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Flins sees Illuga’s boat reach shore just as he rounds the corner returning from his usual fishing spot. He wasn’t expecting a visit today, so he simply released the fish back into the wild—a shame, for he’s started to relish the opportunity to cook for Illuga whenever he comes by the cemetery. While Flins only really enjoys human food for the company it brings, he’s unlocked a whole other dimension in seeing Illuga enjoy a vast array of dishes, from the simplest thrown together stew, to the smoked fish that Flins has practiced often enough that the local puffins have long grown to expect the scraps from him.
He’s far enough away that Illuga hasn’t noticed him yet, so the younger man looks up to the lighthouse. From his vantage point he should see that the lights in Flins’ residence are off. He then sighs, takes a cursory look around, in which Flins deliberately conceals himself, and proceeds to secure the boat before hauling the bag of supplies out onto shore.
Flins has watched this ritual many times, either from a window in the lighthouse, or like now, from a hiding spot so he can observe Illuga unabashedly. He never quite gets tired of the view, fascinated with the very way Illuga moves, always strong and purposeful, and the minute facial expressions he makes even when he thinks no one is looking. Now, he should lift the supplies with an ease of someone who’s used to it despite his smaller stature, walk up the steps to the lighthouse as he smiles at any ghosts that pass him by, and then make himself comfortable by the stove outside as he waits for Flins to return.
Though recently, Flins has given him an additional key to the lighthouse, with the excuse that he would rather Illuga stay out of the cold, so the younger Ratnik has tentatively started to make himself at home like Flins wanted him to. Rarely has his heart felt fuller than seeing Illuga dressed down to his sweater, starting the fireplace by the time he comes back, or going over his own reports while jokingly admonishing Flins for slacking off somewhere else.
They’ve gotten closer since Flins told him the truth—or rather, since Illuga figured it out himself. He knew it was only a matter of time, so he was never in a hurry, and yet, a part of Flins wishes he’d gotten over that barrier sooner. Illuga was upset at first for being deceived for so long, but his initial anger made way only for curiosity and comfort soon enough.
Illuga asking him tentatively which of his stories of the old Snezhnayan court had been true, and listening raptly to what amounts to century-old gossip. Illuga wondering, more so jokingly, whether all the times he’d accepted food and drink from Flins would put him under an inescapable spell, and Flins simply replying ‘Only if you want me to’.
Illuga warming his hands on Flins’ flames as he sits in his lantern, and Flins tentatively letting them dance across calloused palms, warm and gentle as a kiss. And, Illuga once pondering out loud whether the stories of fae having wings were true, and Flins removing his shirt to show their form made out of nothing but light—not functional in any way, but he’d felt a shiver down his spine when Illuga touched his back and traced their outline, whispering ‘You’re beautiful.’
That is, before Illuga stammered out an apology, how he should’ve asked first, and hastily left the room so Flins could get dressed in private again. Had Flins been a little braver, he might have stopped Illuga, returned his compliment, asked him to touch him more—but he figures that too, is only a matter of time. They haven’t talked about it directly, but Flins is not blind to whatever is brewing between them, and he’s certain neither is Illuga; the lingering touches and longing looks that mirror Flins’ own hunger speak for themselves.
As Flins contemplates all that, Illuga hasn’t moved from his sport on the shore. Curiously, he watches as Illuga examines his surroundings again, seemingly making sure that Flins isn’t around, before he scours his pockets for something.
In the end, he pulls out a small sachet and a smaller square envelope, pulling a piece of thin paper out of the latter, while scattering some of the contents of the former onto it. By the time he’s rolled it into a thin cylinder and sealed it with his tongue, Flins realizes what he’s looking at.
Responsible, conscientious Young Master Illuga, taking out a lighter and igniting a cigarette with the practiced ease of a middle-aged Ratnik. Who would’ve thought?
He watches in fascination as Illuga takes a first drag and inhales it deeply, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he looks out across the landscape, not searching for anything in particular this time. His eyes first roam over the giant that is the Fatui’s Design Bureau, and on his exhale, they drift northward to the faint outline of the Piramida and the light now surrounding the recently-cleansed Pillar of Embla.
As Flins focuses on the smoke leaving Illuga’s lips, he experiences a sudden, intense sense of envy. Somewhere, he feels like a petulant, capricious child, and yet a larger, louder and more ravenous part of him imagines his own flames flickering in Illuga’s mouth, making him sigh and relax and give in like that—
Instead of entertaining that line of thought further, he decides to walk up to Illuga, especially since it’s such a lovely new discovery to tease him about.
“My, I didn’t know you were a smoker, Young Master.”
“Ah—!“ Illuga all but jumps, and lets out the most adorable little shriek as he turns towards Flins’ voice.
