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Sir Flins, you can just call me Illuga. Being called ‘master’ doesn’t suit me.
In hindsight, Illuga thinks, that was the moment everything started. Not the moment he fell in love with Flins - that, he has no hope of pinpointing. But the moment that their lives became inextricably intertwined - that, certainly, happened the second he gave his name over to Flins without a clue as to what it meant.
He can’t quite remember that conversation - it was one of their first meetings, and therefore a long while ago. But he can recall the way Flins’ eyes had widened, how his lips had parted like he was going to say something before they closed. In the end Flins had said something like but if you call me Sir Flins, Master Illuga, shouldn’t I get to call you something as well?
Illuga morosely stares into his mug before taking a swig. The Flagship is loud and boisterous around him - the result of a successful mission with no losses, which is why they have come all the way down to Nasha Town to celebrate - but his head is filled with Flins, and the moments he perhaps should have known that something was off. Too many times he has seen his eyes gleam unnaturally, or the flames burning in his fireplace turn blue from the corner of his eye. He could only have ignored it for so long, and now, knowing what Flins is, he can’t anymore.
“Young master,” a voice whispers into his ear, “why aren’t you celebrating like the others?”
A hand trails along the furred back of his coat; Illuga bats it away. “I could say the same to you, Sir Flins,” he says, turning to face him. He only has to look up a little; Flins is standing behind his chair, leaning down. “You’re the one who came to save us. Didn’t the others say they were going to toast you?”
Flins only hums. The warm, orange light of the Flagship clashes with his clothes, but Illuga only finds him as gorgeous as ever. When he appeared out of nowhere earlier, intervening in a skirmish against the Wild Hunt and saving all of their lives, he was breathtaking. Illuga couldn’t help but think so, even as he was fighting for his life and those of his squadmates. The hand he had swatted away returns now, settling on his shoulder, Flins’ thumb seemingly absently drawing circles on the sliver of skin between his coat and the hem of his sweater. Illuga knows better than to think it’s accidental; Flins rarely acts without purpose, and he’s especially handsy with him. He would have been a fool not to have noticed it after all this time, but he allows it, if only because it makes warmth pool in his chest.
“If the party isn’t aligning with your mood, young master,” Flins murmurs to him, “I booked a room earlier. Would you like to hear the continuation of the tale I told you the other day?”
“You and your cliffhangers,” he mutters back.
“Is that a no?” Flins’ thumb tucks itself underneath the hem of his sweater and stays there, a persistent spot of heat against his collarbone. Illuga grabs his wrist and looks him in the eye.
“You are a tease, Sir Flins,” he says. A small, self-satisfied smile appears on Flins’ face. “If you won’t mind the intrusion, I’ll go.”
“If it’s the young master, I won’t mind at all,” Flins purrs as he releases his wrist. Illuga can feel his eyes on him as he downs the rest of his drink before he stands up. Flins’ arm comes up around his waist to steady him, the gesture natural as if he’s performed it a million times before. The both of them know that Illuga is barely tipsy, and is in no way unsteady. This is just another excuse for Flins to touch him.
In the morning he will wake up in the bed to an empty room, a glass of water and a note from Flins saying that he’s gone back to his lighthouse, he’s looking forward to his next visit, he will miss him dearly, etcetera waiting for him on the table. There will be good-natured ribbing to deal with from those who saw Flins steal him away to have his way with him, and Illuga will not deny it since everyone stopped believing his protests after the third time he let Flins drag him away. Certainly word of it will get back to his father, who will once again caution him against spending the night with someone - “especially if it’s Flins,” as he’s been told multiple times. The distinction had confused him at first, and he had been angry that his father trusted Flins so little, but, well, since then he has learned that it truly wasn’t because his father distrusted Flins. After all, it isn’t a good idea to bed a fae, even if there’s no actual bedding happening.
For now he lets Flins lead him to his room to tell him a tale. When his hand dips too low on his waist he reaches up and pinches his cheek harshly until Flins relents, moving his hand back to a more respectable spot on his hip.
The trek to Final Night Cemetery is longer than Illuga would like on a such a cold evening but is, as usual, uneventful. Flins keeps his territory well-patrolled, and Illuga has actually come to expect to not be attacked by the Wild Hunt on his way there. If Flins has made too many a comment that he keeps the way safe specifically for him, well, Illuga will only commend him for his hard work.
He lifts his hand to knock on the door. “Sir Flins, it’s Illuga.”
A few moments pass before the door opens. Flins leans against the doorway, looking at him with that ambiguous smile of his. “Master Illuga,” he says, “What a surprise. What brings you to my humble abode at this hour?”
He attempts to move past him into the lighthouse but Flins moves to bodily block his way, smiling innocently at him all the while. Illuga scowls at him. It’s always the same song and dance, because Flins loves to toy with him. “If I say you do, will you let me in?”
“My, what kinds of manners are they teaching the youth these days?” Flins lets out a theatrical sigh before he moves to the side, opening the door wider. “I don’t quite know what to do with you, young master.”
“Fool,” he says to him. He can’t keep the fondness out of his tone, even though he meant it to be scolding. Flins’ smile widens, and he ushers him in, reaching over to brush the snow off the fur of his coat.
The interior of the lighthouse is as usual. Parts of it are clean - the kitchen, for one, which had always puzzled him before he learned that Flins simply doesn’t need to eat - while precious stones, gems, and coins appear as clutter, jumbled randomly on Flins’ many shelves. The fireplace is freshly lit, the logs in it yet unblackened. A desk is shoved against the wall like an afterthought by the shelves, and the paperwork piled atop looks just as untouched as it did last time Illuga was here. He can’t help shaking his head as he sets his pack down on the table next to the staircase.
