Archive of Our Own

Perhaps it had been foolish to let himself hope.

He'd seen himself in Varka, in his tendency to distract and deflect from questions that prod too closely at the truth, in his valor and tireless pursuit of righteousness, the heavy weight of duties and responsibilities for many people beyond himself.

Likewise, they have their contrasts. Whereas Varka is human, Flins is decidedly not. Varka is a prestigious knight from humble beginnings, Flins is a noble with a common life. None of these are downsides, but complements. Even their temperatures match: Varka runs hot, Flins is constantly cold.

Perhaps he overestimates the extent of the bond they nurtured. But, truly, Flins cannot help but point to the many signs he recalls, even now: The way Varka would avoid a question from Paimon, only to turn around and tell Flins the assured truth as soon as he asks. The long glances, the constant requests for Flins’ company. His invitations to meet up at the Flagship, for Flins to visit the Favonius Keep, to patrol together.

Then there are the conversations themselves. One of their earlier nights at the Flagship, it had been Varka asking, tentatively, if there was perhaps another Lightkeeper waiting for him at home. The apparent relief when Flins said no. His eagerness to share his own lack of a partner.

All in all, Flins thought he’d been reading into it precisely the right amount: Not too much, yet not with the oblivious eyes of someone less experienced in such matters.

Varka’s rejection comes as a heavy blow.

“You promise to return?” Flins asks, watching Varka flit around the main tent of the Favonius Keep, between heaps of papers and weapons and whatever else he needs for their departure tomorrow morning. He’s half sitting, half leaning against the desk, trying to stay out of the way.

Varka only pauses long enough to look over at Flins and offer a subdued smile.

“I’ll write to you!” he says, then turns back to the drawer he’s currently searching through.

Flins watches, waiting for more, but Varka doesn’t add anything, and suddenly, the flame in his chest seems to flicker. To write is not the same as to return. Flins knows enough to read between the lines of such a statement, his clear avoidance of the actual question. Softer than a no, yet heartbreaking all the same.

He wipes the devastation off his face quickly, before Varka has time to see, though the ache does not settle.

A friend from the past. Is that all Flins will be to Varka from now on?

“I… shall endeavour to write you back, in that case”, Flins says something stiffly, and Varka turns his head to smile at him, looking pleased.

“Great! Honestly, for how many letters I write, I still can’t say I’ve ever had a real pen pal before…”

A pen pal. Flins nearly shudders at the words. Still, he keeps a brave face and nods – if this is what Varka truly wants, then who is Flins to demand more? Above all, he wants Varka to be happy, and Varka is making it quite clear what his terms are for their continued friendship.

It is a shame that his own heart isn’t quite on the same page, Flins muses later that night, staring down into his kitchen sink with a mix of distaste and morbid curiosity. The flower petals around the drain are wettened with saliva. They’re small, and very few so far, but for a first symptom, Flins thinks they’re rather sizable.

He knows of this affliction mostly by word of mouth, though it has been centuries since he last heard it mentioned. It is, after all, an affliction unique to the fae. A mental affliction, brought on by unrequited love, manifesting itself physically as flowers that take root in your lungs.

It is a good thing he does not need to breathe like humans. Less fortunate, of course, is the fact that if these blossoms are left unchecked, they will eventually reach so far as to smother his flame, and with it, his life.

Flins turns on the tap and watches the petals disappear down the drain.

For a start, the condition is manageable. Flins carries out his regular duties, sparing the issue very little attention, even with the coughs wracking through him on occasion. He holds his breath for as long as possible in public, trying to stave off the attacks, and it works fine, for a while.

He receives a letter from Varka, a week and a half after their expedition goes back to Mondstadt. "Dear Flins", it starts, and Flins’ lungs constrict.

Varka goes on to wax poetry about the beauty of Mondstadt, about its people, how his friends and fellow knights are faring, and through it all, Flins’ chest aches. In the end, he’s left with a smile on his face, and lungs that feel like he just ran for ten miles in the frigid air without pausing.

Still, the petals seem to lessen following that letter. Perhaps because it is easier for Flins to fool himself into thinking his feelings are requited, and with his mind in such a state, the physical illness responds in kind. However, it is not meant to last. He posts his reply to Varka, and within a few more days, finds himself reminded once more that Varka is not interested in being anything more than pen pals, and thus, the flowers return in full force.

Flins carries out his regular duties, and keeps the condition hidden from both his fellow lightkeepers and friends.

Until one afternoon, when he’s invited for tea at the Curatorium of Secrets with Nefer, Lauma and Jahoda.

Their company is especially pleasant, now that it’s not made under such severe circumstances as previously. Lauma regales them with tales from the Frostmoon Scions, of how certain sniffer moles have taken to “reallocating possessions” between the priestesses, to everyone’s confusion and mild annoyance.

The itch in Flins’ chest is absent, up until Jahoda mentions that one of the knights remaining at the Favonius Keep might have tried to flirt with her, to her utter horror, and it all slams into Flins once more.

This time, not even holding his breath helps. He coughs, once, twice, and his companions do not react at first, but something is crawling at the back of his throat, and he cannot stop. Flins keeps his mouth firmly tucked into the inside of his elbow, both for the sake of politeness, but also to cover any petals that might scatter.

Lauma stands and moves beside him, patting his back, and Flins thinks grimly that perhaps things would be better if she could pat out the entire bouquet right now, propriety and appearances be damned.

Still, when the fit eventually passes, he finds three concerned faces watching him – Nefer has even refilled his tea, and is now holding the cup out to him with something akin to pity in her eyes. It’s a rare look on her. Perhaps Flins is misinterpreting it.

