the room, that coaxes Varka’s mouth into a grin.

“If straightforwardness is what you expect, perhaps you still haven’t spent enough time with the fae, Sir Knight,” Flins says slowly, finger coming to rub at the rim of his cup.

“Yeah, yeah,” Varka dismisses easily, although his eyes are unblinking as he follows the motion. “Just give me my coat back, will you?” He reaches for his own tea, taking a sip as if thirsty beyond belief. “Damn, this is good. Exactly how I like it.”

Flins doesn’t preen, though it’s a close thing. “Why, I’m surprised the sugar hasn’t overpowered every other flavor.”

“You collect bones and coins, Flins, you can’t exactly judge my drinking habits –”

“Also,” he goes on as if Varka hasn’t even spoken, “Your coat is just behind you. Over the chair, yes?”

Varka pauses. He turns slowly, as if expecting it to bite him, then swivels back to Flins with a laugh. “Of course it’s been here all along. Should’ve known,” he mutters, amusement dripping from his words. “You probably had a right laugh watching me waste half of my morning, didn’t you?”

Flins, for a moment, considers lying. What he does, however, is to glance at Varka from between his lashes as he speaks. “Just a little bit. Can you truly fault me for it? As I’ve said so many times before, you possess a natural propensity for jokes, Sir Varka.”

Varka simply looks at him, his lips twitching as if to grin again. “You’re lucky I need to get going soon, ‘cause I’m tempted to show you something else I have a ‘natural propensity’ for.”

That gets a laugh out of Flins, as restrained as it is. “Do not tempt me, Varka,” he says, trailing off. There’s no need to voice the rest out loud – both of them know Flins could charm him, could empty his head of any thoughts related to work and duty and meetings. 

“Oh, but I am. I always do,” Varka leans closer, so much so that Flins can feel the vaguest hint of Varka’s breath, fanning his face. “And you never do anything about it.”

Varka’s right. 

He won’t – would never, but his words hang in the air nevertheless, not quite threat, not quite promise.

Flins leans back in his seat. When he speaks, it’s a slow thing, giving Varka ample opportunity to see his teeth – the sharpness, the glint of them. “How brave of you, Sir Knight.”

“Well, there’s not much to be scared of,” Varka says with an easy shrug, reaching for his coat. “The worst you’ve done is bite me, zap me – oh, and hide my things. Using magic, of course, so I can’t find them. It’s a bit like living with an upset little brownie, isn’t it?”

An upset little brownie? Varka’s been studying, hasn’t he…

The realization is a cascade of warmth over Flins’ back, leaving him impossibly pleased. “Provoking the fair folk isn’t your wisest move.”

“Yeah, well,” Varka stands up to tug his coat on, rolling up his sleeves. “What are you gonna do, hide my things again?”

Flins lifts one shoulder in a shrug, mind whirring with possibilities. “You’ll find out when you return.”

Varka snorts. “Spooky,” he says with an over the top shudder. Flins means to – tell him off, maybe, or tease him a little more, but he gets no chance to, as Varka’s fingers find his chin, tilting it up for their mouths to meet.

It’s a chaste kiss, more a press of lips than a real kiss, yet it leaves him breathless anyway, leaves him wanting to pull Varka by the lapels of his silly coat till there’s no space between them.

“Okay, I’ve really got to go now,” Varka says when they part, exhaling noisily. “Or Nefer will actually extort me for all I’m worth.”

“You would best her, I believe,” Flins tells him, unblinking. “You are strong enough to best anyone, Sir Varka.”

Varka blinks. When he brings up a hand to scratch at his neck, it’s with a pink flush on his face. “You really know how to flatter a man.”

Is it flattery if it’s true, Flins wonders. Instead of voicing that, however, he settles for a simple reminder: “Time is passing.”

It is, after all, oh so entertaining to watch the man fumble. Perhaps a touch endearing as well, though Flins would not admit that to anyone but Varka himself.

“Ah,” Varka exclaims, then, “Shit, you’re right –”

And with that he trails off, leaving Flins to watch him hurry to and from, collecting his sword and vambraces and boots from their usual places.

“I’ll be back tonight, yeah?” Varka throws over his shoulder, taking the stairs two at a time – at least going by the pauses between thumps.

