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Flins could not entirely blame his fae nature for his possessiveness. Illuga was a beautiful soul, the kind Flins would not dare to pin down. In practice.
In theory, in the deepest recesses of his being, he is terribly consumed by him.
Thus, he fell into the same trap over and over. Deny his heart or disobey his mind; betray his love’s trust or burn alive in his desires.
Thankfully, he is spared from the worst of his thoughts this year. Though spring brings many kind things, the light and the warmth and the life also wake dormant instincts. The kind Flins could not partake in, though he also had no desire to for all of his waking years so far.
(Until now. Until Illuga, woefully.)
‘Mating Hunts’ or something or other… Nikita had explained them thoroughly one long and drunken night. Though Flins did not ever consider himself prudish he did find himself unnerved, to say the least.
Perhaps because this was exactly the kind of thing his people were infamous for. Heat that blurs longing and greed into something more like possession, the kind of ugly things that rose from the desperation to claw outside of one’s self and make a mark on whatever was within reach.
That is to say; sex and all the complicated things that often came with it, when humans got brought into the mix. Scents and personalities and history and class and culture, all the drama Flins quickly learned was not isolated to courts and nobility.
‘One should not steal an unwilling lover’ was the lesson from many folk stories involving the fae, because love was supposed to be mutual and kind. And yet nature, cruel as usual, inspired the pain of “omegas” and “alphas” alike. Horror stories of unwilling unions or love so violent it brought some to the verge of death filled Piramida’s halls when the children were resting.
Flins understood all of that and was very happy to not be involved at all. He did not revel in seeming pretentious when it didn't serve him, but this lack of control was completely horrifying in a way he was already familiar with.
(His mind was already inspired by Illuga plenty, he hated to even imagine how he would act if these secondary genders also came into the mix.)
So, when these annual ‘Hunts’ came around, he took on the weight of the many responsibilities Nikita could not handle and, for once, gladly holed himself up in his lighthouse to do paperwork.
It was painfully obvious when the people of Nod Krai were getting antsy, all sweaty and particular and reactive. Flins learned not to push his usual haggling and not to linger, lest he face the ire of some young ratnik who will then shamefully trudge to his home a week later to apologize and plead for forgiveness.
He does not particularly enjoy how busy things get then. It tests his patience for humanity when his hopes rise and fall over and over. The only person who usually knocks on his door is Illuga and his are the only good surprises.
It also isn't a pleasant reminder– seeing all these new hormonal faces– when he knows Illuga is among their ranks during those times. Any one of them could be covered in Illuga’s scent and he wouldn't know. They could have sunk their claws or teeth into him, they could be saturating his life with their presence.
Flins by no means had any real desire to change Illuga, but he did selfishly wish the consumption of his thoughts were mutual. He did so deeply wish for his kin’s infamy to escape him, so he did not feel so strangely guilty about the depths of his obscenity. It came back to haunt him every day they spent apart. He couldn't fight it even if he wanted to, even if his face seemed unchanging.
And nevermind that, anyway. This year he was welcome to be however greedy he wanted to be without shame. This year he was free from the curse of consciousness, because Illuga would be spending the worst of spring at his place.
Frankly, the request came out of nowhere, but he would not dare deny his Young Master any of his time even if he was being strange and evasive in his reasoning.
Illuga would not be participating in any hunts, he would be within Flins’ eyeline. Domestic mockery in the face of his inner turmoil. He already knows the song and dance Illuga goes through: getting him to eat through carefully crafted meals; doing small, thoughtful chores around the house; indulging in Flins’ every whim and story. It will almost feel like something permanent, as two beings perfectly slotting into place. It will almost feel like they were made to fit together, like they could cover each other’s blind spots and mend every open wound.
Flins figures he should do a sweep of the cemetery before Illuga arrives. He needs to make sure his demeanor is not too obviously delighted, lest his Young Master become self conscious over the whole situation.
