Archive of Our Own

In a rare change of pace, Flins finds himself visiting Illuga's abode, rather than the other way around.

Business has called him to Piramida, a meeting with the Starshyna which included going over recent Wild Hunt incidents and corresponding patrols (and being lectured about outstanding reports that Flins assured him will get done. He did not specify when they will get done, a distinction he is sure Nikita noticed, much to the man's chagrin and Flins's amusement. Still, he let him be, as he always does).

Now, having wrapped up his obligations and with no other pressing matters to attend to, his feet forge a familiar path in the hopes of paying a certain caring colleague a visit.

It has been some time since Illuga has last dropped by the Cemetery. Flins is in no shortage of supplies, but daresay his social appetite aches in protest of his absence. Work has a tendency to keep him busy, which is unfortunate in Flins's eyes, but he understands such is how Illuga prefers to operate.

The streets of Piramida are bustling and alive. Defiant in the face of despair. Joyful, because they cannot afford to be anything but. Children laugh and chase after each other with brave innocence not yet tainted. Vendors call out and invite passersbys with wares and welcoming smiles. A place like this surely feels like home, with its warmth and unabashed sincerity. But to Flins, who has spent far too long grappling with the concept, he feels more like a tourist. The crowds and the comfortable chaos they bring are a stark contrast to the serenity of the graveyard he has grown accustomed to.

Here, in the place where Illuga spent his formative years, Flins is a mere observer.

His pace remains unhurried, letting the scenery wash over him until he reaches the ledge overlooking southern lands and sea and sky. He knocks on the door, not expectant, but hopeful.

Illuga could be at any number of places right now. Patrolling, training new recruits, honing his own skills, doing other business around the town or elsewhere.

Flins waits.

The mailbox is filled to the brim with unopened letters. A stack of books sit abandoned on the table, their covers worn from overuse. It's a gamble whether Illuga will even be home, and the odds are not in Flins's favor.

He waits a moment longer, then sighs in defeat. It seems Illuga is away after all. He turns, preparing to leaveー

The door opens.

“Sir Flins!” Illuga greets him. Surprise quickly gives way to his sunny smile. “It's not everyday I see you in Piramida.”

“Routine Lightkeeper business,” Flins replies simply. “Already attended to.” Standing in the doorway of his home and wearing a loose sweater, Illuga looks relaxed in a way that is more rare than Flins would prefer. “Lady Luck must be smiling upon me for our paths to have crossed today. The Cemetery has grown more quiet than usual in your absence. The phantoms can only offer so much for company,” he says rather wistfully. “Work has been plentiful, I presume?”

“It has been a while,” Illuga agrees. “You're welcome to come in, if you have the time. I can make us some tea.” He moves on quickly from the topic of work. It seems Flins's habit of redirecting conversations is rubbing off on him. Most curious. And yet, something resembling pride flutters in his chest at the thought.

“That is very kind of you,” Flins says. Too kind, in fact, he does not say. Not only would Illuga invite a Fae into his home, but he would offer such hospitality so freely. Perhaps the… stories… Flins has shared with him about the mischievous creatures did not strike enough fear into his heart for the warnings to stick. But it cannot be helped. As of now, Flins's identity remains a mystery to Illuga. A riddle he has yet to fully solve. He has his suspicions, yet even carrying those inklings, he would abandon caution under the false promise of a familiar face. This is not the first time Flins has been a guest in his home, but the fact only serves as a reminder that Illuga still has a great deal to learn. “I graciously accept your invitation.”

Illuga's home carries the same life that Piramida itself does, but softer. Less outspoken. It feels lived in, remnant memories surrounding Flins and whispering that he is welcome here. Books and reports are strewn about the coffee table, his reading list more business than leisure. Various knick knacks and mementos line the shelves. Photographs of loved ones hang on the walls. The couch where Flins sits has a give to it that reveals a history of many visits like this. The faint clink of ceramic and spoons drifts in from the kitchen where Illuga is preparing tea.

In the heart of the vibrant castle town, this particular home is one Flins is helpless to fall into.

Illuga enters a few minutes later with two steaming mugs in hand, one of which he offers to Flins. He won't be drinking any, of course, but cherishes the warmth between his palms all the same. “Thank you,” he says. Perhaps it is odd for him to offer such words. In the eyes of the Fae, the phrase implies a debt owed. But with Illuga, it just feels… right. Much like everything with him does.

None the wiser, Illuga seats himself across from Flins and makes himself comfortable. “It's nice to play host to you for once.”

Good conversation can often be likened to flowing wine. But here with Illuga, it flows gentle and unhurried, like the cooling breaths that stir ripples across his tea. Illuga looks well. Radiant, like the first glimmers of sunlight breaching the horizon. Too often Flins has seen him with heavy bags beneath his eyes. Has taken notice of the extra tension he carries in his rigid posture. Flins wonders what has changed. Maybe he has finally learned to lessen his workload before it catches up to him, as opposed to after.

