Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“I’ve always wondered,” Illuga muses with a hand on his chin, eyes zeroing in on the open chimney to Flins’ lantern as he drops a piece of salmon to the flames, “you are living flame, but is the lantern…a must as well, with it? I know your type are Lantern Fae, but storing all that power in an object feels like an…oversight.”

Flins chuckles, turning to lay his eyes fondly on the younger man, “Oversight on behalf of whom, Master Illuga?”

Illuga huffs a breath just barely a laugh and twirls a gloved finger in the air, “The creator.”

Creator, yes, all with blue flames and unfocused eyes reflecting a Flins different from the one he would have seen in a pond- “Hyperborean artisans were as much human as you, regardless of their vast capabilities and intellect. They created fae as varied as the colors on the spectrum—and not all so brilliantly designed as to account for every scenario imaginable.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Illuga taps his cheek then shrugs, “I mean, Snegoviki confined only to the cold, or Auguries seeing only their own future…strange restrictions, though maybe it made sense to them back in the day. So?” He looks back at Flins, raising his eyebrows expectantly, “What is it then, is the lantern your restriction?”

Another chuckle and Flins gazes consideringly at the object, at his reflection in the polished glass as it hovers and gently switches between shades of blue and purple, then sets it at the edge of the table with his mind. He looks at Illuga and swings one leg to cross over the other. “No,” he speaks at last, voice lower in honesty and brevity he is not used to grazing his tongue. “It is a convenient vessel for—homeostasis. Elemental energy can be used and directed, but it is much safer and easier with a Vision, no? I also am elemental energy, so it doubles as a place for rest and recharging, much like a bed.”

Illuga’s focused listening face cracks. “A bed,” he snickers, badly hiding it behind his knuckles. “The Azure Flame is most famous for his bed.”

Flins returns the smile and is stuck between observing Illuga’s face carefully to remember the amusement with fondness, and rolling his eyes. “Lady Lauma once also called it my favorite purse.”

Illuga throws his head back and his chest shakes in sudden laughter, his hand banging once on the table. Flins gracefully continues, entwining his fingers to rest on his knees, when the young master’s laughter quiets somewhat, “So yes, I do predate my lantern.”

Illuga forces a cough to stop his laughter and calms when he takes in several deep breaths, looking up at Flins through the gaps in his ashen hair. “Fascinating,” he murmurs, eyes sharply focusing again, which has the storyteller side of Flins straighten and tap his fingers together in excitement. “Did you make it yourself, or did it spawn from your powers? You know, looking for something stable to reside in. Or, or, did your creator know to make it already to host your flame? Like a baby blanket?” He grins up at him, making cradling motions with his arms.

“Nothing so grandiose, I fear, and besides, all Fae were originally created as adults,” he answers and lovingly ignores Illuga’s pout and moans about how cute a baby Flins would be. “Rather, I liked it and simply…claimed it as mine. It has not been with me in every memory I have, yet I cannot remember just how early its companionship began.”

“Fascinating,” again, Illuga’s elbows resting on the table as his eyes sparkle, “so it was pure chance? It could have been anything?"

“Certainly. Why, I have seen other fae take residence in turnips, nestboxes, even flytrap plants.” He elects not to mention he meant other fae with similarly spiritual or elemental bodies, not other Lantern fae, for there were none.

Illuga takes a moment to absorb this before his finger twirls again, lips rising in a grin. “Again. The Azure Flame became famous for his favorite purse.”

“Alas, I believe humans call it poetic irony. Thank the heavens above and earth below it is not common knowledge. You are in a minor demographic with this, Young Master,” he inclines his head as though Illuga now knows how to dethrone the Tsaritsa.

A snort and a shake of his head, then Illuga quiets and stares thoughtfully at the patchwork metal of the table, knuckles pressed against his lips. Flins’ flames perk in curiosity and he waits patiently, reaching out to grab the neck of his glass and taking a sip of fire-water.

“‘Favorite’ implies a lack of…exclusivity, doesn’t it?” finally comes, hand pulling away to spread out in a question. Illuga’s gaze, though, has something almost careful in it.

Flins regards him for a moment and responds when he cannot gauge it: “...I fear I don’t follow, Young Master. The lantern is the only one I’ve had or occupied.”

“But you don’t have to, do you?” Illuga insists, eyes not leaving his face. “That lantern is the one you’ve chosen, but you could choose another if you wanted, correct?”