“Thank you”, Flins rasps, accepting the cup, and the warm liquid soothes his sore throat. He hopes, futilely, that he’ll be spared any questions, but then Jahoda gasps, and when Flins glances over at her, she’s staring between Flins’ arm and the teacup.

He spots it a second later: a single petal, stuck to the inside of his elbow.

“Did I just poison him?!” Jahoda shrieks, jumping up from the couch in a panic. She reaches for the teapot on the table and removes the lid, staring down into it, then shakes it for good measure. “I swear, I steeped the tea really carefully, and I even used the good filter, so none of the leaves would slip through…!”

“Jahoda”, Nefer cuts her off, somehow both firm and gentle at once. Her eyes are fixed on Flins. “I don’t think this was your fault.”

Lauma, who hasn’t returned to her own seat, but rather sat down by Flins on the couch, looks thoughtfully at Flins’ face. He tries not to give anything away, hiding his lips behind the teacup once more.

“How long have you been unwell?” she asks softly.

Flins exhales slowly, closing his eyes and lowering the teacup. He considers the merits of lying, but only for a moment. The advantages are practically non-existent; it might, under other circumstances, allow his friends some semblance of comfort, but after witnessing his condition for themselves? No. At this point, a lie would only worry them further.

“It is not contagious”, Flins mumbles, avoiding meeting anyone’s eyes. “You needn’t worry about that.”

“Uh, yeah, so we’re actually more worried about you”, Jahoda points out, still standing in front of the couch rather than sitting beside him, as she had been previously. She crosses her arms. “And hey! You’re dodging the question!”

Flins smiles, and returns his teacup to its saucer on the table.

“Perceptive as always, miss Jahoda.” He sighs. “Very well. I suppose there’s no chance you’ll believe me if I say that this is nothing much…?”

“And now you’re stalling”, Nefer observes from across the table, also crossing her arms. “If you’d rather keep your secrets, that’s fine, but don’t lie. I’ll know if you do.”

Flins sighs again. Divulging his condition also means divulging his true nature, whether directly or indirectly, and though he’s convinced Nefer has deduced it already, he’s less sure about Lauma and Jahoda. He trusts them, though.

“What I tell you cannot leave this room.” He receives three nods in response, and continues. “You might’ve suspected already, but I am not human.” Other than Jahoda’s eyes widening, none of the women show much of a reaction. It is as he’d expected, then. He continues: “And, as I’m sure you are aware, different creatures suffer different illnesses. As for my kind, we have this… sickness of the heart. It manifests as roots within your lungs, eventually sprouting buds and thorns and full-grown flowers. That is what’s causing my coughing.”

“Is it dangerous?” Jahoda is quick to ask, always the worrier. “Do you need medicine?”

“There is none”, he replies, suddenly feeling very weary. “If certain circumstances changed, I might be cured, but it is not within my power to change them.”

“And what happens to you if they don’t change?” Lauma prods.

Flins doesn’t look at any of them as he answers. “Eventually, the flowers will reach my heart and smother it. But that is a long time off yet, I hope. I know of people who lived with this condition for years before succumbing to it.”

He doesn’t mention the ones who only survived a couple of months. Doesn’t think he has to. Lauma and Nefer are watching him with severe looks on their faces, while Jahoda goes into a panic, hands fluttering in front of herself as she talks.

“What?!” she exclaims. “You can’t be serious! I mean, that… I… what?! There’s gotta be something we can do!”

“Sans liberating me of my lungs”, Flins says, “I fear there is nothing that can be done, though I appreciate your concern.”

Jahoda stares at him, incredulous. “You’re not gonna try to look for something?”

Flins shrugs. “I have accepted my circumstances. For whatever time I have, I only wish to live my life like normal. Or, rather, as close to it as possible. There’s no use worrying about what’s to come before it does.”

“The Frostmoon Scions’ library might have some books about your kind”, Lauma muses out loud, tilting her head. Ah. Seems she might have figured it out by herself, too, or perhaps Nefer already told her. She doesn’t say it out loud, though. “I’ll see what I can find.”

Flins inclines his head. “I appreciate it, but please, do not trouble yourself needlessly.”

“Hanahaki”, Nefer says suddenly, and Flins looks over at her, eyebrows raised in surprise. She stares straight back at him. “That’s what the condition is called, isn’t it?”

Well, Flins supposes, if anyone would know, it’d be Nefer. Still. The information is not widely available – he’d have thought most of it would have been left to die with the fae back in Snezhnaya. How any of it made its way across the sea to Nod-Krai beats him.

“I’m impressed”, Flins admits. “I did not think there would be much information about it, not enough for anyone here to have come across it.”

“Perhaps not the average person, no. But I am not the average person.” Nefer’s slight smile is smug. “Either way, since it’s in the way of helping a friend, I’ll share anything else I happen to learn on the topic. No promises, though. And… I don’t suppose you’ll tell us who it is?”

Her last questions garners both Lauma’s and Jahoda’s confusion, though neither Nefer nor Flins explain it, not right now. Flins instead lowers his chin beneath the collar of his uniform, eyes downturned.

“One with duties and responsibilities far from here”, he answers vaguely. From the knowing look in Nefer’s eyes, she knows precisely who he’s talking about, anyway.

She tilts her head. “And this condition. Is it always caused by a direct rejection, or is it enough for you to perceive it as such…?”

Flins glances at her. She must know quite a lot about hanahaki; recognizing the symptoms is one thing, but fewer still know what causes it.

“It is not an omnipotent affliction”, he points out. “As with any mental affliction, it stems from my own subjective experience. The illness has no means of perceiving the truth, other than through me. If the circumstances were to change without my knowledge, it would not cure me, no. Only when I myself perceive – and believe – the circumstances have changed, can my body begin to heal itself.”

