Chapter Text
Spinning the half-empty bottle behind his back, Demyan frowns. He would have sworn that this bottle had been nearly full during his closing inventory last night. With a pointed look towards Kruchek’s recruiting counter, Demyan finishes the trick with a flourish, capping his cocktail shaker after pouring a full shot into the waiting lakkaberry liqueur.
If Kruchek has been dipping into The Flagship’s alcohol stores again to make a bit of money on the side, Demyan will find out eventually. It would give him reason to finally kick the Fatui recruiter out. Demyan leaves the myriad factions and groups in Nod Krai to their own devices in his bar — nearly all of them use The Flagship for enlisting people in some sort of cause — but blatant and active recruitment annoys him despite the monetary benefits. He could enlist the Curatorium of Secrets help in nudging Kruchek out the door, but Nefer won’t take on a request this petty unless he pays her substantially more for the inconvenience.
Demyan raises his hand above his head and uncaps the shaker. The now vibrant blue drink cascades through the air, drawing the attention of two Treasure Hunters chatting at the end of the bar.
“Fucking impressive that is!” the shorter one of the two yells, ruddy-cheeked with bright brown eyes. She lifts her glass in Demyan’s direction before elbowing her partner in the side. They both erupt into drunken laughter as Demyan nods politely.
“Thank you kindly,” Demyan replies, sliding the drink down the bar towards Paavo, who picks it up and neatly transfers it to his serving tray. The Treasure Hunter murmurs something else he doesn’t catch over the chatter and clinking glasses. Whatever she says has her friend holding his side and nearly toppling off his stool from laughter.
“Ah…Mister Demyan. It is good to see you after such a long time.”
Demyan nearly startles at the voice, wiping his dishrag vigorously across the counter to hide his surprise. “Mister Flins,” he says, recovering immediately, “welcome. The wine you ordered previously has arrived.”
Placing a gloved hand on his chest, Flins bows. The Ratnik towers over the bar, and Demyan, the sliver ornaments on his dark leather coat clinking against one another like drink glasses despite his grace. “Why thank you, Mister Demyan. Where would I find fine spirits here if not for your aid, I wonder…” Flins’ voice trails off as he casts his eyes into the crowd, searching for someone.
A month ago, over a glass of Ragnvindr’s finest cider, Flins had made his latest in a long line of wine recommendations to Demyan. “You know,” Flins had said, eyes staring through the amber-coloured liquid as he raised his glass, “there is a rumour that Dawn Winery not only pioneered the use of cryo slimes to keep different parts of their wine cellar at key temperatures, but that they also have used them to produce the finest ice wine outside of Snezhnaya.”
“Is that so?” Demyan had said, unable to hide his interest. It would be expensive to import from Mondstadt, but he could easily sell it at a good markup, especially if Dawn Winery’s version was comparable to Snezhnayan ice wines. All of Flins’ other wine suggestions have been popular and Flins himself hadn’t once cared about mora or pricing, to Demyan’s profit.
Flins had shrugged, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “It is just a rumour. I do wonder, if true, how this affects the taste as opposed to their rare batch of ice wine from their Dragonspine vineyards.”
Demyan had taken the hint.
“Ah, you're too modest, sir,” he tells Flins now, rubbing his thumb against the spindly script and quaint Mondstadt-style mansion on the label. “Between us, I'd say you're the one with the more refined taste.”
Humming, Flins takes the bottle, turning it carefully in his hands as if it’s unnaturally fragile. His pupil-less eyes glow in the warm lamplight.
“The varieties you recommended before have been massive hits with our clientele,” Demyan adds. “Why, our stock sold out before you could say ‘cider.’ Made a tidy profit off that, to boot.”
Flins laughs. “Ah, I was simply giving you a few suggestions. If anything, I would credit this to your professional ethic as an alcohol tradesman.”
“‘No water mixed in, no low-quality drinks,’ you mean?” Demyan says wryly. He points at the sign above the bar with that exact motto. A gift from Nefer as thanks for being an unwitting participant in one of her many information gatherings at The Flagship, Demyan is certain the sign was given as more of a joke than any actual gratitude. “Well, that has made me a fair shade less Mora, but it's also the reason we can continue operating.”
“And I am grateful for that, Mister Demyan.”
“Just as I am grateful for your patronage,” Demyan says. He means it more than he’s willing to say, and not simply because Flins tends to open his wallet with enthusiasm and without care when it comes to fine wines.
Flins hums again, a low rumbling sound, and looks at the bottle in his hands. His hair falls in front of his face and Demyan is briefly reminded of morning frost on blades of grass. Lifting his head, Flins looks at the crowd in an eerie stare. When he still doesn’t see whomever he came here to see, Flins inclines his head in Demyan’s direction. “Thank you. I look forward to this,” he says, turning towards the old sofa in the dimly-lit corner next to the bar. He hasn’t taken a step before he looks back at Demyan with a smile. “Oh, and could you bring two glasses?”
“Of course, sir. Two glasses, one bottle, a beautiful moment.”
A smile breaks across Flins’ face. “Would that I could make this night as beautiful as you say,” he says. Flins’ laughter, higher-pitched than Demyan had expected, floats above the din of the bar like a pealing bell. Several customers turn their heads in Flins’ direction, studying the tall man as he gracefully takes a seat on the sofa, leaving room for his unarrived companion.
*****
“You should go say ‘hello’ at least. Weren’t you and Flins part of the same team on Starsand Shoal?”
“If you want to talk to him so badly, you do it.”