And Flins blinks, bringing up a hand to rub his chin. “Hmm…interesting proposition. Yes, in that case, you would be correct-” he raises an eyebrow when a tension he didn’t even notice seems to drain out of Illuga, even a breath escaping his lips. He grins, “Young Master, are your thoughts turned to gift-giving? You are as considerate as always and you continue to touch me every time you speak. I promise if you intend to add a variety to my choice of–beds, I will make sure to honor them and display them proudly to people.”

Illuga huffs, but Flins sees he can’t help a smile, turning slightly away to hide his warmed cheeks. He rests an elbow on the bench armrest and plays with his hair a moment—Flins’ lips lower when he sees Illuga’s face sober. A beat passes and he turns his torso forward again, though his gaze is trained on the hands in his lap. Flins watches him tap his thumbs together and Illuga looks up at him before he can speak.

“You know,” he begins, voice a deep rumbling whisper that has Flins frown a little and lean in, as if to hear a conspiracy. “The human body is conveniently warm-blooded at a toasty 37 degrees at all times—mostly. It has plenty of cavities and hollow places, especially for the uh, less physical. The ribcage, lungs,” he goes on as he raises his hand to rub a circle in the middle of his chest, then presses his palm fully against it. His eyes trail over to stare at Flins’ lantern for a long moment. Flins, though, stares at Illuga’s eyes and is mesmerized at the reflection of flickering flames on the blue, like lapping of the waves on the shore. “The heart chambers.”

“Young Master,” is punched out of him, and his breath is stolen from the lungs he doesn’t need as if spinning a yarn back on the clew.

Illuga lets out a breath himself, gentle yet his shoulders sag with impossible weight. Flins watches his teeth sink into his bottom lip, knows innately the tongue that presses against the back of his teeth, but no sound comes and Illuga blinks and Flins copies him, feeling as though losing an anchor.

"Kyryll," Illuga murmurs instead, tongue vibrating at the roof of his mouth, and Flins wonders when—if he will ever lose the feeling of goosebumps at the sound. Just the sound? Or in Illuga's voice? “Maybe I—presume the nature of the fae, of you too readily, but I think most every creature craves some…stability. A home. I don’t want to insinuate you are lacking in what you have right now-” Flins grips the fabric of his trousers, holding his tongue trapped in his mouth because oh, how he wants to tell him, tell him- “-but…I would like to, I think, be part of that,” Illuga concludes, finally meeting Flins’ gaze. The palm on his chest curls into a soft fist and he looks, for all the world, uncertain. Ridiculous.

Flins opens his mouth and it stays like that, hovering, empty. Finally he uses it to take a chopped breath. “Young Master,” he begins and, for once, he is left speechless. “You…” the desire for honesty burns his throat and he powers through it, what is a little pain for Illuga- “You are one of the few stable anchors in my life, that make my life,” he finally lets out, garbled and quieter than he wants. “You have always been a part of what I consider home. Not a place, but—hah, even this place you make feel like home. I may be its permanent resident, yet you are the one who brings light and comfort when you visit.”

A gaze of unadulterated softness meets him, accompanied by a small smile. No surprise nor youthful flusteredness, and doesn’t that say plenty. “Then,” Illuga concludes, fingers spreading to once again rest against his chest. “I offer to be your home, your sanctuary, whenever you wish.”

Flins has always considered the cemetery quiet if without a companion, but now he realizes how loud it’s always been. The creaking of metal at any little movement, footsteps, door hinges or turning of the lighthouse, the wind pushing through thick strands of grass and producing whistles, the chattering of ghosts. Those things can’t be gone now, a distant part of his mind reasons, so why can’t he hear them? Blood rushing in your ears, he’d once heard the phrase and now, finally, does he perhaps understand. No blood for him though. He starts suddenly, wondering whether the flames leaked outside his vessel and are lapping the air around him. Have his ears extended? His hand trembles upwards to check, but he forces it down.

“Young Master,” he begins with no real thought on what to say. What a shame, that that grounding title now helps him little. Though, of course the subject of his unravelling would be the one whom the title belongs to. Illuga is silent still, features loosened in softness and shoulders lax—strange, but not uncharacteristic. He looks as though the admission was the hardest part for him, willing the words on his tongue take flight, and now that they have, he’s been rid of all pressure. Even when without an answer. Characteristic. “Forgive my bluntness, but that is…unprecedented.”

