Archive of Our Own ^beta

When it all is finally resolved, the celebrations come to an end so swift it matches the frantic pace of that final battle with Rerir. The night is slowly waltzing towards more of an early morning, the lights are dimming in the Flagship, and most of the patrons have retired, including Albedo and Durin, both of whom, Varka suspected, were only participating out of either politeness or curiosity.

Left to his own devices and certainly not lacking in company or jars brimming with liquor, Varka contents himself with playing a very elaborate drinking game. By himself, of course, which allows him to be quite generous with the rules he sets, and subsequently with the alcohol he keeps flowing throughout the night. He’s lost count of how many glasses he’s downed, honestly, as he’s lost count of how many familiar faces have stopped to chat or share a drink with him as the night went on.

It is no surprise that by the early hours of the morning he starts to accept he might be quite tipsy. As a testament to his honesty and integrity, he places the full blame on the alcohol for his distracted thoughts, which stray far enough that he doesn’t notice the cold light of a familiar lamp until Flins is right next to him. He almost jumps out of his seat. To his drunken mind, it’s like the man appeared out of thin air.

“My friend! I didn’t think you intended to join us.” His voice is perhaps too loud, judging by the tiny frown Flins politely smooths into a pleasant expression. “Actually, you’re a bit late for that. Almost everyone is gone already.”

“I must offer my apologies, Grand Master. As you might have assumed, I tend to avoid gatherings such as these,” His new companion replies. The slight tilt of his head to the side shifts the silky locks of his hair from his shoulder to the center of his chest; in the dimming light of the almost empty Flagship, Flins’s sleek violet-blue hair has taken a glossy black tint. “I’ve only opted to pay a visit at this hour of the night to offer one last round of congratulations… Perhaps I was too late.”

“Nonsense! There’s still time to have a drink. Join me?” Varka is quick to offer, gesturing vaguely towards all the unoccupied seats at his own table.

Ever so polite, Flins rewards him with a slight nod before taking the seat closest to Varka. To keep him from shouting, Varka guesses. “It would be my absolute pleasure. Has everyone else left already?”

“Yes… Well, I lost track of some of them.” Varka shrugs, having a quick look around to confirm that none of their allies are still lingering around the now mostly empty tavern. “Almost all of them, actually.”

“Truly a pity,” Flins remarks, with all that refined niceness that suggests his true feelings on the matter may be different. “Yet I’m glad I haven’t missed the chance to share your company, Grand Master. Have you been enjoying the celebrations so far?”

“Haha, you flatterer! Yes, yes, very much.” Varka’s smile is broad and bright, his enthusiasm fueled by the liquor flowing through him. Speaking of which… “Hold on, how rude of me! I should offer you something to drink! Here— taste this.” He takes his own glass, still full aside from the one sip he took to taste the bronze liquid he ordered, and pushes it towards Flins. Carefully, focusing all his admittedly impressive strength towards the arduous objective of not spilling a single drop. “An incredibly potent brew from Liyue.”

“Grand Master…” Flins sounds hesitant, and looks even more uncertain. He’s eyeing the glass with some measure of distrust, almost warily, and a little awed underneath all the unwarranted uneasiness, as well. It’s like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it, which feels like a ridiculous train of thought, one surely aimed towards derailing, because Varka has seen Flins down Fire-Water as if it was nothing more than… well, water. And he lived to tell the tale! “Surely I can’t accept your offer. That is your drink, after all.”

What’s a bit of sharing between comrades? Comrades who have fought together and risked their lives together? “Nonsense! I’m afraid I’ve finished their last bottle, and it’s really worth a try,” Varka insists. “Come on, don’t you trust me?”

“I assure you the profound trust I hold for you is unwavering. However…”

“Then that’s settled!” Varka decides. “Take this, let me know what you think.” He aims at Flins his most winning smile, the one he reserves for extraordinary occasions, like boosting the troops’ morale after days spent traversing the endless desert in Sumeru. Surely Flins doesn’t doubt his own capacity to handle a bit of harmless alcohol? “I’ll just get another beer, alright? Don’t even worry about it.”

As he signals to Demyan, Flins still looks put out. His delicate features twisted by an equally delicate frown, he appears to be… steering himself, perhaps.

As the Grand-Master of the Knights of Favonius, Varka decides that can’t do. His tipsy mind has already started to conjure a truly unparalleled motivational speech, the likes of which would send his men barreling into battle even without a battle at all, and he’s clearing his throat with all the gravity he imagines the Pyro Archon might have before addressing her war-hardened people, when Flins picks up the glass and takes a sip. Even the movement of his throat as he swallows is elegant.

Varka deflates, then inflates again. “Hah! That’s more like it. How is it?”

“The taste is… unique, truly.” Apparently, Flins is giving it quite a significant amount of thought. Varka is touched, really. He’s just so considerate! “However, the burn of the alcohol is very pleasant. I wonder how long this brew rested in the humid darkness; despite the alcohol itself, it has a coldness to it. What an interesting discovery.”

Although surprised his comrade is getting so into it, Varka manages a serious nod. He’s totally following, his drunkenly disobedient eyes falling to Flins’s rosy lips only a few times, and only to better grasp the meaning of his words. Because his ears are buzzing. No other reason.

Besides, Flins and his earnest look have stripped him of any coherent thought, not that he had many before. He’s never seen the aloof, mysterious Lightkeeper wear such openness on his face, like Varka had shared his darkest, deepest secrets with him and not a simple glass of Liyuean brew. His tone, too, sounds intimate, like a lover’s. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

Later, Varka would surely blame such foolish thoughts on his worrying levels of drunkenness. Now, however, Flins’s voice stirs something hidden and deep inside him, something that twists the contents of his abdomen into a whirl of rebellious Anemo. He feels his lips curve into a wide grin, and at least has the wherewithal of covering up whatever dumb shape his face has morphed into with a boisterous laugh, so loud the few other patrons still in the Flagship turn towards the noise. He earns a few well-deserved stink-eyes.

“My friend! No need to thank me, come on! I’m simply glad you’re enjoying yourself too.” Here. Nice and friendly and neutral. He’s acing this diplomacy thing, Lord Barbatos must be proud of him.

“Of course I’m enjoying myself. Sharing your company, Grand Master Varka, how could I not?”

“Hmff,” He coughs. “Well,” He tries again. “That’s right. Hey, didn’t I order a beer? Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Demyan must have forgotten about it.”

A seasoned strategist must know when to retreat and reconvene, too.

A simple one-day expedition to monitor suspicious Fatui activity on the outskirts of Paha isle would be well below the Grand Master’s pay grade, even still recovering from the injuries sustained in battle as Varka is. It’s standard retcon work, and so unexciting that no one even volunteered when he brought it up, so Varka had to end up drawing the names of three unfortunate Knights amongst the few who weren’t busy with patrol duty; and besides, it’ll end up being yet another empty trip to an abandoned Fatui camp. Which is why he settled on joining the three unenthusiastic Knights and, well, he’s the Grand Master. It’s not like anyone can order him not to go.

Of course, the expedition is unsuccessful. They find all the signs of a small camp on a low cliff overlooking the rose hues of the Maroon Basin beach. The remains of a quickly put-out fire, clumsily covered-up traces where the tents were set up, the verdant grass appearing decidedly less verdant where repeatedly stepped on by a bunch of hurried Fatui recruits.

As Varka looks out towards the wild waves crashing on sand the color of faded Red Kuuvhaki and what appears to be a rainstorm gathering at the edges of the horizon, one of the Knights approaches him to report that every trace hints at that particular Fatui contingent moving back towards the mainland, perhaps returning to the Kuuvhaki Experimental Design Bureau.

The trip has taken them long enough that the overcast sky has started to darken, and while Varka would insist they try and follow the Fatui’s path, he can tell the recruits accompanying him would prefer to get back to their own camp before the night fully settles over Nod-Krai. He can also tell they’re not saying anything because he’s the one accompanying them, which is flattering and, also, pointless. He’d let them go if they asked, he’s not a despot. They’re Knights of Favonius, not disposable Fatui goons, forced to obey each and every deranged order coming from their superiors.

Besides, he understands the aversion. The Fatui aren’t his favorite group to investigate either: they’re always up to some creatively suspicious activity, they’re hostile enough to fight viciously whenever found out, and advanced enough they’re always pulling some barely tested dangerous weapon out of their asses. He’s been on the receiving end of enough Electro-powered hammer strikes by their Skirmishers to know.