“Of course,” Flins says and he’s excited already, almost breathlessly so. “You’re always welcome here.”

Perhaps his words go unheard. Perhaps they don’t. All Flins knows is that, when he looks at his and Varka’s cups lying side by side on the table, giddiness blooms within his chest for the first time in centuries.

“ – put that over there,” Varka nods, more to himself than to the junior knight standing at attention in front of him. “Just make sure it’s secured properly, yeah? Can’t have all our supplies falling off the wagon mid-journey.”

The knight shifts the parcel into a one-armed hold, saluting. “Yes, sir!”

Varka waves a hand through the air. “It’s my job to help, isn’t it?” Without waiting for an answer, he gestures towards the wagon with a dip of his chin. “Now, off you go. We’re running behind schedule.”

“Perhaps,” a voice pipes up from behind. Varka turns, squinting against the setting sun’s golden rays, to see Albedo, a clipboard in his hand and a bag hanging from his shoulder, presumably full of everything alchemical. “But I don’t think the Acting Grand Master will mind. I’ve informed her of our circumstances, after all.”

Varka scratches at the side of his neck. “Circumstances – you make it sound like a bad thing, putting it like that.”

“My apologies,” Albedo says, and if Varka didn’t know him for so long, he’d think him facetious. “I didn’t mean to insinuate as such, but it could quickly turn into a bad thing, as you put it. If things don’t go in your favour, that is.”

Varka doesn’t grimace – this is Albedo he’s dealing with, after all, and he grew used to the young man’s rather peculiar way of thinking long ago – but it’s a close thing. He scratches his neck again, keenly aware of Albedo’s eyes tracking the motion. “It’ll be fine.”

“Of course it will. Again, I didn’t mean to insinuate otherwise,” Albedo replies, quick and sure. “The possibility of something going wrong is always present, even in the most controlled of environments. That’s all I meant. But this isn’t an experiment, it’s a social situation – something you excel at. There’s no reason to think failure will be the result, especially considering the effort that went into this.”

Varka shudders at the thought of the effort, frankly. Not to say it wasn’t worth it – Archons above, it was, truly – but the reminder of having to deal with Nefer and Dori, both of them hellbent on squeezing every last coin from his coffers? Yeah, that’s enough to shake even him. At least they’d done a good job finding the books Varka needed; otherwise, he would’ve had to explain both his state of sudden destitution and his burning interest in fae affairs to Flins, and he isn’t sure he could’ve survived that without giving away the end goal.

“Right,” he rubs at his chin, feeling stubble catch on the calluses of his fingers. The past few days have been so busy that he hasn’t even had the time to shave, not without one of the knights busting his door down asking where to put this or how to pack that.

“Grandmaster,” Albedo calls, startling Varka out of his thoughts. His eyes are soft when he speaks – not by much, but enough so for it to count. “It’ll be fine, truly.”

Varka huffs out something like a laugh, hand falling back down to his side. “Is that your opinion as a scientist?”

“I’ve yet to find a way to quantify romance and romantic feelings, so no, I can’t speak as a scientist here,” Albedo says dryly.

“How unfortunate,” Varka says, all mock disappointment as he reaches over to ruffle his hair –

Only for Albedo to dodge at the last second, side-stepping Varka’s hand with the grace of someone who’s had to resort to such a move hundreds of times before. “I’ll take over from here,” he says. “It’s about time for your meeting, is it not?”

Varka chances a glance at the sky, at the copper hue of it. The sight urges agitation to rush through his veins, leaving him full of energy and no way to put it to good use. “Indeed it is,” he says. Rubs at his neck again. “Wait, how did you know that?”

Albedo shoots him a mild stare. It reminds Varka so much of Flins that for a second, he’s tempted to leave his troops to pack however and whatever they like and rush to the lighthouse. “It’s all you’ve been talking about since this morning.”

“Ah.”

Varka’s…done a lot of that, hasn’t he?

“Like I’ve been saying, it’ll be fine, Grandmaster,” Albedo pauses, eyes darting upwards. “Although it’d be for the best if you weren’t late.”

“Shit,” Varka says, and, “You’re right. You’ve got this handled, yeah?”

Albedo’s head bobs in a nod and he shifts his clipboard higher, almost as if for emphasis. “We’ll get back on schedule,” he assures.