It would have been a bark of a laugh were it not so breathless; still it rattles Illuga’s shoulders. “You’re not wrong. Still…I mean it, now and in the future. I think…I think if one was a grand creature, immortal, elemental, so many others, they have the…capacity to express love in a way that matches the feeling, you know? But we’re lacking there. Whenever I hear Mrs. Gabieta coo over little Mila, saying ‘you’re so cute I could eat you up’ and ‘I wish I could hold you in my ribs forever’, well I realized…I’m lucky to have that option available, don’t I?” he muses, pulling his feet up on the bench, then takes his glass of water for a sip, long and slow as he keeps it in his mouth and lets it glide down his throat.

(What would it feel like-)

Flins shakes his head violently to rid himself of the thought, ignoring Illuga’s concerned, knitted brows. “Master Illuga…Though the opportunity is fortuitous for you, I agree; I think others would be…saddened to hear my unique constitution is the only factor for the realization of your affection.”

Illuga blinks at him owlishly, taking a moment to process the words before his face twists into a most displeased scowl. “Augh. Cease with that,” he says unusually harshly and Flins, still reeling, closes his mouth with a click of his teeth. “You aren’t as obstinate as you pretend to be, Kyryll, so at least cease when you are here, when with me,” and Flins jerks, he didn’t mean- “And you’re wrong, you know. There are others that I could offer this to, few though they may be, but–” he blinks and stops, chest lowering slowly from where it was passionately puffed. “But I won’t. I don’t want to, despite loving them deeply. You are the one I want to keep safe and close, no one else.”

A laugh trickles out of him, so high and strained it’s little more than a whistle on the wind, “I, the creature of the night, who’s wasted so much of your time over the years, and for what? To leech off the warmth you emit so I feel–happy to have company, a little more alive, like I enrich someone’s-”

He shuts his mouth. His very soul protests, flames coiling into themselves to better lash out and hit his insides. He bites down on the inside of his cheek.

Illuga stares at him through narrowed eyes, slits a steel blade edge turned sideways, a moment away from slicing the air, and more. He considers Flins for a long moment before he lets out a breath that he seems to have been bunching up at the forefront of his mouth. “Generally speaking, Kyryll,” he starts icily, “if any being is social, they would feel better when around people, especially those they’ve already formed close bonds with. You’re not a monster for feeling worse when alone, or better when with someone; that’s how you’re supposed to feel.”

Is that so? “Reciprocity is at the core of human interactions,” he counters, entwining his fingers together and squeezing as hard as he can. He forgets to form knuckles half the time, but now he summons them solely so he can press the pads of his thumbs to their sharp edges. “It is—it is monstrous, if I were to gain without giving in return. And I have nothing to give,” turning away from Illuga’s mouth opening to speak offended protests, he hisses out, “I am merely superfluous, a fine enough addition yet spark no particular change if removed. There is nothing–”

“Are you calling me a liar, Kyryll?” interrupts him, quiet and deceptively thoughtful, and Flins immediately stops. Illuga looks…examining, almost—like when observing recruits' forms and correcting them, or when lecturing his squad. Flins’s forgotten the prickling discomfort of multiple sets of prying eyes lying on his back from centuries ago, but his obsolete lungs refusing to work clues him into the memory again. How extraordinary Illuga is, to alone be able to fill the presence of an entire ballroom.

“...Pardon?”

“Back when the Doctor was invading Nod-Krai and you told me of your curse, did you take my words as a lie?”

Flins opens his mouth and nothing comes out.

“Not just devastation at your misfortune, but also not insignificant chances of your end,” he jerks when Illuga almost growls out the word despite his eerily still face. “Was I lying, you reckon?”

He stares at his hands, suddenly lacking the strength of grip. He lightly traces the seams of the fabric despite not feeling them under his thumb, the belt and metal of the harness at the back of it. His body refuses to form words that would save him, and despite his great effort, his head moves sideways on its own, once, twice.

“We’re at an impasse then,” Illuga concludes, leaning back and propping his elbow on his knee. A pause and he shifts, turning to better see Flins. Is he even blinking? His eyes jump to his lantern and his flames in something almost like desperation, begging it to come save him, hide him. But it is just a lantern after all. He came first. “You say you are superfluous, yet you acknowledge I would be devastated at you gone. Which is it, then?”

He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know– “Σὺ, ο περισσός…”¹ he echoes, gripping his hands again. It’s been so long since he’s remembered those words, yet they never quite fully left him, have they? “Why?” He asks Illuga instead, hanging his head between his shoulders and hoping the blade tip of those eyes can’t reach him past the collar and the hair.

“Why,” Illuga repeats softly, then hums, quieting for long enough that has Flins intrigued. And not terribly surprised. Case in point, when asked, do they finally realize there’s nothing much to say– “You help me remember life is beautiful and worth fighting for.”