But he’s curious, and those days spent trying to doze the injuries away have made him restless and eager for a small win such a breakthrough in that investigation would be. He’s not cruel, though, so he dismisses the three Knights to do a bit of exploring of his own, assuring them he’d be back by the next day’s noon. Three equally wary looks meet his confident smile, but, again, he’s the one giving the orders. So he watches them march away with renewed energy in their steps, and starts following the Fatui’s path on his own. Maybe a useless journey will tire him enough to quiet his aimless drive so that he can make himself useful again.

Regretfully, his determination turns out to be short-lived. The gathering storm fully collects right over the spot overlooking the Maroon Basin he’s still busy investigating, and before Varka can even set up his tent showers of not-quite-rain but not-quite-snow fall upon him and everything surrounding him. The wind rises and starts howling, and in a few very damp and cold minutes, in which the freezing rainwater fills each and every gap in his clothes and armor, Varka finds himself not only completely drenched, but also wet in the most uncomfortable of ways. Defeated, he determines he must find shelter.

Except the rain is pouring thicker at every step he takes, and the visibility is so low he can’t even make what’s in front of him, he’s even lost perception of the pinks and reds of the beach, everything blended into murky grey. He doesn’t know the terrain very well, in this part of Nod-Krai, and the last thing he needs is to casually stumble into the Kuuvhaki Experimental Design Bureau by complete accident.

There’s only one safe place he knows nearby, actually. So he carefully descends the cliff and walks onto the sodden beach until the brightness of the Lighthouse breaks through the dark curtains of unyielding rain. The now visible objective reinvigorates his spirits enough that he manages to wield both his claymores to… help him get through the stretch of sea separating the coral-tinted beach from the Final Night Cemetery without succumbing to the vicious waves and showing up at Flins’s door trailing mud, rain, sand, and saltwater too. Just mud and rain are enough, he thinks.

The walk up to the Lighthouse is, admittedly, harder than expected.

The wind is still howling in his face, and the ceaseless rain is somehow colder, here, closer to melting ice than just water, so if he leans on his claymores a bit more than necessary, at least no one’s there to watch the Knight of Boreas admit defeat to a storm, of all things.

Well, no one except the Cemetery’s spirits. Varka makes sure to keep a safe distance from the bright silhouettes, and he also hopes they don’t go and ruin his image to Flins, telling him how he kept aggressively sneezing as the unrelenting ice-rain found a way inside his nostrils — and why is it going upwards, is the weather not subjected to gravity in Nod-Krai — or how he jumped a few times because something moved in the corner of his eye. The Cemetery is positively gloomy, and the horrible weather isn’t doing the sinister place any favors.

Finally, he gets to the Lighthouse’s entrance. He settles one claymore back in its sheath, keeps a tight grip on the other out of caution and not because he’s still kind of catching his breath and wants to keep leaning on it, and raises a hand to knock on the cold metal just to find the Lighthouse door already open.

“Hello? I’m coming in! Flins, my friend, are you there?” He calls as he walks in, closing the door behind him with the heel of one foot.

The breath he lets out is equally tired and relieved: that storm was a truly admirable foe. Let it be known that the Knight of Boreas fought bravely before retreating.

Silence and darkness welcome him as he steps inside the Lighthouse. Dust and humidity permeate the cold air, like the windows haven’t been opened in a while — and why would they be, with the raging storm outside?

He shrugs the growing uneasiness, surely a byproduct of his gleeful stroll through the cemetery, and calls out again, “Sorry for intruding without notice! The storm caught me by surprise. It’s me, Varka, by the way. Is anyone here?”

Warily, he walks towards the faint light coming from deeper inside Flins’s house. Perhaps, despite the hostile weather, the Lightkeeper has left already.

Varka figures Flins probably won’t mind him making camp at his house for a couple of hours, just until the storm quiets down enough to allow his return to the Favonius Keep, and stumbles through the dark rooms of the Lighthouse until his vision adjusts to the absence of light.

He stops in a wide room, right in front of what he figures must be a large wooden table — must be some sort of kitchen, perhaps, or a dining room. He’s been inside the Lighthouse once before, but the owner’s courteous manners had stopped him from actually making himself cozy inside the still mysterious structure, letting him in only insofar as to allow him to collect the supplies he’d asked for, and politely ushering him outside after. Not like Varka wanted a house tour, but still. He’s a curious guy, he can’t help it.

Now, his priority lies in shrugging off all those uncomfortably damp pieces of clothing sticking to his skin, mechanically unclipping the armor from all the places it’s digging into his over-exerted body and letting it drop on the floor.

His hands work quickly and with the practiced, efficient system of a soldier used to dress quickly in a cramped-up camp to be ready to march by dawn: freed from gloves and metal knee-pads, he’s laid his overcoat on the table and is tasking himself with unfastening the leather straps on his left thigh when the faint blueish light coming from somewhere deeper inside the Lighthouse suddenly gives way to complete, utter darkness.

There isn’t any time to swiftly react and prepare himself to any sort of danger coming his way, because a familiar voice reaches him, impossibly close, “Grand Master Varka, what a pleasant surprise.”

Varka startles, then, and jumps up from his half-crouched down position. In a very brave, knightly way, of course. His racing heart slows easily, though, and the slight feeling of uneasiness, like his body is telling him there’s danger lurking in the dark, settles down as soon as he recognizes Flins’s soft chuckle.

When Varka turns around, he finds the Lightkeeper’s shadowed figure only a few steps from him, golden eyes almost shining in the dark.

He’s got to stop doing that, really. One day he’ll make such a fool out of Varka he won’t be able to show his face in public anymore — and it’s not like it’s easy to embarrass Varka, who’s wandered the streets of Mondstadt after nights spent at the Angel’s Share so often he’s been found sleeping the hangover away on the stairs leading up to the Cathedral more than once. By Barbatos himself, a few memorable times — although the Archon, nursing his same intoxication, had ended up giggling at his half-asleep form and collapsing right on top of him. Varka, of course, hadn’t dared move, lest he be accused of blasphemy. Call him a drunk, but never impious.

Anyway. Startling every time Flins appears out of nowhere is a bit more disgraceful, he thinks.

The shame is quickly forgotten, though. He’s suddenly very glad Flins is actually at home, so that he’s not found out by him in the morning after breaking into the Lighthouse and rummaging through his things like some creep.

“Haha! You almost gave me a scare, my friend!” His lips curve into a wide smile, aimed at Flins’s general direction. Varka can’t quite see him in the dark, not now that he shunned the cold light coming from his lantern. “Didn’t you hear me come in? I apologize for intruding again, as you can see I was…” He gestures wildly with one hand. “Caught by the storm. Horrible weather outside, really.”

“That, I noticed,” Flins chuckles, again. “And I apologize for catching you by surprise, too. I imagine you must have walked through the storm for a while. Is there anything you’re in need of? I’ll be happy to accommodate you, there’s no need to be shy amongst…” A beat. Something Varka can’t quite discern crosses the space between them. “Friends.”

“Nah, nothing else I need aside from a bit of shelter, if you’re willing to let me intrude just until the storm lets up. I’ll be out of your hair before you know it, I promise.”

“But of course, Grand Master. It would be outstandingly cruel for me to refuse.” Not that Varka thought Flins would throw him back into the pouring rain, but it’s nice to have confirmation he’s not spending a night freezing his ass off in the awful Nod-Krai weather. “However, I’m afraid I’ll have to leave on patrol as soon as it gets fully dark outside, so I won’t be able to offer any company for the night.” Flins sounds so earnestly apologetic, which makes Varka pause. Surely the double meaning in those words wasn’t intended, and lost on Flins altogether. The rainwater must have found its way into his brain from his ears or something, for Varka’s imagination to run this wild and disrespectful. For Barbatos’s sake, the guy is doing him a huge favor!

Completely oblivious to Varka’s inner self-admonishments, Flins continues, “You’re free to stay here however long you fancy. Let me show you to your quarters for tonight.”

Cold light bathes Flins’s form, then, and illuminates the space surrounding him and Varka, who manages to look around the room with barely hidden nosiness: he takes in the table holding the many discarded pieces of clothing and armor he’d shed just minutes before, the unlit fireplace in one corner, a wooden structure of empty shelves and what appears to be a cupboard set right next to a stone-carved stove. By the looks of it, all quite unused.