“Goodness, Flins, must you always sneak up behind me like that!?”
“Apologies, but I shall only cease when your surprise stops being so amusing,” Flins replies around a chuckle.
“Meanie,” Illuga retorts, without any real bite. He looks down at the cigarette still in his hands, then up at Flins, seemingly unsure about what to do with himself.
“Shall we sit for a minute?” Flins asks, motioning at a pile of rocks behind them, and Illuga simply nods and follows him.
And so, they sit next to each other in silence, looking out towards the Northern Isles, only the sounds of the sea, the wind, and the birds surrounding them. Illuga, almost shyly, spares a glance towards Flins, then looks down at the cigarette in his hand, before giving in and taking another drag.
Flins has always liked to watch humans breathe, but Illuga in particular has become one of his favourites to observe—he always wears his heart on his sleeve, and so every exasperated sigh, frustrated huff, and shaky but determined breath to tone down tumult, anger or anxiety is an easy indication of his feelings, and for Flins, always a sight to behold. This Illuga however, is very deliberate in his deep inhale, the way he closes his eyes and holds his breath for a moment, before releasing the smoke in a long stream that curls out around him.
Flins now smells the tobacco too, not particularly pleasant, but he finds he doesn’t mind if it's Illuga. His eyes focus on the easy way Illuga’s hands flick the embers into the wet sand below.
His envy yet persists.
“How long have you been smoking for?” He asks, instead of doing something unwise, like asking to be inhaled in the cigarette's place.
“I don’t smoke regularly,” Illuga replies, almost defensive. “It just… helps to calm my mind, sometimes.”
Flins hums in acknowledgement, not that he has any right to judge; the noble fae of old were nothing if not hedonistic, indulging in many a novel mushroom from Sumeru, or exciting grass from Liyue, especially because, unlike humans, their bodies would be unlikely to bear the consequences of it.
It is also not uncommon in Nod-Krai, lawless land that it is, and especially not amongst the Lightkeepers, who work daily in the rot and decay of the Wild Hunt, and witness plenty of death at the hands of it. While Nikita strictly enforces that all alcohol, tobacco and similar must be bought with one’s own salary and handled responsibly, any gathering of Ratniki around a campfire will have people drinking and smoking around a deck of cards, or a pair of dice, to comfort both body and mind among trusted peers.
He’d been under the impression that both he and Illuga are the types to only participate in such activities for the company, but perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised that his favourite human would pick up at least one coping mechanism in this line of work.
“Rough week?”
Illuga sighs. “It could be worse, I suppose,” he slowly admits. “But there was a pretty big landslide on the way to the Cliffwatch, and it hit one of our major supply carts. No one died, thankfully, but most were injured and our communication and supply lines were cut off, so I’ve had to transfer messages between everyone with Aedon, we’ve had to secure the underground route more than usual, and there was a Wild Hunt outbreak there too. It’s fine now, but it’s been.. a lot.”
Illuga’s shoulders sag with exhaustion far beyond his years. Flins knows that his posting at the cemetery is somewhat indispensable, being the guardian of the lighthouse, an important rest stop between the northern and southern islands. He's also just about solely responsible for all Wild Hunt outbreaks in the area, but in moments like these, he regrets that he cannot be more present in Illuga’s daily life to take even some of that burden off his shoulders.
“My apologies, then, for making you trek all the way here when you’re so busy otherwise.”
“Oh no, please don’t apologize!” Illuga hastily reassures him. “This actually feels like a break in comparison, and I always enjoy your company, so please don’t worry about it!”
“I’m glad to hear it,” and he is, truly. Being someone to rest with and tell your worries to, is one of the few human skills he has been genuinely grateful to have at least somewhat picked up over the years. Then again, his inhuman nature helps too: Illuga feels too responsible for everyone else’s wellbeing to truly relax around them.
“If you’re already being so… rebellious today, might I interest you in a bottle of Novokitezhgrad Fire-Water I’ve procured recently?” Flins teases lightheartedly.
“No thanks,” Illuga denies him easily, as Flins expected, but lays his head on the hand still holding the cigarette. He looks up at Flins with a frown through his long lashes. “And what do you mean, ‘rebellious’? I’m not doing anything others aren’t.”
With that slight scowl and comedic sulk, Illuga now more than ever looks like a spoiled young lord right out of a fairytale. Oh, how Flins longs to kiss the pout off his lips and pamper him even further… But, that would be quite uncouth at the moment, so he faux-innocently asks, “Does Nikita know about this?”
Illuga decidedly looks away.
“... It’s… not like pops is in any position to lecture me about healthy habits.”
Flins too, knows about Nikita’s propensity for drinking more than most people at any given banquet, during meetings with other important figures in Nod-Krai, and on many nights, just by himself. Like he’s said, very few Ratniki stay on the job, especially for as long as the Starshyna, without coping one way or another.
