Work Text:
Flins arrived at their agreed meeting point to find Illuga – of course – already there. Always so conscientious. So lovely. Oh, but his young master was so lovely. A single gold-reamed jewel nestled among the rusted metal of Nasha Town, a treasure beyond any he had in his collection. A treasure he never would, now, unless time stretched just enough to allow their plans to come to fruition. So much was contingent upon that most fickle of mistresses, luck. He went to hail him; found his voice had curled up stubbornly behind his tongue, a domesticated beast which had finally found its way home again, at peace, quiescent.
Not one to fight a battle which he had no hope of winning (save this once, where the illusion of choice had been stripped from him), he turned instead to observe the back of Illuga’s poised wool-clad form. There was time, yet, for this one indulgence. This was just, perhaps, a little less time than Flins had expected. A little less than he had hoped.
There could never be enough time, anyway. Not to adore his young master, his light.
The young captain was so still, almost preternaturally so: a consummate warrior, expending not an ounce more energy than necessary. The wind flitted idly by, dancing brazenly in silver hair, causing it to flutter like a knight’s pennant, like scudding clouds, Illuga’s halo made manifest. Flins envied the wind, suddenly, with a vicious twisting wrench which went to the blazing core of him. Had he been a wind spirit, he too might have been granted such an exquisite pleasure – but alas. All his touch could do was burn.
Illuga shifted a little, glanced up at the sun in the sky. How long had he been sat there before Flins arrived? What had he left behind to make it to Nasha Town at such speed, at Flins’ abrupt request?
The wind paraded mockingly past Flins’ face. He bared his teeth at it, truculent in the absence of his master.
It was, in the end, for the best that they had not realised this unspoken attachment between them, that Flins was such a peerless coward. Fickle as the legends told, he vacillated by the hour between his irrepressible desire and his stark recognition of all that his nature entailed. He was a creature which lied, deceived, misled; their entire relationship was crafted upon the most fundamental of untruths: how could he deserve the affection of a soul as gentle, as warm, as honest as Illuga’s? And so, he shied from it, a skittish beast, an uneven pendulum clock which should have been a sundial.
At least Flins could, in his cowardice, leave his beloved young master one gift: should they fail, should he not return from this battleground, should his flame at last be extinguished forever, Illuga would not have to grieve the truncation of a fledgling… dare he say it, romance. (His thoughts flickered to careful gazes, languid kisses, touches extended too long to be quite friendly; the illusion of distance crumbled further and faster by the day.)
There were no threads of responsibility to bind them to each other, nothing beyond mutual affection resolutely smothered, never acknowledged. He would send him away whole, unshackled, would take the decision from Illuga’s overworked hands, leaving no space for self-recrimination. Illuga, with his boundless love and blinding radiance, would inevitably draw others into his orbit. He would survive, having lost only one friend among many, and nothing more.
The other part of Flins, the part that wanted to live at all costs, that wanted to claw this second life close to its empty chest and tear the throat from any who might take it from him, knew such thoughts were unfair. To be the one left behind was the cruellest fate imaginable; to leave behind one who had been left too many times before – one who still bore innumerable scars across his psyche, who carried each and every death with him with the weight of a physical corpse – was unthinkable. How could Flins do anything but fight tooth and nail to spare his young master such a fate?
Not for his Illuga the fate which awaited doomed Achilles at the fall of his Patroclus; not for his Illuga another perceived failure to regret. It was not Illuga who was fated to, as the legend told, howl like a bearded lion whose cubs a hunter has snatched from some dense thicket.
No, it was Flins who was fated to fling himself in the dark sand of Nod Krai, to wail and lament and be covered at last by the embrace of his home’s soil. It was Flins who was fated to go beneath the ground after his beloved, enshrouded in a black cloud of grief so viscous as to be impermeable. It was Flins who was fated not to linger among men upon the demise of he whom he treasured more than all.
He wanted so badly to kiss him.
He wanted to never let go, to be carried around at Illuga’s waist like a trophy, like an ornament.
He wanted-
He stepped out from behind the awning, the bookshop’s proprietor startling at his appearance. He ensured his steps were only just perceptible – and was rewarded with the sight of Illuga turning in the late afternoon light, silver head haloed by the glaring sun. Flins nearly stopped in his tracks, nearly fell to his knees, nearly begged the world for more time, just a little more, only a little, so I may render this vision immortal through paint and pencil… before I go, please, let me-
“Ah, Mr Flins. Perfect timing. I just arrived myself.”