He doesn’t get much time to snoop, though: Flins is already walking towards the dark corridor, taking the blueish shine of his lantern with him. Varka promptly follows.

“Thank you, really,” He tells the Lightkeeper, figures he ought to show at least a bit of gratitude before shamelessly sticking his nose in the other’s affairs. “I don’t want to intrude, though. I’m serious! If you don’t want me here, I won’t take it personally. What’s a tiny rainfall gonna do to the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius?”

“Nonsense. Pretend this is your own house, if it can help your unease,” Flins doesn’t turn around, stopping in front of a wooden door and pushing it open gently with his free hand. He takes one step in, then finally his bright eyes turn to Varka again. “You’re free to stay here.”

Varka walks in after Flins. He looks around the room quickly, taking in the barren walls and essential furnishing.

There’s one bed pushed against the wall, an empty washbasin in a corner, and a small table right under the window on the wall opposite the bed. Nothing special, but it’ll do. Varka’s a soldier, he’s slept in worse places.

“A real bed? My, what a luxury! It’s perfect— thank you, again.”

“You are very welcome,” Flins replies, easily. He walks to the table near the window and, for a quiet moment, he simply looks out, silent and eerily unmoving. Outside, the storm still rages on: on a slightly less rainy night, Varka imagines he’d be able to see the faint glow of the wandering fireflies shine light on the cemetery road, or perhaps the flowers shining bright under the pale moonlight.

Bathed only by the cold light of his lantern, as Flins slowly turns towards him Varka can’t help but notice a strange intensity to the placid set of his features, something unknown lighting the yellow pools of his eyes from within. He can’t quite tell if his eyes actually, genuinely glow brighter, the yellow just a bit more intense, that pupil-less iris just a bit wider. But it’s just a moment, and Varka figures it must be a trick of the light.

He shrugs the uneasiness off, and starts unbuttoning his damp shirt, ready to call it a night. He’s so used to sharing his quarters with other soldiers that the thought he should have perhaps waited for Flins to leave him before taking off his clothes completely doesn’t even cross his mind, not until he notices Flins’s intense gaze still on him. The movement of his hands stops, as if caught doing something scandalous. Varka himself freezes. Great, now he’s coming off as a beggar and some sort of creep, too.

“Ah,” He says, “Sorry. I’m still all wet, y’know? I wouldn’t want to ruin your sheets.”

“Of course.” Comes Flins’s perfectly courteous reply. If he’s uncomfortable, he doesn’t show it. “Please, do not mind me at all. I’ll just leave you with some light in case you should need it for the night.” Flins’s gaze stays on him as he picks up the unlit lantern on the windowsill. He holds a lantern in each hand, now, which looks kind of silly. “But I insist, do not worry about my sheets. I wouldn’t hold any resentment towards you for ruining them.”

“Ha! Haha,” Varka laughs, then coughs. His face is surely doing something awkward, but he’s spared the revelation as the light dims again, courtesy of Flins reaching inside his own lantern with the unlit wick. Fire catches. Somehow, Flins’s gloves don’t burn at all. Varka’s eyes follow Flins’s careful movements as he deposits the wick inside the second lamp. “No, I wouldn’t want that. You’re being so kind to me already.”

“Pity,” Flins remarks, with a quiet sigh. “Regretfully, I have to take my leave. A storm, albeit quite a violent one, surely won’t stop the Wild Hunt. Please, feel free to help yourself to anything you might need. And have a good night.”

“Ah,” Is the brilliant reply Varka manages to come up with. He nods, then, and offers Flins a half-smile. “Thank you. Good luck?”

Already outside the door, the shadows fully engulf Flins’s lithe figure. His tight-lipped smile turns his bright eyes into two half-crescents, still slightly glowing in the dark. Another step into the corridor and Flins fully disappears, only the echo of his quiet voice remains, “Sleep well, Grand Master.”

Varka does sleep well. Having shed most of his clothes, he doesn’t even wake up uncomfortably damp and even more uncomfortably stiff — at his age, he can only dream of sleeping the humidity away: he’s started to feel it deep in his bones years ago, before the Knights even set foot in Nod-Krai. The heavy covers have kept him insulated and sufficiently warm despite sleeping only in his undergarments.

By the sound of it, the storm has finally ceased.

Varka looks outside for confirmation and, despite the gloomy aura apparently native to the place, it seems the heavy rainclouds have completely dissipated over the Cemetery’s perpetual night. He can’t tell what time it is, but the complete silence in the Lighthouse suggests Flins probably hasn’t returned from his patrol yet. Varka figures it must be early enough for the sun to be making its way over the horizon everywhere else in Nod-Krai: years of military training have turned him into an extremely early riser, so he’s not surprised he managed to wake before Flins’s return.

Pleasantly rested and meaning to really get out of Flins’s hair before the Lightkeeper gets back from his monster-hunting, civilians-protecting duties, he quickly gets back into his (thankfully dry) pants and slips his shirt on before making his way to the kitchen, where he left the rest of his clothes.

He should just get his things and go. He’s bothered Flins enough, and really doesn’t want to impose on the Lightkeeper, taking advantage of the other’s extreme politeness to loiter where he’s not welcome.

It’s just— his stomach picks the moment he walks into the dimly lit kitchen to fill the silence with an aggressive rumble, and Varka is suddenly reminded he hasn’t eaten since the day before. And it would be nice, an easy gesture of gratitude, to welcome Flins back with some sort of breakfast, wouldn’t it? At the time it seems like a brilliant idea, like he’s killing two birds with one stone.

That’s how Flins finds him sitting at his table, all his discarded clothes piled on one chair, and attempting to munch away the last bite of a piece of dried meat he’d picked from one dusty cabinet. Kind of rude to start without the owner of the house he’s staying in, but the Archons (and hopefully Flins too) will forgive his poor manners: he was starving! He really tried. Besides, he set the table and all. The assortment of food displayed in front of him is a little sad, but that’s hardly his fault. Flint is really in need of a shopping trip in Nasha Town.

“Good morning!” He swallows, grins wide at Flins’s figure still looming in the doorway. If he’s surprised Varka is still in the Lighthouse, no annoyance shows on his elegant features. “How was work?”

“Sir Varka, good morning to you as well. It was quite an uneventful night, in truth. I’m sure the Wild Hunt was still as belligerent as ever, although I encountered only a few corrupted specimens… Unfortunately, the weather’s low visibility made it quite difficult to follow signs of their movements and track them down.”

“Sounds frustrating, I can relate,” Varka nods. He gestures for Flins to come closer and sit at the table. The movement of his hand encompasses the arrangement of admittedly not that enticing food. “Would’ve been better to stay here and rest, don’t you think?”

Flins takes one step closer.

“You would have made better company, I agree. However, a Lightkeeper’s duty is—” Abruptly, he cuts himself off. Those unreadable golden eyes flick between Varka’s mouth, his still-raised open hand and the spread on the table. A pause, laced with something heavy Varka can’t quite put his finger on. Then Flins’s voice breaks the sudden tense silence, void of all the levity it had before. “Grand Master, is that food from my pantry?”

“Oh! Yeah,” Varka replies, reaching for another dried meat… and aborting the movement midway. It occurs to him, then, that Flins may not have expected him to take such liberties as a guest in his house; he didn’t even consider that he could come across as ill-mannered. Hot shame floods through him, surely showing on his face and ears. “Sweet Barbatos, this is so rude of me! I’m sorry I helped myself, I should have waited for you— I made enough for two, though! Well, I tried to do the best I could, actually— no offense, but your reserves looked like they hadn’t been touched in a while…”

Embarrassed, he looks away. He then looks back at Flins, forcing himself to not shy away from the Lightkeeper’s intense gaze. For perhaps the first time since Varka met Flins, the man looks… speechless. Varka wonders if he’s just looking for the most graceful way to tell him to go fuck himself.

In the tense silence, he begs Barbatos to give him the strength to not succumb to the embarrassment. In his mind, a certain bard’s melodic trill of a laugh echoes with amusement. Barbatos might not be of any help, in these circumstances.

“Uh, I figured it would be a nice gesture to welcome you back with breakfast, since I haven’t left yet and all. Even if I kinda started without you,” He tries, again. A hand scratching the back of his head, he lets his lips curve in an apologetic smile. “I’m getting some weird vibes, though. Listen, is this okay? If I crossed a boundary I apologize.”