Nothing he could do could burn off the excess energy he feels, but if he could cool down just a bit, he could at least ensure he was not blatantly disturbing.
—
Illuga sighs heavily as he sets his luggage down. With a stern look at Flins, he shucks off his coat onto the floor tugs at the tall collar of his sweater until his neck is exposed.
He forgoes his polite greetings, like he often does when Flins has done something to intentionally bring him over.
Flins simply stares back at him, oh-so-relieved he is not cursed with the same scent-based readable emotions.
“How do I smell?” Illuga asks, blunt and already furiously scanning Flins for any hint of a reaction.
The question alone makes him lightheaded, but Flins holds strong.
“Good,” he says, not even slightly revealing his inner turmoil. He does not dare sniff the air or whatever Illuga is expecting him to do to test that. His lantern must be about to erupt.
Illuga’s face and posture relaxes a bit. He snorts, a slight smile reaching his lips now, even if he tries to hide it by reaching down to collect his things again.
“I don't,” he says, “so I suppose the old man wasn't lying.”
When he looks up again to meet Flins’ eye, he must be incredibly amused by what he finds. Flins may have choked on his nonexistent spit.
“I won’t push it, but he did tell me that you– whatever you are– do not have a secondary gender like humans do. So I’m guessing you aren’t…” Illuga sighs and gestures vaguely. “Put off by me? Usually this time of year means even the strongest patches we can get are useless for my scent.”
“Ah,” Flins says, trying to recover. “My Young Master is indeed clever. Though I would hardly describe what I can sense from you as undesirable. I do hope my secret is safe in your capable hands.”
Illuga gives him another one of his usual looks and finally steps further into the lighthouse. Now that he is less poised like he is ready to bolt, Flins can see the exhaustion settling in worse than usual.
“I’m afraid I can't agree. I might even dare to say you are just entirely wrong, just this once. Pops was so sympathetic to my pheromones that it required medical intervention,” Illuga adds, casually. “I truly have to apologize for how sudden this is, and how indefinite it will be… I know you enjoy your space, Sir Flins. I’d like you to know I’m open to staying wherever is most comfortable for you until I’m cleared to go home. Do not hesitate on my behalf.”
Flins frowns at that. “Master Illuga, you surely know by now that you are an exception. I am pleased to have you for as long as you’ll stay, let me take you to the sleeping quarters.”
“I’m absolutely not sleeping in your bed, if that's what you’re suggesting. I know you only have one. I can take the couch.”
Illuga is being far too stiff and cautious, even more so than usual. It makes Flins’ false skin itch.
“I hope you are not then suggesting I forgo basic hosting manners, Young Master. I only wish for you to make yourself comfortable, considering the circumstances. I can not follow instinct like your peers, as you pointed out,” Flins says, with a slight pout, just to lay the guilt on thick. “I have no intrinsic knowledge of your situation, but I will take my duty of ensuring your wellbeing very seriously. As a fellow upstanding Lightkeeper, you surely understand this desire.”
“Just allowing me into your home is enough, I am plenty grateful to just have shelter, Sir Flins,” Illuga retorts. “I could not possibly intrude further. As you have stated, you do not seem to understand the further implications of my being here. I do not want to appear as if I am taking advantage of the generosity you have already shown.”
“I am, evidently, above such implications, Master Illuga. You need not project the same etiquette, for I am just happy to be in your service for this brief reprieve.”
“Sir Flins.”
Illuga sighs, irritation making his eye twitch. It's amusing to watch, Flins thinks it accentuates the charming birth mark below his lower lid.
“Do we have to do this,” Illuga says, when Flins only offers him an eerie smile. “I really don't need you to treat me any differently. You can just go about as usual, I don't need anything more than a room. Don’t change your behavior for my sake.”
“I truly have no use for it. I often rest on the couch or the armchair, so this would hardly be a disruption.”