In other terms: It is not enough for his feelings to be requited, in order for him to be cured. He also needs to be aware that the other person returns his feelings.

Not that he could ever ask that of Varka. He has no doubt that if he did, Varka might pretend to return his feelings, if only to cure him, but Flins fears it wouldn’t cure him at all. An act, no matter how smooth, will never leave a genuine impression. As long as Flins himself doubts it, as long as his mind does not accept the performance – for that is what it would be – his body will not heal. All that would do is leave Varka with a whole lot of guilt.

Flins cannot do that to the one he loves. He will not.

The three women do not let him suffer alone after that afternoon. Flins would never dream of making any demands of them, whether that be seeking a cure – an endeavour he knows to be futile – or providing assistance in other ways.

Such as their suddenly increasing trips to the Final Night Cemetery.

“Boss Nef promised said these should work even on non-humans”, Jahoda says when Flins opens his door one such time, the girl brandishing a small pouch. Before he can say anything, she empties the pouch onto her palm, where a small, brown bottle falls. She grabs it and holds it up to Flins. “Cough syrup. I dunno if it’ll do anything, but you know… might as well try!”

Flins blinks down at her, surprised by her presence.

“Thank you most kindly, miss Jahoda”, he eventually says, accepting the small bottle from her hands. “I’m afraid I have nothing prepared in terms of repayment…”

“Oh, no, no, don’t even worry about it!” Jahoda waves him off quickly. “Seriously, we’re friends, aren’t we? Just think of it as a favor! Friends don’t have to pay friends, right?”

A very modern, human definition of friendship, but sure. Flins will accept that. At least until he can think of a suitable repayment for such a favor.

“Still, I thank you. Would you like some tea, perhaps? I’m afraid I don’t have much else suitable for…”

“I can’t stay, sorry”, Jahoda interrupts, then immediately looks mortified at having done so. “Ohmygosh, that was rude, I’m so sorry, but I swear, I actually have a bunch of commissions lined up, I’m not trying to be rude on purpose…!”

Flins, amused at her antics, can’t hold back an amused huff. Unfortunately, that seems to trigger the flowers in his lungs, and his chuckle is cut short by yet another coughing fit. He covers his mouth with his elbow, trying in vain to force the breath back into his lungs, but every cough feels like it’s going to rip his lungs in half, and it’s a solid half a minute until he can get himself under control once more.

When he turns back to the open doorframe, Jahoda is staring at him with obvious concern.

“Maybe you should try that cough syrup”, she suggests warily.

Flins agrees, mostly because he’s too tired to protest. He doubts the medicine will do much, but maybe if he’s lucky, it might alleviate some of the pain that these fits are causing to his throat and chest.

“You unscrew the lid, and then the lid itself is used as a cup, to measure one dose”, Jahoda instructs as he begins to unscrew the small flask. “It’ll taste like shi– I mean, it’ll taste really bad, but hopefully, you won’t cough for a while!”

Once the medicine is swallowed – bitter, just as Jahoda promised – Flins thanks her once more, then reaches for his lantern and polearm, which are both waiting right beside his front door.

When Jahoda sees him step out the door, her eyes widen, though this time, the expression isn’t concern, but rather, disbelief.

“Wait”, she says, “you’re still gonna work? In this condition?!”

Flins raises an eyebrow at her.

“In this condition?” he echoes. “You mean, a light cough? Surely, my work should not yet have to suffer from such a minor cause.”

The look Jahoda levels him with is unimpressed, and so strongly reminiscent of Nefer that Flins wonders if they are actually related somehow, but at least she doesn’t keep pushing. She lets out a scoff, then turns to leave.

“Well, just don’t collapse anywhere people won’t find you!” she calls out as she goes. “Oh, and Lauma said she would bring you today’s boon later, so please don’t leave her hanging!”

Flins stops and blinks after her. He lifts a hand to his chest.

From the outside like this, it’s impossible to tell there’s anything growing inside, but there is likewise no heartbeat to be felt, and isn’t that ironic? That this condition of the heart would be unique to heartless beings such as fae?

Flins had made that joke once, to Varka. He no longer remembers the exact words, only that it had something to do with being heartless, and how Varka had reacted with a loud, booming laugh, and the words: “Oh, but that’s not true at all!”

At the time, Flins had been too busy staring at the Grand Master’s bright smile and even brighter eyes to truly take notice of his words, though he had heard them clearly, and been warmed by them. He cannot deny that they shared a genuine connection, even if the Flins of today would have to admit that the potential isn’t of the nature he’d once hoped. A good friend is worth no less than a lover. In that regard, it is merely Flins’ own heart stirring up trouble.

The deterioration happens fast. Alarmingly so.

One day, Flins is patrolling the coast as he is wont to do, albeit with more frequent breaks, and the very next, he collapses on the sandy coastline to cough up his first blood. It stains the inner corner of his dark sleeve. Perhaps, if it was only the blood, he would’ve been fine, but the exhaustion that slams into him seems to lock his whole body in place, and lifting his feet off the sand feels like trying to pull them free of glue.

That moment is when the Wild Hunt chooses to appear.

Flins’ whole body sags at the sight. He forces himself to one knee, then pushes up, and the effort of such a small move is almost enough to sap all his remaining energy. Still, Flins gets to his feet without immediately keeling over, and summons his polearm. It has the added benefit of functioning like a staff, and he leans heavily against it for the few seconds it takes the Wild Hunt to reach him.

The fight is short, but to Flins, it feels like every strike he aims against them might be his last. He takes about as many hits as he deals out, which is rare for him, who is usually so quick on his feet, but today his limbs are sluggish. Each dodge comes a second too late.