…Flinks blinks.

Now that can’t be right.

He mentioned poetic irony, but this is—no, he can’t be.

“Young Master,” he starts slowly, delicately, “I am not quite so sure I believe that myself.”

Illuga snorts, “Liar.”

His mouth opens on its own, not to speak, but to…stay there. Perhaps the movement of the jaw will help jostle something in his head, to both do away with the ache and manifest a thought or two.

A pause, “Illuga…I think…had I truly loved life, I would not have sought so desperately to avoid it.”

“I think,” Illuga counters, voice quietening in something like standing vigil for poor old Kyryll, “that you found life so beautiful, its people so sweet and worth your guidance that, when some proved treacherous and others got irrevocably hurt, your heart couldn’t take it.”

Heart. Heart…?

“It’s easier to pretend to be as cold and ruthless as the things that have hurt you so you no longer hurt. Or, try to.”

“Is my ruse not a success, Young Master?” He wonders, voice breezy. Still trying to appease and to humor. Poor old Kyryll.

Yet Illuga still laughs for him, “I don’t think any monster would be a welcoming host or a worried friend or an extraordinary storyteller. I don’t think a monster would hesitate and balk when a human offers them their heart on a platter.”

“Not just any human,” he tries, he tries, for what else has Kyryll done all his life–

“Oh, any human,” Illuga murmurs, the echo of it almost fond. “A friend, a stranger, Fatui, even the Abyss, you wouldn’t take it, not with proper faculties and information.”

“Yet you offer it regardless?” he has to stay on top of this conversation (not win, is there even a victor? Did he ever truly win in a conversation with Illuga?) even though by doing so, he’s let his words run away from him. All is well, he’s used to late regrets-

“Because,” comes slowly and Flins sees nothing in his periphery nor does he feel a touch, yet he knows that silence as beckoning, so he can do nothing else but look up (how he can imagine the nobles sneer ‘obedient’). Illuga meets his gaze squarely, “I know it’s safe in your hands.”

Flins watches Illuga curled up. The bench has more than enough space for them both, and even if it didn’t, they have long since gotten used to using it as they want—evident in the Young Master's position. Knees raised and feet crossed over the ankles, back to the armrest, one arm on the backrest and the other holding the glass of water by the rim as you would whisky—the silliness cannot help but make Flins' lips quirk. Illuga’s brows furrow in puzzlement for a moment and, though unknowing of the reason, he quirks a smile in return. When has his intuition stopped him from shivering at Flins’ presence? Has it ever even done so?

Before Illuga can speak, Flins leans over and reaches for his knee; he doesn't need to brace one hand on Illuga's leg for leverage but he does it anyway, the other taking and pulling the zipper down the middle. Illuga watches this process quietly with somewhat wide eyes, and when Flins looks up at him and gestures, Illuga holds his gaze for a long moment before his expression fractures to show the raw softness he hides beneath—unrefined perhaps, but undeniably theirs.

He lifts his foot obediently and Flins slowly pulls the boot off and sets it down on the ground by the bench so none of them can trip over it if they stand. He repeats the process with the other leg and feels Illuga's eyes burn into his forehead like a kuuvahki lightblade. Once he places the other boot down and straightens back into his original position, Illuga considers him unmovingly for a long moment before he extends his legs and rests them on Flins’ lap, crossing again over at the ankles. Hands swiftly grab his calves and pull them a little closer in so they don't dig into the thinner part of his thighs, and Flins sighs through his nose, a weight of his own suddenly vanishing at a new, familiar one replacing it. His right hand idly thumbs the bone of Illuga's ankle through the trouser leg and the other slides from doing the same to Illuga's knee down to gently rub circles into his calf.

Finally does he meet the bipolar-kuuvahki eyes again and Illuga's face is resting on the knuckles of his hand, bunching up his plump face and distorting the achingly soft smile. Flins searches for a comparison he can lean on, and he finds none. This softness is new and it is for him.

"How in Teyvat can you feel you don't deserve this?" Illuga speaks at last, so quiet as if afraid to shatter the atmosphere. Fortunately, Flins is attuned to his young master's speech and enunciation both, and he understands perfectly.

Why aren’t you running? He remembers the words in his own voice (and is struck, when have his memories been so clear?) and he remembers the strange relief, manic relief when faced with what he thought would be the end. No more pain, no more thought, at least he’d return to the earth with no blood capable of waking him. For he would be no more, flames disintegrated into particles smaller than their sparks—what is more fitting, to be undone by the power of the moon that gave him life he had so taken for granted?