“Grand Master…” Flins breathes out, looking at him through half-lidded eyes. He doesn’t look mad at all. So why the weird reaction? “It is perfectly alright, if by your own choosing.”

“Oh. Oh! Man, it was no problem, really! I’m not that awful a cook, I promise,” Varka says with a laugh.

Flins takes another step towards him. He still seems hesitant, for whatever reason. “You’re certain about this?”

That he doesn’t suck in the kitchen? What kind of question! Does Flins not trust him at all? “Of course,” He replies with renewed enthusiasm. His hand finally reaches for another strip of dried meat, and then gestures, dried meat flopping about and all, for Flins to take a seat opposite him. “Please, indulge me. I made this for you too, y’know?”

“I prefer not to consume human food.” Flins sits, placing his lantern on the table. Still munching away at the piece of dried meat, Varka can’t help but feel a little self-conscious as Flins looks at him with a careful, considering gaze. He hopes the surprise doesn’t show on his face: not at Flins’s revelation — which he’d figured out by then, to be honest; one can refuse food offerings so many times before some sort of suspicion arises — but at his willingness to openly share without resorting to elegant words and turn of phrases to hide and obfuscate. To be allowed openness from the enigmatic Lightkeeper is… unexpected. Varka chews his dried meat and considers this.

After a few silent seconds, Flins adds, “I apologize. I understand your intentions were for us to share a meal, and I truly hold the deepest appreciation towards your efforts, Grand Master. I find it regrettable, but I believe you deserve to know this about me by now. I have no stomach for human food. I sincerely apologize if this might disappoint you.”

“Haha, no, no! No problem at all, come on. We’re friends by now, aren’t we? I’m not forcing you to eat anything you don’t want to. Actually,” He shrugs. He’s not gonna make a big deal out of it, if Flins doesn’t want to. “Works perfectly as far as it concerns me, I’m not mad. More for me! Sweet Barbatos, I’ve been starving since last night. Don’t mind if I dig in!”

“Please,” Flins encourages him, golden eyes still burning with barely hidden intensity.

Varka has already dismissed the earlier apprehension, any and all reluctance swiftly set aside as he reaches for a stale-looking biscuit. He drops it in his tea, hoping the warm water will improve the taste and consistency. He remarks, “Now I get why all your cupboards were almost empty. You have no use for food, right?”

“I do not,” Flins reveals, a slight smile pulling at his lips. “I can obtain sustenance from human food, however it is a method I do not particularly enjoy. I have other ways of feeding. I do keep the food around in the case of emergencies… or situations such as this one.”

“Ah, I should’ve brought the supplies with me instead of leaving everything to the Knights. No offense, these biscuits kind of taste like cardboard.”

“None taken, dear Grand Master. I agree with you completely.” A pause, as Flins simply looks at him with that inscrutable, heavy-lidded gaze of his. “May I call you Varka?”

“Of course!” Varka agrees, inexplicably pleased by the unexpected request. He would have insisted on it himself, honestly, if Flins didn’t seem awfully attached to his impeccable manners. “You know I have a second name? It’s quite uncommon in Mondstadt, and also… no one cares about it, really.” He figures Flins must care. He’s sure he’s read somewhere that Fae are big on names like that. He tells him what it is, then, and to Flins’s utter silence, he adds, “It’s also kind of a funny story. My parents, uh. Hadn’t agreed on a name by the time I was born, and my father was away on an expedition during that time. Another Knight of Favonius, you know. Got stationed on Dragonspine, too — quite an unlucky fellow, I’ll tell you that! He came home two months later and found my mother had already given birth and asked Lord Barbatos to pick a name — meaning she threw pieces of paper in the wind and… uh, let the wind choose. You should meet Lord Barbatos, he’s a funny guy. The wind picked two names, in the end, which is what I got.”

“Varka,” Flins breathes out. “My full name is Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.”

“Kyryll,” Varka tries out the foreign syllables, feels their shape on his tongue. Pretty name for an equally pretty… man. Person? Creature? “Sounds nice. Snezhnayan, right?”

“Indeed. You know that by now: my kind hails from Snezhnaya.”

“So…” Varka meets those intense golden embers with his own eyes, searching. “D’you want me to call you Kyryll?” He shrugs. “Figured few people do.”

“Names hold a certain power for my kin,” Flins murmurs, voice low. “I have revealed mine to very few. In public, I would ask you to keep calling me Flins. However, you’re free to use my first name if you so prefer, and if there’s no risk of anyone overhearing.”

“Sweet,” Varka remarks, a grin pulling at his lips. “First name basis.”

“Sweet indeed.” Playfulness slips into Flins’s tone and reflects in the enigmatic curve of his lips, all the heavy seriousness from moments before gone quicker than a flicker of Electro.

Unnamed tension pulls at the space between them, builds up as Flins keeps looking at him from half-lidded eyes. Despite wearing only his pants and half-unbuttoned shirt, sudden warmth fills Varka from the inside. A current of rebellious Electro travels through him. Distinctly south.

He coughs, “Well.” He looks away. “Huh. I should probably hurry up and return to camp. I promised everyone I’d be back by noon.”

“Such a pity, yet I understand your duties. I do wish for our time together to be… less rushed, I suppose.”

“Hah. Yeah. I mean, me too,” Varka manages. Curse the Lightkeeper’s silver tongue, making him more flustered. “And I can’t thank you enough for giving me a place to sleep. Ah, and for the food, too.”

“Trust me, Varka, it was my absolute pleasure,” Flins replies, courteous as ever. “You’re welcome anytime you wish.”

“Haha! Don’t say that, or I’ll take you up on the offer.”

“Please do.” A pleasant smile tugs at Flins’s lips as he replies, yet his words are laced with such serious intensity that it makes Varka pause. What a riddle he is.

Varka shakes his head, slightly, huffing out an amused laugh. “Alright,” He concedes. “Next time, I’ll bring you some Fire Water, though. You like that, don’t you? You don’t just drink it to keep up appearances?”

“My, you’ve seen right through me. I enjoy drinking it, yes.”

“Then it’s settled! Huh. Let me just get my things.” Getting up from his place at the table, Varka walks to the chair where he draped his discarded clothes. He shrugs his coat on, hurriedly fixing the pieces of his armor back in place. Then he puts his boots back on. “Phew, the Knights back at camp aren’t gonna be happy about me disappearing like that.”

“Shall I accompany you? It appears you need protection.”

“Hah! Nah, there’s no need. My fault for worrying them, really.” Finally, he picks up his claymores. The weight is familiar, almost comforting. “Thank you again. I’ll see you?” He doesn’t mean for it to come off as a question.

Flins simply looks at him in silence, that heavy gaze of his like a physical weight. “Certainly, Varka,” He says then, voice low. “We’ll see each other soon.”

They do see each other soon. In fact, Flins starts appearing wherever Varka is more often than before, in that sudden and admittedly unsettling way of his: sometimes Varka will turn around and find the Lightkeeper there, eerily quiet, surrounded by the blue and violet hues of his lantern.

Perhaps Varka should mind, or find the turn of events troublesome, but in truth… he doesn’t. It’s quite simple: he enjoys Flins’s company. He’s enjoyed each and every one of these sudden encounters: the nightly strolls through the silent streets of Nasha Town after having found Flins half-hidden by the long shadows of an unlit alley, the quiet company they shared after he surprised Varka dozing off during one too boring turn of watch duty, the hushed conversation under the moonlight as Varka was making his way back to camp from a trip to Piramida.

He’s stepping out of his tent, in desperate need of a break from the countless reports on the Wild Hunt’s increasing appearances piled on his desk, when he recognizes that alien prickling under his skin he has started to associate with Flins’s presence.

The Favonius Keep is engulfed in silence. Varka suspects he may be the only soul still awake and working this late into the night, aside from the Knights stationed on guard duty.

The quiet unsettles him, used as he is to the buzzing of a busy, active camp; not even the faint sound of some of the Knights peacefully snoring inside their tents manages to ease the strange feeling. Unwilling as he is to disrupt his comrades’ sleep, he turns away from the silence of the main outpost, waking towards the sparse rows of alder trees at the edges of the Keep.

As predicted, blue light shines from somewhere behind him as he takes one step away from the Favonius banner. Then a teasing, familiar voice, “Greetings, Grand Master.”

