Chapter Text
The scent of dandelion wine and cold, northern pines always seemed to cling to Varka. To Flins, it was the intoxicating perfume of a world he could never truly enter. The Grand Master was a mountain of a man, all booming laughter and unwavering justice, a perfect alpha from the Nation of Freedom. And his eyes, the color of a winter sky, followed only one figure: the indigo-haired omega, whose sharp tongue and sorrowful past were as much a part of him as the wind that always seemed to curl at his feet.
Flins, with his impossible name and his home in the skeletal silence of the Night Cemetery, knew the truth long before he admitted it. Varka was a visitor, a brilliant comet streaking across the sky of Nod-Krai. He would always return to his nation of anemo, to his duties, and to the omega who had captured his attention. For Flins, Varka was a fantasy, a story he told himself in the dark hours. A beautiful, impossible fairy tale.
So, when Illuga appeared at the edge of the Cemetery, his hair dusted with fresh snow and a covered bowl in his hands, Flins felt a different kind of pull. Not the sharp, painful ache of longing for Varka, but a warm, steady tug, like a hand reaching for his in the cold.
"Sir Flins," Illuga called out, his voice respectful as always, cutting through the eerie quiet. "Pops- I mean the Starshyna said you might not have eaten. It's just a simple stew."
Flins tilted his head, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. Illuga, the leader of the Nightmare Orioles, deadly enough to face the Wild Hunt without flinching, was here because his adopted father worried about a lonely fae. Nikita, the Starshyna, had always been perceptive in his own way, using Illuga as a gentle, human tether to the creature who lived on the fringes.
"Young Master," Flins teased, the nickname rolling off his tongue as he gestured for Illuga to enter his humble dwelling. "So diligent. Does the Starshyna pay you in compliments to check on the eccentric hermit?"
A faint flush of annoyance, or perhaps embarrassment, colored Illuga's cheeks. He was shorter than Flins, and undeniably handsome in a sharp, focused way. "It's Illuga," he corrected, setting the bowl down with a quiet clink. "And it's not payment. It's... concern."
Concern.
Such a simple, human word. Flins, who had lived through eons, who had seen empires rise and fall from the shadows, found it endlessly fascinating. Illuga didn't know he was a fae, didn't know he didn't need the stew, the company, the quiet worry. He gave it anyway, simply because Flins was there.
And Flins found he wanted to keep him there.
"Young master Illuga," he said, "Have you ever heard the story of the Solitary Lark and the Knight of the Frozen Dawn?"
Illuga, who had been about to make his excuses to leave, paused. He knew this game. Flins would start a tale, his voice taking on a melodic, ancient quality, and then stop at the most crucial part. It was infuriating. It was also why he kept coming back.
"I haven't," Illuga said, settling onto a worn crate, his curiosity piqued despite himself.
Flins smiled, a genuine, warm expression that softened his otherworldly features. He began to spin a tale, a story from his own distant past, disguised as a fairy tale. Of a being of light who fell in love with a mortal warrior, of a kingdom buried under ice, of promises whispered in the dark. He painted the story with his words, watching Illuga's intense focus, the way his brow furrowed at the tragic parts, the way his eyes widened at the magic.
"...and so the Lark, knowing his time was short, gathered the last of his light," Flins murmured, his voice dropping to a hush. He stopped.
Illuga leaned forward. "And then? What did he do?"
Flins just smiled, a secretive, beautiful curve of his lips. "The stew is getting cold, Young Master."
Illuga let out a frustrated huff, but there was no real anger in it. He picked up the bowl and pushed it gently towards Flins. "Eat first. Then finish the story."
And that was it. That simple, stubborn act of caring. Varka was a story Flins told himself, a dream of wind and freedom. But Illuga was real. He was here, in the cold and the silence, pushing a bowl of stew into his hands and demanding he finish a tale. He saw Flins not as an exotic mystery or a potential conquest, but as someone worth checking on, worth worrying about, worth the long walk to the Night Cemetery.