When the final straggler finally howls and vanishes, Flins is already back to kneeling on the sand, eyelids threatening to fall shut at any moment.

He wonders who would find him if he were to fall here. Illuga, perhaps, when he comes down with supplies next time. Already he can imagine voices shouting his name. Or it might be the Fatui; they have been known to make use of these shores, close as they are to the Experimental Design Bureau.

The voices keep calling his name, but Flins is already succumbing to the darkness trying to pull him under.

Varka is already planning his return to Nod-Krai when he gets Nefer’s letter. After all, they have knights stationed there who need overseeing. At least for the time being, he’s worked out a plan to be able to split his time between Mondstadt and Nod-Krai, as agreed upon with his knights.

When a letter arrives for him from Nod-Krai, Varka’s first thought is that it’s Flins, never mind the fact that the fae wrote to him a mere three days ago. He can never quell his excitement whenever he hears from Flins these days, and this time is no different.

Except, the letter isn’t addressed from Flins, but another familiar name.

He has no clue what she might want – courtesy calls aren’t really Nefer’s thing, and neither is giving information out for free – but regardless, he takes the letter and reads it in his office, in private.

Each sentence leaves him equal parts confused and concerned, and by the end of it, Varka is flustered. He’d never thought Nefer, of all people, would address such a topic in such a direct way. Then again, she might be the only person who would ever write a letter like this.

The bullet point version is this: She knows he’s in love with Flins (as stated indirectly in the letter). She thinks they need to talk about it (as stated indirectly in the letter). And, most importantly, she seems to think he’s told Flins that he’s not in love with him. For some reason, that part is explicitly stated, which by Nefer’s standard is…

Well, weird is one way to put it. Varka certainly hasn’t ever said such a thing, and has no idea where she might’ve gotten the information from, but given that it’s one of the few things she actually addresses without preamble, he has a sinking feeling that part must’ve come from a very, very reliable source.

The only source that could be is, of course, Flins himself. Hence Varka’s confusion. Either he has severely misjudged Nefer’s character, or he’s suffering from amnesia, because he’s never told Flins anything of the sort, so if that’s the case, then it has to be a misunderstanding. Why would he reject Flins, when the truth of his feelings is the exact opposite?

If he hurries his preparations along a little faster after that, that’s only for him to know – and Jean, who sends him concerned glances when he suddenly throws himself into the work that has to get done before he leaves again.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay?” she asks later that afternoon, after witnessing him spend a record-breaking three hours at his desk, without running away even once. “If you’re suddenly this enthusiastic about paperwork…”

Varka’s brazen laughter cuts her off.

“Ha!” He grins at her, and she returns it with some bemusement. “Never. But if I’m gonna catch the first ship tomorrow, I’ve gotta get rid of all this first.”

“I wasn’t aware there was any rush?”

Her prodding tone makes it clear what she’s asking, but she’s much too polite to outright question why he’s so eager to leave.

“Well…” Varka reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, dropping his feather quill for a moment. “I wouldn’t say that. But there’s also not not a rush, you know?”

“I… can’t say that I do, no.” Jean looks even more confused now. “I suppose the letter that arrived from Nod-Krai today has nothing to do with it, then?”

Varka stares at her for a second, then laughs again. “Ah, well, you’ve got me there! Though, in all honesty, I’m not entirely sure what to make of it…”

“All the more reason to return, isn’t it?” Jean suggests. “It might become more obvious once you’re there.”

“That’s… a good point, yeah.”

She doesn’t ask him to explain. Varka isn’t sure he could, even if she had. All he knows is that Nefer has some sort of intel on him and Flins, and from the tone of her letter, it’s something that should be handled urgently, and in person.

He hopes nothing bad has happened to Flins, but at the same time, he can’t imagine a whole lot of other scenarios where his feelings for Flins would be relevant, and that’s a worrying thought. In truth, he wants nothing more than to forgo anything to do with work, and rush straight to Flins’ lighthouse.

The rest of the paperwork passes in a blur, and then he’s off, back to his own quarters to prepare for the journey.

His first thought is that he has drowned.

Drowned, and drifted through uncharted depths, cradled by the temperate waters of decades past, floated so far that not a single soul would know his name.

Where these thoughts come from, Flins cannot say, but he supposes the pain in his chest isn’t all that different from how it might feel to be deprived of oxygen. It feels as though his ribcage is attempting to collapse in on itself, contracting, restricting the flow of air.

“Flins?”

Of course the voices would return before he’s had a chance to reorient himself. Flins is about to reply, perhaps to assure the voice that he is present, that he’s no longer lost to the depths, perhaps to inquire about his circumstances, but instead a harsh cough rips through his body.

He sits up, quick enough that his brain swims with the movement, and his eyes open by their own accord, as he tries to cough past the pressure at the back of his throat. Tangible, as if something is trying to force its way up.

He can barely take in the room around him, just the vague impression of yellowish walls, and the bed he’s apparently been sleeping in. Someone is standing next to it, close enough to pat his back as he keeps coughing, but Flins can’t turn his head to see who, not while he’s busy expelling his own lungs.

A few petals scatter, though he attempts to cage them with his elbow in front of his mouth. There’s a hitched breath from the person beside him; Flins supposes that means it can’t be any of the ladies who’ve already seen him cough up a petal, even though this room looks like one at the Curatorium.

The person doesn’t speak, just keeps patting his back, right between his shoulderblades, and when Flins eventually settles, he’s tired again, even though he only just woke up.

“...is this what Nefer meant when she said you’ve been sick?”