“I’ve brought you more work, but it doesn’t seem like I’ll be taking any back with me,” he says accusingly. Flins has his back to him as he lights a few candles on the kitchen counter, but he can see how his shoulders shake almost imperceptibly with mirth.
“Ah, Master Illuga, you’ll have to forgive me. I’ve been quite busy since your last visit.”
“Busy with what?” He retorts. His hands continue with unpacking - more paperwork for Flins, kept neatly in folders; several skins of water; and a few novels for his entertainment. “Surely not with your paperwork.”
“I admit your words have some truth,” Flins says guiltlessly. “But I find what occupied me to be far more important.”
Irritated, Illuga turns to face him, saying, “Flins-”
“Ah-ah.” Flins is closer than he had realized - close enough to put a finger over his lips. Illuga stands with his mouth still open for a second, stupefied, before hurriedly closing it. Flins’ index finger, even through his glove, is hot against his chapped lips. “Young master, why don’t you take a look first before you begin berating me?”
Almost against his will Illuga’s eyes flick over to Flins’ other hand. Surprise overtakes him before he finds his voice. “Sir Flins, is that lohikeitto?”
A pleased smile appears on Flins’ face. “What a good eye the young master has. Would you like to try some?”
Illuga eyes him suspiciously. “And where did this lohikeitto come from?”
A tad too proudly, Flins declares, “I made it myself, of course.”
The bowl in his hand is indeed on of his. In fact, it’s part of the set Illuga had bought him once upon a time to replace the old and cracked dishware that came with the lighthouse. Flins has never used them before, except for the glasses, which he always uses to serve water to him every visit without fail. The bowl is ceramic, a gentle off-white color and handpainted with a geometric purple pattern. Inside it is lohikeitto, still hot enough that fragrant steam wafts up from the bowl. He can see the chunks of salmon, potato, and carrot in the soup, speckled with fresh dill. Involuntarily his mouth starts watering.
“I didn’t see this on the counter when I came in,” he says, unable to tear his eyes away. The meal he ate before he left to visit Flins feels so far away now he might as well have eaten it ten years ago. “Where did you get this, Sir Flins?”
“I was keeping it warm for you,” Flins answers, neatly dodging the question. Illuga glares at him, but nonetheless sits down when Flins, as gentlemanly as ever, pulls out a chair for him at the table. The lohikeitto is set down in front of him, and Flins gently lifts one of his hands, folding his fingers around a spoon. “Go ahead and try some, Master Illuga,” he urges. Illuga can feel how his chest is pressed against the back of the chair he’s sitting on, his hands resting on his shoulders. “Let me know if you like it, and I’ll make it for you again next time you come.”
Illuga dips the spoon into the bowl and blows on his spoonful before he puts it in his mouth. Flavor bursts to life on his tongue, and he closes his eyes to properly savor it. The soup is just creamy enough to be hearty without being heavy, the potato perfectly soft, the spices present but not overpowering, and he can taste a dash of lemon juice that brightens everything up. Another spoonful yields carrot and salmon, both of which are just as delicious. Before he knows it he has polished off the entire bowl, scraping the bottom of the bowl to get the last dregs of soup. Flins is practically radiating a pleased smugness behind him, a few of his fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. When Illuga turns to look at him, their faces are close enough to kiss.
“It was incredible, Sir Flins,” he says. The lohikeitto warmed him up from the inside, and now he feels as if he could make the entire journey back to Piramida without feeling the cold. “How long did it take you to make?”
“Oh, days and days, so long that you can’t even imagine it.” Illuga frowns at him, which makes Flins chuckle. “Please believe me, Master Illuga, for I’m not exaggerating. On the first day, no salmon bit at my bait no matter how long I spent fishing. The second, third, and fourth days all went the same. Finally on the fifth day I found success, and reeled in such a beautiful specimen that even the archons would be jealous. Then the sixth day I went to the market in Nasha Town, and haggled for so long that a week must have passed before I obtained what I needed. After that I had to wait for the new moon to arrive, for if I cooked this dish for you any other night the Moon Goddess herself would have seen and felt compelled to grace my humble lighthouse just for a taste. Once it was finished, I ceaselessly held this bowl in my hands so it would be just as hot as the moment it left the stove, never putting it down for even a second. Then it was just a matter of you showing up to eat it.”
“Liar.” He reaches over and tugs gently on Flin’s ear, earning himself a surprised yelp. “Am I supposed to believe that fish keeps that long?”
“Young master,” Flins whines. His arms wrap around him, which Illuga allows. “Do you not appreciate my efforts?”
“Stop putting words into my mouth. I already told you it was incredible; what more do you want from me, you silly man?”
An expression that he can’t parse quickly crosses Flins’ face, and is gone fast enough that Illuga wonders for a second if he’s seeing things, the same way in the past he used to wonder if the momentary blue of the flames in the fireplace was real.
“I suppose it would be greedy for me to ask anything else of you,” Flins says ruefully. Illuga nudges him away so that he can stand. When he picks up the bowl and moves towards the kitchen sink he senses more than knows that Flins is following him. There’s a small porthole window above the sink, revealing the misty landscape outside. He quickly discovers that there’s no dish soap or even a sponge by the sink for him to wash the bowl and spoon with, only a perfunctory bottle of hand soap. Of course Flins doesn’t have dish soap, he thinks, instead running the bowl under water and rinsing the remnants of soup off, if he has no need of dishes he certainly has no need to clean them.