As Flins took a spoonful of the stew—tasting nothing, but feeling everything—he looked at Illuga. The younger man was already lost in thought, probably trying to solve the cliffhanger of the fairy tale. He was shorter, yes, and cute when he blushed, but Flins had seen him face down a Rifthound Whelp with terrifying efficiency. He was deadly, devoted, and endlessly, persistently kind.
Varka would leave. Illuga, he suspected, would always find his way back. For the story, for the company, for the simple, human reason of wanting to make sure he was alright.
And for Flins, who had been alone for so very long, that was a much better story than any fairy tale. It was the beginning of his own. A story not of a distant alpha, but of his own persistent, devoted young master.
The reports landed on Nikita's desk with a soft thump, carried in by a gust of frigid air and the faint scent of night-blooming flowers. The Starshyna didn't even flinch anymore, merely looking up from his papers to find Flins perched on his windowsill like some elegant, otherworldly crow.
"We have a door," Nikita said dryly, though his eyes crinkled with amusement. “Use it please”
"Where's the fun in that?" Flins replied, swinging his legs idly. He enjoyed the way Nikita's eyebrow twitched—humans were delightful in their predictability, yet Nikita had long ago stopped being predictable to him. That was what made their peculiar friendship work.
Ten years ago, Flins had awakened from his slumber to find the world changed, the Wild Hunt ravaging the land, and a group of desperate humans fighting back. He had joined them, of course. It was his nature to protect, even if these mortals weren't his original charges. And Nikita—shrewd, observant Nikita—had taken one look at him and simply known.
Not a word had been spoken about it. No accusations, no demands. Just a quiet understanding that passed between them, and then Nikita had handed him a stack of reports and said, "You look like you can read. Make yourself useful."
Flins had nearly laughed aloud at the audacity. A fae noble, being given paperwork. Humans were indeed fun.
Now, as Flins set down the latest intelligence on unusual Rifthound activity, Nikita set aside his pen and fixed him with a look that Flins had learned to be wary of. It was the look that preceded teasing.
"My son visited the Night Cemetery again last night," Nikita said casually, too casually.
Flins kept his expression neutral. "He did. The stew was adequate."
"Adequate," Nikita repeated, a smile tugging at his lips. "He came home with that look on his face. The one he gets when he's been left with an unfinished story. You're tormenting him deliberately."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Flins examined his nails with practiced disinterest.
Nikita snorted. It was an undignified sound for a man of his position, and Flins appreciated him all the more for it. "You know exactly what you're doing. You've been doing it for months now. Years, even, if I count back to when you first woke up and my foolish boy started worrying about you."
Flins stilled. The mention of those early days brought a warmth to his chest that he refused to examine too closely. Back then, he had been disoriented, grieving a world long gone, struggling to find his place among mortals who didn't know what he was. And Illuga—young, earnest Illuga, barely more than a boy—had shown up at the Cemetery with food and blankets and the stubborn insistence that no one should be alone.
He hadn't known Flins was fae. He still didn't know. To him, Flins was simply a strange, lonely person who needed looking after.
"Why would you allow it?" The question escaped before Flins could stop it, and he cursed himself inwardly. But now that it was out, he found he wanted the answer. "You knew what I was from the moment I woke. You knew I wasn't... human. And yet you sent your son to me. Repeatedly. Why?"
Nikita was quiet for a long moment, his weathered face thoughtful. When he spoke, his voice was gentler than Flins had ever heard it.
"I knew what you were," he agreed. "A noble snowland fae, from the old stories. A creature of light and shadow, older than my people's memory." He paused. "I also saw a person who had just lost everything, waking to a world that had forgotten him. A person who helped us, not out of obligation, but out of kindness."
Flins looked away, unsettled by the accuracy of the observation.
"And Illuga," Nikita continued, "my reckless, danger-seeking son—he needed something to care for. Something that wasn't a fight. When he started worrying about you, I saw something I hadn't seen in years. Purpose. Gentleness. He stopped rushing into every battle quite so carelessly because he knew he had to come back to check on you."