He wonders then, perhaps for the first time, if he can stand and let the incoming force take him—not destruction, but something far more long-lasting and fragile. He was a courageous fool in his eagerness to leap, so why not emulate that foolishness just once again, and let himself fall?

Illuga lets out a gentle breath through his nose, through his smile, and Flins wonders whether he has recently blinked. He does not keep track yet Illuga’s hypnotic gaze has held him captive for a long while now. (And even so, Flins is helpless to look away.)

Illuga's hands move and he pauses, considering, before he reaches up and bites down at the tip of his glove, dragging it off his left hand before he uses it to take off the other. Flins watches as he sets them on the table before he turns back around to him, and what is he to do but fly closer on fragile silken wings to the light beckoning him?

Illuga retreats his right leg to press it against the backrest and Flins sighs, accepting his fate and leaning forward between Illuga's legs to slowly rest against his middle, body loosening and almost losing its control when the strong arms guide him down, press firm against Illuga's chest when he falters, and fingers burrow into his hair, stroking scorching lines across his scalp that send his body into uncontrollable quivers.

"Are you alright?" Illuga murmurs, Flins feeling more than hearing his words against his skull. Oh, what a marvelous day it is to have bones.

"Y-yes," he inhales, willing his voice and his body calm, with only so much success. "It has...been a while," he murmurs as his arms slowly reach out to wind around Illuga's waist.

Illuga huffs out a breath, laugh-like yet not laughter, "Come on, Kyryll, lie down. I can take it, and in any case, you are about as light as a kitten." Flins mirrors his sound, to fit in with the situation if nothing else, and still slowly gives up on his weight, letting his hands bracing against the bench slide away and his body lean forward. Illuga places his nose among Flins' hair and the breath he lets out shakes him like it would a candle flame. "I would know," he continues softly, squeezing him once, "both are a pleasure to hold."

Flins answers with a breath and gives up, surrendering himself to his young master's hold though still his body is, in a strange, first time, the most solid it's been in the past decade—perhaps ever. Illuga makes a short satisfied sound, then a longer considering hum, yet he says nothing as his other leg bends at the knee and all but cages Flins in. One hand is restless in his hair yet so methodical and deliberate; the other shimmied beneath his capelet and caressing his back with strong strokes, to reach the skin beneath the shirt and perhaps deeper yet. His young master's touch is nothing new to Flins, be it out of help, desperation or quiet affection, yet Flins was always comforted with the thin barrier of gloves and coat. He ignored something innate deep inside him, pained and thrashing and weeping to be rid of the final layer, instead letting a crawling itch that never allowed him to take a full breath he never needed whisper it's not about you, you selfish creature. Do you want your master to suffer at the hand of your indulgence?

"Illuga," he speaks and he cannot hear himself despite his desperation otherwise. "Why…what do you gain from this?"

"Gain?" Illuga echoes quietly, face rising a fraction, perhaps to look down at him.

Flins takes in a breath and grips the sides of Illuga's coat, lets them go and repeats in a slow motion (not unlike a kitten). "What you offer…holds value incalculable to anything humans can comprehend—fae can, yet few even bore witness in their lifetimes. What is it that you gain in return, what is it that must be repaid?"

Near-immediately does he feel a quick, aborted breath amidst his hair, a scoff, and his heart thunders wildly—his flames whirl and pop and hit the glass not for a lack of space but pure defiance, Illuga doesn't understand-

"You get safety, acceptance, love, I presume?" Illuga speaks finally, a calmness to his voice that signifies an incoming stubbornness-induced headache.

Flins sighs and pushes his face into Illuga's neck, the pumping of the pulse against his eyes drowning out the sounds of his own mind. "Belonging," he whispers. "A final satiation of a hunger a fae is born with and seeks to quench all their life, infinitely devouring and sharp-toothed. A-a belonging borne not of utter possession but…acceptance, yes." He hisses out the words, unable to hold in the chittering, echoing disdain, "Parasitic."

Illuga makes a small sound of protest and his legs shift to remind Flins of his hold. "Symbiotic," he corrects.

Flins braces his hands against the bench to wrench his head backwards, staring up at Illuga. The blue eyes sparkle with surprise a moment before they coolly return his gaze.

"Illuga," he starts, voice lower and he hopes Illuga can hear it better from their bodies still pressed close. "It is uncommon, considered alarming, for a prey to offer themselves up to a predator."

And Illuga laughs, a trickle of deep, beautiful sound that shakes his chest, and he tries to hide behind his palm, in vain. "Yes, Sir Flins, you are a mighty terror of the night, an all-devouring fire that will consume the walls of children's bedrooms if they don't eat their veggies."

