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Flins didn’t show up to the banquet.
Even with Nikita gruffly alluding to it, Illuga still isn’t quite sure what role Flins had played during their battle against The Professor. Only that he had helped.
Well, Illuga didn’t need to be told that. Flins was always helping, in some way or another. Perhaps more from the sidelines than the rest of the Lightkeepers. But there nonetheless.
Illuga isn't surprised that Flins didn’t show up. It didn’t stop him from casting his gaze to the dark corners of the banquet hall, just in case of a possible glimpse of him hanging around like a distant will-o-the-wisp in the marsh. Traveler had seemingly picked up on it too, their glances towards Illuga coming a bit too often and a seeming bit too knowing.
The Traveler—Illuga couldn't help but bow his head in shame at how he had treated them. Overprotective and arrogant, saying things like “let me, I’ll protect you,” when he couldn't even protect his own people. And yet letting them go at it alone didn’t seem like an option either.
Even if he let himself go at it alone.
And this was how it was, wasn’t it? He couldn’t protect the ones he loved. And they were therefore gone forever.
Bjorn…
It was unbecoming of a leader, to be so miserable when others were celebrating. He looks at the Ratniki toasting, chatting, singing, his grip tightening on his mug. Occasions like this were so rare in their line of work, Illuga knew that. Bjorn would have a proper farewell ceremony, and they would pay their respects and send him off as he deserved. Now was the time for the living.
Despite all that. Despite knowing what he knew now, Illuga needed to step away from it all. He needed a moment. Just a step outside, a breather, a moment of clarity —he would not break down, no, that would come later, in the privacy of his own apartment.
It was quiet next to the lighthouse, the whole town having gathered in the hall for merriment. The night air was cool on his skin, an all-enveloping kind of embrace. It might just be Illuga’s sentimental impression, but he thought there was something gentle in the air tonight. Perhaps the dissipated Wild Hunt energy had left the air somewhat purer. Perhaps something was returning to how it was meant to be. Illuga could only hope.
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it, Young Master?”
The sudden appearance of a shadow looming over him made Illuga jump.
“Sir Flins, must you always sneak up on me like that?”
Flins’ low chuckle is a warm sound, Illuga thinks. He hadn’t realised how much he had wanted to hear that sound again.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t considered the possibility of not hearing it again. No Ratnik goes into battle without being prepared to die. When Illuga had set off, alone, for a moment, it had crossed his mind, that perhaps….
But of course not. His life bore the weight of too many others. It wasn’t his own to sacrifice. He couldn't afford to be this reckless.
“Penny for your thoughts, Young Master?”
Illuga glances at Flins.
He’s shockingly pale, as always. His hair is like the midnight sky. Illuga thinks he needs to eat more, out of pure habit, then quells the thought with a grimace. Tall, gentle, mysterious, frustrating Flins. Illuga can’t look him in the eye.
“Just thinking how lucky I am to still be home,” he says.
Flins hums. “From what I heard from the Traveler, you were indeed extremely lucky.”
It’s a testament to how he’s grown to understand his companion more, that Illuga can hear a hint of disapproval in Flins’ light and airy tone.
“It was foolish of me,” Illuga agrees, grimacing.
He doesn’t think he can handle this right now. This shame. This guilt.
But Flins doesn’t push.
“Perhaps,” he says. And leaves it at that.
Ah. It’s not disapproval.
It’s worry, Illuga realises.
Illuga sighs. He’s so tired, all of a sudden, from the way his thoughts have been circling, all these worries. He’s so tired. It’s been years, he realises, years of being this way, all these weaknesses, raw and tender wounds displayed for the world to see, to be used against him in battle. The way he cradles his scars, so focused on himself, blind to his friends and the way he hurts them too.
It’s a sharp pang of self loathing, but as he meets Flins eyes for a split second, it melts away into something else.
He feels like he’s floating. He flexes his hands, trying to keep himself tethered.
Oh, to fly away into the sky, like a balloon on Moon Prayer Night…it sounds nice, he thinks. To be weightless, for a while. It would be nice to be a flame, or a shard of kuuvahki, or a ray of sunlight—
“Dear Illuga,” Flins’ voice knocks him out of it. Illuga blinks, and realises he’s been grasping Flins’ coat buckle.
“I’m sorry.” Flustered, Illuga drops it.
“Don’t be. If you wish for something to grasp, I have many better options on me.”
“...What?”.
“I have many gems that would be perfectly suited for rubbing between one's fingers. I have a handkerchief here that would also work, I find the texture of the embroidery to be quite soothing. Or, if you’d like, you could braid my hair. I have heard that repetitive motions such as these can quieten the mind. If, of course, that is what you seek.”
“I—” Illuga is stunned. “If you wanted to shock me out of it, I believe you’ve succeeded.”
“How disheartening, Young Master. I am being fully sincere.”
“Yes, as always,” Illuga mutters. He turns back to the sunset. His heartbeat is a confused stutter. If he had been a balloon floating in the sky mere moments ago, this now feels more like being a balloon that is trapped in a tree. Maybe with a cat trying to bat its paws against it. Perhaps he’ll pop soon, and it’ll all be Flins’ fault. Young Local Ratnik Squad Leader Loses It Because Lightkeeper of the Final Night Cemetery Offered His Hair To Be Braided. Some next day headline that would make.