The admission struck Flins like a physical blow. Illuga... moderated his behavior? For him?
"He doesn't know I don't need checking on," Flins murmured.
"No," Nikita agreed, a knowing smile returning. "But you let him come anyway. You let him fuss. You feed him stories that keep him coming back. Tell me, Flins, why is that?"
Flins opened his mouth to deflect, to tease, to do anything but answer honestly. But the words caught in his throat.
Because Illuga's visits had become the brightest points in his existence. Because the younger man's earnest concern, his frustrated huffs at unfinished tales, the way he called him ‘Sir Flins’ with such respect—it had woven itself into the fabric of Flins's days. Because when he looked at Illuga, he didn't see a human, or an alpha, or a warrior. He saw Illuga. And that was becoming more precious than any memory of his former life.
"You're meddling," Flins finally said, deflecting weakly.
"Absolutely," Nikita agreed cheerfully. "It's one of the few pleasures left to me at my age."
Across the base, Illuga was cleaning his polearm with more force than necessary, his mind elsewhere. Specifically, it was in the Night Cemetery, with a certain omega who spoke in riddles and smiled like he knew secrets the universe hadn't discovered yet.
He was hopelessly, pathetically infatuated.
Not that it mattered. Flins was... well, Flins. Ethereal and untouchable, with an elegance that made Illuga feel clumsy and provincial. The omega had lived alone in a cemetery for years before Illuga even knew him, as if he existed on a different plane from ordinary people. He told stories that felt older than the mountains and looked at Illuga with those ancient, knowing eyes.
Why would someone like that ever look twice at someone like him?
Illuga sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was the adopted son of the Starshyna, leader of the Nightmare Orioles, capable of facing the Wild Hunt without flinching. But around Flins? he felt like a nervous teenage boy again, fumbling for words and blushing at teasing.
At least the stew had been adequate. That was something.
He didn't know that Flins had saved every container he'd ever brought, lined up on a shelf in the Cemetery dwelling like precious artifacts.
He didn't know that Flins had started leaving his window slightly ajar on the nights Illuga was scheduled to visit, just so the younger man wouldn't have to knock.
He didn't know that when he called Flins "Sir Flins" with such careful respect, the omega's heart did something complicated and terrifying that it hadn't done in centuries.
And he certainly didn't know that Flins, perched on his father's windowsill at this very moment, was thinking about the exact shape of Illuga's frown when a story was left unfinished, and smiling a smile that had nothing to do with teasing and everything to do with the slow, steady bloom of something far more dangerous.
Oh, how wrong Illuga was.
But Flins was patient. He had waited centuries in slumber. He could wait a little longer for his young master to realize that he had already been chosen.
The scene unfolded in the base's main courtyard, and Illuga wished desperately that he could un-see it.
Varka had another omega pressed against the wall, one hand braced above their head while the other cupped their jaw. The omega was laughing, something breathless and happy, and Varka's expression was so tender it made Illuga's stomach turn.
Illuga's blood ran cold. Then hot. Then cold again.
That cheating bastard.
His first thought was of Flins. Flins, who lit up whenever Varka's name was mentioned (or so Illuga believed).
Flins, who had probably been waiting for the Grand Master to notice him.
Flins, who deserved so much better than this mountain of unfaithful muscle head who couldn't keep his hands to himself.
His second thought was that he was going to commit murder.
His hand moved to his weapon before reason caught up with him. He couldn't challenge Varka—the man was a legend, a powerhouse, and technically hadn't done anything wrong because he and Flins weren't officially together. But in Illuga's mind, the crime was clear: Varka had Flins's heart and was trampling all over it.
Illuga turned on his heel and marched toward the Night Cemetery.
---
Flins was in the middle of rearranging his shelf of Illuga's containers (chronologically, by size, and also by how much he liked the design of the lid) when the door was thrown open with enough force to rattle the hinges.
Illuga stood there, chest heaving, eyes blazing with barely contained fury.