“Young master, you truly didn’t have to,” Flins says to him quietly. He turns off the water when he’s done rinsing the spoon before he hands him a hand towel. “You’re my guest.”
“Nonsense,” he argues. “You went through all the trouble to cook me something. This is the least I could do in return.”
Flins is silent as he hangs up the towel to dry, and his silence persists as Illuga takes the paperwork on the table and adds it to his desk. The water skins go on the kitchen counter while the novels stay where they are, the three of them stacked on the table. It’s only after Flins sits down himself, having pulled the chair out for him again, that he breaks the quiet by saying solemnly, “Perhaps this is the night to tell a cautionary tale. Listen closely, Master Illuga, for you might find the advice in this tale to be valuable.”
Illuga settles into his chair to listen, licking his lips. There’s still a lingering taste of lohikeitto, and the warmth it filled him with stubbornly hasn’t faded. He doesn’t miss the way Flins pauses, his eyes locked onto his mouth, before he begins the story.
“Sir, are you sure you’re all right?” Anleifr asks concernedly. “You keep shivering.”
Illuga grimaces, forcing himself to keep still. “I’m fine,” he says. It’s one of those days where the sun is out but so is the wind. He had thought his spare coat would be warm enough to patrol in, since his usual one was washed earlier today and is currently hanging up to dry, but it’s thinner and offers less protection from the cutting wind. “Besides,” he adds, “It’s only twenty minutes until we’re done with patrol. I won’t die in the meantime.”
Behind him the rest of his squad is quiet as they continue their patrol. Illuga refuses to be hasty in patrolling just so he can return to comfort quicker; after all, a sloppy patrol can lead to lost lives. Still, he shivers the entire way back to Piramida. Once there he dismisses them all and goes to report to the Starshyna on his own.
He finds his father easily enough, and with him, surprisingly, Flins. “Starshyna,” he says, saluting. “And Sir Flins. Good afternoon.”
“Finished with your patrol, Illuga?” His father asks.
“Yes, Starshyna. I came to give you my report.”
His father motions for him to begin; Illuga does, but can’t help the way his eyes keep drifting over to look at Flins, who is standing besides his father. A frown appeared on his face the moment he saw him, but he seems to be waiting - though somewhat impatiently - so he doesn’t interrupt him. Though his report is detailed, it’s scant, for not much happened on patrol. At the end his father claps him on the shoulder and congratulates him on a job well done.
“And do get home safely,” he adds on. “Though, I suppose I don’t have to worry about that.”
Illuga frowns at that, watching the way his father shoots Flins a knowing look and electing to ignore that last line. “I’ll be going, then,” he says.
“Yes, I as well,” Flins says. “Have a good evening, Starshyna.”
His father bursts out laughing. Illuga frowns further and opens his mouth to ask what is happening when Flins strides up to him and a warm weight settles around his shoulders. “Let’s leave the Starshyna to his mirth,” he whispers into his ear. “I’ll take you home, Master Illuga.”
“Sir Flins, there’s no need for that. My house isn’t even that far away.”
Flins looks at him, a disapproving twist to his mouth. “No need? I beg to differ.” He pointedly tugs at his coat, which he has draped over him, so that it covers him more securely. “You are cold.”
“And you are fussing like a hen,” Illuga shoots back. He tries to evade Flins’ hands, but for once they’re not teasing as they grab him by the shoulders and steer him towards his house. “Flins! Seriously, this is unnecessary.”
“Unnecessary?” Flins says. His voice is low, and just as cold as the wind. It makes Illuga shiver for an entirely different reason. “You’ll forgive me, young master, if I choose not to believe you. If you are not cold, why are you retreating into my coat like a turtle?”
It’s mortifying to realize he’s right. Illuga flushes red as he registers that his chin is tucked down into the collar of Flins’ coat, his shoulders pulled in for warmth. It’s too long on him, just a few inches away from brushing the dirty ground. The chains tinkle clearly as he moves, and he can feel that Flins has one wrapped around his hand, as if he is a child who will wander off if he doesn’t hold onto him. He buries his face into the collar further to hide his embarrassment, but that only makes a different kind of heat pool in his gut. Flins’ coat smells like him - ash, and the heat that one can smell after entering a too warm room after having been out in the rain. It makes his head spin.
He says nothing in response, and Flins’ grip on him only tightens. Neither of them say anything at all, all the way back to his house. When they finally get there Illuga unlocks the door but stays standing there on his own doorstep. After a moment Flins sighs and turns him around. Illuga finds that he can’t look up at him, so he looks instead at his feet.
“I am only worried about you,” Flins says softly. One of his hands leaves his shoulder and comes up to brush his hair out of his eyes. The heat of it ghosts over his forehead. “You so very often neglect yourself. What if you get sick, young master, or even worse? Surely I will perish then, without anyone to come care for me in my old, lonely lighthouse.”
“Who’s taking care of who?” He counters. Somewhat petulantly, he adds on, “You wouldn’t die.”
But Flins levels him with such a look at that that he shuts his mouth. “Next time, dress in more layers. I expect to see you whole and hale on your next visit, Master Illuga.”
He sighs defeatedly. “Yes, Sir Flins.” He shrugs his coat off his shoulders and offers it back to him. Chancing a glance up at him, he says sincerely, “Thank you.”
Flins’ gloved hands take his coat back, touching his for a moment as they do. There’s an odd look on his face as he says, “Take care, Master Illuga.”
“Take care,” he repeats back at him. Illuga turns to open his door and enter his house. When he looks back over his shoulder just as he closes the door, Flins has not stopped looking at him, his coat still folded over his arm.