“Would you like a hug?” Flins asks abruptly.
“Hmm?”
“Would you like a hug?”
“I—what?”
“A hug. A way humans comfort each other, no? By wrapping their arms around each other and breathing in tandem.”
“I—who said anything about breathing?”
“Ah, I must have misunderstood something then. You must teach me the proper way.”
Illuga almost bursts out laughing. Flins, offering him a hug? He must look absolutely terrible. Were things truly this dire?
But Illuga looks to the left and to the right, there’s nobody around. The sun is hanging low in the horizon. The air is cold, just on the other side of chilly. And Flins is just standing there, arms slightly outwards, palms facing up. His eyes are sulfur, pale yellow burning a bright blue flame.
He could, right? Why not? Because Flins might make fun of him? He already does that, in his own gentle way. Flins already knew about all his failures, not directly, but he knew each of them. Illuga didn’t know nearly as much as he’d like to know about Flins, but he was getting closer day by day. He’d never completely unravel the mystery that is Flins, he suspects, but he would keep trying, as long as that took. A lifetime, if it came to it. And yet still there’s that fear, that if Flins were to look directly at him, pinned him under those moon-yellow eyes—he would see right to Illuga’s core, and find—
Something rotten.
Scarred and withered.
And that gaze would turn acrid.
And something would shatter in Illuga.
He can’t do this. He can’t risk it.
And yet—
Illuga reaches his hands gingerly around Flins’ waist. He hears Flins chuckle before he’s pulled in close, Flins’ arms gently wrapping around his shoulders. Flins’ coat feels as cold as it is heavy, but Illuga dares to rest his cheek against Flins’ chest, reaching for some kind of softness underneath it. Because Flins’ skin was soft, wasn’t it? Illuga wants to reach up and touch Flins’ face, just to make sure, but he’s so securely enveloped in all of Flins right now, and he doesn’t want to move.
Illuga breathes in. He hadn’t realised how shallowly he had been breathing all this time. Breathe in now, slow, deep, breathing out. Breathing in Flins’ scent. He smells of smoke and mist, of Winter Icelea’s covered in morning frost.
He buries his head in Flins’ chest, arms grasping tightly onto Flins’ broad frame. Decorum be damned. Illuga doesn’t care anymore.
If Flins’ notices his lovely coat gradually growing damp, stained by the tears of a pure-hearted warrior, he doesn’t say anything. He just holds Illuga close, daring to raise a gloved hand to graze against his head, following the curve of his grey locks, his small back, etched with scars carrying pain that reached far beyond his years.
When Illuga finally draws back, the sun has already set. The moon gazes down at them, her light pale and kind. Illuga’s face is a wet mess, but he can’t bring himself to care. Let Flins tease him, he was ready for it, Young Master, he could feel better again—
Gloved hands wipes his tears away.
Illuga wants to ask why he’s doing this. Illuga wants to know so many things, who Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins really was, he wants to hear those stories from his point of view, all those years, all those memories. He wants to know what Flins thinks. And a part of him, the selfish, growling part, wants to know what Flins thinks of him. If he thinks this much about Illuga. If he matters to Flins the same way—no, not the same way, that was impossible. But in a special way, perhaps, was that too much to ask—
Illuga is greedy. He wants, and wants, and he had things taken from him that he cannot get back, and he received new things, and still he wanted more.
Flins gaze is heady. Like that dandelion wine the knights were so obsessed with. Illuga thinks he understands it now, that potential to lose one’s inhibitions, that desire to taste more.
Illuga stands on his tiptoes. Flins would just have to lean down a bit, and then they would—
“Young Master,” Flins interrupts.
Illuga frowns, drawing away, but Flins doesn’t release his grasp, just holds on tighter.
“If you don’t want it—I’m sorry—I misunderstood,” Illuga tries to turn away, to no avail.
“Please do not misunderstand, my dear Young Master. I am very much an eager partner in this dance,” Flins says. Illuga can feel his breath, cold on his forehead. “But as you know, every good story needs a cliffhanger.”
Illuga huffs out a laugh.
Flins’ smile is thin, a waning moon. “I want you to be very certain, dear Master, that this is what you truly want. A broken heart may not be the best judge of comfort.”
Illuga opens his mouth to protest, but his lips are covered by a gentle thumb. “Just think it over, Master Illuga. I’m not going anywhere.”
What a fucking tease, Illuga thinks. He’s here, he took the plunge and followed Flins, what more does he want? What more does he have to do?
Oh.
He thinks of all those nights in the Final Night Cemetery. Flins giving him water and telling him stories. Waiting for him to be hooked, like the fish they catch, then stopping right at the peak of the story. You’ll have to come back soon, then, Young Master, if you want to hear the rest.
Perhaps the fisherman is just as anxious to secure his fish as the fish is to take the bait.
Illuga hugs Flins again, with force that belies his slender frame. He’s grateful for the comfort as much as he’s frustrated at the hunger it has inspired in him.
“You better be ready then,” he says.
Flins hugs him back. “You know where to find me, Young Master.”