Flins turns his head slowly, in disbelief, to look up at the tall figure standing beside the bed, still with a warm hand against Flins’ own back.

Varka is looking at him with obvious concern in his eyes, occasionally flicking to the petals that have fallen onto Flins’ lap, white, but with reddish stains that make them look almost pink.

Flins stares right back at him. Varka is here, in person, standing beside his sickbed as he coughs up flower petals, instead of back in Mondstadt, where he’s supposed to be. He looks the same as when Flins last saw him. The ruffled blond hair, same scars adorning his face, the same plated armor and muscled forearms. Perhaps Flins is so sick that he’s hallucinating. Or perhaps he never woke up at all.

“Should I run and get Lauma? Nefer said there was nothing she could do, but if you’re not feeling well…”

“Did–” Flins cuts himself off to cough, just once, with Varka patting his back in sympathy, and yet his voice is still hoarse as he continues. “Did you bring me here?”

“Right.” Varka’s hand moves up to his shoulder and settles there instead, a warm, comforting weight, to counteract Flins’ inherent coldness. “I was on my way to your lighthouse when I heard the howls of the Wild Hunt, and then I saw you on the ground. I don’t think I’ve ever ran that fast in my life…”

He doesn’t remember anything after disposing of the Wild Hunt, though he’s not surprised to hear that he fainted.

“Are you okay?” Varka adds when Flins doesn’t speak. The concern on his face grows. “I mean, aside from the obvious. You did pass out.”

Flins doesn’t mean to be impolite, he truly doesn’t, but he is exhausted, and confused, and Varka’s presence still doesn’t make any sense.

“Why are you here?” he asks, trying to ignore the pleased rumble in his chest at the thought of Varka being in such a rush to save him. That is something he can dwell on later. “I am very glad for your assistance, do not misunderstand, but I had thought you’d still be home at this time. Has something happened?”

Varka stares at him, and there’s a look in his eyes that Flins isn’t sure how to read. Perhaps it is the exhaustion, because he is normally quite good at interpreting Varka’s expression. Even more so than other people.

“I did say I’d come back, didn’t I?”

Flins pauses. Varka sounds so sure that it makes him doubt himself, but no, Flins is sure. Back at the Favonius Keep all those weeks ago, Varka had very pointedly made no such promises, but rather, dodged the question Flins posited entirely. There is no way Flins is misremembering. Not when he had such an intense emotional reaction – internal, but emotional nonetheless – upon hearing it.

No, he is quite sure. Varka never said anything about returning.

“You expressly did not”, Flins responds, perhaps a little sharper than intended, if the way Varka stiffens is any indication. “I believe your exact words were that you would write to me.”

“In the meantime”, Varka tacks on, though it’s sounding like he’s praying for it to be the case, rather than actually remembering. “Right? I said in the meantime. I’d write to you in the meantime, as in, until I had a chance to come back… right?”

He looks a little like a lost puppy, staring at Flins, still with a warm hand on his shoulder. It’s a funny look, Flins has to admit. The tall Grand Master next to a sickly looking, bed-bound fae, looking down at him, and yet it is Varka who looks more nervous, waiting for Flins to confirm his words.

Slowly, Flins shakes his head.

“You did not.”

Varka’s face drops. He retracts his hand, and Flins laments the loss of warmth, though he supposes this isn’t a good time to say so aloud. He’s still confused as to Varka’s presence here. Both here in the room – why he would’ve sought out Flins again, after making it clear that he has no interest in any deeper relationship than being mere pen pals – but also Nod-Krai in general, seeing as his task here is done.

“You mean that… when I left, and we said goodbye back then… you didn’t think I’d be coming back?” Varka asks with an odd sort of hesitance, uncharacteristic of him.

Flins considers. That is not entirely true, given how long Varka spent here and how many friends he made, even without considering Flins himself, so it would seem logical for him to return at some point.

“I supposed you would visit”, he offers, then averts his eyes. “Occasionally. Though, perhaps not quite this soon.”

Varka is still staring at him; Flins can feel it without even looking. He’s unsure what to make of this conversation. There is clearly something Varka isn’t saying, but Flins fears any attempt at guessing would be misguided, given his previous misgivings about the Grand Master’s interests. He wouldn’t dare make such a mistake a second time.

“And… you were okay, with that arrangement?” Varka asks carefully, and at this, Flins frowns.

“That is an odd way to pose the question.” The more Flins thinks about it, the less he understands of Varka’s mind, and what he's getting at. “There was little else for me to do but accept our circumstances, as you made your expectations quite clear. Since you were already leaving, I chose to accept your terms. I couldn’t very well ask you to abandon your homeland for the sake of staying, could I? Not when you had already made your wishes obvious.”

He looks up to meet Varka’s gaze again, his stormy blue eyes, and the conflict that seems to be playing out on his face.

Eventually, he says: “So… It’s not that you didn’t want to see me again, but you thought I didn’t want to come back? Is that it?”

It might be stupid – he might be repeating the same mistake all over again – but hope unfurls in Flins’ chest, an almost tangible thing, because it sounds like Varka may not have meant what he said that day. At this thought, Flins thinks he can feel the pressure within his lungs increase.

“That is what it sounded like you were saying, yes.” Flins tries not to sound sour about it, he really does. He’s not certain it works. “What else was I meant to infer from such words?”

Varka, for some reason looks relieved. He reaches up to swipe a hand through his own hair, a small grin beginning to form on his lips.

“Great. That’s great. I thought… Nevermind.” Then, his eyes fall on Flins on the bed again, and he seems to remember their current situation. His grin dims. “I, uh, did have something to tell you, but this might not be the best time. Actually, how come you were out patrolling when you’ve been sick, hm?”