“A gift? For me?” Flins shoots him a wry look as he turns the present Illuga had gifted him over in his hands. “Young master, you really shouldn’t have. I’m not sure if I can accept this.”
“Please do,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck sheepishly. “After all, this is in return for the earring you gave me. It took me this long to find something good enough to give you, but I still don’t think it equals this.”
For emphasis he touches the star-shaped earring in his ear. It had been a birthday gift, and he has long suspected that it’s worth more than what Flins told him. He still can’t believe that Flins had flippantly said It was on sale, and I thought it would suit you. Ah, don’t worry about the price, young master; the stone it is made of is only semi-precious. Even if it is truly only semi-precious, Flins has high standards, and certainly he wouldn’t skimp on a purchase, even if it wasn’t for himself. Illuga wears it every day - it is one of his most treasured possessions.
“Then I suppose,” Flins says slowly, “that I must accept this gift you so painstakingly chose with me in mind.”
Illuga watches as he lays his present on the table, taking his gloves off. His hands are shockingly pale for a man that gives off so much heat, the blue of his veins prominent under his skin. It must be a fae thing, he has concluded. Flins carefully pries the tape off the wrapping paper he’d used. Rarely does he give gifts, and he could find nothing in his house but a barely-used roll of brown paper. Not wanting to give Flins a gift that shared too much resemblance to a pound of meat from the butcher, Illuga had decorated the paper with small doodles of lanterns - Flins’, his, and the standard ones issued to other Ratniki, in an alternating order. Though it had come out a little clumsy-looking he had been proud of the final result, but still - does Flins really need to treat it like it’s one of his favorite coins, setting it aside with so much care it borders on love?
The white tissue paper wrapped around the gift is unwrapped by Flins’ deft fingers. Illuga nervously watches for his reaction as he stares down at the matching set of hairbrush and comb in his hands. Earlier in the week he had seen them in the market and slowed down to take a look. Carved from peach wood and decorated with lavender swirls, he couldn’t help but think of Flins upon seeing them. As he had looked at them more closely and found small purple stones inset among the designs, his urge to buy them only grew stronger. He had left the market that day wallet significantly lighter, but with his heart filled with warmth at the thought of presenting them to Flins.
Flins stares at them for so long that Illuga starts nervously picking at his gloves and shifting in his seat. When his face turns up to look at him he jolts. “Master Illuga, come here.” He stands up and practically scrambles over, waiting anxiously besides Flins’ chair. When Flins turns so his back is to him and hands him the brush over his shoulder, he freezes. “Would you do the honors?”
“You- what?” He says dumbly.
“My, I had thought you quicker-witted than this, young master. Would you like to brush my hair?”
Illuga takes the offered brush with trepidation. Flins’ beautiful hair is soft when he touches it, softer than the imported silk made from silk flowers in Liyue. For a moment he stands there, paralyzed, before Flins has mercy on him.
“Shall I take it that you have never brushed hair as long as mine before?” Taking his silence as an answer, Flins says, “Very well. I will guide you through it. Start with the ends. You can work in sections if you need to.”
Swallowing, Illuga adjusts his hold on the hairbrush and carefully draws it through the ends of Flins’ hair. The strands here are a blue so light that they’re nearly white, and, if he looks closer, are glowing so subtly it could be a trick of the eye. He’s almost afraid that he’s being too rough, but Flins doesn’t say anything if he is.
“After the ends, work your way upwards in increments. The goal is to brush from scalp to ends smoothly, without any tangles. Feel free to take your time, Master Illuga; I’m in no rush.”
“Your hair is gorgeous,” he murmurs. He has to use his free hand to hold sections of Flins’ hair as he brushes it. Despite Flins’ words, he hasn’t encountered a single tangle. “How do you care for it?”
“Oh? Is the young master curious?” Flins purrs. “Perhaps next time you can join me in caring for it personally in the shower.”
Illuga’s face burns, and his hands falter as he stutters. “S-Sir Flins! That’d be indecent!”
In truth what’s indecent is the way Illuga’s body reacts at the mental image of Flins naked in the shower. He has only ever seen the skin of his face and neck bare, and occasionally his hands, and he can hardly imagine what Flins would look like unclothed. Compared to Illuga, who is short and stocky, he’s tall, but he has no idea about his frame. Is he lean and lithe, or does he have a decent amount of muscle on him? Could Illuga follow the trail of hot water down his body and map its journey with his mouth? Would Flins let him run his fingers through his wet hair, and then let him do other things with his fingers?
Flins sighs happily. “Truly, Master Illuga, you are too easy to tease. But, for your peace of mind, I’ll refrain until you are finished.”
“How gracious of you,” he mumbles. Flins hums at him in acknowledgement, and then begins humming a tune as he resumes brushing his hair. Illuga quickly looses himself in the motions, steadily working his way upwards. He spends as long as he can holding Flins’ hair, treasuring the feeling of it in his hands. As Flins continues to hum he recognises some of the songs - a folk song he’s heard the children in Nasha Town sing, the favored bar song of the Ratniki when they get drunk, even a silly nursery rhyme he vaguely remembers. But some of the melodies are haunting, and during those Illuga finds himself leaning closer to Flins, as if he’s drawn to him magnetically. Of course, he can’t say that’s new - even disregarding his identity as a fae, Flins has a gravitational pull around him, and Illuga has always been helplessly caught up in his orbit.
Eventually - what feels like hours later - he finds that he is at the top of Flins’ head, the brush gliding smoothly from the dark blue hair there to the glowing ends. When he leans forward to exchange the brush for the comb resting on the table, his chest presses against Flins’ shoulder. Flins doesn’t begrudge him when he starts the process all over again. He even combs through the shorter parts of hair around Flins’ face, and only stops when Flins reaches up to gently halt his wrist after he’s finished.