This does not soothe Illuga and, rather, sparks a scolding that Flins happily bathes in regarding his sleeping habits and lack of self preservation. The impact his bad posture could have, the lack of support on his joints, the lack of separation between his working spaces and his resting spaces; all things he imagines Illuga does not apply to himself, despite his intensive knowledge.
Naturally, Illuga will be sleeping in Flins’ bed (if he can even consider it ‘his’) regardless of this.
Because as Flins suspected, he was also taking on part of Nikita’s work, and had pushed himself to the point of passing out on the coffee table. His face is now marred by smudges of ink, though the stressed furrow of his brow remains despite his unconsciousness.
So, Flins wins in the end.
Though Flins is eager to sit in Illuga’s presence, he is grateful the man does not wake until a couple hours of daylight have graced the cemetery. The stress that must have come from the circumstances around his visit must have been unbearable if it was enough to knock his dear captain out cold. To see him still resting past sunrise and to know that rest is laced with trust is enough to make the fae’s heart sing.
Illuga walks down the lower levels of the lighthouse with an unflinching glower the next morning.
“You are impossible,” he sighs, eyes narrowed at the very comfortable armchair Flins is posed on.
“I do hope you had an appropriate rest after arriving here so late last night,” Flins says with a satisfied grin. “It is terribly cruel of you to insist I should stand by as my dear captain is needlessly pained, when you know I am perfectly satisfied serving you.”
“My scent is going to be all over your room, as if me messing up the rest of this place wasn't bad enough…” Illuga groans. His hand reflexively jolts up to his neck at the reminder, mindlessly scratching at the scars sprawled over the skin there. Flins tracks the movement subconsciously with a twitch of his eye.
“At least let me wear a scent patch to bed. Surely you must have some lying around here, considering I do remember bringing a couple over as part of your rations. They may be expired but… it’ll be better than nothing.”
“Is it truly so horrible of me to insist you be comfortable in my home?” Flins says, letting just a touch of his disappointment leak into his tone. “You are already aware that I can not smell anything. It is highly unlikely anyone other than you would visit me here anyway.”
Illuga grimaces. The scratching gets more intense.
“People will already have plenty of assumptions if they catch wind of me staying here, you hardly need my stench making things more complicated. You catch enough slack as-is.”
“As I have already stated–”
“Flins, I truly smell terrible– like a warning,” Illuga says, with a harsh finality usually reserved for insubordination. “It's hard to explain, not really comparable to anything, but I– I have heard what some people say. Everyone’s noses are already sensitive during this time of year, especially with how close we all are. And I can sometimes catch it on myself, even if I’m not too good at reading these things.
“It’s acrid. It’s bitter and metallic with underlying rot. I’ve seen people flinch, I’ve seen their faces twist no matter how hard they try to hide it, I… The whole reason I’m here is because my non-biological father was getting sympathetically sick over it! I smell wrong, plain and simple. I have no developed secondary gender and I reek of death. It’s not anyone else’s fault, but that’s all the more reason I can't burden anyone with this.”
Illuga bites his lip when he is done, glancing away from Flins with something like shame and embarrassment in his posture.
Flins rises to his feet and approaches him slowly, just to force his attention. He deliberately places himself to block the view of the front door from Illuga’s line of sight, though he does not crowd him, nor does he reach out to touch.
“I believe that is all the more reason you should take your time here, enjoy this moment of reprieve,” Flins says, simple and unaffected. “If it truly troubles you I will take care in airing the place out once you leave, but I can assure you that your worries are unnecessary. I really must ask that you put more faith in me, Young Master. I like to believe I have earned the right to be ‘burdened’ by your presence; even as you scold me, my days are lightened because of it.”
Illuga buries his face in his hands, breathing deeply. It allows Flins to get a better look at the blood now caked underneath his fingernails, the raw wound on his neck once again torn open. It does not touch the artery, but it makes Flins’ fiery heart sink in his chest regardless.
