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Lately, Flins had been acting very weird.
“I feel rather lonely today. Would you be so kind as to keep me company for the night, Master Illuga?”
That day, Illuga spent the night at The Final Night Cemetery, where they rambled about trivial matters, such as Nikita’s clumsily shaved beard and how he managed to mess it up every time, or the argument Flins had once witnessed in Nasha Town between a drunkard and a ten-year-old child. The boy had apparently, in Flins’ words, told the man that he smelled ‘pungent’ as he passed by, which in turn prompted the drunkard to erupt into loud complaints about the hopelessness of future generations.
Another time, ona different day, he had caught sight of Flins near the seashore around Piramida, lost deep in thought. Now, although that in itself was not a rare occurrence, the unusually prominent shadows beneath his eyes told a different story.
When questioned, Flins had very subtly and very strategically brushed it aside with his usual riddles, then teased Illuga’s concern in a manner far too reminiscent of a lover. Illuga had huffed, rolling his eyes as he stomped away, pointedly ignoring the warmth creeping into his cheeks. Why did Flins have to word things like that?
Even so, even as he left, the image of Flins looking unbearably lonely for just a fleeting second followed him long after. Because Flins was… Flins was unlike any man Illuga had ever met.
For one, he possessed a peculiar way of telling stories, always leaving the listener wanting more. “My, should you visit me again, dear friend, I shall finish the tale to your full satisfaction,” he would say whenever Illuga protested at the stories being cut short. There was always a mischievous glint in his eyes as Illuga returned to the lighthouse, pulling his chair close beside Flins’ to hear more.
Second, he was incredibly well versed in historical events. Illuga had learned much from him, starting from Nod-Krai and stretching all the way to Snezhnaya during the reign of the Belyi Tsar. He was like a hidden library, waiting to be explored without fanfare.
This was the Flins Illuga had grown accustomed to.
The teasing Flins, whose formal manner of speech (rarely used by others) somehow managed to come across as friendlier than most. Albeit many had complained about the eerie, almost otherwordly aura he carried, Illuga had never quite seen it that way. He simply thought people didn’t try hard enough to truly get to know him.
The amusing Flins, who could coax a smile from Illuga with his clumsy attempts at humor. “You joke like an ancient man would, Flins. Even my old man doesn’t joke like that,” he would pretend to complain, grinning all the same.
And the… oddly intimate Flins, who, though far rarer, still managed to sneakily work his way into Illuga’s heart. A subtle brush of hands across the table during conversation that Flins pretended not to notice, or a light tap on the shoulder that lasted a second too long—such moments left Illuga acutely aware of the strange lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub echoing in his ears.
All in all, despite it being nearly impossible to tell what Flins was thinking at any given moment, Illuga had been confident that he had, at least in part, figured the odd man out.
So when, today, he paid a visit to Flins at The Final Night Cemetery to show off the rare gemstone Starshyna Nikita had acquired at an event, he found himself eagerly anticipating the sight of those amber-bright eyes shimmering beneath the sunset glow. Giddiness was written on his face all over—would he finally see a genuine, sun-kissed smile grace Flins’ features?
He realized he had nearly skipped his way to the lighthouse, for the Archons’ sake.
The rain was falling particularly hard this evening. Illuga’s boots splashed against the soaked ground as he entered the cemetery, one hand gripping his umbrella while the other held a bag—inside it, an elegantly carved wooden box containing the gemstone.
At first, he caught no sight of Flins as he scanned the area. He must have been taking shelter inside the lighthouse, Illuga reasoned.
Splosh, splosh, splosh, splosh—he walked on, passing the graves of his fallen comrades, making sure to pay his respects along the way. Even though he had never come to know most of them personally, the thought of their gruesome deaths still brought him great pain. Illuga hated how easily affected he could be, at times.
After his final visit and his last bow of the night, just as he was about to turn right toward the lighthouse, a distant, tall, familiar figure caught his attention at the far end of the island.
The figure stood alone in the rain, with no umbrella to shield them from the sky’s tears.
“…Sir Flins?” he murmured quietly, worry obvious in his voice.
That was strange. As far as Illuga could recall, there was no grave in that area. He pressed his lips together, the familiar, unpleasant sensation returning whenever Flins acted out of place.
His steps grew heavier, louder, and by the time he snapped back to reality, he realized he was running toward him. He nearly slipped on the muddy ground but managed to steady himself, quickly picking up his pace.
Illuga knew Flins must have heard him coming from miles away. Hell, he had probably sensed Illuga’s presence the very moment he stepped into the cemetery. There had been a time when he tried to surprise Flins, only to end up startling himself when Flins began speaking without even turning around. There was no doubt he was aware. Even so, whatever Flins was doing there must have been important enough to outweigh his other senses.
Thunder roared overhead, illuminating the sky in vivid blues and purples, accentuating the slump of Flins’ body, the stillness of his arms at his sides, and the slight forward tilt of his head. It felt like witnessing a fragment of a horror novel brought to life.