“Master Illuga,” he murmurs, “as much as I am loathe to part with your company, I believe you should start heading home. Any later, and I will have to accompany you back to ensure your safety.”
As if he’s waking up from a dream Illuga feels his awareness return to him. When he looks up from Flins’ hair there are more candles lit around the lighthouse than he remembers when he first came in. Some of them belatedly turn from blue to orange even as he looks at them. “Archons, what time is it?”
“Late.” Flins’ hand gently pushes against his waist, and he moves so he can stand up. There’s a frown on his face. “Even later than I thought. I will take you to Nasha Town for the night.”
“Sir Flins,” he protests. Flins pries the comb from his hand and sets it on the table, grabbing his coat from where he had laid it over his chair earlier. “That’s not-”
“Nonsense. I can hardly send you all the way back to Piramida all by your lonesome in good conscience. I’ll pay for a room for you at the Flagship; please consider it my apology for keeping you so late.” Flins helps him into his coat, fussing until everything lays just right. “In this, I won’t take no for an answer,” he warns.
Illuga sighs. “Very well. I can’t express my thanks enough, Sir Flins.”
“Your continued visits are gratitude enough.” Flins grabs their lanterns, handing his to him, before he takes Illuga’s pack and sets it on his own shoulders. “Come, let us be off. I would like to see you safely asleep in a bed before the sun rises.”
The trip to Nasha Town passes quicker than he expects. Flins keeps him from falling asleep by spinning him a new tale, and certainly Illuga is no longer tired when the Wild Hunt crashes their peaceful walk. Flins doesn’t stop telling his story, incinerating the three Wilderness Hunters and their Wilderness Exile followers with barely a look. It’s a heady reminder than Flins is much, much more powerful than he lets on.
“Don’t worry, young master,” Flins murmurs. The arm around his waist tightens protectively, and Illuga doesn’t miss how Flins moves his body to shield him from any potential attacks. “I’ll keep you safe.”
Warmth floods his cheeks, and if he lets Flins tuck him closer to his side without complaint, well, no one but the Moon Goddess and the charred remains of the Wild Hunt will ever know.
“Oh, Illuga,” the Starshyna says as the meeting breaks up, “I meant to tell you earlier. Flins is coming up here, to Piramida. He said he was planning on visiting you.”
“He is?” Illuga has to suppress his smile at the thought of seeing Flins, even if he just saw him last week. “When?”
“Well, that’s the part I forgot to tell you.” His father scratches the back of his sheepishly. “He’s coming tonight.”
“Pops!” He screeches. Several of the other Lightkeepers look over at him; he slaps his hand over his mouth before hissing, “And you couldn’t have remembered this earlier?!”
“Don’t worry about it,” his father assures him. “You still have-” A frown appears on his face as he looks out the window of the meeting room. “Hmm. Well.”
“Pops!” Illuga dashes to grab his lantern. “You-!”
His father bursts out into boisterous laughter. “Ah, don’t worry, Illuga. If it’s you, Flins certainly won’t mind if you’re a tad late.”
“A tad is putting it mildly!” Even as he rushes to leave, Illuga doesn’t forget to give his father a quick hug. He dislikes doing anything that reminds the Lightkeepers that he is the Starshyna’s son, but Nikita insists on it. He understands - after all, he has endured too many lectures from both him and Flins about how reckless he is. When he ends up as a corpse on the ground one day, it will comfort him to know that he had hugged his father before he went.
His father sighs. “Sometimes, I think that man could forgive you for anything.” Gently, he pushes at his shoulder. “Go now. Give Flins my regards.”
“I will. Be safe!” Illuga waves goodbye as he runs out of the meeting hall.
Once away from the Lightkeepers’ Headquarters he breaks into a dead sprint. The buildings of Piramida all pass by in a blur, and thankfully there are few people out as it gets later. He skids to a stop a little ways away from his house, gasping for breath.
“Why, young master.” Standing nonchalantly in front of his door, Flins smiles beatifically at him. “You look like you’re in a rush.”
“Sir… Flins…” Panting, Illuga drags a hand through his hair, sure he looks like a mess. He’s sweating underneath all of his layers, his sweater sticking uncomfortably to his skin. Squinting at Flins, he says, “Are you… going through my mail?”
“Me?” Flins’ smile grows wider. “I could never. How could you accuse me of such a dastardly thing, young master?” Illuga looks pointedly at the letter in his hands, the envelope tellingly already opened. He tucks it behind his back guilelessly. “Unrelated, I recently learned that Miss Aino has invited you to her upcoming engineering seminar. I overheard that you have a habit of repairing things with… enthusiastic strength?”
“Overread, more like,” he grumbles. Flins huffs out a laugh as he passes his to unlock his door. “My old pops said to give you his regards.”
“As soon as he stops trying to gift me a canine companion, perhaps I will accept his regards.” Flins’ breath puffs over his ear as he whispers to him, “I much prefer the gift you gave me.”
“Sir Flins!” Illuga turns to glare at him. “Just come in.”
Blinking rapidly, Flins says, “Young master, you... you shouldn’t-”
Without fanfare, Illuga grabs his wrist and yanks him inside his house. “I just invited you in. You shouldn’t sweat the details.”
Flins briefly raises his eyes up to the heavens. “Perhaps I should pay a visit to your dear father after all, and ask if he was in his cups when he raised you. It seems he forgot to teach you many things.”