“You're already judged unfairly for your appearance and habits, I just can not stomach the thought that I might be worsening the distance between you and the other Lightkeepers, or the rest of Nod-Krai,” Illuga hisses through his palms as he hides. “If I stay, you have to swear to me that you will not let this linger.”
“If that is what you need, Young Master, I will swear,” Flins says, his own hindbrain’s hackles lowering as they come to some sort of agreement.
Illuga nods, his hands falling to his sides. His eyes are shinier with emotion, but Flins knows Illuga has long lost the ability to cry. Closure and relief, for him, seem to be just ever out of reach.
Though Illuga takes his petname as a teasing gesture, or perhaps even something derogatory, there is nothing but truth within it. Flins happily dooms himself to be by Illuga’s side, to serve him, to attend to his needs.
Because it is very easy to love Illuga, even if the man would not agree. He is kind and thoughtful and endlessly giving. He is the kind of man to be made into marble and porcelain stories, revered for his heroics and his love; but Flins also wishes to hold onto his flaws, to cradle every drop of humanity that spills when Illuga curses out a beast or tears into a bad-acting subordinate. The days where Illuga does not have the energy to freshen up his appearance but still braves the trip to the cemetery, treasuring every story Flins tells and digging into even the smallest details with unique attentiveness.
There is even more hidden away in what Illuga does not say, when he restrains from digging into any of Flins’ secrets or any of the breadcrumbs that others clued in on his nature may leave behind. Flins does not simply tell him partly just to see how long Illuga will accept the unknown. There is so much contained within every little act of Illuga’s. His willingness to participate in Flins’ antics and still find goodness in him outside of the mystery of whatever he may be speaks to that.
He may seem uncomfortable at the center of Flins’ attention, but it is only because he has not allowed himself to be cared for in the way he deserves. If Flins is selfish in desiring to be the center of Illuga’s attention in turn, that is another thing entirely. He will wait forever at his side for as long as he can.
Illuga can rip into his own flesh and maul his own self-image, but Flins can see how the calcified layers of his loathing ever-so-slowly erodes. As long as he may have a chance to see what is underneath, he will remain a willing anchor.
“You may explain any details to me at your own pace, I will attend to anything you ask of me without questioning. I understand this is a very personal matter, the kind that I might be excluded from, so I do not hold that against you,” Flins adds, after Illuga has been lost in his mind for too long.
“No, Flins… I did not mean to be so aggressive. I apologize,” Illuga says, reflective eyes snapping towards the fae once again. “Your response to this whole situation is very meaningful to me. I just fear the day that you will come to blatantly pity me like many others have; whether because of my past or my current work ethic or… my body. I greatly enjoy my position as closest to you, I only wish to stay on the same branch.”
Flins’ smile grows, feeling a spark of warmth pulse through him. He lowers himself to one knee, taking Illuga’s bloodied hand into his own and holding it up to his face, stopping just short of his lips. Not touching, just close.
“For all I may tease: if you ever feel that I am truly forsaking you, Young Master Illuga, you should strike me down, for I must have strayed irreparably to betray the trust you placed in me.”
Illuga’s eyes go wide. From where his hand rests against his wrist, Flins can feel Illuga’s heartrate spike.
“I know you could,” Flins says, delighting in the way Illuga’s ears dust with red. “Though, I might be so bold as to say a little death could not release the grip you have on my mind.”
“Enough,” Illuga says with a stern cough. “I get it. I would rather not lose you too, Sir Flins, so please refrain from making such ominous statements even again.”
He jerks away and stomps further into the kitchen to clean up and hopefully pick up something for breakfast. His movements only grow sharper as he senses Flins’ delight.
—
Flins was very familiar with the art of the chase; the intimacy of a game between two very capable players.
When Nikita had spelled out the specifics of Mating Hunts, his gut reaction was disgust. The mess of it all was hard to ignore, especially from the view of an unfeeling outsider. It was too… wet. With blood and sweat and the other stuff. Again, he was not a prude, but it felt largely hypocritical and unnecessary.