Flins blinked. "Young Master? You look-"
"I saw him." Illuga's voice was tight, controlled in a way that suggested he was barely holding himself together. "Sir Varka. With another omega."
Flins's hand stilled on a particularly nice container with a blue lid. "Oh?"
"He was kissing that omega, Flins. Against the wall. In broad daylight." Illuga strode inside, pacing like a caged wolf. "I knew he was from Mondstadt. I knew he'd leave eventually. But to do this now, to toy with you like this while making out with another, it fills me with rage!"
Flins tilted his head, a smile threatening to break across his face. "Toy with me?"
"You like him." Illuga stopped pacing to face Flins, and the anguish in his eyes was so raw, so painfully genuine, that Flins felt his heart clench. "Everyone knows. The way you look at him, the way you—you deserve better. You deserve someone who stays. Someone who sees you."
"Someone like who?" Flins asked softly.
Illuga's jaw worked. He looked away, shame coloring his cheeks. "I don't know. Someone. Anyone but him."
The laugh that escaped Flins was involuntary—a bright, bubbling thing that seemed to surprise them both. Illuga's head snapped back toward him, confusion replacing anguish.
"You're laughing?"
"I am," Flins admitted, pressing a hand to his mouth to contain himself. It didn't work. Another laugh escaped, then another, until he was properly giggling, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
Illuga stared at him like he'd lost his mind. "Sir Flins! Lord Flins! I just told you the alpha you're in love with is cheating on you. Why are you *laughing*?"
"Oh, Young Master." Flins crossed the space between them, still grinning. "You precious, adorable, ridiculous alpha."
He reached up and poked Illuga square in the forehead.
"I don't like Varka."
Illuga's brain seemed to short-circuit. "But…everyone said-"
"Everyone said what? That I looked at him?" Flins tilted his head, enjoying this far too much. "I looked at him the way one looks at a particularly impressive storm. From a distance. With appreciation for his power and absolutely no desire to be struck by lightning."
Illuga's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"But!"
"Varka's affections are directed elsewhere, and have been for some time. I'm happy for them." Flins shrugged elegantly. "It was never about Varka for me."
"Then... who?" The question was barely a whisper, vulnerable in a way Illuga rarely allowed himself to be.
Flins could have answered directly. Could have spared them both the continued misunderstanding. But where was the fun in that? Besides, Illuga's face right now—flushed, confused, desperately hopeful despite himself—was the most endearing thing Flins had seen in centuries.
"That," Flins said, stepping back with a mysterious smile, "is a story for another time. You'll have to visit again to hear it."
Illuga sputtered. "You can't just—I came all this way to defend your honor!"
"And I'm very grateful." Flins was definitely laughing at him now, though it was the fondest laughter Illuga had ever heard. "Truly. My noble young master, ready to challenge the Grand Master of Favonius himself for my sake. It's the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me."
"I wasn't going to challenge him, I was going to—well, maybe I was going to challenge him." Illuga ran a hand through his hair, frustrated and flustered and completely adorable. "Flins, I'm trying to have a serious moment here."
"So am I." Flins's smile softened into something genuine, something that made Illuga's heart stutter. "And I'm telling you, very seriously, that you have nothing to worry about regarding Varka. My heart is... elsewhere."
"Where?"
"That," Flins repeated, moving toward his shelf of containers and picking up the one with the blue lid—Illuga's favorite, the one he always brought stew in during winter, "is the story I haven't finished yet."
Illuga stared at the container in Flins's hands. At the way Flins held it, almost reverently. At the shelf behind it, filled with every container Illuga had ever brought over the years, arranged with obvious care.
Realization dawned slowly, then all at once.
"Oh," Illuga breathed.
Flins smiled, warm and ancient and full of promise. "Oh indeed, Young Master."
The blush that spread across Illuga's face was magnificent. It traveled from his cheeks to his ears to somewhere beneath his collar, and Flins wanted to paint it, to preserve it, to tease him about it for the rest of their lives.
"I should…" Illuga gestured vaguely toward the door. "I have reports. To file. Somewhere."