“Sweet Barbatos,” Varka breathes out. It never stops being kind of weird, the way Flins seems to simply appear out of nowhere. “Haha! I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this. I think you enjoy getting a scare out of me.” He turns around, meeting bright eyes and a tight-lipped, amused smile. “Ah, one day my heart is going to give out. I’ll have you know I’m not that young anymore.”

“My, Varka,” Something crosses over Flins’s elegant features. “I have no desire to send you into an early deathbed. Besides… you’ll find you’re quite on the younger side, if we were to compare our ages.”

“Heh, that makes me feel better, actually.”

“I thought that might elicit a bigger reaction out of you, I have to admit. It appears you’re barely surprised… did you suspect it already?”

“Sure, in a way. You’re not the first person I meet that looks younger than they are. Learned not to judge a book by its cover and all.” Especially when the cover is a pretty young man. One too many slip-ups with the Anemo Archon himself have taught him the advantages of hiding behind a carefully curated appearance. And the utter shame in trying to reprimand one’s own Archon for being too young to drink. He smiles bashfully at the half-surfaced memory, leaning his back against a tree-trunk. “Although, it was easier to keep the company of beings blessed with eternal youth when I myself was younger. At least no one thought me a creep, then.”

“Dear Varka, what fascinating secrets you hide,” Flint remarks, taking a step towards him. “Forgive me, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that a man of your experience could see through my… disguise. May I inquire of these immortals you speak of?”

He shakes his head, it’s not his place to reveal Barbatos’ secrets. “I told you the Anemo Archon and I are close, didn’t I? I wasn’t just bragging.” He winks at Flins, then lets out a breathy laugh. “Haha! My friend, are you surprised I can be mysterious too?”

It then occurs to him that Flins called him young. Curiosity stirs within him. “Anyway, how old are you, exactly?”

There’s some hesitation before Flins replies. Varka begins to think the other is searching for an elegant non-answer, which would be expected of the enigmatic Lightkeeper, by that point. Instead Flins looks away, thoughtful. Then he speaks up, “About 600 years, I’d say. I’m not quite sure, unfortunately: I did spend a somewhat long stretch of time simply… sleeping.”

“Reminds me of someone I know,” Varka remarks. “So you hibernated away for years. Decades? Wow. Was that back when you were still in Snezhnaya?”

“Not quite. My place of rest was here in Nod-Krai, in the Final Night Cemetery.”

“Blending in with the dead? Haha,” Somehow, the picture of Flins simply sleeping the years away in a coffin appears… uncannily fitting. “With your complexion, I can’t fault them for thinking you one of the dead.”

“My dear Varka, your words wound me deeply. Are you suggesting I look like a cadaver?”

“Ahh, not in that way.” He can feel the wide grin splitting his face as he raises both hands, palms open towards Flins. “You are a little pale. If you closed your eyes and lay completely still, I bet it would be hard to judge whether you’re alive or not. Hey, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you asleep.”

Quiet descends upon them, bearing traces of the awkward silences they shared when Flins still posed as human, and Varka would ask the sort of question he couldn’t sweet-talk himself out of. In the strained curve of Flins’s lips, Varka can read the Don’t make me say it as if clearly spoken.

He finds it amusing to keep prodding at the mysterious Fae, “Wait. You don’t sleep, do you? Archons, how did you sleep all those years away, then?”

Flins’s delicate huff of air speaks of unprecedented hesitance. “I do not sleep, no; there are other ways in which I’m able to rest. Not… in this form.”

“This form,” Varka echoes, eyebrows shooting up in bewilderment and barely hidden interest. “My friend,” He murmurs, voice hushed with the awe of revelation. “Is this not how you really look like?”

Flins lets out an uneasy breath. “Varka,” He says, low. “Do you really intend to strip me of all my secrets?”

Varka gives an easy shrug, lips curled in a grin. “Why not? You know about me all there is to know, but I can trade you one if you’d prefer.”

“No need. You’ve told me your name already.” There’s a weight to Flins’s words that Varka can’t quite explain, like a promise whispered in the dark.

No words pass between them for a few quiet seconds that seem to stretch indefinitely, the time and space between us engulfed by the faint shine of Flins’s golden gaze reflecting in his. Varka waits; waits for Flins to either indulge or deny him.

The tiniest huff of air abandons Flins’s lips. “It would be incorrect to say this form doesn’t reflect who I am, yet it isn’t my real form. It is simply the shape most resembling my true self that could pass as human without raising suspicions. It would be… obvious I’m not human if I didn’t put any effort into looking like one of you. My truest form, however… I imagine humans would find it unconventional.”

“Well, what does that mean? What do you look like, when no one’s there?” Varka can’t help but ask, head slightly tilted sideways.

Flint hesitates, again. Then his gaze flickers, quick and unsure, to the violet light emitting from the lamp he holds in one gloved hand.

“Hold on.” All of Varka’s teasing comes to a standstill. He looks at Flins, eyes wide, “The lamp?”

“The flame, to be more specific.”

“The lamp is your true form?”

“As I said, unconventional.” Carefully hidden tension creeps through Flins’s usually mellifluous voice.

“Hey, no, I’m just surprised!” Varka’s quick to cover the unexpected shock with his usual easy-going grin, hopefully dissipating the dense atmosphere. “Wheew, I wasn’t expecting anything like that. Now I understand how you sneak on me so easily! So anytime no one’s there to look, you just chill in lamp form.”

“I…” Flins’s sigh would go completely undetected if they weren’t standing this close. He then admits, a chagrined smile gracing his lips, “Yes.”

“Wow, that’s… something. Wait. Would you show me?”

“My real form?”
It feels like Flins’s golden eyes are burning through him as he elaborates, “I mean, yeah. But not just that. You said this is you trying to look as human as possible. What if you didn’t try? Would you be different?”

“Quite. We’ve fought together, Varka. The limits between my forms stretch out and vanish when I exercise my power, if you’ve noticed.”

“Huh.” Varka remembers blueish light surrounding Flins’s blurry figure, swift and elegant movements shadowed by flames so dark they blended with Flins’s clothes, his flowing hair, the indigo gleam of his polearm. In the heat of battle, he didn’t question the strange display of the Lightkeeper’s power. “Thought that was simply your Electro Vision. So what would that be like? Would you show me?”

“I imagine the confines of my human shape would blend with my true form, were I to drop the pretense to some degree. I must warn you I would look more Fae than human.”

“Ah, do you think I mind?” Varka asks, baffled by Flins’s hesitance. “Do you think that would scare me? My friend, that’s a ridiculous assumption!”

A shadow passes over Flins’s face, features setting into an expression Varka can’t quite decipher. “Next time, then,” He says, tone weighty with intent. A promise. “Next time I’ll show you.”

“Sweet!”

Confined to a strict regimen meant to exert his still-healing body as little as possible, Varka is ecstatic when the Knights of Favonius’ doctor judges his injuries recovered enough to finally clear him for physical exercise. The expedition’s doctor is a knight well into his forties with a gentle but strict disposition; as he bandages Varka’s not quite healed wounds with practiced movements he advises, voice stern, to please not overdo it. Hah. As if. Varka’s a seasoned veteran, after all.

Which is why the late afternoon of that same day finds him wandering the beaches of Lempo Isle, setting up a makeshift training ground with nothing more than a couple of spare dummies and a lot of restless energy to let out of his body.

He’s actually made the journey to the Secret Base with other plans in mind, intent on setting his affairs in order now that he is no longer informally confined to the Favonius outpost. He’d planned to check on the state of the base, wholly abandoned and left unkempt after the last hurried meeting with the ragtag team that came together to fight Rerir, but the inventory list scribbled in his messy scrawl managed to only get a bunch of checks before Varka declared himself unsatisfied with the boring task, and decided he needed to blow off some steam to clear his head instead.

It’s why he keeps training supplies in the base, after all. He never knows when punching something might prove useful.

Simple as they are, the training dummies allow little creativity: there are not enough materials to set up complex training exercises, so he has to forgo his claymores and the use of his Vision. But Varka’s a warrior, a fighter first and foremost — he’s always enjoyed the physicality of battle, the too-real sensations of training his body and pushing it just to the limit. He can make do with just the hard shape of the dummies and his fists.

