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Illuga had bits and pieces of himself he wanted to hide.
All humans did, did they not? No one wished to show others their weakest points. Illuga was much the same. As the Squad Leader of the Nightmare Orioles, he needed to appear dependable, strong, resilient to all. Weakness was not allowed for him; to the Lightkeepers, he wanted to be the first one they turned to.
There were expectations placed upon him, so what would become of him if he failed to fulfill even one of them?
“If the Captain helps us out, then I’m sure we can figure it out!”
“Oh, did the Captain come back from another mission? As always, he’s truly the best of the best.”
“Captain! Mind cooking us that Berries and Fried Meat recipe again? I don’t think I can eat anyone else’s cooking after yours, not even my mom’s…”
“Nightmare Orioles only successful thanks to Captain Illuga’s strategies! We’d all crumble if he wasn’t here.”
Such sentences had become a daily part of Illuga’s life.
The mask he first put on three years ago slowly became a part of him. It was a mask that smiled for everyone, that tended to their needs without hesitation. Illuga was most grateful for it—without the mask, he believed he would have no one who respected him. They all loved the mask, not the weak, insecure Illuga hiding beneath it, and he told himself he was content with that.
All was good. All was alright.
All was supposed to be alright.
All was supposed to be alright until Illuga went into battle by himself. He was aware of the risks, of the dangers; that was precisely why they were meant to go as a group, to maintain a tight formation, just as they had strategized the other day. Yet it was because he knew those risks so well that he could not bear the thought of losing anyone to them. As the Captain, as the one they all trusted, he was meant to be more than capable of handling the Rifthounds alone.
What he was not meant to do was sustain multiple injuries and continue regardless—limping mid-battle, forcing himself through kill after kill, edging dangerously close to losing consciousness, which would have meant immediate death.
But most importantly, he was not meant to barely remain standing, nor to watch helplessly as Flins arrived to his aid, cutting down the remaining Rifthounds without uttering a single word, before lifting Illuga into his arms and carrying him all the way back to the Final Night Cemetery.
In the end, Illuga, the Squad Leader of the Nightmare Orioles, was as weak as ever.
Perhaps someone more qualified than him deserved his position—
“Master Illuga, either you are suffering from a most unpleasant dream that is causing such distortion upon your features, or, for reasons I have yet to discern, you are merely pretending to be asleep.”
…Oh.
Illuga had thought himself quite discreet. His eyes remained squeezed shut, his face contorted into rigid stillness.
“My,” Flins continued, his tone lowered, gentler yet no less curious, “whatever troubles your mind must be rather taxing. Your lips are drawn together in a most exhausting manner.”
His lips…? Illuga was certain he had not moved them in the slightest. Was Flins attempting to provoke him for his poor pretense? That hardly seemed fair.
In a failed try, Illuga subtly shifted atop the his resting spot, trying to relax his body further and perhaps truly drift back to sleep, (or, preferably, slip into unconsciousness once more) anything to avoid conversation with the perceptive Ratnik. Flins was a true professional; inevitably, whenever they spoke, Illuga found himself laying bare his thoughts, voicing complaints and struggles as his mask tilted just enough to reveal the core beneath. He always left those conversations with regret. Why did he reveal so much of himself to this man?
What if Flins, too, came to see him as weak?
Though being seen as weak by others stirred distaste, when it came to Flins, those gnawing feelings deepened closer into fear. Illuga did not want Flins to view him as lesser.
“Perhaps there is an external factor contributing to your discomfort,” Flins hummed thoughtfully; Illuga imagined him rubbing his chin with the side of his finger. It was a habit of his, one he always indulged in between sentences. “I shall examine your condition, Master Illuga. If you would excuse me for a moment.”
What— no—
In a panic, in a complete shutdown of reason replaced by sheer instinct, Illuga’s eyes flew open.
He blinked once, twice, then a third time.
“Ah.”
So that was what had been tickling the side of his face.
“You were awake, Master Illuga?” Flins asked, deep-set golden eyes gleaming down at him with unmistakable triumph. “I must say, your acting skills are not half bad.”
Illuga first noticed that Flins had laid him out across the long table just outside the lighthouse, with a thin cloth placed beneath him, and another one serving as a blanket. The next thing (the only other thing) was Flins himself, blocking nearly all of his view, his long, midnight hair falling to either side of his face, brushing lightly against Illuga’s skin. His hands had come to rest upon the feathered sections of Illuga’s coat, holding there albeit ghostly.