“He is not, but that wouldn’t stop him, would it?”
“It wouldn’t,” Illuga agrees, “so I would appreciate your… discretion about this.”
Flins has half a mind to tease the Young Master some more, maybe to start citing the health risks himself, but he’s sure Illuga already knows them better than anyone. Instead, he simply raises his arm to his waist and bows down as low as can.
“For you, Master Illuga, how could I refuse?”
Illuga huffs out a laugh that makes Flins look up at him again. They’re almost eye-level still, but from this angle, he has a most beautiful view of Illuga smiling at him softly, kindly, the beauty mark that has haunted many of Flins’ idle fantasies crinkling slightly under his mesmerizing blue eyes.
They simply look at each other for a moment. If Flins saw himself in a mirror now, he knows that his face would betray his affections, but even that is only a fraction of the sheer want burning his soul at every moment he spends with Illuga. He wants to reach out and stroke that spot under his left eye, wants to run his bare fingers over the scar on his neck that he knows runs over his shoulder and down his back, wants to replace that damned cigarette hanging from his hand with any part of himself, wants to selfishly devour Illuga whole to keep him to himself, or for Illuga to devour him instead so they may never part again—it doesn’t matter which, he’ll give whatever Illuga is willing to take from him.
He’s at least certain he’s not yet delusional enough to misinterpret the look Illuga gives him in return, lips slightly parted, eyes flicking down to Flins’ mouth, before they flick up again.
And then Illuga, perhaps the devil incarnate, foolishly wakes up and hastily averts his gaze back to the ocean.
“T-thanks,” he mumbles out.
The hungry, wicked part of Flins is taut as a live wire, ready to throw all caution to the wind and simply pull Illuga back towards himself with all the force of the blazing fire inside of him, but the part that actually cares for Illuga holds it back, as he has many times before. Next time, he thinks, something between a swear and a prayer.
In the awkward silence that follows, Illuga moves to take another drag of his cigarette, only to notice that it has gone out in the cold ocean wind surrounding them. He puts one hand into his jacket pocket, likely to rummage for the lighter, but Flins stops him with a gentle hand to his arm.
“Please, allow me,” he says and summons his lantern with his other hand, presenting it almost as an offering.
Illuga stills under his touch, then looks up at him with wide eyes. “Is that alright? That’s… a part of you too, isn’t it?”
He’s had a difficult time putting the relationship between himself, his flames, and his humanoid body into words a human would understand, but Illuga has been nothing but patient and understanding; both with Flins’ nature in itself, and with his habit of obfuscating and deflecting when he cannot provide an adequate answer. He knows he can be difficult on purpose, infuriatingly so, and Illuga has become less and less shy in telling him as much—but he still always comes back to visit him and offer him care and a smile anyway.
It is only right, then, that he should offer all parts of himself to Illuga in turn.
“No worries, it would be my pleasure.”
Illuga seems to consider it for a moment, and then asks “Will you… be able to taste it? You've mentioned not really caring for these things before.”
“I wouldn’t quite call it taste… but either way, I do not mind.”
Illuga’s eyes flick again between the lantern and Flins’ face, before he removes the hand from his pocket, and nods with a “Thank you.”
Flins genuinely expects Illuga to simply hold out the tobacco into his flame for a moment, but instead, Illuga scoots a little closer, their knees brushing against each other, takes the cigarette between his lips and leans forward, bringing both of the tip and his own face closer to Flins’ very essence.
As Illuga breathes in, he feels the plant fibres burn in in his flame, but most vividly, the image returns: the embers of the cigarette lighting up azure, himself travelling along their path, past Illuga’s lips, his throat, burning in his lungs as his broad chest expands, penetrating his bloodstream, spreading outward into his strong limbs and stronger heart, being absorbed by Illuga wholly and fully, and it makes him feel more heady than anything he’s ever consumed in the past.
As if Flins wasn’t feeling inebriated enough already, it becomes even worse when Illuga’s gaze meets his. Periwinkle eyes shine even brighter than usual, with the indigo light reflecting in them, and Flins has to exert great conscious effort to not make his flames burst forth and burn him alive, even as he yearns to light a spark so they may smolder together from within.
“Oh,” Illuga notes with surprise as he leans back again, “it tastes different now.”
“Does it now?” Flins does not need to breathe, yet feels out of breath anyway. “How so?”
“It’s hard to describe… A bit fresher, perhaps?” Illuga ponders, ignorant to the storm of want within him.
Flins does not reply, simply watching as Illuga continues to smoke. His eyes flit from Flins back to the scenery, to a lonely frostfin whale breaching the surface in the distance, back to Flins, and then to a silent spirit walking in circles around the torches on the beach.