"You should come back tomorrow," Flins suggested. "I might finish that story for you."
"I—yes. Tomorrow. I'll…" Illuga was already backing toward the door, still flushed, still flustered, still beautiful. "Stew. I'll bring stew."
"I'll leave the doors open."
Illuga fled.
Flins waited until the sound of footsteps faded before allowing himself the full laugh he'd been holding back. It echoed through the Night Cemetery, bright and joyful and utterly at odds with its surroundings.
Oh, his young master. His precious, protective, spectacularly wrong young master.
Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.
When Illuga arrived the next evening, stew in hand and nerves clearly getting the better of him, he found Flins waiting by the window with a smile that promised equal parts teasing and tenderness.
"So," Flins said, patting the space beside him. "About that story. It begins a long time ago, with a man who woke to a strange new world, and a boy who kept bringing him soup."
Illuga sat. He listened. And by the end of the story, he finally, finally understood that he'd been the protagonist all along.
Nikita was at his desk when Illuga found him, buried in paperwork as always. The Starshyna looked up at his son's entrance, took in the disheveled hair, the slightly swollen lips, the dazed and happy expression, and felt a swell of satisfaction so profound he nearly laughed aloud.
Finally.
"Father," Illuga began, then stopped. He shifted from foot to foot in a way he hadn't done since adolescence. "I need to ask you something."
Nikita set down his pen, giving his full attention. "Go ahead."
"It's about Flins." Illuga's voice carried a vulnerability he rarely showed. "I know he's... older than me. Significantly, I think. And I know you've always encouraged me to visit him, to look after him, but I need to know—" He took a breath. "Are you truly alright with this? With me being with him? I don't want your approval of our relationship to be something you felt forced into because of whatever arrangement you two have."
Nikita studied his son for a long moment. Such a good heart, this boy of his. Always worrying about others, always checking that everyone around him was comfortable and cared for. It was what had drawn him to Flins in the first place, all those years ago.
" Illuga." Nikita rose, crossing to place his hands on his son's shoulders. "I have been trying to get the two of you together for years. Do you have any idea how many times I 'just happened' to need someone to check on the Cemetery? How many times I suggested you bring him food 'since you were passing by anyway'?"
Illuga's eyes widened. "That was…all of those times!"
"Every single one." Nikita smiled, genuine and warm. "Flins is... special. You know that. And I have watched you blossom under his influence. You're gentler. Happier. You come home from the Cemetery with light in your eyes that nothing else gives you." He squeezed Illuga's shoulders. "I could not have chosen a better partner for you if I'd tried. The age difference means nothing to me. His happiness means everything."
Illuga's throat worked, emotion clear on his face. "Thank you, Father."
"Now." Nikita released him, turning back to his desk with deliberate casualness. "Before you go running back to him, I should mention—"
He paused, considering his next words carefully. It wasn't his place to reveal Flins's secret. That conversation belonged to the two of them alone. But he could at least prepare his son for the revelation.
"Flins is not what he appears to be," Nikita said quietly. "You know this already, I think. You've always sensed it. When he tells you the truth about himself—and he will, if he loves you—remember that he is still the same person who let you fuss over him for years. Nothing changes that."
Illuga frowned, curiosity burning in his eyes. "What do you mean? What is he?"
Nikita shook his head firmly. "Not my story to tell. Go. Ask him yourself."
For a moment, Illuga looked like he might argue. Then something shifted in his expression—acceptance, perhaps, or understanding. He nodded once and left.
Nikita watched him go, smiling softly. ‘About damn time’
The Night Cemetery had never felt so much like home.
Illuga stood in the doorway of Flins's dwelling, watching the omega move about his space with new eyes. Now that he was looking—really looking—he could see it. The way Flins's footsteps barely disturbed the dust. The subtle luminescence of his skin in the fading light. The sense of *age* that clung to him, not in wrinkles or frailty, but in the depth of his gaze and the weight of his stillness.
"Sir Flins." Illuga's voice was soft. "What are you?"