Besides, training on sand proves to be a worthy exercise in itself. As the leader of an expedition that dragged the Knights of Favonius across the continent, Varka has had ample experience facing battles in uneven, often hostile terrains. Most training drills with the Knights, however, take place in the comfort of the Favonius camp, on level earth and open fields, with clear vision of their surroundings. It doesn’t prepare one to, say, fend off an angered Lawachurl through the icy Dragonspine wilderness, or face against wild Saurians while being chased by volcanic fireballs of pure Pyro.

The way his feet sink into the shifting sand at every step, how he has to accommodate for the unsteady terrain by avoiding any sudden switch of his weight on either of his legs, the barely-there burn in the muscles of his thighs, byproduct of these additional yet necessary efforts; it all makes the exercise more satisfying.

He loses himself in the familiarity of it. Until the hard shape of the dummy collapses under the weight of one of his most forceful blows, and he finds himself staring down at an unusable piece of leather-covered wood lying on the sand. He sighs, wiping the sweat off his brow. Takes one step towards the dune on top of which he’s abandoned his shirt and overcoat.

A prickling sensation under his skin stops Varka in his tracks. This time, he sees the moment Flins simply appears out of thin air, an uncanny merging of blueish wisps of light in the shadow of the setting sun, until the vague shape of flames simply solidifies into Flins’s lantern, and then the body attached to it.

“My friend!” Varka calls, one hand raising in a broad greeting. He grins, teeth showing. “Care for a spar?”

“Hello to you, Grand Master. Have you perhaps mistaken me for one of these poor dummies?” Flint says after a brief lapse. Eyes of molten gold take in Varka’s ruffled state, then narrow in amusement. “A flattering offer, yet I couldn’t presume I’d be a match for the fabled Knight of Boreas himself.”

“Haha, come on! No need to sell yourself short, I’ve seen you fight.”

“Then you must understand my refusal, and spare me the embarrassment.”

“Then I know you’re as skilled as I am, and simply wish to refuse me. I mean, I won’t push if you don’t want to,” Varka shrugs, raking a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “Could be fun, though.”

Flins takes in a very long breath. Then he says, very carefully, “I’ll indulge you. No weapons?”

“Yes! I mean, no. No weapons. No Visions.”

He watches as Flins puts away his polearm and lamp, scrupulously adjusting his gloves and the leather belt at his waist. Varka waits, a thrum of electrified energy buzzing under his skin at the thought of facing a real opponent, and one as cunning and skilled as Flins, at that. Then Flins, rid of weapons but still veiled in too many heavy layers to fight comfortably, steps in front of Varka, nothing more than a few paces separating them. He nods, and it’s on.

They circle each other, assessing. The first move goes to Varka, who launches himself towards Flins with all the strength of his considerably larger body. A quick dodge and a feint have him almost losing his footing in the sand, grinning wildly through another attempt to strike the other with a powerful blow.

It’s exhilarating. Flins is an undoubtedly excellent warrior, but what turns the spar into such an enjoyable duel is the simple fact that the Lightkeeper fights with the precise knowledge of his strengths and weaknesses. He never quite meets Varka head-on. Instead, he sidesteps and dodges in elegant, swift movements, uses Varka’s own moves against him, taking full advantage of his lighter build and greater speed to redirect his momentum and turn Varka’s brute strength toward himself. He’s sly, quick on his feet. He slips through Varka’s fingers like Springvale’s easy breeze.

He’s starting to think Flins will win by tiring him out when he spots an opening. Varka takes it with a well-placed kick, and follows Flins down into the sand, a knee pressed to his chest, his wrists in the tight grip of one hand.

A laugh, earthy and rough, pulls from somewhere deep inside his chest at the sheer exhilaration of a good fight.

Pinned under him, Flins exhales lightly. Despite their activity, he looks perfectly unruffled, still, and elegant as ever. But when the excitement of battle fades and Varka makes himself really look at him, he stills, something altogether different stirring within him.

For lack of better ways to put it, Flins looks wicked. He’s still clearly himself, but slightly different, unmistakably unhuman: the fair alabaster of his skin has turned to an almost translucent, eerie white, while the gold of his irises has been wholly engulfed by flames of the same pale blue shade as the ones shining in his lantern. It dances in his eyes, that uncanny fire, and Varka’s heart does something bizarre in his chest, somersaulting and flipping about like a wild thing. Varka’s dick, also, does something bizarre in his pants. Flins simply looks otherworldly.

“As I predicted, Grand Master, I did share the fate of those unfortunate dummies,” Flins is saying. Varka isn’t quite listening, busy just staring at the man pinned under him with what he can assume is the dumbest expression painted on his face. And trying to will his sudden arousal to go down, may Lord Barbatos grant him strength. “You truly are as mighty as they say. It was a rightfully earned triumph.”

“Huh,” Varka manages.

“Is… something the matter, Varka?” The most delicate of frowns graces Flins’s elegant features. Varka stares, still, as the blue glow in his eyes recedes, irises as bright as the purest Cor Lapis breaking through the flames like the morning’s sun. “I hope I didn’t overstep in any way. You suggested I be more… lax with my appearance and forms.”

“Ah! No, no. I’m sorry, I meant no offense,” Varka croaks, awfully aware of the heat still rising up to his cheeks and ears. There’s likely a flush expanding on his exposed chest too. They’ve both mostly settled, so his sudden agitation can hardly be attributed to their fight, and Varka knows Flins is perceptive enough to take notice of it.

It’s just— the fight itself, and having Flins pinned under him, and that wicked look the Fae gave him with eyes lit by flames, it went all straight to his dick. Varka’s having some awful realizations at an awfully inconvenient time. Not even the thought of Barbatos himself chastising him is proving sufficient to get his dick to just behave.

“Nothing’s wrong! I mean, you look good. Not that you don’t always look good, uh—“ He laughs, awkwardly. “I’m not scared or anything. I promise.” Quite the opposite, in fact.

He can be cool about this, like, gentlemanly. He’s a knight, for Barbatos’ sake. He’s not going to make Flins uncomfortable just because of his dick’s stupid timing. But then Flins moves under him, shifts just enough to lightly grind against his rapidly growing bulge, and Varka tries to act composed, he tries to not react at all. And fails, obviously. His eyes fall shut and he lets out a hiss, fighting the urge to simply grind against Flins’s thigh.

To Flins’s credit, he doesn’t lose one bit of his composure. He makes a low, humming noise, looking at Varka through that indecipherable half-lidded gaze. If he weren’t aware of his brain losing capacity as a consequence of all his blood rushing to his groin, Varka would say the hum was appreciative.

But no, he must be imagining things. And the sudden humiliation at being reminded Flins is right under him, still, pinned by his body, is a cooling enough wake up call to have him get to his feet in a sudden movement, mortified.

“Ah,” He coughs, taking a few steps back. “I should... you know.” And he quickly retreats toward the Secret Base’s entrance. You know, like a coward.

Only that Flins doesn’t take the hint. Varka’s relieved sigh stops somewhere in his throat and threatens to choke him as Flins materializes inside in a flash of blue light.

A few steps separate them, Varka’s back pressed to the door he shut behind himself in his hurry to run away.

“There is nothing to be embarrassed about, really,” Flins says, voice dripping with something so delicately sweet it almost sounds sultry. Again, Varka must be imagining things.

Instead of replying verbally, Varka leans his head back until it hits the surface of the door with a solid thud, eyes falling shut. Were it anybody else, he would easily laugh it off, blaming his sudden excitement to the adrenaline of battle, nothing more than a natural response of his all too human body. He would shrug it off with chagrined mirth, trying to ease the atmosphere with some joke, a light-hearted What’s a boner between friends?

It’s different with Flins on the other side: elegant and composed Flins, with his aristocratic manners and not-quite-human demeanor. Ethereally beautiful Flins, whose eyes burned with wicked flames, who looked at Varka like he would consume him.

“That’s so humiliating.” Eyes still closed, he feels his lips curve in a strained smile. “Listen, it’ll go away. It’s no big deal, really.”

There’s a long pause, then. Flins’s voice comes from somewhere closer, so close Varka feels the movement of air on his skin as Flins says, “It appears quite a big deal to me.”

When Varka opens his eyes, golden irises lock onto sky-colored blue. Flins’s smile is disarming, both teasing and amused as he crowds Varka into the solid surface behind his back. “I believe I could assist you.”