“We should all go over there. He doesn’t look like a mean person.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Evgeny! You didn’t see him in action.”
“But you did. Which means you should be the one to go over there and—”
Sighing, Demyan begins pouring another round of beer for the three young Ratniki — one doesn’t look older than fourteen, although Demyan knows the Lightkeepers wouldn’t recruit children — arguing over whether they should approach Flins or stay at their table. The auburn-haired one apparently had worked with Flins once, while the other two are too visibly starstruck to walk over to where Flins is sitting despite being close enough that Flins can hear every word.
At the very least, Demyan can, and has, heard every word.
For his part, Flins looks mildly amused, a small smirk playing around his lips as the Ratniki grow progressively louder after each round.
“Demyan! Good to see you again!” A head taller than everyone else in The Flagship, Varka calls out to Demyan from the doorway. He makes his way easily through the crowd, stopping only a few times to wave or whistle at friends he’s made during his stay. As Varka draws closer, Demyan notices a fresh cut bisecting Varka’s eyebrow, joining myriad older scars on his cheeks and around his eyes.
“Grand Master Varka,” Demyan replies. Finishing the pour on the last of the three beers, Demyan flicks the tap off and hands the tray of drinks to Paavo with a grin. “I haven’t seen you these past few days. You’ve been sorely missed. Welcome back to The Flagship. What can I get you this evening?”
Varka slams his hand down onto the bartop, fingers twitching like he wants to reach across and give Demyan the same large hugs Demyan has seen Varka reserve for his Knights of Favonius compatriots, Flagship drinking buddies, and one awkward attempt at patting Ineffa on the back for a job well done never to be repeated. Much like the large friendly mutt that begs for scraps in the alleyway outside of The Flagship, Varka underestimates his own strength and others’ receptiveness to physical affection.
“Nothing at the moment,” Varka says, scanning the crowd. “I’m actually here to— Ha!”
The moment Varka’s eyes land on Flins — who has been slowly sipping on a solitary glass of wine for over an hour, the extra wineglass that Demyan had given him standing empty on the table like a beacon — his usual broad smile grows impossibly larger. “I’m actually here to meet up with Flins here. Thank you, Demyan!”
This time Varka does give into his impulses, leaning forward to clap Demyan on the shoulder. Demyan is left with a stinging pain in his forearm, overwhelmed by Varka’s affectionate nature.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
Varka’s hoarse apology makes its way to where Demyan is now pouring a Roulette Special for the group of Treasure Hunters in the far corner that Nefer occasionally pumps for information. Flins murmurs a response that Demyan doesn’t catch and gestures towards the bottle, smirking triumphantly when Varka’s eyes widen at the label.
“How did you get this here!?” Varka asks, whistling lowly as he pours himself a glass. “It’s been sold out at the Angel’s Share. I was going to have Mika ask Diluc Ragnvindr for a bottle directly.”
Looking up, Flins’ empty eyes meet Demyan’s and he nods. “Thank Mister Demyan. He procured it for me at my request.”
“You’ve been holding out on me!” Varka calls out, wiggling the bottle in Demyan’s direction.
“Had I known it was for you, Grand Master, I would have expedited the process,” Demyan responds.
From the sofa, Flins smiles, raising his glass in a toast. His eyes crinkle at the corners, still glowing faintly in the low light. On the table, the blue flame of his lantern flickers and seems to grow despite its containment. He whispers something that has Varka throwing his head back riotously and elbowing Flins in the side for good measure.
“Can we get Roulette Special?”
Shaking his head, Demyan smiles at the two eager Akademiya students in front of him, mora already in their outstretched hands. The thought that he’s never seen anyone be as physically comfortable or normal around Flins flits through his mind before it disappears into the line of unending customers.
*****
The earliest hours of the morning are Demyan’s favourite time to work the bar. Orders slow enough for Demyan’s mind to return to The Flagship customers who have remained and there’s a few hours before the seediest set shows up around four, necessitating that attention be paid to keeping certain known parties away from one another.
This particular night, Demyan can’t help but notice that Flins and Varka are still on that first bottle of ice wine, glasses still half-full on the table in front of them. At some point during the night, Varka had eased his entire body into the sofa cushions until he was sprawling over more than half of it, his right thigh and foot pressed up against’ Flins’ own. Varka’s arm is wrapped around Flins’ shoulders and he’s laughing.
The flush in Varka’s cheeks and glimmer of mirth in Varka’s eyes leaves Demyan with the impression that Varka may not have stopped laughing over the past few hours.
“I now call Nod Krai a home,” Flins says, his voice soft as it drifts towards where Demyan stands behind the bar, “like any other. More than most others.”
Varka briefly looks as if he’s been struck.
Demyan blinks and Varka’s stricken expression becomes the softest smile Demyan has ever seen the Grand Master wear. The difference between it and Varka’s usual boisterous affability has Demyan turning away to polish an already-clean glass, feeling like he’s intruding on something truly intimate.
“It is a beautiful country,” Demyan hears Varka rasp. Another quick look in their direction reveals Varka’s hand splayed across the top of Flins’ thigh. Flins reaches for his wine and drains the rest of it, his eyes never leaving Varka’s face. They burn with an intensity that has Demyan snapping his head back to the spotless glass in his hand.
They should be more careful, Demyan thinks. If he can see it, than surely others will, and a relationship between The Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius and a Ratnik as prominent as Flins — in addition to the rumours about what Flins is exactly — is sure to draw many Nod Krai factions’ attentions.