Oh, but Flins adored him, every lying inch of him, every golden glittering inch.
***
Illuga had been coordinating emergency patrols around the areas which had been swallowed by those horrible domes – not too close, we can’t know what they are or will do; under no circumstances interact with them; ensure the area is clear but do not endanger yourselves unduly (he was nothing if not a hypocrite) – when Flins’ message arrived by pigeon. The thing was barely willing to be caught and have its missive wrestled off its leg: most birds had a special horror of Aedon and would do anything to avoid being in his sight. He in turn did not help matters, proudly strutting around as they panicked and staring uncannily at them. No matter how many times Illuga enjoined him to be kinder to them – they were only dumb animals after all, and in his youth he had enjoyed spending time with Piramida’s small flock – he never seemed to take it on board.
This one bolted in the direction of Nasha Town the instant he released it, not even pausing to drink on its way. The message it bore was necessarily brief, but Flins had done his best to squeeze his ridiculous flowery cursive onto the scrap of paper, even when half the words were superfluous:
Young Master Illuga- Please may I request your presence to discuss the matter of the glowing spheres overtaking Nod Krai, of which I have some unfortunate knowledge. I will attend Mimisbrunnr Books at four in the afternoon; this should provide sufficient time for you to travel. I await your convenience. Yours- Flins.
And so, here Illuga was, heart in turmoil and mind reeling, having commandeered a boat, a Fatui mechanism and a Radiant Beast in addition to his own legs to get him to the appointed place at the appointed hour. He hadn’t had much time to think about what direction the discussion might take on his way, and frankly he wasn’t best pleased with it where it had, in the end, gone.
Of course it would be short work to locate the remaining civilians whom the Lightkeepers had not yet guided from the inexorable expansion of those awful spheres; the situation was dire, but this at least gave them something fruitful to do, lives to save. This was what they were made for.
Conversely, he was less pleased with the implication, which became clearer by the second, that Flins was, a) not intending to join them, and b) intending to do something stupid and self-sacrificing.
Only Illuga was allowed to do things which were self-sacrificing, because nobody would miss him if he was gone. Oh, they would grieve him, certainly (he pushed away the familiar twinge of guilt he felt at being so ungrateful for the renewed life which his father’s kindness had granted him), but he was in no way indispensable. To perish in pursuit of Nod Krai’s continued safety was an acceptable end for him. Flins, however… he was unique. He was a team of ratniki all by himself; it was due to his efforts that Paha Isle was so minimally staffed, freeing meagre resources to continue the seemingly endless battle elsewhere. Did he really have to face this monster head-on, even with companions at his side?
Illuga knew some of the names Flins had mentioned in his recap of the strategy meeting, but failed to recognise just as many. Could they be trusted? Would they cover Flins’ back, as his fellow ratniki would? He had to- to let Flins know, that- that his peers wouldn’t think any less of him if he wasn’t on the front lines, that this was above and beyond what his duty dictated… that Illuga wanted him safe more than was rational, more than anything.
“I don't mean to pry, but… whatever it is you’re planning, I promise you don't have to get so deeply involved.”
He was certain he didn’t imagine the amused spark in Flins’ fascinating eyes, the wry acknowledgement that Illuga would do exactly the same in his position. They truly were birds of a feather. He felt his heart wrench at the thought. He was only too aware of everything that could go wrong even on an ordinary patrol, and this was… so far beyond ordinary. As indeed, yes, was Flins – but even for him, to face a self-made god was terrifying.
His unease was infinitely worsened by Flins’ next words, delivered with a detached kind of acceptance:
“I have been afflicted with some sort of curse… I'm told it will likely activate the moment I set foot outside of Nod-Krai. As such, I cannot leave. Even if simply to resolve this issue, I must take action.”
Illuga’s stomach plummeted through the ground. He staggered back a little, as though Flins’ words had been a physical blow. He thought he might be sick. The imminent danger was already beyond all comprehension, but to trap people within the borders of a land which was rapidly being devoured by the unknown was… monstrous. To Illuga, having no choice but to leave a comrade – to leave Flins – behind, to meet gods alone knew what fate, was a nightmare given form. He choked on his words, on his tongue, barely able to look at Flins (barely able to look away), muttered disbelievingly, half to himself (“Why should you be cursed? Who would-”), seized Flins’ blessedly solid arm in desperate hands, released it again- shook his head, inhaled-
He was a captain. He was a captain and he had an operation to attend to. He was a captain with a task ahead, and hundreds of lives relying on him and on his soundness of mind. He was not permitted the luxury of a mental breakdown. He clawed back to himself from the threshold of despair only to hear Flins say, as smooth and unruffled as honey:
“There are plenty of people who are willing to trample over others in pursuit of their own goals.”