“Wha—” Varka’s questioning gets completely sidetracked by Flins leaning into him, one gloved hand pressed to his chest. Intoxicated by the proximity, Varka feels suddenly powerless. He doesn’t dare to touch, doesn’t dare to even move. He tries to keep his body still, his breath rhythmic and steady, but even that proves a hardship in itself: Flins’s body pressing into his means that every breath carries the Fae’s inebriating scent, deep and smoky, tinted with the distant sweetness of decaying petals, like a flower left abandoned on the humid cemetery ground. It doesn’t help Varka to get rid of his arousal at all.

Clearly, Flins has other plans in mind. His gloved hand trails over Varka’s chest, nimble fingers exploring his scar-ridden skin, caressing the patch of straw colored hair on his chest. A thumb drags over his nipple, drawing a sharp hiss from Varka’s lips.

Flins meets his gaze, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. His eyes flash with blue light, half-lidded and wicked, and then he drops to his knees.

At that point, Varka considers he might be suffering from a case of very vivid, very absurd hallucinations. Perhaps he hasn’t recovered at all from his injuries, and he’s trapped in some sort of dream-like state after having exerted his body over its limits and having passed out. Perhaps he’s died in the battle against Rerir.

But no, the feeling of Flins’s palm against his abdomen, gently caressing his skin and dipping in the ridges of his muscles, tracing the pattern of his scars; it’s all too real. Flins’s hand, now rid of his leather glove, is thin and elegant, slightly cold against Varka’s heated body. His skin is soft and smooth, altogether unmarred by scars or time. He slides long fingers over the trail of coarse hair leading from Varka’s navel to his groin, and presses a cheek to Varka’s now obvious bulge.

Sweet Barbatos. Varka chokes a deep groan, palms open against the surface of the door in a desperate hunt for something to grip. It’s truly an impressive show of self-restraint that he manages not to grind against Flins’s face.

Some… disappointment, perhaps, radiates from Flins’s kneeling figure. The Lightkeeper hums, low and melodic, before unlatching Varka’s pants and undergarments in swift movements, freeing his cock and thighs. He hums again, then, and this time it sounds distinctly appreciative.

Varka’s mind clouds completely with desire, and when his cock stays painfully untouched, he has to bite the inside of his cheek to not push himself towards Flins’s face. Or to not do something pathetically embarrassing, like letting out a whine.

Flins is taking his time. The scrutiny would leave him flustered, if Flins’s attention wasn’t so encompassing, his gaze, still gleaming with pale blue flames, so intense that it succeeded in making him even more horny. So much so that he has the clear thought he would lead an army in battle to be able to push into Flins’s mouth just once. He’s clearly losing it.

Slowly, Flins runs both his hands over Varka’s toned thighs. He leans one cheek against his hip and simply breathes against his skin, turning his face slightly to press an open kiss at the juncture between his hip and thigh, then another just a bit lower.

Varka’s cock bobs pathetically towards his abdomen, still wholly ignored. Then, finally, one of Flins’s hands makes its way to it, painfully slow. A finger traces delicately over the slit, drawing another groan out of Varka.

Flins chuckles, wickedly soft, as he takes Varka in hand, a loose grip over the base that isn’t quite enough. He gives a few easy strokes, tentatively, curiously, like testing out a new toy.

Then Flins’s face draws close enough for his lips to ghost over Varka’s cock; he just breathes over the head for unhurried, painful seconds, as he keeps stroking him slowly. A few moments pass before Varka feels the press of Flins’s lips to the head of his cock in an open-mouthed kiss. This time he can’t help but let out a low moan, head leaning back.

“Holy—” He’s cut off by the feeling of Flins’s smooth, hot tongue on his cock, tracing over the head and down towards the base, where Flins’s grip is still not tight enough, his rhythm just a tad too slow.

Varka pants as he feels Flins’s lips closing over the head of his cock, tongue swirling in a way that sends hot sparks of electricity flowing through his veins. He wants more— he wants Flins to take more of him, he wants to push deeper into his warm mouth, wants to see Flins take all of him, or attempt to. His mind fogs some more with warmth and pleasure, zeroed in on the overwhelming physical sensations.

Abruptly, Flins halts. He simply holds Varka’s cock in his mouth, hand stilled at its base, as Flins raises his gaze to meet Varka’s, golden eyes burning with something heated and dangerous. Like this, with his lips stretched to take Varka’s cock, he still looks unfairly beautiful. Positively sinful, too.

“So polite, Grand Master,” He says, letting Varka’s cock fall out of his mouth and drag against his cheek, over the aquiline curve of his aristocratic nose. “There’s no need to hold back, now.”

He swallows Varka completely, then, taking him deep into his mouth until his nose brushes the trail of blonde hair under his navel, until Varka feels the head of his cock brush the warm back of Flins’s throat. Flins doesn’t react at all. There’s no choking, not even a change in the rhythm of his steady breathing. He simply hums, the vibrations drawing a low groan out of Varka.

Varka feels delirious. Of course Flins has no gag reflex at all. He’s a lamp, for Celestia’s sake.

Said lamp reaches over to grab one of Varka’s hands, he pulls it away from the safe spot against the wooden door where Varka has surely been leaving indentations in the shape of his fingerprints and then places it, with a rough, pressing drag, over the crown of Flins’s head.

Varka’s fingers sink amongst silky-smooth locks and, well. Varka takes the hint.

“Ah,” He doesn’t need any more encouragement to start fucking into Flins’s mouth. The rough grab of his hand on the Lightkeeper’s hair keeps the other man in place as Varka pulls halfway out, slowly, and then pushes back into the white-hot heat of his mouth in one smooth movement, testing the limits of what the Fae is allowing him.

Except that Flins keeps still, and to his non-existent gag reflex’s credit, he doesn’t even swallow or try to adjust against Varka’s intrusion. He simply takes it. Varka fucks into his mouth again, this time rougher, and his cock hits the back of Flins’s throat, again. He groans, “Flins, fuck.”

Flins’s eyes are still locked into his. By the look on his face he’d appear wholly unmoved, if not for the mischievousness lighting up his gaze and a tiny movement of his dark eyebrows, slightly raised in appraisal. And, okay. Varka gets the message.

He picks up the rhythm, less worried about accidentally hurting Flins, now. Fully chasing the building pleasure in his groin, blinding in its intensity.

Varka’s groaning through it, the movements of his hips driving his cock hard and deep into Flins’s mouth. Mind fully clouded by an arousal so intense it threatens to spill over at every push into Flins’s warmth, he doesn’t even stop to consider it may take him embarrassingly little to come. He feels like a youth, crumbling at the first touch of his beloved.

Only that his beloved has offered a warm, perfect mouth to fuck into to Varka’s own liking, a thought that, in itself, would be enough to get Varka embarrassingly hard. The experience itself is… nothing quite compares to it.

The rhythm of his hips stutters, movements fast and erratic now that he’s closer to coming. Despite the haze of pleasure, he has the forethought to try and warn Flins with a half-growled, “Kyryll, I—”

Flins looks up at him, humming softly like Varka isn’t currently fucking his face ruthlessly. His unbroken composure is arousing in itself, but his eyes betray him: as they catch Varka’s clouded gaze they flash with blue flames, dark and wicked and dangerous. And that, of all things, pushes Varka over the edge.

Varka comes with Flins’s name on his lips, hand fisted through his hair and pulling at the dark locks as he spills inside the Fae’s mouth.

Thankful for the wooden door he’s now almost completely leaning onto, Varka pants through a few admittedly embarrassing seconds in which he’s trying to recover his breath, mostly, but also not be so entirely overwhelmed by the experience that he gets hard immediately, again. His body seems to have forgotten its age.

When he’s certain his ability to form coherent speech has returned to him, Varka mutters a low, “Fuck,” as he opens his eyes and fixes them on his companion, still kneeling at his feet. The so-called post-nut clarity has dodged him entirely: Varka wants him again.

It appears that Flins has not only swallowed his release, but he also hasn’t let one drop spill over his mouth or Varka’s cock. It’s incredibly alluring.

Flins also looks wholly unruffled, as if Varka hadn’t touched him at all. His eyes are closed, and the expression on those delicate features is serene, if a little self-satisfied. He looks like a satisfied cat, bathing in the sun’s warmth.

“That was— Sweet Barbatos. I need to lie down,” Varka admits, rough and throaty.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Flins hums. His voice sounds as smooth as ever. Of course he’d be completely unaffected. Which makes Varka pause.