Illuga swallowed and took one final step forward. “Sir Flins?” he called, a little louder, trying to carry his voice over the rain. He stopped a short distance behind him, keeping a respectful space. “What are you doing out here in this thunderstorm?”
Eerie silence answered him, broken only by the soft pitter patter of rain against his umbrella.
“Let’s go inside, yeah?” he tried again, biting down on his lip. “You might catch a cold if you stay out here any longer.”
Flins did not so much as turn around to meet his gaze.
Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub—Illuga’s heart pounded violently against his chest. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. It would not slow. When was the last time Illuga had felt such nauseating dread?
Three years ago, wasn’t it… When… when—
His umbrella slipped from his grasp and struck the ground, followed by the bag he had carried all this way, held so carefully to keep it clean. Now it lay smeared with mud, much like the heavy soil tightening around his heart, constricting every artery.
“Flins!” He grabbed Flins by the arm, his grip tight, and desperate, similar to a child clutching at their mother’s finger. “Flins! Hey, Flins!” He shook him again and again, frantically clutching him with both hands.
Illuga stared at Flins in terror. He stared at Flins, who was looking downward, Illuga now noticed more clearly. Slowly, he followed his gaze.
Everything around him stilled, as though time itself had frozen.
“Why…” Illuga trembled, his body shaking. “Why is there—” He faltered, nearly losing his balance as the world began to spin. “Why is there an empty grave here?”
Gradually, the details began to surface. First, the dirt packed beneath Flins’ nails. Then the mud streaking his sleeves, his once pristine coat now soiled and weighed down with grime. His trousers were mottled with brown stains. And his shoes… what color had they been before?
“Oh…”
Illuga jumped at the unfamiliar voice scraping against his ears. A monster, his mind screamed, if only for a fleeting second. He wanted to cry out and flee. A monster. There is a monster here, he thought, panic clawing at his chest.
But when he looked up, he realized it was none other than Flins.
The light, which barely existed to begin with, had vanished from his pupils.
“F-Flins…?” Illuga called again, fear and worry bleeding into his voice.
Flins blinked at him, as though unable to recognize the person standing before him. He blinked once more, and then another soft, broken “Oh…” slipped past his cracked lips.
“When did you arrive, Master Illuga?” He smiled, but none of it reached his darkened eyes.
A monster, whispered the devil at his left shoulder. What stands before you is a monster, and it will swallow you whole.
That is Flins, countered the angel at his right. The well-respected Lightkeeper everyone places their trust in. That is Flins, for whom you bought a gemstone. You know who he is. You know he is your friend. You know he is, at times, more than that.
Illuga swallowed the growing lump in his throat.
Today, the devil wasn’t going to win.
“It’s been some time,” Illuga surprised himself by how steady he sounded when he spoke. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice, Sir Flins.” He pretended to sound cheerfully oblivious.
“Ah…” Flins muttered, tilting his head slightly. “Indeed. I did not, it seems.”
This was Flins. This was his dear friend Flins. This was his Flins.
Illuga wanted to cry. He wanted to cry, and he wanted to pull him into an embrace. What was that subdued sadness hidden beneath Flins’ strange aloofness?
The rain continued in a constant downpour, soaking them both through. Droplets clung to the ends of their hair, water trailing down their faces. Their clothes were drenched enough that one could wring buckets from them, yet neither spared the discomfort a single thought.
How can I help you? How can I take your misery away and bear it myself, Flins?
Illuga stepped forward, closing the small distance between them. Flins’ empty gaze never left him, following each movement through rain-darkened bangs that hung heavier with the damp.
“What happened?” Illuga pleaded, hoping his voice carried through the pounding rain. “Why are you here? Why do you have—” He reached for Flins’ hand—Archons, it was cold—and turned it over, cradling it between his own in a futile attempt to warm it. “—dirt under your nails? Were you… were you the one who dug this grave?” His voice faltered. “Why?”
At least Flins did not attempt to wear his disingenuous smile this time.
“I…” It was so unnatural to witness Flins stumble over his own words. A man of intellect and eloquence, opening and closing his mouth like a lost lamb. “What was I…?”
Flins glanced toward the empty grave. He stared and stared, for long, silent minutes. His hand grew colder. Illuga tightened his hold.
Then Flins turned back to face him.
Oh, why…?
Why are you looking at me as though you have just lost everything?
A devil? No. No, no, that could not be more wrong. Flins was unmistakably, painfully, beautifully human. Flins, who furrowed his brows like a lost child. Flins, who smiled only to stop his rain soaked eyes to burst and join the downpour. Flins, who gripped Illuga’s hand in return, so hard it could bruise.
This was not how Illuga wished to see those beautiful citrine eyes glow and shimmer. He had hoped for joy. For laughter.
“Flins.” The rain masked Illuga’s tears, for which he was grateful. “It’s okay.” Flins’ face was even colder than his hand. “Whatever it is. You don’t have to tell me, and I won’t ask.” He wiped and wiped, yet the rain never stopped. “But it’s okay. It’s okay, I promise.”