He understood sex, he understood feeling. He was not a complete stranger to the pleasure and relief, nor was he disgusted by the act itself. He found much of the literature surrounding it fascinating, whether it was an erotic novel or an academic text, and was generally happy to investigate the nuances of the mortal experience.
It was the forcefulness that was sickening, the absolute lack of control.
In a distant lifetime, he remembers how frequently the lonely stragglers wandering his territory had been lost due to their sudden cycles disrupting their senses. Cold and mindless and heartbroken, they were the perfect prey for the endless snow and ice.
He had learned to not approach them in a humanoid form, then, and hoped their curiosity would lead them to instead follow his wisp form. At the time, he was only just beginning to craft his concept of self along with their standards, so having pleading strangers pry into his genitalia was very impractical and deeply uncomfortable.
He had the relief of not truly being in a body. The horrors regularly faced by those caged within one seemed endless. It would be slightly wrong to describe his feelings as pity, but he could not help but imagine it could be a very suffocating thing.
So now that he has seen the depths of Illuga’s pain surrounding the matter firsthand, Flins will see to it that they never spend another spring apart.
A couple days into Illuga’s visit, there comes a morning where Flins waits and waits and Illuga does not come downstairs.
He mulls over what to do for a decent amount of time, enough that he can say he did think about it. Ultimately he finds himself rushing up the spiral steps to see Illuga in person.
…
When he is met with the state of his room, he already knows Illuga will be mortified that he disobeyed his word, but he is equally vindicated in his action by the sight.
Illuga’s blood soaks through the bedsheets. He is curled up on top of them, surrounded by shredded pillows and every spare blanket Flins had lying around. His form looks so much smaller than usual, with his head buried in his hands and his body trembling, his back pressed into the wall and tucked into a fetal position. His coat and pants are crumpled on the floor, leaving his sleeveless sweater and undergarments heavy against his skin, with the former weighed down and stained by a deep red. The wool will not survive.
The alarming wounds, as far as Flins can see, are on his neck, arms, upper thighs… all the places where his major scent glands rest. All the places Flins has always seen as marred by years of deep scarring, the kind Flins knew did not come from battle.
When Illuga finally senses his presence, his quiet sniffling turns into a gasping sob. His stained hands dart to cover his face, his whole body tucking into itself to hide.
“Don't look at me,” Illuga says, though it comes out as more of a plea than a snarl. “I know, okay? I know what you think of me. I don't need you to tell me.”
Much of the blood has begun to clot, meaning the wounds are, at least, less urgent than Flins had initially thought. He can reasonably try and indulge in a conversation, if only to preserve Illuga’s trust, but the outcome will be the same whether he likes it or not.
“Young Master–” Flins says, quietly, before quickly correcting. “Illuga. Illuga, there is no need to hide.”
The man does not move, only tensing his muscles to hold himself in place.
“This happens every year. I am more than capable of handling it. Please, Sir Flins. Leave.”
“I swear to you, Illuga, you do not scare me. I am not afraid of you, what you have done or may do. I just want to see you safe.”
“You don't need to,” Illuga croaks out, as if the breaking of his voice alone doesn't make Flins tremble. “Just leave me be. I’ll be back to normal soon.”
“I must insist upon you again that you can not escape me in my own home.”
Illuga tugs on the neck of his sweater, then the pile of blankets.
“Well, is it really so shocking that I don't want you to see me like this?”
Well, Flins has seen worse.
That wasn't the right answer, but it remained true that Flins had glimpsed some of humanity's worst sights in his time as a noble.
The emptiness that ricocheted through him as he sealed himself in slumber was not so easily forgotten. Cold and nihilistic and so very lonely; the weight of change, the reality that he was a remnant of a time that no longer existed, it all made him… something else. An otherness that extended beyond mere matters of his mortality and humanity.
The pain Lightkeepers that passed had unintentionally dug him up, but the hope of the Lightkeepers today had reignited his flame.