With another nod and a few more instructions tossed over his shoulder, Varka takes his leave. It doesn’t take long to reach his destination – the Flagship is one of the most popular places in town, and for good reason: it sits at the very center of Nasha Town, easily accessible from any side, by any faction. Still, his thoughts weigh heavy the entire journey and so does the trepidation roiling inside him, leaving his heart to flutter spasmodically against the confines of his chest.

It’s silly, really.

Varka’s faced foes ten times deadlier than the challenge ahead  – a challenge he willingly undertook – yet he still feels as unprepared as a trainee facing their first Hilichurl, if not more. His hands aren’t shaking, not quite, but his tongue feels too big in his mouth, clumsy almost, and the object in his pocket threatens to burn a hole through the fabric and sear its shape into his skin. It’s beyond odd, feeling so nervous at his age. The last time he was such a wreck was at his best friend’s wedding – and that’s because he was the man of honour who hadn’t realized he was supposed to give a speech.

Still, he perseveres. It’s what he’s always done, in the face of adversity. Sure, in this case, the adversity comes from inside, comes from those what to do in the case of rejection sections of the books Nefer and Dori procured for him, but that’s besides the point.

He won’t be rejected. Or indentured to Flins for life.

Or eaten.

He’s pretty sure Flins isn’t into any of that, Fae though he might be. He bites sometimes, yes, but never enough to cause serious concerns –

“Penny for your thought, Grandmaster?”

Varka blinks, somewhat startled. His gaze lands on Flins, standing prim and proper just a few feet from the Flagship’s door. Under the cover of shadows as he is, his eyes seem to glimmer like the lick of a flame in the dark. “Oh,” escapes him, more than a little dumbly. It seems that, in the past few days apart, he’s forgotten how breathtaking Flins looks. Sure, he’s wearing the same ratnik’s uniform as usual and his hair is ever so slightly mussed by the breeze, but still. Varka’s never seen a more gorgeous individual.

“That’s hardly what must be going through your mind,” Flins says, an undercurrent of amusement clinging to his words. Nevertheless, he steps out of the shadows, stopping just shy of brushing against Varka. “Are preparations taking a toll on you, Grandmaster?”

“Eugh,” Varka rubs a hand down his own face. “Don’t call me that, I’ve been hearing it all day. I’m beginning to think it’s my actual name.”

“Moving is always chaotic, I imagine,” Flins says, an attempt at consolation that wouldn’t quite land if it weren’t coming from him. His hands come up, fixing Varka’s collar. It’s a needless action, for there’s nothing to fix; Varka lets him anyway, just to feel the inhuman coldness of his touch, to smell the tint of ozone hidden underneath his cologne.

“Suppose it is,” Varka agrees. “But enough about that. I haven’t asked you over to discuss logistics.”

Flins’ fingers come to a stop, yet they do not depart from his collar. Golden eyes – mild and curious and oh so lovely – meet Varka’s. “Indeed. In your letter, you said you had something to show me.”

“Mhm,” Varka’s arm comes to lie around Flins’ waist, drawing him closer. He’s grateful, not for the first time, that it’s late enough for the Flagship’s regulars to have already gone inside; there’s very little chance of being interrupted, this way. “I’ve got a little something to show you – well, it’s not very little, but still. I think you’ll like it.”

A tilt of Flins’ head. “Not a coin then?”

Varka huffs out a laugh. Of all the gifts he’s given Flins, those have always been the most appreciated – enough so for Varka to end up leaving the lighthouse with a limp and a spring in his step. “No. Think bigger. Oh, and alive. Something that’ll help on our journey.”

Their journey – not just Varka’s, not just the Knights’, but theirs, for Flins is coming with him to Mondstadt. Not permanently, sure, but Varka isn’t planning to settle down either. He’ll be back to travelling the world soon enough, but first he wants to see his friends, his family – wants to introduce Flins to them, to show off and brag and watch Flins interact with the people Varka loves. It’ll be delightful, he knows, for the mere fantasy of it is enough to drown out the trepidation still simmering through his veins.

“....A horse, then?”

Varka grins; nothing slips past Flins, it seems. “Yeah. You’re gonna love her.”