“…What are you doing?” Illuga’s voice came out hoarse, as though he had not spoken in a long while.
“As I stated, a physical examination,” Flins replied, blinking once, but it resembled a bashful flutter of lashes more than anything else. “That was no simple battle, Master Illuga. There must be a cause for your loss of consciousness beyond mere overexertion.”
Illuga swallowed, the rough surface of the table pressing more insistently into his back, stirring a silent discomfort.
“I feel alright, Sir Flins,” he muttered, turning his head away from the elder’s gaze. “I feel no pain whatsoever. It must’ve been exhaustion, as you said.”
“Mm. Is that so?” There was no trace of disbelief in Flins’ tone, but Illuga knew better than to assume he was convinced so easily. “Then I see no reason for you to object to a brief examination. How could I, in good conscience, allow the young master to leave without ensuring he is in proper condition?”
He had told Flins many times not to address him as young master, but the ever-stubborn man never seemed to know when to relent. Especially now, it was the last thing Illuga wished to be called. Illuga was no young master.
Without offering a response, Illuga adjusted, and Flins stepped aside to give him space. But the moment Illuga attempted to sit upright, a deep, bone-aching pain shot from his shoulder all the way down his back. He hissed sharply, clutching his left shoulder as his body slumped forward.
Flins was quick to put his hands on him again. Within seconds, a pair of cold, gloved hands steadied Illuga. One was pressed to his back, and the other gripped his right arm.
“Must you be so stubborn?” Flins sighed, his warm breath brushing against the side of Illuga’s neck. “You are very clearly in pain.”
“I-I’m fine,” Illuga grunted, refusing to meet the other’s concerned gaze. “I’ll take care of it once I’m back in Piramida.”
“You cannot even make a small movement without grunting,” Flins countered at once, still holding him firmly. “How do you expect to travel all the way there in this condition?”
“I’ll call for a caravan, and—”
“No.”
There were rare, peculiar moments when Flins, the embodiment of accommodation, spoke in a tone that left no room for argument. Illuga had encountered this side of him only once before, during an auction he had accompanied him to.
That night, Flins had engaged one of the auctioneers—a man who had gone about instilling fear in the crowd, discouraging others from bidding. Flins had politely excused himself from Illuga’s side, approached the man, and whispered something inaudible while leaning uncomfortably close to his ear. Whatever had been said was enough to render the man silent for the remainder of the evening.
Much like then, what Illuga felt now bore an unsettling resemblance to that same demeanor.
“Allow me to tend to your wounds, and if you still wish to return afterward, I shall personally escort you.” Flins smiled, though Illuga could not be certain it reached his slightly narrowed eyes. “Surely you would not brush aside my sincere concern so easily, Master Illuga?”
Illuga bit down on his lip and, with his head lowered, eventually offered the smallest nod without another word. In truth, the throbbing in his back grew more persistent with each passing second, and he needed something to bite down on (his lip becoming the unfortunate victim) to keep any sound of pain from escaping.
Flins hummed in satisfaction and tapped Illuga’s thigh lightly. “I know this may be difficult, but would you mind letting your legs dangle down?”
Illuga complied in silence, moving with several restrained grunts and stabbing pangs, taking longer than usual before finally settling into the position Flins had requested. The sensation was mortifying and humiliating all at once. Illuga had always tended to his own wounds, never allowing anyone to get this close.
While he remained lost in his embarrassment, Flins had already moved behind him, to the opposite side of the table, and once again placed his hands upon Illuga’s coat, this time with a firmer grip.
“May I remove this?” Flins asked. Illuga was not quite sure why, considering he did not appear inclined to accept refusal.
Illuga clenched his fists in his lap, his entire body taut with tension. “Go ahead,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut.
Flins was smooth in his movements, slipping the arm on Illuga’s uninjured side free first, then moving to the other, repeating the process more slowly. Illuga was certain he would need to apply ointment to his lower lip by morning as well; the taste of iron was already spreading along the roof of his mouth.
“Oh, my.” Flins breathed, his voice tinged with a strange sense of awe as he set his coat aside, entirely forgotten.
Once upon a time, there were bits and pieces of himself that Illuga had always wanted to hide.