“Yes, yes,” Illuga replies. He shucks off his coat and hangs it on the hooks on his wall, then takes off his boots. He pulls at his sweater, trying to stimulate air flow. When he looks over at Flins, about to offer to hang up his coat for him, he finds his eyes locked onto his chest. He clears his throat, and Flins’ eyes dart over to the wall like he wasn’t just looking at his sweater sticking to his sweaty chest.
“Perhaps the young master would like to give me a tour of his house?” He proposes.
“You scoundrel,” he says. Flins turns even further away from him. He can’t help but laugh. “Come here, Sir Flins. I won’t bite.”
He shows Flins around his small house - his tiny kitchen, which has nothing in it but nonperishables; his living room-slash-office, where he does all of his reports; the bathroom, in which Flins clucks his tongue at the size of the shower; and finally, the door to his bedroom. Flins pauses in front of it, putting a hand on the wood. Gazing at him, Illuga tells him, “If it’s you, I don’t mind you seeing it, you know.”
A moment passes. “No,” Flins says finally, “I will leave you your privacy, young master.”
They end up squished together on the loveseat in his living room. Illuga has poured himself a glass of water, parched from his mad dash back. He can feel Flins’ eyes on him, staring shamelessly at his throat as he swallows. When he sets the glass down and looks at him Flins is back to staring at his face.
“So,” Illuga says, “Did you just want to see me? I don’t have anything I can offer you to eat or drink, and I can’t tell a story like you can.”
“There is no ‘just’ seeing you,” Flins says. “Every time I lay eyes on you I can only think that you have grown handsomer since the last time I saw you, Master Illuga.”
He kicks his calf. “Flirt,” he accuses heatlessly. Flins shakes his head, raising his hand to cradle his face. His fingers trail over the curve of his cheek before delicately touching his hair.
“In this matter I speak only the truth,” he admits. “Your beauty captivates me. You seem to glow, sometimes, when I look at you, as if you are so brilliant you scatter light like the finest of gemstones. When you smile upon me, I feel like I am just a mortal, as helpless as any of you.”
Feeling his face heat, Illuga leans further against Flins’ hand. The heat of his touch far outpaces the blood rushing to his cheeks, and only falls behind when compared to the warmth in his chest. “What a silver tongue you have,” he mumbles. “Now I have evidence that it can say pretty words, and yet you use it to tease me.”
“Ah, but haven’t I said it before?” Flins leans in close, staring deeply into his eyes. “The young master is the best to tease.”
Like he’s caught in a spell, Illuga can’t stop looking at Flins’ eyes. Without pupils, on anyone else they would look terrifyingly unnatural; on Flins, they only look mysteriously preternatural, a pretty pale yellow color he could get lost in. The spell is only broken when Flins playfully nudges his chin away.
“I best get going before all the rooms in the Flagship are snapped up,” he says. Illuga stands with him, looking around to see if Flins brought anything. He didn’t, not even paperwork. “Before you offer, Master Illuga, I’ll politely decline the offer to walk me there, but I am in need of a gentleman to walk me to the door. Perhaps you know of someone suited for this role?”
Illuga opens his mouth then closes it, words evaporating off his tongue. “Damn you,” he says finally. “Won’t you at least let me walk you halfway?”
“Mm, I must refuse,” Flins replies. “It is a cold evening, and I think you will rather be needing some rest soon.”
“What are you talking about?” In the entryway Illuga leans against the wall, arms crossed, and watches as Flins crouches down to lace up his boots. “It is late, but I was planning to get some work done before I head to bed.”
“Illuga.” He stiffens. Flins is suddenly standing in front of him, his face serious. He cups his face in his hands and tilts it up to look at him. “I was not jesting when I said earlier I would go meet the Starshyna and ask him if he forgot to tell you cautionary tales as a child. You have gone so far that I can no longer overlook your actions as accidental. Indeed, I find myself speechless at times. You have not only given me your name but have eaten food prepared by my own hand, indebted yourself to me, accepted my gifts, and now you have invited me into not only your home but also into your life. You are mine, in all the ways that matter.”
“I-”
Flins silences him by putting his hand over his mouth before continuing. “And yet, I find myself so fond of you that I will offer this last chance to back out. If you do not want to be mine - if you do not want to belong to a fae - then do not seek me out for two moons. I will let you go freely, and will consider this... this attachment between us no more. But if you decide to seek me out, you must know clearly what you are doing, without reservations. Because once I have you, I will not let you go. Even if you run, even if you beg-” Flins’ hand tightens around his jaw, his nails digging into his skin, and Illuga stifles a high-pitched noise in the back of his throat. “-you will belong to me forevermore. Do you understand, Illuga?”
“Yes,” he breaths raggedly into Flins’ palm, “Yes, Sir Flins, I understand.”
“Good.” Flins removes his hand from his mouth and his other hand from his cheek, running his thumb idly over his cheekbone first. He shoots him an unreadable look before he turns to leave, pausing as he’s standing over the threshold in the open doorway. “And, young master? Remember to lock the door, lest something worse than I finds its way to you.”
The door shuts behind him.
Illuga seeks Flins out the next day after patrol. He immediately encounters a problem, however.
“You’re going to see Flins?” The Starshyna shakes his head. “He was just given an urgent mission, and he said it would take him three days to complete it.”
He wilts. “He did?”
His father pats his shoulder consolingly. “I’m sure you’ll see him soon, Illuga.”