Illuga saw red. Was the man incapable of taking anything seriously at all?! His own life?!1 Did he not know how much he meant to- to his colleagues, to the civilians he protected? To Illuga? How could he- stand there so calmly and talk about- curses and insane gods and nationwide evacuation and look exactly as he did when commenting on the weather?!
He said as much, absolutely indignant, absolutely furious – and was soundly rebuffed by that same composed veneer:
“Ah... It is what it is, I’m afraid. Since events have progressed in this way, we simply have to deal with them as they come. If you find yourself feeling angry, perhaps start by drinking a few more glasses of water?”
Illuga hissed in his rage, teeth bared like a cornered animal – he wanted to shake him – wanted to see some emotion on that calm impassive face – wanted to know that it wasn’t just him, alone in this world, who felt things so deeply, too deeply – wanted, with a sudden desperation, to know that they understood each other. He huffed a sigh, recalibrated again, the repression of his highly-strung emotions second nature to him. There was, after all, no end to wanting. He would have to step across that great void himself.
He fixed the other man with his fiercest glare, chin raised defiantly, matched Flins’ flippant tone precisely. He was vaguely aware as he did so that this placed their exchange quite firmly in the realm of flirting. It seemed that they always ended up here in the end.
“Hey- you mean you're completely unmoved by my anger? I’m devastated.”
Flins smiled minutely, picking up the game where Illuga had left it, all smooth charm and elegance and feigned surrender. Illuga wanted to kiss him so badly.
“Then allow me to express my sincerest regret. Come by the lighthouse sometime. We'll catch ourselves a few fish, have a little barbecue, play some cards and bask in the sun.”
And that… well, that was kind of like a promise, wasn’t it?
***
Illuga’s beautiful face had frozen, a star fallen from the firmament, blinding, enticing. His sweet mouth had curled deliciously, one perfect canine on display – ah, how Flins loved to burrow under that warm expanse of scar-etched skin. To kiss it from the inside when he couldn’t from without.
“Come here a sec.” Illuga turned abruptly, gestured Flins closer with one casually imperious hand, a dangerous glint in his eye. Unable, as ever, to refuse his young master’s demands, Flins approached the desired corner of the terrace, leant down attentively to hear the charming riposte he would next convey.
There was a long silence, as the glint in Illuga’s ruby-and-steel eyes solidified into something which one could have used to cut diamond. Flins, lost in the nuances of every second, archiving each and every change in his young master’s beautiful and furious face, was therefore caught completely off guard when the stretching wire-taught moment snapped.
One second, they were two mountains, immovable and stately in their respective existences; the next, he found himself one half of the blistering annihilation reaction of kuuvahki as he gasped, taken aback, into Illuga’s ferocious, seeking mouth. Laminated to the storage boxes behind him with one merciless hand gripping his collar like a lifeline, all he could do was cling desperately to his own and above all – and this was the most difficult part – stay silent. The bookshop was right there and the man was an incorrigible gossip; if this were to get to Nikita- well, suffice to say that between the Starshyna and Dottore, Flins didn’t fancy his chances of returning from the ordeal intact. On which note, he really ought-
“Y-”
He gasped again, suppressed a feeble moan as Illuga fairly snarled, licking into his mouth, silencing him with the effectiveness of a knife to the throat.
There was a vague awareness of another hand knotted in the long hair at the nape of his neck, holding him in place like a vice, directing his head just as his young master desired. Constrained thus, Flins was barely able to reciprocate beyond disjointed gasps for breath he didn’t need (the thought of whose air he was inhaling served only to heighten his respiratory difficulties), passively allowing his mouth to be plundered. There was a kind of delirium which always overcame him under his young master’s, aha, tender ministrations; to be desired by one so good, so kind, so wholesome – Illuga sank sharp teeth into his bottom lip and worried, no doubt leaving a mark which Flins would wear as a badge of honour to his destiny – was more than a creature such as Flins could ever have dreamt of. Could ever have dared to dream of.
He gave himself over to the inexorable crashing wave which was his young master: he could be in no safer hands.