He gets his answer when Illuga lifts his mug once more, causing his sleeve to slip down to his elbow. A bandage is wrapped around his forearm, one that wasn't there on his last visit to the Cemetery all those weeks ago. Faint pink blooming through the cloth paints a long line down the limb, a memory of the severity more than cause for immediate concern.

“That's new,” Flins says, indicating the wound. “A souvenir from a recent battle, I take it?”

“An unfortunate one,” Illuga confirms with a grimace, turning the limb this way and that. “Hurt like hell when I got it, but it's doing better now. Looks worse than it is,” he's quick to reassure him. Always so considerate not to cause others to worry. “The higher-ups had to put me on modified duties for a while. It's part of the reason I haven't been able to visit…”

Flins nods his understanding. Being bound to desk work rather than the usual patrols and training was likely not an easy change, restless as Illuga is, but the extra rest has done him well. “A small price to pay if it keeps the Young Master in good health.”

“Still…”

Illuga's gaze falls into his lap. His gloom, Flins considers, appears to run deeper than just missing supply runs. After all, it would take little effort to send another Lightkeeper to complete the task in his place. Instead, Flins has been left to his lonesome, counting each passing day with the sunlight that peeks through the overcast skies. He watches as Illuga absently fidgets with the knot of the bandage, loosely tied and at risk of coming undone. “Well now,” Flins thinks, “that simply will not do.”

“May I?” he asks, reaching across.

The fidgeting stills as Illuga looks up at him, blinking in confusion. “Huh?”

Flins smiles softly, taking Illuga's hand into his own. He feels the tension as he hesitates, unsure of what Flins intends to do, then wills himself to relax. A faint blush dusts his cheeks at the sudden closeness. Flins pretends not to notice. “Tending to a wound such as this on your own likely proves difficult,” he says. “Allow me to redress it for you.”

“Ah, you don't have to do that,” Illuga tries to deflect. “I can manage. It's not that bad, really…” Despite his reluctance and how the blush blooms just a shade darker, he doesn't pull away.

“I would like to,” Flins insists. “Not because I think you're incapable of looking after yourself. But because I care about you and would like to help.” He counts each passing second with the fluttering pulse under his hold. “Will you let me?”

The air between them is a fragile, breakable thing as Illuga meets his gaze. Precariously suspended as if the right word or even a breath too heavy will cause it to fall and shatter. There is no teasing to be had. Flins is here in Illuga's home, and in return he wants Illuga to know that he can make himself at home with Flins too. He can share parts of himself that he is used to carrying alone.

A small exhale. A measured release that Flins feels more than hears as Illuga puts himself into his care. “Alright then…”

Flins smiles, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Good.” He rises to his feet, and just like that the earlier tension is swept away, like clear water down a forest stream. “Wait here. I will fetch the supplies.”

Navigating the layout of Illuga's living space proves to be a simple task, even despite the rarity of his visits here. The house is small, but enough to get by; Illuga isn't one to own more than he needs, after all. Each room has its own personal touch, modest yet undeniably him. Everything is neatly organized and well-maintained. Practical, like the man himself is and like a captain ought to be. But to those that know him well enough, like Flins does, his over-preparedness speaks of a fear of being caught off-guard, and the devastating consequences that come with it.

Flins finds the first aid kit tucked underneath the bathroom sink. He carries it back to the living room and sets it on the coffee table. When he sits down on the couch once more, it's beside Illuga rather than across.

He has already shed the loose long sleeved shirt from before, his arms bare and exposed to the openness of the room. He looks different than how Flins has seen him before. This is more than a jacket casually tossed aside in the heat of a friendly sparring match. There is something softer here, something quieter. His scars, cruel constellations carved into his skin, are on display. Each mark carries a story, tells a tale of survival, and serves as a testament to that burning determination Flins so admires. Illuga's latest wound is sure to become another lasting memory, only this time it is one that Flins has been allowed to be a part of.

“Sorry to trouble you with this,” Illuga says as he extends his arm.

“It is no trouble,” Flins assures him. He begins unwrapping the bandage, careful not to cause him any undue pain. “In a perfect world, I would be happy to see you uninjured. Though in our line of work, I am aware such is wishful thinking.” Illuga huffs a laugh at that. “With that being said,” Flins adds, “perhaps it is rather selfish of me, but I quite enjoy getting to tend to you like this.” He gathers the used bandages and sets them aside to be disposed of later, leaving the wound exposed.

“How does it look?”

It looks as good as a gash of its size can. The laceration is an ugly and jagged thing, a clear mark of the Wild Hunt with its lack of finesse. Flins has seen many wounds like this in his time with the Lightkeepers. But there are no signs of infection, and Illuga's body has already begun to knit itself back together.