It’s a strange mental image to reconcile. Illuga is not one to give in to worldly impulses, meticulous about the health and safety of his fellow Ratniki to an admirable degree, and Flins has seen him scold many a tipsy colleague while gently coaxing a tankard out of their hands. And yet the sight of his hunched back, arms hanging from his knees and smoke spilling from his lips has a certain allure he can’t quite describe. Perhaps the sun too, needs a break sometimes and appreciates the clouds shielding it from view of the living beings that gain life from it. Flins basks in the privilege of witnessing such a sight.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been when Illuga’s gaze finds him again.
“Sir Flins?”
Flins blinks slowly. Illuga hasn’t called him that seriously in a while, not since they’ve started testing the waters of their relationship.
“Yes, Master Illuga?” He replies lightly.
“You’re staring.”
In hindsight, it seems he has been. “My apologies, I simply couldn’t help but admire your… roguish charms.”
Illuga raises a sceptical eyebrow. “‘Roguish charms’? Really?”
“Truly. You paint quite an image—the ever responsible Young Master, respected by all for his strict moral code, turning to a life of delinquency in secret,” Flins says with more than usual dramatic flair. “Verily, next thing we know, we will have another Reed Miller on our hands.”
“I see your storytelling has gotten quite fantastical, Sir Flins,” Illuga says, the playful smile matching his own.
“I'm afraid I'm quite serious, Master Illuga. With your quick wit, dashing looks, and natural charm, I’m certain you could create quite the crime empire if you wanted to.”
Illuga laughs, cheeks visibly reddening, “Now that’s going way too far.”
“If you say so, Young Master,” Flins replies with a wink.
In lieu of a reply, Illuga only rolls his eyes at him affectionately and takes another drag from the almost finished cigarette.
“Actually, do you want some?” He asks after the inhale, “I know you mentioned you don’t like it, but I’m sorry for not asking before.”
As much as the mere thought of putting his lips where Illuga’s were nurtures his ache rather than settling it… “No thanks. Just as you have a distaste for liquor, I don't quite enjoy the smoke.”
"Ah, I see—"
He would prefer a taste of him instead.
“I would prefer a taste of you instead.”
In the same instant that he notices Illuga’s struck expression, he realizes that the thought has, somehow, left his mouth.
It seems he’s done it now, with the way Illuga flushes instantly and sputters, “Y-you—” as he devolves into a few coughs, the smoke forcing its way out with him. Flins tries to run a soothing hand over his back, for lack of a glass of water to offer, but Illuga lightly brushes him off, though still keeping his hand on his forearm.
It is that hand that clutches tightly into Flins’ coat as he turns back towards him, his face resembling the colour of red kuuvahki. “How—How can you just say things like that?”
“I simply spoke my mind. Is that not exactly what you wanted me to do more of?” He tries to talk himself out of his, admittedly, gross lapse in judgement.
“Well, yes, but—” Illuga stops himself, and then puts his head in his hand, taking deep, fresh breaths. Flins turns his palm upward, so he can hold Illuga’s arm as well. Perhaps he’s delusional enough to hope that some of his warmth might penetrate the layers of gloves and winter clothes between them.
Illuga looks up again at the touch, his eyes drifting to their now interlocked arms, their thighs almost touching, and Flins’, hopefully, reassuring smile.
Finally, he sighs, something serious and resolute passing over him.
“...I hope you’re not just saying that. All of it.”
“I’m not,” Flins replies immediately. “Surely, you must know that?”
To Flins’ relief, Illuga nods slightly. He doesn’t know how he would live with himself if he’d failed to make his intentions clear up to this point.
“Still…I want you to say it. I haven’t been imagining things, have I?”
“Not at all,” Flins says, and dares to raise his other hand to gently stroke llluga’s cheek. “If anything…” Honesty feels like a stranger on his tongue, but he knows he must make an effort for Illuga too. “If anything, you severely underestimate the depths of my affection for you.”
Illuga’s eyes widen for a moment, before he laughs breathlessly, leaning into Flins’ touch. “That’s, ah…” He giggles, and Flins wants to eat him then and there, but settles for stroking his gloved thumb under Illuga’s mole affectionately.
“Sorry, I’m not sure what to say to that,” he continues, with a bashful, yet relieved smile on his face, and there’s some satisfaction in that. For all that Flins is a smooth talker, trained by centuries of court intrigues, he will be the first to admit that Illuga is the much better communicator between them—making someone like that speechless is a feat in and of itself, one that he shall remember for future reference.
Still, at the end of the day, they are much more men of action rather than words.
“Illuga.” A slight press of his fingertips, tilting Illuga’s head upward.
“Yes?” A hand dropping the cigarette, to lay securely on Flins’ chest.
“May I?”
It is Illuga who leans in first.