Illuga was not horrific because of the blood or his self-destruction; the only true horror that could phase Flins now was the chance that he could see Illuga fall into the same despair that chased him his entire life. For Flins did not dream, so he did not have nightmares, but the vision of a thankless departure was so vivid that every time Illuga so much as let his weight fall on an injured leg his heart twisted with the familiarity.
He thinks back to when he had sworn to Illuga that he would take care, when his Young Master had expressed fury over his curse. Illuga had been so terribly genuine in his words, so dedicated to protecting someone who he had to ask to lean down.
Illuga’s unnecessary care and attention had pleased something deep in him, like Illuga was simply tending to a hearth, lining him with more tinder and sweeping away the ash.
He was due for a grand gesture now that the everyday monsters had fallen quieter, though being in debt to Illuga was far from the torture he usually endured as a side effect of his fae instincts. Instead, it was slowly becoming something he understood as a true gift. The very thing a fae should never have and should never offer.
“…Then if it takes me ripping out my own eyes to treat you with the care you deserve, so be it,” Flins says, a slight growl in his own voice that he can not contain. “I do not have the strength to watch you unjustly suffer when I have dedicated myself to you. Please, if I can not see then I will do my best to serve you blind, but do not deny me this.”
Illuga shakes so badly Flins worries he will have to act against his Young Master's wishes, but after a moment of silence he ends up collapsing in defeat. Flins only stops himself from rushing forward when he senses Illuga’s heartrate does not change.
“If you really are unaffected by my condition, the kindest thing you could do is forget this ever happened,” Illuga whispers, voice barely audible. “I will never forgive myself if this changes how you see me.”
“I could not be so easily swayed into thinking less of you,” Flins says. “Do not think so little of me either.”
“Do you really think now is the time for your flattery?”
“I do use my words with intention. Do you really think I would let just anyone take up space in my home? Or further, in my life?”
Illuga pauses, his breath hitching before leveling out into something a bit more steady.
Flins takes his time to strike, moving just one gentle step forward. Offering his very life on a platter to be devoured, in the stead of the meshing of bodies Illuga would otherwise find himself participating in by now.
“I wish your clever mind was not so often misguided by your doubts. I do not enjoy conversing with someone who can not keep up with me, nor would I ever offer my blind spot to someone I did not trust completely. You have never left my sights, for there is no light brighter for me to follow.”
“I have never wanted you to be the perfect specimen, though,” Flins says, softly. “I don't intend to keep you in a measly collection; I find your beauty shines through in every day you are changing and fighting and standing firm for what you believe in. Can you blame me for wanting to return the favor, perhaps even many times over, when you've brought me more warmth than I could have ever imagined?”
Their eyes finally catch as Illuga slumps in defeat. Flins internally grimaces as he lands in the bloody bedsheets, though Illuga’s sigh is hesitant, it's thoughtful.
Outside, the sun is slowly falling. It was approaching noon when Flins was no longer able to control himself, so he knew Illuga was deeply exhausted; he was surely overdue for a pleasant meal and a bit of fresh air. With no Aedon by his side due to his unstable condition, Flins was left with no backup in encouraging Illuga to live.
But after a moment Illuga lets out a wet laugh, broken up by soft coughing. “What am I even supposed to say to that?”
Feeling he can't get away with any more lengthy posturing, Flins simply acknowledges him with an inviting tilt of his head.
“I don't know why you fight me. So many people love you and nothing I’ve done is unique,” Illuga says, sniffling. “If I’ve tricked you into finding something better in me, something that isn't there… I don't know how to get rid of that.”
“Well, I certainly can't do anything about it, nor would I want to,” Flins replies, holding a hand up to his flaming heart sincerely. “If I did not chase you, Illuga, I don't know if I would be moving at all.”
“There are certainly far better reasons to engage with the ‘land of the living’ than one person's health. You, of all people, should not be saying that to me.”
