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Flins, with his chivalrous countenance and silver tongue, charms everyone he talks to without fail. Courteous dips of his head, a hand held for a person to take—he’s the very picture of a gentleman, and he has a mysterious, dark allure to boot. Despite his solitary habits, Flins is exceptionally social, too, and enjoys puffing people up with compliments until they’re either beaming or flustered.
It’s overwhelmingly annoying how many people swoon over him. It’s even worse that Illuga can’t stop noticing.
“Sir Flins, you look parched. Please, join me for a drink; perhaps relax a while?”
“Wow, Flins—I didn’t realize you have as much strength under that coat as you do!”
“Your polearm technique is incredible. Could I possibly get some tips from you? Maybe you could show me your hold?”
Illuga fucking loathes it.
He has no real claim on Flins or his company, but that doesn’t stop the monstrous thing that is his possessiveness from baring its fangs. Flins is not his in any way, so Illuga shouldn’t be so affected by so many fawning over him or the way Flins flirts back every single time. Except that he is. Illuga can smother it, keep the jealousy from bleeding into his appearance, but the compounding thoughts and bottled up emotions are beginning to eat at him.
Hence why he, known for only the occasional drink and repose, is drinking at Favonius Keep with Varka.
Most of the Knights have left for Mondstadt by now, but those who remain are as boisterous as ever, especially this late in the evening. Amidst the glow of the bonfire they’ve lit, Illuga perches on a log, staring at the flames while Knights sing in a foreign language and sway on unsteady feet. Varka settles beside him with two mugs in hand, one of which he extends to Illuga.
As he accepts it with thanks, Varka tells him, “Dandelion Wine. Finest alcohol there is, though firewater can give it a run for its mora depending on my mood.” He laughs and takes a generous drink.
Illuga hums, eyeing the wine. Likely, the alcohol content is lower than the mead he nurses out of respect at Lightkeeper banquets. He’s itching to get himself out of his mind, and while a mug of wine likely won’t do the job, it should take the edge off. He raises the mug to his lips and sips, letting the sweet flavor slip over his taste buds.
“It’s sweeter than my usual mead,” he comments, knowing Varka wants his opinion. “It’s delicious, though. Thank you for sparing me some.”
Varka looks pleased as he waves a dismissive hand. “Dandelion Wine is meant to be shared with friends, not kept in a barrel forever.” He adjusts himself so he can brace on his knees, attention fully on Illuga. His intense, imploring gaze, visible in the firelight, makes the Lightkeeper squirm. “What’s on your mind? You seem pretty tense.”
Illuga takes another sip of his wine, if only to have a momentary reprieve from Varka’s sight. “Am I really that easy to read?” he grumbles when he lowers the mug.
“I’ve known you for a couple of years now,” Varka says as an answer, offering a shrug of his shoulders. “Even on the occasional times you drink with Flins—” Illuga tries not to tense at the name “—and me, you nurse one drink. And it takes a miracle for you to actually come. You’ve rarely sought me out here.” He gestures about the camp, then turns his now-pointed look back to Illuga. It’s too knowing.
He huffs, folding his arms carefully around his mug. “I needed to take care of some frustration. Favonius Keep is considerably closer than Nasha Town, and I figured you’d be up for a drink.”
“Frustration,” Varka echoes, slow like he’s tasting the word.
“I’m not a viceless man,” Illuga insists. Except he is. He’d even confessed to Aether once that he doesn’t so much as have hobbies. He’s worse than viceless; he’s boring.
He has no business wanting Flins as much as he does. He just… can’t help it. Not when Flins’ low voice twists his stomach; not when his heart pounds when his colleague presses a guiding hand to the small of his back; not when the man’s smile softens just so when he’s telling stories and Illuga imagines kissing him breathless.
The Grand Master hums and nods, placating, and Illuga snaps to the present. “Right. Sure.” Varka smirks against the rim of his mug before letting them fall into companionable silence, his gaze outward toward his men.
Illuga slowly drowns himself in the camp’s atmosphere. A few Knights have begun dancing about the bonfire now, their drunken feet following the circle in a way that seems more like stumbling. Others have become shadows on the outskirts of the fire’s glow, leaning in as they talk and drink amongst themselves.
His mind, traitorous as always this late, murmurs, Is Flins awake in Final Night Cemetery? Does he even need sleep?
Not for the first time, the fire chasing the sky, so reminiscent of the flames of Flins’ lantern, makes Illuga wonder if Flins being inhuman has anything to do with his ability to capture and deter attention as he pleases. Then again, it’s only Illuga’s familiarity with him that has caused him to note Flins’ inhuman quirks: his one-handed polearm technique, elegant and strong in the midst of battle in a way a regular person can’t be; his exclusive diet of alcohol, the only item Illuga has never watched him consume; the licks of blue flames in his irises Illuga has seen only once, when he’d been injured and Flins had scolded him quiet.
No, Flins is far from human, but it’s his own charisma that affords him attention. Besides, his very nature couldn’t have made Illuga—
He cuts the thought off like it’s a loose thread on his clothes before resolutely chugging the rest of his wine.
At his side, Varka makes a surprised noise before he doubles forward in hearty laughter. “I could’ve brought you something stronger if you were aching for a buzz,” he remarks, reaching out to clap Illuga on the shoulder.
The touch lurches his body forward, but he stays relatively steady. He licks across his bottom lip, tasting the lingering, earthy sweetness. Maybe Flins would taste similar.
He’d probably have an aftertaste of smoke.
“Whatever’s bothering you, I’m all ears. Sounds like you need it off your chest,” Varka coaxes. “I’ve been told—”
“People keep flirting with Flins, and it’s pissing me off,” Illuga blurts, then immediately covers his face with his free hand. Mortification bolts through him, warming his body to the tip of his ears.