Once upon a time, about five minutes ago, to be exact, Illuga had not wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
“…Don’t look,” Illuga gritted out, his head bowed so low it strained his neck; the mild discomfort was nothing in comparison to how exposed he felt.
Behind him, Flins went utterly still. For a brief second, Illuga thought he might have stepped away after taking in the grim sight before him. He would not have blamed him for it; even Illuga winced whenever he lingered on his own reflection for a moment too long.
“Don’t look?”
Illuga nearly startled himself off the table, his spiraling thoughts snuffed out in an instant.
“Master Illuga,” Flins continued, mild amusement dancing between the words, “I am flattered you hold me in such esteem, but even I am incapable of treating someone without the use of my sight.”
“It’s unsightly,” Illuga added, his voice barely above a whisper, almost swallowed by the air between them. I’m unsightly. “That’s why I'm telling you not to look.”
What followed was a pair of fingers, ghosting over his bare left shoulder. Illuga flinched at the unfamiliar sensation, even as those same fingers slipped beneath the fabric of his sleeveless turtleneck, lightly pressing against the hidden skin there.
It hurt. It tingled. It hurt and tingled all at once.
Flins had leaned closer—Illuga sensed it. So close that he caught the faint, fresh scent of sea salt clinging to him, brushing against his nose, drawing a deeper breath from his lungs.
“You jest, surely.” Flins’ lowered voice sent a prickle up the back of Illuga’s neck. “There is not a single aspect of you that is unsightly.”
His fingers moved further, reaching the start of the long battle scar at Illuga’s neck. He traced it carefully, returning to the beginning, then drifting lower, following the line down to where it ended along his arm. Illuga could no longer tell whether the throbbing pain remained, or if his focus on each intentional touch had eclipsed every other sensation.
“Every mark is a testament to bravery,” Flins mused. “And to survival.” He traced a smaller scar beside the first, set a little lower. “A work of art, truly.”
“Y-You’re just saying that,” Illuga replied, pretending the words had not struck him at all. How could Flins so easily praise what Illuga had despised in himself for so long? “You’re always too kind, y'know,” he added quietly, “even if you have a unique way of showing it.”
“I am many things, Master Illuga.” From the corner of his vision, Illuga met Flins’ gaze. They were standing so close now, their cheeks nearly brushing. His breath caught. “But I am far from as kind as you believe me to be.”
“How so?” Illuga asked, the curiosity in his voice genuine. The Flins he had come to know had shown him nothing but kindness, even in moments when he teased him beyond all reason. “I find that hard to believe.”
Flins held Illuga’s gaze for several silent seconds before finally parting his lips.
“For one,” he murmured, lowering his head and tilting it just enough for his lips to hover over the battle scar at Illuga’s neck. “You are in considerable pain, which I can tell by the tension in your brows.” Illuga clapped a startled hand over his mouth to stifle the sound threatening to escape as cold lips pressed against his skin. “Still,” Flins continued quietly, “I find myself far more captivated by your beauty instead, Master Illuga.”
He placed another kiss, gloved fingers gently parting the fabric of Illuga’s turtleneck to reveal the continuation of the scar beneath. Long strands of hair brushed against Illuga’s skin, and he tightened his grip over his mouth, his other hand clenching hard against the table.
What was happening? What was Flins doing?
Why… why could Illuga not bring himself to resist him?
“You are most beautiful, though I doubt my words will ever reach your obstinate mind.” Flins did not leave a single place untouched. He pressed soft peck after soft peck, following the length of the scar downward before moving on to the next, and then another.
“T-That’s enough—” Illuga shuddered, a startled sound tearing from him when Flins’ hands found his waist and he lowered himself, fingers slipping beneath the hem of Illuga’s turtleneck. “Sir Flins—”
“Master Illuga.” Flins’ voice came from lower, angled near the curve of Illuga’s back. “If you would allow it, I wish to indulge in you.” Even through layers of cloth, Illuga felt the vibration of his words.
This is not right. Illuga wanted to cry out. I should not let myself be comforted like this. He wanted to strike Flins’ chest again and again until the man understood. I should not want this.
Despite his inner protests, much to his own surprise, and perhaps even Flins’—whether it was because he chose to abandon reason for a single night and give in to a selfish longing just once, or for reasons he could not yet name, Illuga slowly turned his head back just enough.