Except, while Flins does complete his mission on time, Illuga does not ‘see him soon.’ In between his patrols he makes the trip to Final Night Cemetery, and every time the lighthouse is devoid of Flins. He only learns where he was through hearsay afterwards - the first time, Flins was visiting Grandmaster Varka at Favonius Keep; the second, he was meeting with Miss Nefer and Miss Jahoda in the Curatorium of Secrets; the third, he was assisting Miss Aino and Miss Ineffa in a matter relating to the Krumkake Craftshop. The fourth time, he hears about from the Traveler herself.
“Flins? He offered to help me out with some commissions I have,” she says. Tapping her chin, she muses, “Actually, I’ll be seeing him tomorrow too.”
“You will?” Tomorrow he’ll be patrolling all day, but at this point Illuga is almost feverish with desperation. Almost two weeks have passed since he’s laid eyes on Flins; between the stress of not seeing him, the entirely separate feeling of missing him, his patrols, and his trips to check the lighthouse, he’s barely sleeping. He stops himself at the last moment from grabbing the Traveler’s wrist, instead lacing his fingers together. They’ve been trembling uncontrollably for the past couple of days, which he’s pretty sure is not good. “Could you give him a message from me?”
The Traveler raises an eyebrow. Paimon beats her to it. “Aren’t you two close? Did you get into a fight with Flins?”
“We’re not fighting,” he protests, but even to his own ears it sounds half-hearted. When he lays in bed he keeps tossing and turning, wondering if this is Flins’ way of rejecting him. If it is, Illuga wishes he’d say it to his face. He sighs. “Anyway, I can’t get in touch with him, and I have to patrol all day tomorrow, but I have something urgent to say to him.”
“Of course. I’ll take your message to him.” A pause. “Well?” The Traveler says.
Illuga stares at her awkwardly, realizing that she’s waiting for him to tell her the message. But he can’t say that what he wants to say to Flins is Sir Flins, if you are avoiding me, you are a coward. Do you not respect me enough to reject me in person? At this rate, if you continue to be gone from Final Night Cemetery, I will camp out in front of your lighthouse to wait for you, Wild Hunt be damned. Would you like to carry that on your conscience? After a moment, he asks hesitantly, “Do you have a paper I could write on?”
The Traveler wordlessly hands him a piece of paper from her bag and a small contraption that he quickly figures out holds a small amount of ink for writing. He writes down everything he wanted to say, balancing the paper on his thigh, and signs off With frustration, Illuga. Blowing on the ink so it dries before he folds the paper into quarters, he hands it and the contraption back, asking, “What is this?”
“The pen?” The Traveler sticks the contraption - the pen - back into her bag, tucking his note into an outer pocket. “A friend of mine made it for me. She’s one of Liyue’s adepti.”
Forlornly, Illuga mentally scratches out his idea to see if he could procure some for himself. They seem much more convenient than his quills. “I see. Well then, I’m sure you’re busy. Please give Sir Flins my best.”
Paimon waves enthusiastically at him. “Bye, Illuga!”
He waves farewell as the Traveler tugs her away and they head out of Piramida. There’s not much he has to do for the rest of the day - his patrol having been the early shift - so he resolves to do some reports and head to bed early, now that he’s confident that he’ll most likely be seeing Flins in the near future. The Traveler is a reliable sort, after all.
Illuga goes to sleep that night with relief in his heart, and wakes up from the dream he’s sharing with Aedon to a crazy infernal racket.
“Archons, what…”
Aedon lets out a sleepy, disgruntled chirp and turns his back to him, nestling his head further into his feathers. Illuga rubs at his eyes and sits up in bed. The noise is actually someone just knocking on his door, except it sounds like they’re knocking with a battering ram.
“Some help you are,” he tells Aedon, who continues ignoring him. If he had the option, he’d be going back to sleep too. Instead he wraps his blanket around his shoulders like a cloak, deciding that whoever is trying to knock down his door doesn’t deserve the decency of seeing him out of the oversized shirt and boxers he wears to bed. He gets even more irritated as he approaches the door, yanking it open.
“Some of us are trying to sleep because they have not done so in weeks, so would you fucking-”
He doesn’t get any further, yelling as he’s yanked from the doorway. He recognises the hands frantically patting him down as Flins’ instantly - no one else has such a scorching touch. It was hard to see who it was at first, because his lantern is sitting on the ground and the blue light just barely reaches his face.
“Sir Flins, what are you-”
“Illuga,” Flins breathes. He drags him in close and hugs him, so tightly it’s like he wants to merge their bodies. Bent over so he can bury his face against his neck, Illuga is rapidly realizing that the position he’s in - on the tips of his toes, his back curved backwards - is about to be painful soon. “Master Illuga. You’re still here.”
“Where else would I be, you daft fool?” He hits Flins’ shoulder with his fist, which only turns his embrace tighter. “Can we at least go inside? I’m going to freeze to death out here.”
Flins doesn’t respond. Illuga inhales sharply as he’s picked up and held at his hip, like a child. He picks up both his lantern and Illuga’s blanket before sweeping them inside. The door closes behind them, the lock sliding into place all on its own.
There’s nothing but the light from Flins’ lantern lighting up the living room as Flins sets him down gingerly on his loveseat, tucking his blanket securely around him. Illuga watches as he puts his lantern on the table before he turns around again and takes his hand into his. He blinks in surprise when Flins takes a knee in front of him, bending his head to kiss the back of his hand.
“Have I told you how much you worry me, young master?” He murmurs. When he looks up at him, Illuga swears he stops breathing. “What if you froze to death out there, or the Wild Hunt found you?”
“Flins, what the hell are you talking about?” He asks. Flins wordlessly reaches into the pocket of his coat and withdraws a folded piece of paper.