Flins blinked, his rain-soaked lashes clinging together. “You… you are not even aware of what you are promising, Master Illuga,” he said, his voice shaky.
“I don’t have to,” Illuga sniffled. “I don’t have to, okay? I’m promising for everything that’s yet to come.”
Flins offered no reply. Instead, he attempted to turn his gaze toward the empty grave once more. This time, Illuga stopped him. Rougher than usual, he pressed his hands to Flins’ face, forcing him to look at him.
“Don’t look,” he pleaded.
What a stubborn man. Flins did not listen. He tried again to turn away, no matter how firm Illuga’s grip was—when he chose to be, Flins was stronger than anyone Illuga knew.
He might have been stronger, but no one was as stubborn as Illuga. Not even his pops, Nikita, could sway him once his mind was set. There was always a solution to everything—you simply had to think hard enough and keep pace with the situation.
And so, Illuga raised his hand.
A resounding clap cracked through the air, louder than the thunder rolling overhead. In fact, it was so loud, the sound startled birds hidden among the nearby brush, wings bursting free as they scattered into the storm.
Flins froze like a deer in headlights, then creakily lifted his hand to his cheek, holding it there against the reddened skin. He was no longer staring at the grave. He wasn’t looking at Illuga either.
“…Master Illuga,” he rasped after a moment. “Did you just slap me?”
Illuga nodded absentmindedly. “I di—”
Oh.
Illuga had just slapped Flins. Oh.
“…Sir Flins—” He sputtered, clumsily trying to wipe the wetness from his face. “I— I didn’t mean to— I just, in the spur of the moment—”
The rain subsided. The gray clouds that had stretched endlessly across the sky split into smaller fragments, letting light spill back onto the ground. The thunder fell silent, the crackling gone. A single ray of sunlight broke through and shone directly upon Illuga, forcing him to squint until his eyes slowly adjusted to the warmth.
When he finally opened them, Flins was standing there.
And he— he was laughing.
This was not a usual smile. It was neither one of his calculated expressions nor the forced ones Illuga occasionally caught him wearing. This was something else entirely.
Flins and the sun seemed locked in a quiet contest, both equally bright, both equally warm. Yet in Illuga’s heart, Flins had already won by far.
He’s laughing. He’s laughing. He’s laughing.
Illuga repeated it to himself, over and over.
“Master Illuga, in the spur of the moment, do you always—” Flins broke into laughter once more, so strange and yet so beautiful, “—slap people to your liking?”
Illuga laughed sheepishly, awkwardly torn between wanting to crawl into the grave beside them and wanting to stand right there, watching Flins a little longer. “This was my first time, actually…”
“I hope it shall be your last,” Flins’ laughter softened, though his lips remained curved upward. “I’m not certain anyone else would survive it.”
“Oh, come on, it wasn’t that bad!”
Something else caught Flins’ attention then.
“What is that?” he asked, his gaze shifting to the bag on the ground.
Ah. He had nearly forgotten.
“Gramps got a gemstone from a trade yesterday,” Illuga explained. “I wanted to bring it to you as a small surprise, but, well…” He scratched his face sheepishly. “I just hope I didn’t accidentally scratch it.”
Flins’ lips parted in a quiet, reverent “Oh,” yet he didn’t move. Not even for a moment did he look away from Illuga, as though there were some unspoken meaning he was waiting for him to notice.
“What is it?” Illuga ventured anyway.
After a brief pause, Flins spoke again. “May I ask you for a favor?”
“Of course,” Illuga replied without hesitation.
Before him stood a man who looked almost childlike. His clothes were wrinkled and dirtied as though he had spent the entire day playing outside. His hair damp and tangled, strands sticking out in every direction. His eyes were wide and unguarded like a tiny little puppy.
“Would you give me a hug?”
They were soaked through. Sticky with rain and grime, and in desperate need of a long, warm shower—preferably hours under the water, until everything had been washed away. But still, despite all of that, Illuga rose onto his tiptoes and pulled Flins into an embrace, wrapping his arms around Flins’ neck, breathing in the damp, mossy scent clinging to his hair. He held on so tightly, their wet clothes rustled and squeaked with every small friction.
Illuga didn’t let go. How long was a hug meant to last? He didn’t know. But he didn’t let go. He didn’t want to. And when he felt two arms settle around his waist, he pressed closer still, burying himself deeper.
“You smell like dirt,” Illuga muttered into him. “And rain.”
Flins chuckled again. How many times had that been now? “So do you, Master Illuga,” he replied lightly. “Minus the dirt, at the very least.”
Illuga thought back to the strange Flins from moments earlier. He wanted to ask again, Why were you digging that grave?, but he swallowed the question instead.
Someday, he would ask. Someday, perhaps, he would understand more about this peculiar man. He hoped he would. There were layers upon layers hidden beneath the surface, and Illuga hoped he would be the one to peel them back, one by one.
“Thank you,” Flins whispered then, so heartbreakingly earnest. He nuzzled into the crook of Illuga’s neck.
This time, it was Illuga’s turn to smile.
“For you, Flins,” he said softly. “Anytime.”