Varka pauses, and when Illuga risks a peek, the Grand Master has his jaw dropped open. He looks less like his esteemed title and more like a school girl hearing gossip. Delight nearly radiates from him. “This is the best day of my life,” he says, and Illuga begs the Moon Goddess to grant him death.
“I didn’t mean to say that out loud.” He scrubs his hand over his face before letting it drop back to his lap, resigned. He can’t exactly turn back time or make Varka forget he’d said anything.
“Thank Barbados himself you did.” Varka’s hand returns to his shoulder, this time resting gently. His expression softens into something reassuring. “How long have you been keeping a lid on that one?”
Illuga’s body deflates, and he realizes just how much tension he’d been unknowingly holding. “Weeks. Months. I don’t know anymore.” He sighs. One of the Knights in Illuga’s peripheral shrieks as he trips, but someone quickly scoops him up, and they return to dancing as if it hadn’t happened.
Varka hums, contemplative. “How does Flins react to the flirting?”
That ugly possessiveness Illuga fights to keep down makes itself at home in his chest, bullying its way in until it’s bubbling under his skin. “He flirts back, of course. This is Flins we’re talking about.” His voice comes out harsher than he means it to, but he can't stop talking now that he's started. “Even when people are wary of him, they're still looking at him. Everywhere he goes, people stop and stare or flirt, and then he flirts back like I'm not right next to him wanting his attention on me instead, and I—” Illuga's whole body sags as he cuts himself off, jaw working uselessly.
Varka stays patiently silent, though, until Illuga can push out a weak, “I think I'm in love with him, and I don’t know what to do.”
A beat of quiet more, then a low whistle from his companion. “In love, huh?”
He drops his face into his free palm, arm braced by his elbow on his thigh. “Unfortunately. He annoys me to no end, but it’s endearing,” he grumbles with a wrinkled noise. “He speaks in that flowery, gentlemanly way of his to either get what he wants or dodge what he doesn’t, he refuses to call me by my name even though I’ve stressed that I loathe the reminder of my age, and he refuses to finish a single story he tells me, just smiles and sends me on my way.”
Varka clicks his tongue, not unkindly. “I can’t say I’d find that endearing.”
“Somehow, it is.” Illuga rubs his forehead. “You know how he is, too: kind and loyal to a fault, always willing to assist. I can’t help but be endeared.”
Saying all of this out loud to someone else feels both cathartic and terribly vulnerable, like he’s a filleted fish tossed in front of a waiting cat. Illuga’s chest loosens, slow but steady.
Varka hums, contemplative. Oddly knowing. “Flins is definitely a good man. Easily one of the best I’ve met in Nod-Krai over the years,” he agrees. He nudges Illuga’s leg with his own to get his attention, and when he looks up, Varka grins crookedly. “I say you should go find him and tie him down. Metaphorically or physically, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
“Forgive me if I don’t want to discuss my kinks with you,” Illuga deadpans.
He holds up his hands, careful of his mug. “I’m just saying that I won’t judge.”
Maybe Varka won’t judge, but he’ll definitely tease, just like Flins would. He squints at the Grand Master for a few more beats before sighing. “What use is telling Flins? If he doesn’t return my feelings, I’ll still have to patrol with him. Bring him his rations. Pretend I’m not missing him when I inevitably have to pull away because we’ve grown awkward.”
It’s so ingrained in Flins to be a gentleman that his rejection would be polite, caring, and direct. Even he loathes to mess negatively with people’s emotions, so for once, Illuga would get honesty from him. But Illuga wouldn’t be able to show face when Flins knows how deep his affections run. He’d lose Flins’ teasing, his stories—everything that Illuga looks forward to even as he tells Flins to his face that he’s a nuisance.
He can’t risk what he has just because he craves more.
Varka groans, long and resigned. He shifts one leg over the log to straddle it. Illuga straightens up immediately, resisting the urge to make himself even smaller under Varka’s towering form.
“Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I refuse to leave Nod-Krai while you two are dancing around each other worse than Jean and Lisa.” Illuga doesn’t ask who either of those people are, and Varka doesn’t pause to clarify. “Flins is a flirt. A huge one. But you know who he never shuts up about? You.”
Illuga’s heart skips a beat in his chest. His jaw works, but nothing comes out.
“The first time I met the guy, he told me about you, how you’re the youngest captain and worthy of the title because of your resilience, leadership, and compassion,” Varka continues. Illuga can only stare at his fire-illuminated face as he speaks, searching for any hint of exaggeration. He finds none. “Every time we drink together, he finds some way to boast about you, even if it’s the smallest accomplishment. I’m fairly sure that he talked about you so much during the whole Rerir and Dottore shitshow that Jahoda, at the very least, thinks you two are together already.”
Varka leans forward, and licks of fire reflect in his eyes. “That man revolves around you, and if I have to hear him pining one more damn night after knowing you feel the same way about him, I’ll throw myself to the Wild Hunt.”
Hope nearly bowls Illuga off the log, pounding so hard at his body that he can feel it in his ribs, in the blood rushing in his ears. He scrambles to his feet and presses the empty mug to Varka’s chest, only feeling slightly bad about his impoliteness. “Thank you for the wine, Varka, but I have to go,” he blurts. A sharp, low whistle summons Aedon, who flies toward the camp’s entrance, lighting the way as Illuga starts to run.
It takes the Grand Master a mere moment to recover, and once he does, he laughs, boisterous enough to draw the attention of the Knights still around the bonfire. “Go get him, captain!” he calls after.