“I believe you said that you would ‘camp out’ in front of my lighthouse to wait for my appearance, young master.” Before his eyes his note bursts into blue flames; in a moment there is nothing left of it but the faint smell of smoke. “So here I am. Are you happy now?”
“Am I happy now?” He asks incredulously. Suddenly furious, Illuga yanks Flins up by the lapels of his coat. Flins stumbles in finding his balance, ending up with one hand over the blanket besides his thighs and his other forearm braced against the back of the couch. Despite the fact that he’s positioned over him right now, there’s a hint of dread in his eyes. “Do I look happy to you?”
“No,” Flins says softly. “Have you not been sleeping well, Master Illuga?”
His eyes start burning, and he furiously blinks the tears away. “I have not, no thanks to a certain person I know who’s been avoiding me like the plague. Do you really think so little of me, Sir Flins?”
“I think the world of you,” Flins says, pained. “I truly haven’t been avoiding you. I just wanted to give you some time to think over what I said.”
“Well, there was no need. I thought it over long ago, and my mind hasn’t changed since then.” Illuga grabs Flins' chin and stares into his eyes. Even his face feels too warm against his hand. “I hope you know that I have been in love with you for ages, Sir Flins, and learning that you are a fae didn’t change that. I’ve broken so many of these rules of yours, and still you haven’t caught on that I’ve done it all on purpose.” At that, Flins stills. “What will it take for you to realize that I want to belong to you, and for you to belong to me?”
Flins closes his eyes, a low, rattling sound coming from his throat. It reminds Illuga too much of a dying animal, so he pulls him close and kisses him. Flins is unable to stop his body from falling onto his, a gasp escaping his mouth, but he doesn’t care. It’s far from perfect - Flins’ lips are almost too hot on his, and he’s entirely unresponsive. The kiss is chaste, but he pours all of his emotions into it. Flins must feel them in some way, because his hand that had previously been on the back of the couch tangles in his hair. But he doesn’t move beyond that, not until Illuga breaks away from him to breathe. He stares at him like he can’t believe that he’s real.
After a moment Illuga lies down on the couch, bringing Flins down with him. Flins’ head ends up on his chest, his legs awkwardly bent so they don’t hang over the armrest of the loveseat. Some other day he will berate him for wearing his boots inside the house, but not tonight. The chains of his coat are caught uncomfortably in between their bodies. Soothingly he rubs circles onto Flins’ back, looking up at the ceiling and feeling, strangely, at peace.
He must doze off at some point, because when he wakes weak morning light is filling the room. It’s better than he’s slept in weeks.
Flins, at some point while he was sleeping, took one of his hands and laced their fingers together. Neither of them are wearing their gloves, so the contrast between his pale skin and Illuga’s, warm with life, is stark. “Good morning, Master Illuga,” he says softly.
“Good morning, Sir Flins.” Yawning, he asks, “Have you thought over what I said?”
“Mm.” Flins lifts his head up from his chest, propping himself up on his elbow, wedged in between Illuga’s side and the couch cushions. “I thought it over thoroughly.”
“And what do you think?”
Flins takes so long to answer him that Illuga genuinely thinks about falling back asleep. “It would be rude of me to decline,” he says, “after the young master has spent so much time and effort attempting to pursue me.”
He snorts. “As if you weren’t providing me with plenty of opportunities.”
“My mistake if I assumed you would be wiser and warier, Master Illuga,” Flins says solemnly - which means, of course, that he is teasing him. “Not everyone has the courage to tie themselves to a fae so completely.”
Rather than reply to that Illuga drags him up and kisses him. Flins this time curls his body around his, sliding a hand underneath his head. Underneath the blanket he’s warm, but he welcomes the heat Flins’ body is giving off. Their kissing turns into languid making out, their mouths sliding wetly against each other, tongues mingling together in a slow dance. Flins lets him breathe every so often, but in return kisses him so single-mindedly that his breath leaves him as soon as he takes it in.
Eventually Flins’ mouth leaves his, resting their foreheads together as he pants quietly. “I didn’t tie myself to just any fae,” he says breathlessly. “I tied myself to you.”
“So you also have a silver tongue, young master,” Flins observes. Illuga rolls his eyes at him.
“That was barely anything compared to what you’ve said to me in the past.”
“Hm.” Flins goes silent, and then says, “I must confess truthfully that it will take me some time before I can come to terms with the fact that you love me so wholly that you purposefully handed yourself over to me. What you did could have been incredibly dangerous. You are very lucky I have very good self-control.”
“Such good self-control that everyone thought you were bedding me every time you stole me away to your room in the Flagship?” Illuga smiles up at him fondly, carding a hand through Flins’ hair. It’s still as soft as he remembers. “And, Sir Flins, you do seem to always be touching me.”
Flins sighs. “Will you believe me if I say I can’t help myself? You are truly too easy to want, Master Illuga. It is not my fault if I get possessive, no?”
“Then you better not mind if I get possessive over you as well.” The way Flins jolts in shock against him is telling. Illuga tugs at him with the hand in his hair. “Don’t forget that if I belong to you, then you belong to me too,” he warns.
He’s surprised when Flins relaxes, his body going boneless atop his and his face turning into his neck. His relieved exhale passes over his throat. “That’s no hardship to me, if that’s what you would like.”
“It is what I would like,” he says.
His nights of fitful, troubled sleep seem to be catching up to him all at once, because Illuga finds that he’s falling asleep again, unable to keep his eyes open. Flins is a warm weight on top of him, and he holds him close, taking comfort in his presence. As he drifts off, he thinks he hears him say, “Sleep well, Master Illuga. I’ll watch over you.” And then, even quieter, as he slips away into the haze of dreams: “I love you.”