In time the exigencies of human biology required that Illuga withdraw to breathe. Flins was (or perhaps was not) ashamed to admit that he chased his receding lips as though they were the last glass of water available to a man in a desert, held at bay by the resolute fist clenched in his coat collar. He swallowed, and felt Illuga’s grip budge not at all against his throat. His knees threatened to give out as a result. (And that was something he would have to unpack at a later date, if indeed he saw a later date, in some detail. Alone. No experimentation partners necessary. He tried not to swallow again.)
For all that he’d paused his attack on Flins’ mouth, Illuga still didn’t seem able to stop kissing him. The initial fury sated, his hands migrated up to cradle Flins’ jaw as he continued pressing soft kisses into every inch of skin available.2
He managed despite this to murmur against Flins’ mouth, “Word is that you were caught up in a real horror show recently.” Kiss. Kiss. “People were amazed that you returned safe and sound.” Kiss. Illuga’s eyes flickered down, sideways, for a breath, then back up at Flins. The real question. “They’ve been debating whether you’re even human.” It was hardly anything more than a breath in shared air, devoured by Flins in an instant.
He smiled, half-laughed. Of course his young master would take this chance, with Flins so incapacitated, to continue their ongoing dance; he had to admire Illuga’s cunning. “I’ve returned safe and sound from plenty of crises.” A pause, a conscious softening of his tone: “When you say ‘people’… would I be right in thinking you are referring to yourself?”
Illuga huffed, annoyed but clearly resigned to being read like one of Flins’ ancient tomes. (And by all the gods did Flins long to read him more closely, to learn every cadence, every movement, every inch of him by heart, to fashion in his mind an Illuga so indistinguishable from the real thing that they need never be parted… to-)
“Fine. You’re… not actually human, are you?”
Deflect, become a smooth glass wall with no handholds, cover the truth with the veneer of a lie – the truth you both know – feign cluelessness… When had it stopped being a game? When had Flins stopped enjoying the concealment, the wordplay, the excuses?
He knew when. It was the day he first realised that he wanted to be caught.
How he envied the tamed beast, the butterfly pinned carefully to a corkboard. They were known, entirely; they were kept, displayed, an extension of the hands which wrote their fate.3 It was his own fault that he had to envy them; he had written his fate with his own clawed hands, and they could never hope to compare.
After so long in the dark, he longed, now, to dwell in the light. However.
He had always been a coward. Next time, next time, he told himself. Later. And now, perhaps, there would be no next time; they would see no later. Time had caught up with them both.
“Heavens. What a horrifying thought.”
Flins’ lying heart twisted as he saw real frustration flash through Illuga’s mesmerising eyes, as his young master pushed himself bodily away from Flins to stare out over Nasha Town. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and Flins felt the biting sting of regret. The habitual mask, one he knew himself all too well, descended in an instant over the lovely face, coating it in diamond, in frozen starlight. Beautiful, and so, so far away.
“Forget it. We’ll revisit this once it’s all over. Just…” The mask cracked a little, just for an instant, for a breath. Flins longed to hurl it out over the plaza, to burrow into the warm care of Illuga’s gentle heart.
“Just promise me you’ll come back t- in one piece, alright?” A heartbeat, one more, before the mask fell once more into place. But Flins had seen – was permitted to see – the desperation in those gorgeous eyes, the fear which his young master hardly ever allowed himself to feel, never mind display. This was not the time for an honest truth, or a deflection. Illuga knew as well as he that ultimately Flins had no say in the outcome: this was not a request, but a confession. After all, if the promise were broken, there would be nobody to hold to account.
And so, as the old Court would have demanded: like for like. (The old Court no longer bound him, but this, this was important. This was a promise to Illuga. This was the closest thing to binding which Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins could entertain.) His brave young master had taken the first step, knowing what he did about Flins’ odds; he owed him an apposite and comparable response.
The clamour of Nasha Town had faded into silence around them.
They were the only two people in the world.
“For you, young master Illuga, how could I refuse?”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
- Illuga, once again, was at heart a hypocrite. [ ▲ ]
- Flins, notoriously modest in his dress, found himself for the first time in his new life’s history considering the benefits of clothes which exposed significantly more skin. [ ▲ ]
- And oh, how Flins longed to submit to Illuga’s skilful hands; to learn them entire, to study every bone, sinew and tendon for hours – days – weeks on end; to watch them flex and strain at their work. To read every callus, every mark, every scar, every vein of them; to divine at last the secret whereby they could be so resolute, and so gentle; so commanding and so careful, all at once. To uncover whether such hypotheses could apply to the greater whole. He longed, how he longed, to- but that was no matter. Not here, today, not now. [ ▲ ]