Flins’ brow furrows the slightest bit as he considers this. “Animals don’t tend to enjoy my company.”

“You’ve got that dog of yours, he doesn’t seem to mind.”

“That’s because of our mutually beneficial arrangement,” Flins refutes. “It wouldn’t keep approaching me if I didn’t provide for it.”

“Yeah, well,” Varka shrugs, limiting the motion so as not to dislodge Flins’ hand from him. “Worst case scenario, you can strike up a mutually beneficial arrangement with the horse too. Or,” he pauses, leaning in so that the tips of their noses touch, “You could ride with me.”

Flins’ eyes narrow. “Varka,” he says, voice low, and it’s not a warning, not a real one, but the hairs on Varka’s nape stand at attention anyway. Something on his face must give it away, just how much he likes this tone of Flins’, for the man sighs. “Very well. Show me to the horse.”

It takes a moment for Varka to gather his wits enough to look away, to formulate a response that isn’t just kissing Flins senseless. “Right. This way.”

The tension somewhat drains from him as they fall into step beside each other, filling the air with stories of this and that as they go. Flins tells him about the past few days, about some ancient coin he stumbled upon while on patrol. Excitement, too, is a muted thing on Flins’ face, but Varka knows him well enough to spot the twinkle in his eyes, the minute quirk to his lips. Varka listens, chiming in with a joke or a smile whenever he can – he doesn’t know much about coins – and only realizes they’ve arrived when Flins slows to a stop. The stables loom just ahead, their big wooden door left ajar. 

A few knights are milling around, loading stacks of supplies onto nearby wagons. They look up as Varka’s footsteps draw closer, saluting with an exhaustion that he too ought to feel – yet he doesn’t, any and all emotions overrun by anticipation, by restless resolve.

“Welcome to the famed stables of the Knights of Favonius,” Varka says, holding the door open for Flins, who hums as he enters, eyes flicking from corner to corner. “Well, temporary stables.”

Flins nods, something like approval clinging to his tone when he speaks. “Very quaint.”

“Yeah,” Varka gestures for Flins to follow, leading them deeper into the stables. “Nasha Town’s pretty modern, so people’ve pretty much given up on horses. When we found this building, it was weeks away from being torn down. The owners didn’t really want to rent at first, but they changed their tune pretty quick when they realized who we were – and how much coin we had on hand,” he adds with a laugh.

It doesn’t take long to locate the horse he’s prepared for Flins – she’s at the very end of the stables, in the stall furthest away from other horses. She looks up as they approach, ears pricking forward as her eyes settle on them with quiet interest. She doesn’t step back at the sight of Flins, doesn’t even startle. Truth be told, Varka had expected as much – she’s seen a lot, after all, things much scarier than a fae with piercing golden eyes. It comes with being an old horse, one who’s been around for as long as Varka, almost. However, her age has yet to show; she remains as sturdy as any mare in her prime, with strong legs covered by a thick black coat and a mane of dark hair that’s been braided into a simple plait. 

Flins falls silent. Not even his breath echoes through the stables as Varka approaches the horse, holding up a hand and letting her sniff him. Once her inspection is complete, he reaches toward her the side of neck, stroking gently. She allows it, seemingly indifferent, though her tail flicks through the air at the attention.

Varka huffs out a laugh, turning to Flins. “This is Shadow. Jean named her when she was younger, so the name’s pretty self-explanatory, but I’d say it suits her.”

Flins’ head dips in a nod. “It does,” he says, something soft in his tone. His eyes aren’t quite on Varka’s face, but on his hand, on the way he’s petting the horse.

“Come closer, she won’t bite.”

Flins hesitates. “Are you certain? I wouldn’t want to upset her.”

Varka takes a moment to consider this, not wanting to dismiss Flins’ concerns entirely. Ultimately, he shrugs. “If she’s upset, she’ll let us know. Don’t think she’ll mind you, though.”

Flins’ gaze holds his, then flits away as he sighs. “I will trust your judgement, then.”

“You should – it’s gotten me into plenty of good places,” he says, giving Flins a once-over just to emphasize his point.