Flins feels a growl begin to coil in his throat and it dissipates when Illuga drops his head to rest their foreheads together, hands cupping Flins' face, so tantalizing and giving him a sustenance sweeter than wine and more electric than fear. "You get belonging," Illuga repeats in a murmur, blue eyes pinning him to the spot. Of course he would grow to become this man's. Who else has all four moons in his eyes? "Belonging that I imagine would make you euphoric, satisfied, fulfill your life's–biology's–wish. That, is what I gain. Your happiness, Kyryll. You are my reward."

Flins…stares. He is helpless to do anything else. He has no words, he has no thoughts, yet he cannot dishonor Illuga by looking away again.

Not dissuaded by lack of response, perhaps even distracted by whatever he sees on Flins’ face (does he, too, see the moon in Flins’ eyes?), Illuga concludes with an almost merry tone to his voice, “Fair, isn’t it? You restore my faith, and you get my heart. You are my light, and now I can be your lantern.”

The vessel is made to be friendly to his true form, yet its eyes now burn and Flins quickly drops his head forward to reclaim its place on Illuga’s neck, saving him some dignity. The young man hums a note songbirds would fall silent and listen to, and merely reaffirms his hold of him, continuing to hum and Flins is so blessed and so overwhelmed to feel the vibrations coming from Illuga’s jaw, through his throat down to his chest.

"...Kyryll,” Illuga begins after giving him a minute, nestling his chin on Flins’ head, “The door will always be open. If you need me to extend the invitation again, I will, as many times as it takes."

He grips the back of his coat, twists the straps around his wrists, anything to remain here in this shape (when has he ever felt his hands so clearly-) ,"...that grace is-"

"Kyryll, I am not your cage nor your property. I am simply yours, if you'll have me." Illuga pauses, Flins knows in a wink, and shakes his head then, a snort of a laugh falling from his lips and leaving a smirk behind, "No. I am yours, and that is all. I have all the time—regardless of what you say.”

“What I say seems to affect you little,” he murmurs, a sudden exhaustion weighing his limbs down; he moves his head to nestle on Illuga’s chest.

“Kyryll, it was your words that first enchanted me to you, and continue to. It’s just that they and the one they come from can sometimes be-” stupid “-silly,” he concludes politely and Flins, despite himself, smiles a little. “Let me ask you something?”

“Your curiosity is my honor.”

“If you heard someone talking shit about me, what would you do?”

He chews over the words for a moment, “...I admit I could not resist my impulses and would simply have to correct them.” Yes, correct them. “They would be speaking slander and falsehoods, after all.” Ψεῦδη καὶ ἐστὶ ὦι².

“Exactly,” Illuga intones softly, then reaches back and up to take Flins’ face in his hands again, tilting it up to meet his eyes, and Flins has an inkling of desire to test his vessel’s limits and bend his neck backwards until he no longer has to stare into the penetrating, reflective crystals. “Now, what do you expect me to do when the one talking shit about you, is you?”

Again, no words that the Young Master apparently so appreciates. “...That impetuous nobleman wouldn’t stand a chance against you,” he sighs.

Illuga smiles, “He’s not now either, is he?

“Kyryll,” the Young Master continues, eyelids lowering a fraction yet somehow inviting more light to clearly show every facet and speckle of crystal (is that from his–?), “Do you want to inhabit me now?”

Illuga’s left eye twitches a little, as if unfamiliar with the words that he just uttered, but he makes no corrections and he maintains eye contact. Flins, to his shame and safety, feels his heart squeeze so tightly he almost doubles over.

The crystalline eyes soften and Illuga nods, bringing him closer again, “I understand. Take your time, or don’t, if you won’t ever want it. The door is always open.”

(Ὡς ἑστηκὼς παρὰ τὴν θύραν τοῦ χρυσοῦ οἴκου-)³

“Young Master-”

“I won’t hear a word of it, Kyryll,” Illuga commands, curling up and thereby taking less space on the bench—thereby, drawing Flins further into him. Would a small space in the middle of all that be comforting, he wonders… “I made a statement, so I accept no answers to a question unasked, nor comments. Understood?”

Stand not a single chance, Flins smiles helplessly and sinks back into him, wrapping his arms around Illuga’s back and squeezing and clawing with all his might. “I understand. Not your intent, perhaps, but I understand the words. I vow I shall heed them.”

He felt a scorching heat in the shape of a smile, then something smaller brush against his hairline, “Good.”