Now he sounds more like the Varka that Flins knows. Less unsure of himself. Almost as though he’s gearing up to scold someone – which, in this case, can only be Flins.

“I seem to remember a certain someone sneaking out to train, even after explicitly being put on bed rest”, Flins points out, raising an unimpressed brow in Varka’s direction. “You are in no position to criticize, Sir Knight.”

Unfortunately, Varka is not so easily distracted.

“Is it the cough?” he pries further, uncaring of how obvious Flins makes his distaste for this line of questioning. “I didn’t know you could even get sick.”

“Different species have different illnesses.”

“So this is some type of fae sickness, then?”

Varka shifts closer to the bed, and for a second, it looks like he’s about to reach out again, to put his hand back on Flins’ shoulder. Disappointingly, he doesn’t.

Flins peers up at him. “Yes. It’s not contagious, if that is your concern.”

“What?” Varka sounds genuinely perplexed by this notion, but after taking a second to process it, he scoffs. “Of course not! Isn’t it obvious? I’m concerned about you, Flins.”

Flins presses his lips together, for fear of spilling more than he intends to. He cannot deny how Varka’s care affects him – it always has – but it is still not proof of any deeper affections. Sure, Varka may not have meant his previous words as a rejection, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the opposite is true, and Flins would be loath to assume.

Though, perhaps the situation isn’t as hopeless as previously thought. Maybe even enough to inquire as to Varka’s feelings, but it must be done with tact: Flins cannot demand anything that Varka cannot give, and people do not control their feelings.

If his love is unrequited, he mustn’t let Varka know the true cause of this condition, not unless he wants the man to blame himself.

“Your concern is appreciated, but unwarranted”, Flins replies. Varka just stares at him, still with that look Flins doesn’t know how to interpret. “I am… managing it, to the best of my abilities.”

“Is that why you went patrolling while sick?” Varka counters bluntly. “You did pass out, you know. I’m not sure I would call that ‘managing it’.”

Flins glares at him. “I did say to the best of my abilities.”

“Would you let me help, at least?”

Varka sounds dejected for some reason, and it makes Flins pause. His offer isn’t unexpected, not to Flins, who knows Varka well, but there isn’t much anyone can do at this stage.

He stares up at Varka. At the open earnestness in his gaze as he looks back at Flins, the slight downturn of his lips.

“There isn’t much to be done”, Flins comments slowly, watching how Varka’s shoulders droop at these words. “I’m sure you have better ways to spend your time, Sir Knight.”

“Nah.”

Flins’s raises his eyebrows at the blasé response. Varka’s lips turn up, but he doesn’t elaborate, seemingly content to let that one word speak for itself.

Before Flins can say more, there’s a knock on the door. It opens, and in steps Nefer. She stops just shy of the opening, eyes flickering between Flins and Varka before they settle on Flins, and she crosses her arms.

“Exhaustion, or blood loss, or some other secret symptom I haven’t heard yet?” she asks, and Flins catches Varka’s confused expression out of the corner of his eye – he supposes no one has filled Varka in on what his actual condition is, or how it manifests.

“I am doing much better”, Flins responds with a slight bow of his head, rather than actually answer the question. “I appreciate you lending me a place to rest.”

Nefer huffs, but she doesn’t look annoyed, so it’s probably more for show than anything else.

“Just… don’t do it again. The Grand Master was beside himself with worry when he showed up here, with you passed out in his arms.”

Flins turns his head back to Varka, surprised. He’s not sure why he hadn’t thought of it, but picturing the strong knight in such a state, with Flins himself held in his arms…

Oh, that does things to his heart. His cheeks feel hot.

“Hey!” Varka protests, though the tips of his ears are red. Flins expects an objection, but instead, what he actually says is: “Of course I was worried! I had no idea what was happening!”

A smile tugs at Nefer’s lips, but rather than say anything, her eyes go to scan the pair by the bed. Whatever she finds must be disappointing, because she lets out a sigh.

“I don’t run a charity”, she comments. “Varka, can I trust you to escort him home?”

“‘He’ is right here”, Flins murmurs, a little peeved to be spoken over, but when Varka reaches out to place a hand on his head, he is promptly placated. The warmth is comforting, and his fingers lightly card through Flins’ hair in a pleasant motion. If Flins was a cat, he’d be purring.

“Of course”, Varka agrees easily. “You don’t have to ask, really. I would’ve done it either way.”

Nefer’s eyes meet Flins’, and there’s a glimmer of satisfaction there. Flins is pretty sure he can guess at what she’s thinking, and the tilt of her head only seems to confirm it.

“Flowers wither even if you don’t talk about them”, she advises.

Pretty on the nose, considering how stingy she normally is when it comes to advice and information, but Flins supposes there’s no use pulling punches when both she and he are perfectly aware of her thoughts on this matter already.

Flins huffs, amused. “The art of subtlety has died, it appears.”

“Just take your knight and go.”

Flins grins, but follows her instruction and swings his legs over the side of the bed, preparing to stand. Immediately, Varka is there with a hand on Flins’ elbow, ready to assist. It is quite unnecessary; he feels fine at this moment, but the sentiment is nonetheless appreciated.

Perhaps he should’ve insisted a little harder on being well enough to make the walk back by himself, but he does want to clear the air with Varka, without fear of being interrupted.

Nefer watches them knowingly as they leave, raising her hand with a grin as Flins looks behind himself.

He turns back forward, taking hold of Varka’s elbow as they go, which the knight offers eagerly. Flins smiles. Perhaps there is more hope for a happy ending than he had thought.

“So, you didn’t truly mean your words as a rejection back then?” Flins asks as they’re crossing the Barrowmoss Barrens.