“As a fae, I can not lie,” Flins says, quietly. “So, I must say that I can not imagine anyone more glorious to devote myself to than you. Even if it makes me a hypocrite.”
Illuga freezes, his face quickly falling pallid.
“Why… No, why did…” Illuga’s eyes go wide, his words stuttering out as he pushes through his nausea to stay coherent. “Flins, you didn't have to tell me. I would've accepted it if you didn't want to, I–”
Finally, Illuga closes his mouth. With a wistful nod, he peels his hand off his neck, only wincing as the stickiness irritates his skin.
“It doesn't change a thing. Though I’m sure you understand that was why I didn't push for details unless I needed to. It would never change how I feel,” Illuga whispers. “You could be whatever seemingly terrible thing, and I would not change my mind. I may ‘only’ be human, but in a way, I will always be worse for it.”
Flins gives him a stern look, but yet again he finds himself down on one knee, pulling Illuga’s hands into his own as he reaches his bedside.
“Whatever made me like this is only the beginning of my problems, I’m sure you’re aware,” Illuga says, “I may be a medical mystery due to damage to my body from before my memories, from the Wild Hunt consuming my home, or the malnutrition and trauma as I grew, or the way I push my body beyond its limits. Regardless of the reason, I know it is only the physical manifestation of how I am. Still weak.”
“…If you will spare me one selfish request, Illuga: please, allow yourself a chance at love in eternity before you say such cruel things. No one before you has loved you any less just because they had to leave you so soon, and I only love you more than I did every day before because I treasure every present moment I have spent devoted to you. What you inspire is far from pity. I only wish to make you feel the same, for as long as you desire.
“And yet you remain here, knowing I will not let you leave. So, how can I best comfort you?” Flins says, swallowing hard though he has no physical need to.
Illuga’s lip wobbles, then the tremors flow down his arms to his fingertips, where he grasps to Flins’ hands like a lifeline, clinging tight enough to bruise his flesh had he any blood.
“I don't know, really. I’m not an alpha, omega, or beta– or even a person whose biology doesn't expect a secondary gender. I’m something else, something that can't be scented or relaxed and only lashes out against any alpha or omega soothing gestures.”
“I’d like to hear what you want, anyway.”
With a face pained like Flins was pulling teeth from his mouth, Illuga grimaces.
“After I’m clean, just… hold me. As tight as you possibly can, all over,” Illuga says, collapsing forward into Flins’ grasp.
“A wonderful idea, Young Master Illuga,” Flins muses, sweeping him up with care to avoid his wounds. “If you ever want to leave this lighthouse again, you best start thinking about yourself more kindly. I won't let you back into the world ashamed, by accepting my love you must recognize that you are the only one capable of sparking it.”
“Who said I accepted your feelings?”
Flins stops dead in his tracks, pulling Illuga closer to himself, though the bridal-style carry is a bit harder to adjust.
“I suspect if anyone else did this, there would be a new mural of red and viscera on the walls,” Flins says, a bit cautious.
Illuga’s lips curl into a tired smile, hesitant but genuine, because he can't resist the push-and-pull even as he wrestles with years of inner turmoil. He surges forward with what little leverage he has in Flins’ arms and tucks his face into the crook of the fae’s shoulder.
“For an apex predator at the top of the food chain, you are very exposed to your prey,” Illuga says into his neck. “But, I don't think I could ever deny you, Flins. Even at the cost of you seeing me like… this.”
“I can wait for you to see what I see forever. For as long as you’ll have me, I’m here,” Flins says, his grip tightening as Illuga’s tears roll down his cold skin.
When the sheets have been changed out and a meal finally fills Illuga’s stomach, Flins’ form consumes him entirely, shielding him from whatever darkness and expectations had brought him to Flins’ room in shame. Though the shadows making up Illuga’s past were what led him to the lighthouse door, Flins would ensure that he never finds himself retracing those same despairing steps.