“You know,” Illuga begins, words slightly muffled from both his hands pressed against his face, that he then drags down slowly, momentarily disfiguring his features, “now I understand what we must look like to normal people.”

There is no normal person in Nod-Krai, Flins wants to rebuke but he is stuck staring at the Young Master instead. He is bathed in the muted colors of Nod-Krai’s πρωί πρωί⁴, siphoning away the light from his γλαυκός⁵ eyes, but softening his features with gentle shadows. His hair is disheveled and shoulders dropped, eyes struggling to keep themselves open, yet still he smiles as if instinctually.

Flins smiles in response even though Illuga is turned from him and he is grateful for the fact, “I believe it is not the Ratniki only who have the occasional night shift, Young Master.”

Illuga makes a face and Flins swallows his laughter, “Ehh, I guess you’re right, I’m surprised we didn’t run into Jahoda—she also takes too many graveyard shifts-” he stops abruptly and Flins at least covers his chuckle with a hand. Illuga squints over the horizon towards the lightening sky as if it has personally wronged him. “Flins,” he breathes in and entwines all his fingers save the index fingers, which he presses and taps together consideringly, “You’re clever, please don’t tell me we invented the term ‘graveyard shift’.”

It’s small and passing, but Flins’ insides warm at the compliment—and it is his insides, not the sway and pop of the flame in his lantern, is it? It’s quiet and tame at his hip. He almost doesn’t feel its weight and the thought makes him righten his stance. “My thanks to the Young Master,” he purrs firstly, “and alas, that particular bit of knowledge escapes me, though if I were to wager a guess, it would not be in our favor.”

As Illuga groans Flins mentally corrects him—graveyard shifts are for a time like this, not the entire night, when his dear sister at last ferries the moon off the sky, when the air is still and unsure, as if at the graveyard. Ironic, to instead be standing in front of Illuga’s house in Piramida, back to the outer wall (has his lighthouse always been so visible from this angle?), watching him unravel at last after their patrol, looking seconds away from collapsing. Flins wants to let him, and yet–

He had stared and considered—over the patrol, over the weeks. The feverish heat of Illuga’s embrace that night, and a few others that followed: a hand cradling his, or landing on his shoulder, or squeezing his nape briefly before fingers descended through the strands of his hair. A hip bumped against his, an ankle kicked beneath the table, knees rested together in assurance. The warmth of him—his kind words, his luminous smile, his understanding gaze. For all his talk and all his tolerance (tolerance, not immunity), Flins has been feeling terribly cold.

(Only his eyes are cool waters. If they behave similarly to water and to crystal, would they shine the light coming from the inside–?)

He resists a very human gesture of hitting himself to dispel the thought, but he cannot dishonor Illuga’s assessment of him—he is clever, and he knows he is far too late if he wants to unearth that seedling of thought. Hence why, perhaps…

He watches as Illuga throws his arms over his head, back and back as his spine trembles and Flins thinks, there it is, right there, so easy to spread out from—

The breath he lets out is steam in the morning air and his eyes close, feeling after a mere moment much simpler than with leather and metal. He lets go of his thoughts and takes a step forward.

Illuga’s body jerks to a stop and he gasps.

The clattering of the lantern’s cage and glass against Piramida’s metal floors is louder than a thunderclap.

Fitting, Flins thinks as he doesn’t dare draw breath, for the order feels reversed: a roar predicting a strike that could come any second in the tense, dreadful silence.

Illuga’s lungs rapidly expand as he pants for air—he’s had none stolen, but the shock of the sensation must have his entire system rattling. Flins hesitates then times his own breaths to Illuga’s, using the new oxygen to let his flames fan and spread, tentatively exploring the tunnels of Illuga’s blood vessels, sparks circling his bones slowly, nigh-reverently.

He’s begun to form a mental image of Illuga’s torso and limbs down to the middle when he feels something press against Illuga’s chest, something warm right over the heart—right over him—his hands.

“Kirka,” Illuga, for all the world, laughs breathlessly. “Calm down a little, will you please? You’re not helping me calm down.”

Only then does Flins become aware of the contained, but violent trembling of his flames—small and not nearly close to cause harm to Illuga, but shaken himself so that they barely hold a solid, single form. He imagines they look like thousands of little sparkles trying to huddle together into one, but their twinkling giving them away. He stiffens and forces himself to relax at Illuga’s little sound and his spine jerking into a straight line. “My–my apologies, Young Master. How are you–how are you feeling?”