“Like it's healing,” Flins answers. He digs around in the first aid kit until he finds the tools he's looking for. “Far from the worst I've seen.” He cleans away any excess blood, Illuga biting his lip when he hits a sensitive spot, but otherwise he keeps his composure in a way that Flins knows comes from experience. He allows himself a breath of relief when the alcohol is finally swapped out for fresh bandages.

“I hope it heals quickly,” he grumbles as Flins prepares the new dressing. “This cabin fever is driving me crazy. I can only work on reports for so long.”

“Even when he's supposed to be resting, my Young Master still finds ways to busy himself with work,” Flins hums. “I would expect nothing less.”

“And what about you, then?” Illuga challenges. “Seeing as you don't have any excuses.”

“The Starshyna and I already discussed the matter when we spoke earlier today.”

“That doesn't answer my question and you know it.”

Perceptive as always.

“All in good time,” Flins replies with a smile, causing Illuga to roll his eyes. He lets it go, similar to how Nikita did earlier. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. And yet it feels different with Illuga, as many things do. Warmer, more playful. An appreciation of what they have rather than an unavoidable frustration.

“A second set of hands really does make this easier,” Illuga observes as Flins wraps the limb.

“Your own handiwork is nothing to scoff at,” Flins says. “Though I expect this will hold for longer.” He ties the knot, securing it in place.

Outside, the sky has become painted with a soft orange hue that warns of waning daylight. It casts the room in a hazy sepia, capturing Illuga's beauty as if in a photograph as he inspects Flins's finished work. They remain sitting close together, thighs brushing, on this old and worn couch in Illuga's old and worn home.

The moment overtakes him.

No, that's not quite right. His actions are his own. Flins is enraptured by the scene in front of him, enchanted by Illuga's effortless elegance when he chooses to move in.

But that's not quite right, either. Illuga isn't someone Flins would be quick to describe as elegant. He is human. He is breakable and fallible and full of grit and determination, impossibly positive despite all of his pain. He is everything that Flins admires about the Lightkeepers embodied in one radiant soul.

He reaches for Illuga's hand.

He holds it in his own for a moment, just like he did before. Warmth rests against his palm. Unlike before, however, Illuga doesn't shy away.

“Sir Flins...?” he asks.

Flins lifts his hand and brings it to his lips, placing a kiss upon the knuckle.

“For a swift recovery,” he murmurs. The words land softly upon scarred skin.

Wide eyes soften, shifting from surprise to settle into something that he doesn't have the courage to name. It is a feeling Flins recognizes, having long since felt it within himself.

“Thank you,” Illuga says. It's for more than just tending to his wounds.

If Flins were keeping track, the debts Illuga has unknowingly incurred with him would be enough to have the Curatorium of Secrets eyeing him with envy. But he would never dare think of abusing such a gift, of betraying the heart that Illuga gives so freely. “You are most welcome,” he returns.

They linger for a moment. It's something Flins has been doing more lately. Given his longer lifespan, time has a tendency to pass by too quickly, moments blurring together and becoming difficult to distinguish. With Illuga, he feels compelled to slow down, to savour every inconsequential second and commit it all to memory while he still can.

The moment ends too soon. “A-anyway,” Illuga stammers, reluctantly pulling away, “It's getting late, I shouldn't keep you any longer. You probably have other places you need to be…”

Flins has no other matters to attend to. The late hour is of no concern to him, even given the impending trek back to the Cemetery. As a Lightkeeper, and certainly as a Fae, he is no stranger to the dark. Still, where Illuga goes, Flins will follow.

“Then I shall be on my way.” He understands Illuga's retreat for what it is, not as a rejection of Flins's affections, but rather a small acceptance of his own. “You have been a most generous host to accommodate me, considering my visit was on such short notice.”

He helps to tidy up the living room, collecting the medical supplies and clearing away their mugs, one empty and the other untouched, then allows Illuga to escort him to the door.

“I'll try and visit soon,” Illuga says as they prepare to part ways.

“There is no rush,” Flins assures him. “You are still healing. Take the time to rest. You deserve it.”

“I will.” He looks at his wounded arm with a certain fondness, the limb wrapped securely and carrying evidence of Flins's care. “In the meantime,” he adds, “stop by again if you ever find yourself in Piramida.”

It is not too often Flins goes out of his way to make the trip here. Any supplies he needs (he doesn't require much to begin with) he prefers to get from Nasha Town or from Illuga. But given his condition, and more importantly, given his forward request and the way it sparks that unnamed something in Flins's chest, he is confident he can come up with reasons to justify the journey.

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

The streets of Pirmida have quelled in the approaching dusk as Flins makes his way back. At his hip, his lantern flickers steadily against the dimming skies, burning just a touch brighter than before, in tandem with the warmth of the proud castle town.