More than enough to see Flins the Ratnik on his knees, looking up at him with an intensity and longing Illuga had never known directed at him. Seeing it reflected in Flins’ amber gaze of all people made his breath stutter.
“You said you want to indulge in me,” Illuga said, his voice trembling like a startled bird. “Why— why did you stop?”
The first trace of a genuine smile cracked across Flins’ face, and his fingers glided higher, idly tracing the largest, ugliest scar marred across Illuga’s back.
“My,” he sing-songed softly, “the young master is ever so impatient.”
Illuga let out a strained grunt when Flins’ fingers brushed over a particular spot on his back, and Flins caught the reaction at once. Without a word of warning, he lifted the fabric of Illuga’s turtleneck, exposing battered skin beneath. He shuddered as the cool evening wind washed over his back, followed closely by the warmth of Flins’ breath hovering mere inches away.
“There is a rather severe bruise forming here,” Flins observed, his touch noticeably gentler than before. He leaned in again, pressing another kiss, this time directly atop the bruise. “Is it wrong of me,” he continued quietly, “to find the colors blooming across your skin enticing?”
“Y-Yeah,” Illuga managed, his voice caught somewhere between pain and pleasure, sensations blending together until he could no longer tell them apart. “I'm glad you're aware, at least.”
“Mm. I would hope so,” Flins chuckled, pressing a kiss a little higher, then another beside it.
Flins was almost too adept at this, and it unsettled Illuga in a way he did not want to admit.
“Sir Flins—” Illuga breathed shakily, struggling to ignore the sensation of Flins’ hands drifting forward, then higher, dangerously close to his chest. “Do you… do you offer this sort of treatment to everyone?”
His question caused a brief pause in Flins’ movements, followed by the slow withdrawal of his hands from Illuga’s body. Eventually, his lips parted as well, leaving Illuga feeling cold and alone once more.
Afraid he had said something wrong, panic surged through him. In a hurried motion, he twisted his body sideways, one leg moving over the table so quickly that, for a fleeting moment, he forgot about his injuries entirely and nearly collided forehead-first with Flins.
“Wha—”
Startled, with their faces suddenly inches apart, lips close enough to brush with the slightest movement, Illuga was caught in the hypnotic gaze of the Ratnik.
When Illuga tried to slide back to create some distance, however minimal, Flins’ hands settled against his sides, his body leaning in, caging him in completely. There was no place to escape. No matter where he looked, there was Flins, and only Flins.
“...Did I say something to offend you? Why’re you looking at me like that?” Illuga asked, hesitant, his eyes drawn to the faintly crooked smile on Flins’ lips, one that carried more contemplation than warmth.
“I am merely considering,” Flins replied, enunciating each syllable with care, “what sort of man you believe me to be.”
They would be here for weeks if Illuga were to speak of the strangest individual he had ever come to know.
“Is it really that wrong for me to assume that this might not be your first time comforting someone?” he did not waver beneath the intimidating gaze. “Or whatever this is supposed to be.”
“I find it rather disheartening that you would regard me as a feeble man who indulges in intimacy with anyone at his leisure.”
“Then what exactly is it about me that fascinates you so much?” An unfiltered desperation crept into Illuga’s voice. “I can’t even win a battle without someone else coming to my aid. I’m constantly injured, my body scarred further and further until I’m nothing more than flesh marked by dents and bruises.” Somewhere along the way, his hand had clenched around Flins’ coat, crumpling the fabric in his grip. “So just what is it about me? Do you pity me? Do you see me as someone weak, someone who needs to be cared for?” His voice faltered. “Is that all it is?”
Illuga did not realize how hard and ragged his breathing had become until he stopped speaking. His chest rose rapidly, unevenly, his fingers trembling as they clutched at Flins’ coat.
Shame washed over him, followed closely by fear of what he might hear. He wanted to weep, to hide, to put distance between himself and the man who so effortlessly unsettled his resolve.
He was already becoming an Illuga he scarcely recognized.
“You are beautiful, even in despair,” Flins said simply.
The words were plain and unadorned, yet they grounded Illuga in reality while confusing him all the same.
“Must I require a reason to wish to remain close to you?” he continued, his words delicate, as if addressing a flower just beginning to bloom. “Nevertheless, if you insist, I have hundreds.”