For a second, Flins’ brow twitches like he’s contemplating whether it’s worth scolding Varka for flirting in front of the horse. Ultimately, he remains quiet, simply making his way closer. Beside a simple huff through her nose, Shadow has no reaction. Flins stares, a look on his face Varka has only seen directed towards particularly dirt-smudged coins.

Varka knew it – he just knew they’d get along. Holding back a grin, he says, “Wanna try petting her?”

“If it isn’t too much of an imposition…”

“Trust me,” Varka chuckles, “She really isn’t one to hide it if we’re bothering her.”

It’s true; he’s seen her nip at the hands of countless trainee Knights, all a little too eager or too rough with their petting. That won’t be a problem with Flins, though. Varka knows how gentle he can be, especially when handling something – or someone – he deems precious. 

“C’mon,” he places a hand on Flins’ lower back, urging him a little bit closer. “Let her sniff you first, yeah?”

As expected, it goes well. Shadow gives a sniff, then another, then a third – before growing completely disinterested, gaze drifting away from Flins, from the fae who’s inadvertently scared enough animals that even Lauma’s heard complaints about him. Varka’s hand falls to the side, Flins replacing it with his own as he pets her slowly, the skin around his eyes creasing with joy.

“See?” Varka says after a few seconds. “Told you you’d get along just fine. And you didn’t even have to bribe this one.”

Flins shoots him a dry look. “Funny as always, Sir Knight.”

Varka grins. “I try,” he says. Then with a nod towards Shadow, “Wanna try riding her? Just for a bit, to see if the saddle is to your liking and all.”

Flins’ eyes narrow the slightest bit and Varka’s heart jumps in his chest, but then he turns back to the horse, to stroking her neck. “Sure.”

“Right-o,” Varka pats him on the shoulder, feeling more and more like a buffoon. “You stay here, alright? I’ll get the saddle and then I’ll get her ready.”

“I could help,” Flins offers, a nostalgic twist to his mouth. “It’s been a while, but I do remember how the stable hands prepared the Tsar’s horses for riding.”

Warmth rushes to pool in Varka’s chest; it’s not often that Flins talks about his distant past and he’s glad, if not outright grateful, to be allowed to hear it. “Yeah,” he says, just a beat too slow. “C’mon.”

With the two of them working together, it takes mere minutes to equip Shadow. Then they bring her outside – not in the midst of the still-busy Knights, but through the back, into the wide courtyard that wraps around the stables. Varka leads her into the very center of it before stopping, turning to face Flins. He’s just a few feet behind, his hands behind his back and eyes glimmering with untold excitement as he follows.

“So,” Varka clears his throat. It feels dry, almost painfully so. “Here should be fine. You can try getting on now. Do you know how?”

Flins hums and Varka listens, keenly aware of the fact that he’s stalling, that the words he ought to be uttering are bubbling to the tip of his tongue, eager to spill. “I should be fine,” Flins says. “Like I said, I spent a lot of time watching the riders, back then.”

“Still,” Varka insists and it’s suspicious, he knows it is, but that’s fine. He’s about to let the cat out of the bag – no more need for charades. “I’ll help.” He extends his hand, ignoring the way his heart’s hammering like a spooked rabbit’s, the way a thin sheen of sweat has gathered at his temples. “May I have your hand?”

It’s…awkward, saying it. Nothing like the smooth confidence he had in his imagination; instead, the words tumble out of his mouth one after another to the rhythm of his fluttering heart. Blood’s rushing through his ears, so much that he can scarcely hear his own breath.

Flins stares at him, golden eyes wide. For the very first time since they’ve met, Varka’s managed to stun him into silence. He’s not sure if it’s a good sign, can only hope it is.

“Varka,” Flins starts, his voice tremulous. “That,” his throat bobs. “To someone like me, it’s…”

“I know,” Varka says. His arm’s starting to ache. He keeps it extended anyway, palm open and facing upwards.

Flins’ eyes flick to his, wild and – glowing, almost. “If I accept, we’ll be –”

“Yeah,” Varka swallows. Smiles. It’s a tentative little thing, but he’s hopeful about this. Flins would simply turn him down, were he not interested. This hesitation of his, this rush to explain himself? It speaks volumes. “I know. I have two rings in my pocket, if you wanna make it official the human way.”

Flins’ eyes widen further. “Varka,” he says, utterly lost. Impressed too, Varka hopes.