They’ve kept to either mundane conversation or comfortable silence up until this point, though Flins’ hand is still nestled on the inside of Varka’s elbow, near his bicep, as they walk at a leisurely pace.

“Huh?” It takes Varka a moment to respond. “Oh, you mean at the Keep, the night before I left?”

“Yes.”

Varka laughs, though it sounds more embarrassed than amused. “Hah, well… When you say rejection, what kind of rejection are we talking about? Either way, the answer is no. I’d never reject you, in any way.”

That is a curious phrase. Flins lifts an eyebrow, peering up at Varka beside him, though the knight doesn’t meet his eyes.

“In any way?” he echoes. “You are aware that rejections are typically associated with romantic confessions, yes?”

The blush on Varka’s face is undeniable now, and the flowers in Flins lungs are surprisingly quiet. He hasn’t coughed even once since he first woke up.

“...I am aware, yes”, Varka mumbles, with none of his usual confidence. He then clears his throat. “I mean, not that you confessed back then, or anything. Hah!”

Flins stops walking. Varka, too, is forced to a stop, with Flins’ hand still on his arm, though he still doesn’t meet Flins’ eyes, even as Flins angles himself so that they’re facing each other rather than side by side. He tilts his head. The signs seem obvious this time.

“Would you reject me now?” he asks softly. If he had a heart, it would be beating wildly, though he’s sure the same can be said for the flame within his lantern – luckily, it’s out of sight.

Varka’s wide eyes swivel to meet his, seemingly more out of instinct than anything else. He swallows hard, and Flins watches his throat bob with a small, amused smile. The clear nervousness in Varka’s demeanor is making Flins calmer, ironically.

“No”, Varka eventually mumbles, eyes remaining fixed on Flins, and Flins’ insides flutter. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Perhaps it should be more dramatic. Perhaps Flins should say that his world shifts in some way, that there are sparks or fireworks or that the whole world stops for a moment, but truthfully, there is none of that. There is just them and the calm winds brushing over their skin. It doesn’t feel dramatic, or shocking, or staggering.

Perhaps he never stopped letting himself hope.

“Took you long enough to say it”, Flins murmurs. He moves his hand from Varka’s elbow, and down to grasp the other man’s hand instead. He interlaces their fingers. “But I’m glad, given that I feel the same towards you.”

For a second, Varka just blinks at him. Then, he laughs, a sound filled with joy and relief. Even Flins can’t keep a few giggles from slipping out when he hears it.

“Oh, wow”, Varka laughs. With the hand that isn’t currently tangled with Flins’, he reaches up to rub at his own neck. “To be honest, this is not how I thought this was gonna go…”

Flins tilts his head, this time in curiosity. “Hm? You had imagined it, then?”

Varka just grins. “I actually kind of had a plan. Well… The beginning of a plan.”

“To… tell me of your feelings?” Flins clarifies, and is a little surprised when Varka nods.

“Right.”

“Oh. What did this plan of yours involve, then?”

With his free arm, Varka reaches out to rest a hand on Flins’ waist, pulling them even closer together. Not quite flush against one another, but close enough that Flins has to tilt his neck back to make eye contact, close enough to feel Varka’s body heat.

“I was gonna invite you to come back to Mondstadt with me”, Varka starts, his voice low. “Windblume is coming up. It’s cliche, I know, but well, what can I say? There’s a reason it’s so popular.”

Flins reaches up with his hand, to cradle Varka’s jaw, and is infinitely pleased when Varka leans into the touch. He smiles, stroking the skin with his thumb.

“I would kiss you”, he states, “but unfortunately, my lungs have been attempting to flee my chest since you began speaking. My apologies.”

Varka’s eyes flash with confusion, then concern, and perhaps something else, but Flins has no time to keep looking. Instead he drops his hand from Varka’s jaw to angle himself away, hiding his mouth against the inside of his elbow, right before the coughing starts.

“Woah! Are you okay?!”

Flins is too busy hacking his lungs out to reply. The pain in his chest has never been this intense, like his lungs are trying to fold in on themselves, and there is a crawling sensation at the back of his throat, as though he’s about to vomit.

His legs grow weak, but suddenly Varka is there, one arm wound tight around his waist to prop him up. Flins isn’t sure whether that’s better or worse – perhaps being seated on the ground would be preferable for what’s about to happen, though Flins lacks the air to communicate that.

He instead conveys this to Varka by pulling the other man down with him as he sinks to his knees, until they’re both kneeling on the ground, Varka still with an arm around his waist, asking panicked questions that Flins can barely hear over the sound of his own struggling. Each sharp cough seems to ricochet throughout his skull.

Several petals scatter, and yet the pressure in his throat persists. Flins gags in between coughs. It’s not pretty. The petals – now much bigger, bloodier, and overall more painful to discharge – come in clusters, landing in an ugly heap on the ground in front of him.

A twinge of concern shoots through Flins. Between this and death, dislodging the flowers from your lungs is the happier ending to his condition, but it has been known to leave permanent marks: Lungs so shredded that they cannot even pretend to imitate the motion of breathing, bleeding inside the throat that never quite heals, making it impossible to swallow food nor drink…

“Cecilias?” he hears Varka mutter, but there are still more flowers coming, so Flins cannot respond.

By the end of it, there is so much blood that the pile of flowers – six with full grown stems in total, and plenty of loose petals – look entirely red. Not even a hint of their usual white can be seen.

Flins sinks back against Varka’s chest, exhausted in a way this body doesn’t easily get.

Varka still sounds panicked, though his arm around Flins remains secure. “Are you okay? Was that it? We should turn around, right, maybe Nefer knows what to do, or maybe Lauma…?”