Flins turned, and for a moment, something ancient flickered behind his eyes. Then he smiled—that same warm, teasing smile Illuga had fallen in love with.
"Straight to the point, Young Master?" He crossed to sit on his usual perch, patting the space beside him. "Come. Sit. This is a story that deserves comfort."
Illuga obeyed, settling close enough that their shoulders brushed. Flins was warm, he noticed. Warmer than a human should be.
"I am fae," Flins said simply. "From the old courts, before the world forgot us. I slept for centuries beneath this land, and woke ten years ago to find the Wild Hunt threatening the humans who had settled above my resting place." He glanced at Illuga sideways. "Your father knew the moment he saw me. He's always been perceptive that way."
Illuga processed this. Fae. Creatures of story and legend, beings of impossible beauty and terrifying power. The tales Flins had told him—the Solitary Lark, the Knight of the Frozen Dawn, all the others—they weren't fairy tales at all.
"Those stories," Illuga breathed. "They were about you...right?"
"Some of them." Flins's voice was gentle. "I told you my past, disguised as fiction. I wanted you to know me without being afraid."
"Why would I be afraid?" The question came automatically, genuinely. Illuga turned to face Flins fully. "You're still you. You're still the person who let me bring you stew for years, who left stories unfinished so I'd come back, who laughed at me yesterday for being a protective idiot." He reached out, taking Flins's hand. "You're still Flins. Fae or human, that doesn't change."
Flins's breath caught. In all his centuries, he had never been accepted so simply, so completely. Humans usually feared fae, or worshipped them, or tried to use them. Illuga just... loved him.
"You're remarkable," Flins whispered. "Do you know that?"
Illuga blushed, but didn't look away. "I learned from the best."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, hands intertwined, as the cemetery grew dark around them. Eventually, Illuga stirred.
"We should tell Father. Officially, I mean."
Flins smiled. "He knows. He's probably already planning the celebration."
They found Nikita in his quarters that evening, and the Starshyna's face split into a grin the moment he saw them standing together, hands clasped.
"Congratulations," he said warmly, pulling them both into a brief, fierce hug. "It's about time. I was beginning to think I'd have to lock you in the Cemetery together."
"Father," Illuga protested, embarrassed.
" Nikita." Flins's tone was fond. "Thank you. For everything. For sending him to me, all those years ago. For trusting me with him."
Nikita waved off the gratitude, but his eyes were bright. "You gave him purpose. You gave him happiness. It was the least I could do." He paused, glancing between them with a suddenly mischievous expression. "However. Before you go off to celebrate properly, I feel obligated to mention something."
Illuga tensed. "What?"
Nikita's smile turned decidedly wicked. "Unless you intend to fulfill my dearest wish of becoming a grandfather this year, I strongly suggest you use protection. Fae biology and human biology, alphas and omegas—well, I'm sure you can imagine the potential complications."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Flins, for the first time in centuries, found himself completely speechless. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, his pale cheeks flushing with color.
Illuga looked like he wanted the earth to open and swallow him whole. "Father!"
"What?" Nikita spread his hands innocently. "I'm being practical. Someone has to think about these things." He patted Illuga's shoulder as he moved past them toward the door. "Enjoy your evening. Don't do anything I wouldn't do—which leaves quite a lot of room, really. Goodnight, children."
He was gone before either of them could respond, his laughter echoing behind him.
Illuga buried his face in his hands. "I'm going to die of embarrassment."
Flins, recovering his composure with visible effort, let out a shaky laugh. "Your father is absolutely insufferable."
"I know. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be." Flins tugged Illuga's hands away from his face, smiling with restored equilibrium. "He's right, you know. About being happy. About celebrating." He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "And about the practical considerations. We should discuss those. Thoroughly."
Illuga's blush returned with a vengeance, but he was smiling now, too. "You're impossible."
"You love it."
"I do." Illuga pulled him closer, pressing their foreheads together. "I really, really do."
And if Nikita happened to pause outside the door just long enough to hear the soft laughter and murmured endearments that followed, well.
He was only human. And humans were allowed their small joys.