Illuga makes a short, aborted sound, something in between a familiar tut at unnecessary worry and…surprised, something almost enlightened. And Flins is stunned to not hear but feel it, know the intricacies of the sound vibrating high in Illuga’s throat, right below his jaw. A pause as Illuga’s head tilts downwards to consider, “I’m…okay. It definitely feels strange, but, hmm…It feels as if I have another system of vessels but this one filled with energy I can feel circulating and spiking. And…” he doesn’t speak yet Flins can feel his body swelling in something he doesn’t dare name as Illuga’s hands press harder against his chest. “And you. Gods, Kirka, it’s you. I…were I a little more educated in these matters, I would’ve made the offer ages ago,” he laughs that light tinkling laugh and Flins’ flames tremble and wobble like water as the sound surrounds him in the cage of bone, the sound that has given him meaning and joy and contentment, and now he can hear it as Illuga would.

“Young Master, you…flatter me,” he says, for his offer of immediate withdrawal is smothered under what sounds like reverence in Illuga’s voice.

“Hm, that’s my line,” he hasn’t reached Illuga’s head yet to feel it, but he can hear the grin in his voice, and Flins has no idea what to do with the wild longing he’s been suppressing since what feels like the day of his first thought, to feel the skin of Illuga’s cheeks stretch upwards himself. A considering pause, “How are you feeling?”

Forcing more oxygen to come and go through his flames, fanning and quelling, finding a calming rhythm. He pauses, sparks around his core blinking in and out (he’s been used to eyes too long), then slowly begins to follow the cycle of the chambers of Illuga’s heart, phasing through the septums and carried by the blood through the valves. “I…am well. It is strange, I concur. I…” he thinks about his words, and isn’t that humorous? “I have never heard of nor witnessed a first-hand account of someone describing the feeling. Truthfully, I had told stories of the concept—my mere imagination, yet…it cannot compare.” Be honest, be honest, for once, you– “Young Master, I am…content, I think, and grateful, beyond words.”

“Goodness,” Illuga intones, too soft and low to be anything but fond. “Dear Kyryll losing his words? Now I’ve seen it all. And no need. Or, at least, thank you in turn. Is it really even reciprocity if we’re just existing, but together?”

A puff of a flame in a huff, “The Young Master seems to view all this oh so simply.”

A disagreeing little sound, “I beg to differ. Forgive me, but I think you seem to view it a little too complexly. Simple, Kirka, not simplistic.”

Flins lets the flames in Illuga’s heart breeze in the oxygen so much it’s but a thin line, “Unconquerable in the realm of words.”

A huff-laugh, “Only in debate. I cannot compare to your stories.” Flins feels him—sober, almost, suddenly, in the shift of his feet. “I like your voice like this.”

Blasted Tsaritsa, he wills his flames calm now that Illuga can feel every out-of-place pop. He holds no regret, yet he can already sense that the journey, without his snakeskin vessel and rigid lantern to keep every pop and crackle in, will be long. “I am honored. I feel similarly.”

“Mm, I can imagine you do…” Illuga muses quietly, head lifting to stare in a direction Flins is too busy adapting to know, but can make a charitable guess. “Shall we go to sleep?”

We. “Only if you are comfortable, Young Master.”

“I am,” Illuga confirms and, though this is no physical motion, microscopic or otherwise, Flins feels a curl of mischief manifest. “Though, I do have one thing in mind to help with, nonetheless.”

“Anything.”

“Aren’t fae supposed to not make vows and promises, or something?” Illuga asks with a little grimace as he takes the key out of his pocket and slots it in the door, twisting sideways.

“Traditionally. However, this is nothing traditional, no? Were a fae to wait to make it after this, the meaning behind such a promise would be rendered…less.”

“Hah, I suppose you’re right. Well then,” he starts as he swings the door open and closes it behind him, his words peculiarly dropping into something more uncertain—Flins sets himself.

“Will you tell me a story?”

Indeed, both went into the offer blind, the youth and the knowledgeable, foolish fae. So Flins holds his thoughts of worth, or lack thereof, in, for how is he to know Illuga doesn’t, or won’t, have access to them?

What a peculiar dwelling he’s found. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Instead, he lets his flames spread and curl around Illuga’s body, pressing close and rubbing warmth into his skin. He doesn’t know whether they peek out and illuminate the air around him, and he doesn’t find himself caring.

“For you, Master Illuga, how could I refuse?”

1. "You, who are lonely..." return to text

2. "Lies and falsehoods." return to text

3. "As I stood by the door of the Golden House-" return to text

4. dawn/early morning before sunrisereturn to text

5. bright return to text