Illuga wanted to hear them all. He wanted to understand what Flins saw in him—what beauty he himself could not.
He did not offer a response, but Illuga was certain the crackling fire in his eyes was more than enough of an answer.
“You are more hardworking than most, if not all,” Flins then began, never once breaking eye contact with those pearl-gray eyes. “You shoulder the weight of hundreds, attending to everyone’s needs in the blink of an eye. You are caring, absurdly so, to the point of endangering yourself if it means sparing others from harm.”
Flins did not falter. Not once did he hesitate.
“You are beautiful in the way you see the world,” he said, softer, “and in how deeply you wish to protect it, and everyone within it.” His knuckles brushed along Illuga’s cold cheek, lingering a few seconds too long over the small mole beneath his left eye, circling it with tenderness. “I adore this very mole that dances with your eyes whenever you squint.”
His hands drifted to Illuga’s bangs, to his hair, fingers threading through the strands. “I adore the hint of red at the tips of your hair, and the slightly clumsy cut of your bangs. I can so easily picture you in a hurry, standing before a mirror, scissors in hand, trimming them without much thought.”
Heat rose to Illuga’s cheeks, tinting them a shade of red not unlike his hair. Never before had anyone spoken to him with such intimacy.
“What else?” Illuga whispered, the words a muted plea, his gaze flickering between one molten-gold eye and the other.
When Flins smiled again, it was genuine once more. In fact, it was so natural that, in that moment, there was nothing Illuga wanted more than to capture it—to paint a portrait of this very instant and etch that beautiful expression into the world forever.
“You intrigued me the moment we met,” Flins mused, tilting his head to the side and letting his hair fall loose. “You have occupied my thoughts ever since, and I find myself worrying for you far more than I ought to. Must you truly hold so little regard for your own life?” His voice carried a faintly scolding lilt.
“Thank you for worrying about me,” Illuga replied, the words trembling as they left him. He mirrored the gesture, smoothing a few stray strands of Flins’ hair that had fallen out of place. “I’ll… I’ll try not to act so recklessly—though I can’t promise entirely.”
Flins huffed softly, a note of lightheartedness in it. “For me, that is more than sufficient.” He paused, blinking once before fixing his gaze on Illuga again. “Tell me, Master Illuga. Do you need to hear more? I would gladly spend the remainder of my lifespan in this very spot, repeating myself like a puppet, until you believe me.”
He wanted to. He wanted to remain there all night, listening to this man speak of a stranger named Illuga, and perhaps, eventually, believe they were one and the same.
“I believe you, alright?” Illuga said instead, his voice weak. “I… I shouldn’t have assumed such things. I’m sorry. And—” he exhaled quickly through his nose. “Thank you. Truly.” He could not bring himself to return Flins’ regard, suddenly feeling too shy, too small.
“My…” Flins tilted his head with fondness, the corners of his eyes crinkling as a smile took shape. “Must you insist on adding yet another item to the list?” Their noses brushed, the brief contact sending a tingling prickle through him. “You have quite distracted me—I nearly forgot to tend to your remaining wound.”
Illuga looked back up at him in confusion this time, batting his lashes. “What wound? I don’t feel anything besides the bruise on my back.”
Flins’ smile widened. He cast a brief glance downward, then back up to Illuga’s eyes, repeating the motion several times in playful emphasis.
“Oh.” Illuga mouthed, a little dumbfounded, a little endeared by the surprisingly childish way Flins chose to make his point.
“May I?” Flins asked, waiting with practiced patience, reminiscent of a well-trained puppy.
Rather than offering a simple yes, Illuga turned fully toward him, letting his legs fall forward as he looped his arms around Flins’ neck, drawing him in closer than before.
“I give you a seven out of ten for the creativity of your approach, Sir— Flins,” Illuga said with a smile, placing the first soft peck himself. Flins looked momentarily startled, no more than a few seconds, before an amused huff of laughter escaped him.
“That is a rather disappointing grade,” Flins replied, leaning in to initiate the second kiss, lasting longer this time. “Pray tell, what must I do to earn full marks?”
Illuga rolled his eyes, but the glimmer of light within them betrayed his mock annoyance.
“Just kiss me, Flins. I don’t want anything else.” He confessed, barely above a breath.
The Ratnik did not need to be told twice.
He had managed to leave a permanent crack in the mask Illuga had worn for the past three years.