“No”, Flins croaks, and even that short word burns on its way out. He can taste blood.

“No?” Varka repeats, sounding incredulous. He shifts, and Flins jostles, though it doesn’t dislodge the arm around his waist or the chest he’s leaning against. “Those just came out of you, Flins! And that’s a ton of blood…”

“No.” Flins pauses, tries to gather himself to speak. “Home. I’m good.”

“You’re not good, not even close!”

Flins tilts his neck to glare back at Varka, and the man meets his eyes with a concerned look of his own. He seems to search Flins’ face. Whatever he’s looking for, he must find, because he eventually nods to himself, and before getting to his feet, he puts his free arm beneath Flins’ knees. Flins finds himself being lifted into the air as Varka stands, and instinctively reaches out to put his arms around the knight’s neck.

“We have a lot to talk about later”, Varka comments, almost in a grumble, as he sets off walking. He glances down at Flins. “When your throat isn’t completely wrecked. But you better explain yourself, then!”

Flins just nods, then leans his head against Varka’s shoulder and closes his eyes.

He thinks he hears Varka chuckle as he drifts off.

Recovery is nothing at all like Flins had hoped. With the flowers expelled, he’d hoped the illness had run its course, and that all there’s left to do is allow the tearing in his throat and lungs to heal.

Typically, he heals fast. Faster than a human. The fact that this is a magical ailment, unique to fae like himself, must be the reason why he suddenly heals much slower.

“So it was just that those flowers had to come out, and that’s the end of it? No more coughing or bleeding?” Varka asks, the morning after their confession. He has spent the night in Flins’ lighthouse, and though they didn’t talk much yesterday, it is slightly easier for Flins to get words out today, and Varka deserves some explanation.

Though, Flins doesn’t plan on ever telling Varka what causes hanahaki.

They’re still in bed – Flins had rested in his lantern during the night, but shifted back once dawn broke – side by side, with Varka’s arm around Flins, tugging him close.

“The illness has passed”, Flins confirms, voice much raspier than usual. He supposes that’ll have to heal, too. “I am merely recovering now.”

“And if it comes back?”

“It won’t.” Flins reaches for Varka’s hand, turning his neck to look up into Varka’s eyes, trying to quell the concern there. Even with his hoarse voice, his words come out strong. “It is an illness that can only be contracted once.”

For the same person, Flins adds in his head, though that part isn’t likely to ever become relevant. He has no interest in anyone other than Varka, and can’t imagine himself in such a position.

“And you’re sure you don’t need to see a healer, or something?”

“It’s all internal”, Flins rasps, then lets out a small sigh. Already, he is tiring of speaking, and the burn of his throat is slowly coming back. He wishes he could say more to Varka, truly, because the man deserves to understand him – if nothing else, he deserves to feel some semblance of calm, which means Flins must answer his questions. It is a shame that his vocal chords don't seem to agree.

“There’s something I’m wondering”, Varka comments, and Flins hums, leaning his head to the side, against Varka’s shoulder. “Did you know Nefer wrote to me when I was in Mondstadt?”

Flins sits upright again, turning to Varka with surprise. “No.”

Varka gently eases him back down, to rest against his shoulder once more, and Flins goes, though he is a little confused about where this is going now.

“Well”, Varka continues, “she was very vague, of course, but I got the impression that she knew about my feelings for you, and she really wanted me to tell you. It seemed… urgent, I’d say?”

Flins’ voice isn’t well enough to respond, so he merely hums. He hadn’t known about that, though it makes sense. She can hide it all she wants, but Nefer cares more than she lets on, and from the sound of it, she hadn’t actually betrayed any secrets in the letter.

“And I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, but this sickness… Is that why she wanted me to come back here and tell you? Was it… Could it have killed you?”

Flins breathes out softly. The concern makes sense now. Varka doesn’t know that a love confession would cure Flins – he’s thinking that Nefer wanted him to confess because it may have been his last chance to do so.

He doesn’t want to tell Varka the truth, but then again, they’ve already avoided that worst case scenario, and he owes Varka some honesty.

“Yes”, Flins eventually admits, and Varka’s breath hitches. “But not quite so urgent.”

Varka’s arm tightens around him. “That’s still… I’m glad I came back when I did.”

And Flins is, too, even if the hanahaki wasn’t likely to kill him anytime soon. He would have preferred not having to fall sick to get here, but though it was a dramatic route, he appreciates where it got them – after all, he is cuddling Varka in bed right now.

Flins swallows, trying to get rid of the sting in his throat, but it doesn’t help much.

“We owe Nefer much gratitude”, he whispers, unable to make his gravelly voice louder.

“You sound terrible”, Varka mutters. “But yeah, you’re probably right. I mean, I was coming either way, but if I had waited all the way until Windblume…”

“I still would have been fine by then.”

“Well enough to travel?” Varka raises a pointed eyebrow, and Flins supposes he has a point. Given his steep decline right before Varka’s arrival, another month likely would have seen him in a much weaker state.

But there’s no use dwelling on the what if’s. They’re here now, and Flins is healthy, aside from the slight lingering pain and weakness, but those will improve with time. Hopefully. Perhaps the ache in his throat won’t heal fully – injuries brought on by magical conditions have a tendency to stick around – but even so, he has already spoken the most important words to him.

“Varka”, Flins mumbles, waiting until the other turns his head to look at him before he smiles, tilting his head up to leave a peck on Varka’s unsuspecting lips. “I love you.”

Surprise washes over Varka’s face quickly, and then he breaks into a grin. “I love you too, Flins.”

Everything else can be figured out later.

They have time.