“I know what I’m asking, Flins. I’ve done my research,” he adds with a grin, a chuckle that’s both ill-timed and not, for it makes Flins’ lips twitch too. “So, that being said – May I have your hand?”

All the hesitance melts, leaving Flins’ eyes to soften as he smiles, his hand reaching for Varka’s. Their fingers intertwine as Flins pulls him closer so that they’re breathing each other’s air, clothes brushing together. “Only if I may have yours.”

“But of course,” Varka grins so widely that it hurts. Giddiness thrums through him, a joy so infectious that he can’t even dream of containing it. “I bought two rings for a reason. I’m yours, Flins.”

Flins’ grip tightens. His eyes flash as he speaks. “As am I, Sir Knight.” Then, his tone dropping to a murmur: “Seal the deal, Varka. Kiss me.”

That wasn’t in any book I read, Varka thinks. He voices no protest, drawing Flins into his arms so that they’re flush against one another when their mouths meet. It’s a chaste thing, their kiss, though not any less passionate. Flins sighs into it, his fingers curling into Varka’s jacket and holding him in place. 

Hah.

As if Varka would ever let him go. He has no plans to, when it took them both so long to get where they are now, when Flins, an untamed force of nature that the legends speak of with fear, goes pliant in his arms – in Varka’s arms, not because Varka got lucky but because he was chosen, he was pursued.

Flins chose him.

And Varka chose Flins, whether he knew it or not, from the moment he first laid eyes on him.

What a pity it is that he must breathe, for it means they have to part. Flins laughs as they separate and it’s a little, barely audible thing compared to Varka’s own laughter, but it enchants him anyway, so much so that he leans in, wanting to be as close to the source as can be.

“Varka,” Flins calls, a smile playing on his lips.

“Hm?”

“Varka, the horse.”

The…horse?

Oh.

Shadow.

Right, they were in the middle of testing the saddle before he gathered the courage to say it – the words that have been on his mind ever since the idea of Fae-specific courting rituals sprouted in his mind.

Varka turns to check on her, only to stop as his head brushes against something. Something warm and solid, distinctly alive. The nose of a horse, breathing straight into his ear, onto his shoulder.

He closes his eyes, suppressing a laugh. “She’s right next to us, isn’t she.”

“Yes.”

“Probably a bit miffed to be ignored,” Varka lets go of Flins, regretfully so, to turn and pat Shadow on the neck. “Sorry, girl. You played your part wonderfully, for what it’s worth.”

“To think you even roped the horse into your plans,” Flins says. “Truly, your cunning knows no bounds.”

“Yeah, well,” Varka scratches at his neck. The skin’s warm to the touch, probably flushed. “It was worth it.”

Flins’ eyes darken, pleasantly so. “Oh?”

Varka pretends not to see it, not wanting to examine too closely what that look – that he’s only ever seen directed towards coins and bones – does to him. “Anyway,” he says a tad too loud. “I wasn’t joking about testing the saddle, so,” he shrugs, dips his chin towards Shadow. “Wanna give it a try?”

“Only if you’ll assist me, Sir Knight,” Flins blinks at him, slow and deliberate. “It seems I’ve forgotten how to ride.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Varka says, like the heat on his nape hasn’t spread to the tips of his ears. “I won’t let you go unassisted. I’m a Knight, you know?”

Just as he finishes speaking, something pulls on his shoulder, tugging him backwards. It’s Shadow, gazing innocently at him as she munches on the fabric of his jacket.

“...Right. No more ignoring the horse. My bad.”

Shadow gives a huff. Her chewing continues.

Flins laughs, loud and clear – it reminds Varka of home, of twinkling wind chimes, but also of the lighthouse, of patrolling Nod-Krai’s shores with Flins, of nursing drinks near the Flagship’s hearth and exchanging stories with an intriguing gentleman.

That’s home too, he realizes. He has two homes now and he can’t wait for them to collide, can’t wait to ride back to Mondstadt with Flins’ hand in his, both of them bearing matching rings.

Joy blooms in his chest at the thought, at the fact it’ll soon become a reality, and he can’t help it when he laughs as well. The sound echoes through the courtyard, most likely attracting the attention of those still milling about outside, but he doesn’t care.

He’s never been happier.