He suddenly remembers himself. “Holy— hold on, I can’t believe I’m such an asshole! Do you need me to—” He trails off, gesturing wildly with one hand. He’s aborted making an explicit jerking-off motion, judging it too crass for Flins’s refined sensibilities, but he hopes the vague gesture sends the message across.

“Not at all, dear Varka.” Flins takes his hand, leading him to the simple cot pushed against the base’s farthest wall. He must read the doubt on Varka’s pathetically transparent expression, because he chuckles at his apparent dismay, before adding, “I desired nothing more than assisting you. Please worry not, Varka: the appetites of my kin are… different. I assure you I am no less satisfied than you are.”

“Alright, good to know.” Varka lets Flins push him onto the cot. “Otherwise I’d be a lousy bed-partner.” He lets out a throaty laugh, almost immediately followed by a yawn. “Seems like you’ve tired me out, though.”

“My, what an honor to claim a victory over you. Please, rest away.”

“I suppose there’s no chance I can convince you to stay, is there?” What kind of question. The man doesn’t even actually sleep!

“I apologize,” Flins says, and he does sound contrite. “As night has fallen, the Wild Hunt surely awaits in the shadows. My duty as a Lightkeeper calls, unfortunately. But I wish you a restful sleep, Varka.”

Much later, it occurs to Varka that they ought to talk about it.

He’s waking up from the best sleep he’s had in ages, limbs stretched as far as the tiny cot allows and sore in all the right places when his mind helpfully supplies the memories from the night before. Varka is suddenly no longer drowsy with sleep. He’s alert and, well, kind of horrified at his lapse of judgment.

Dread settles low in his stomach, an appalling sensation akin to the knowledge of having made a wrong call in battle. And the tantalizing look on Flins’s face in his memories doesn’t help make the mess of his feelings any less confusing.

Feeling unsettled and dreading the thought of simply lying in inaction while steeping with whatever complicated mix of feelings has built up in his chest, Varka resolves to go to Flins and apologize. Like, immediately. Right away.

Well, not actually that immediately. He hurriedly gives himself a rinse and gets dressed. Then he makes the trek to the Final Night Cemetery.

As he pushes Flins’s door open, the pale cluster of clouds lazing about over the Cemetery’s perpetual night has begun to collect and thicken, forewarning heavier rain than the drizzle Varka had half-mindedly walked through to get to the Lighthouse.

It’s so early he’s assuming Flins must be home, sleeping the day away in his lamp form or something, and he would find it rude to suddenly barge into his house, interrupting his well-deserved rest, if he wasn’t itching to resolve the issue. Varka might be a strategist, but when he’s in a state, he can’t help but resort to action.

“Flins, hello! It’s Varka,” He announces himself, loudly, as he makes his way deep into the Lighthouse. “Sorry for coming in so suddenly, I wanted to talk to— Ah, here you are.”

Flins is suddenly right in front of him, elegantly composed as ever. To his credit, he doesn’t look one bit bothered by Varka’s intrusion; if anything, he looks pleased.

“Varka,” Flins says smoothly, “Haven’t I told you you’re always welcome here? Frankly, you may come and go as you please.”

“Ah.” Weird offer, but Varka doesn’t dwell on it. He has an objective, and he’s nothing but straight to the point. “Listen. About yesterday, I— uh. I wanted to apologize.”

A frown graces Flins’s delicate features. He looks adorably puzzled as he asks, “Did you not enjoy it? At the moment it appeared you did.”

“No— of course I did. That’s not… I mean,” He tries again. Clears his throat, “Ahem, it was… inappropriate of me, I crossed a line. Which is why I’m sorry,” His eyes lock onto Flins’s, earnest and rightfully mortified. “It was absolutely unacceptable of me to not restrain myself. I understand you’re not human, some things may come across differently to you, but I can’t help but feel like… I have taken advantage of you, somehow.”

“Taken advantage?” Flins’s confusion, if possible, has deepened. “I admit I’m quite surprised at the notion. I understand it is common amongst human pairs to share sexual intimacy. Are you perhaps… not interested in it?”

“Human… pairs?”

“Indeed. In truth, for pairs that are bound by Fae law there is no agreed-upon approach, especially when the subject in question is a mixed pair. Ah, but I see it was a mistake on my part, for you could scarcely possess knowledge on such things. Some of my kin do not enjoy sexual intimacy at all, others tolerate it if sharing with a human companion, while others do enjoy it as humans do. Yet I thought most humans felt sexual urges. Regardless of our union not having been celebrated by human law, I figured you would prefer a more… human approach. If my assumption was wrong, I sincerely apologize.” Now it’s Flins’s turn to look earnestly contrite. He takes a step towards Varka and adds, “I initiated because you were already aroused.”

On his part, Varka isn’t following at all. To him, Flins’s words aren’t making any sense. Why is he suddenly spewing nonsense on Fae unions and sexual intimacy? How did they get to this lesson on interspecies relationships from Varka trying to apologize about Flins sucking his dick?

“My friend, I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” He admits, feeling lost and without doubt looking like it. “Fae union? I mean, uh. That’s news to me. Like, between us?”

“Yes,” Flins says, slow and careful. “Between us.”

“Ha haa,” His laugh is forced, straining into a somewhat pained wheeze. He still doesn’t know what Flins is talking about. “When did we celebrate that?”

Was he… drunk, perhaps, when that happened? Varka thinks he’d remember some sort of formal celebration or ritual, surely. Flins must be playing a very elaborate joke on him, like the mischievous Fae in those old folk stories he’s heard his comrades share around a fire.

But Flins gives him this look, serious and heavy and shadowed by traces of something he’s never caught on the other’s face, like he’s worried Varka has suddenly lost his mind. Like Varka’s question saddens him.

“You consumed my food. You shared your name with me, and I mine. I held your taste in my mouth. By Fae law, we are now bound.”

“Bound?” Varka echoes, intelligently.

“Indeed.” Flins’s eyes of molten gold feel like a physical weight on him. “Forgive my bluntness, but I sense some confusion on your part. Perhaps you desired a human marriage?”

“Marriage?”

“Varka— Grand Master,” Flins says, and there’s nothing teasing about the way he says his title this time. He sounds serious. “Did you truly have no knowledge of what was happening?”

“I guess I didn’t,” Varka chokes out. “Listen, hold that thought. I need to go figure something out. Give me… until tonight? Is that alright with you?”

“Of course, Grand Master. Take as long as you need.”

“Thank you. And sorry, again. Let’s reconvene later, shall we?”

And Varka takes the coward’s way out. Again.

He finds Albedo alone in his tent, peacefully sketching at the table near his bed. Varka clears his throat with all the solemnity he can muster as he takes the seat opposite him.

“Do you know anything about Fae marriage laws?”

Albedo keeps sketching. “Strange question, Grand Master. Why the sudden interest?”

“No reason.” A pause. “I mean. A friend.”

“You’re a lousy liar, Grand Master.” Although spoken without inflection, Albedo’s words sound like a sigh. “I know some of the stories. To never consume Fae food, for instance, lest one wants to find himself trapped within Fae territory. Some stories claim humans who ate even a bite of Fae food would be bound to a Fae for the duration of their lives, never being allowed to leave the Fae’s realm. Other stories claim the Fae would consume human blood or flesh to fully claim ownership over a person, painting the Fae as cruel, cannibalistic creatures. They would, apparently, feast upon human hearts. Unless they revealed their full name to a human, in which case the human would have full power over them. But you might find better luck asking someone who hails from Snezhnaya, I admit it’s quite difficult to establish what might be truth and what’s nothing more than a folk tale.”

Albedo’s words give much food for Varka’s thoughts, who keeps unusually silent for a few seconds as he mulls them over. Contemplative. Reflecting on all his latest interactions with Flins.

Sharing food: check. Revealing names: also check. Flins hasn’t manifested any interest in eating his flesh or feasting upon his blood yet, but if that includes other bodily fluids then Flins did suck Varka’s brain out through his dick, and has swallowed his load. So also check.

Varka’s starting to feel kinda dizzy. Did he actually, truly, accidentally get married to a 600-year-old Fae, an honest-to-Celestia ancient noble from the days of Snezhnaya past? One with unparalleled dick-sucking skills and the most beautiful golden eyes he’s ever encountered?

“Grand Master.” Albedo is regarding him with a look worthy of some truly dreadful experiment, like Varka imagines he must look at a failed alchemical project. With pity and contempt, which Varka is fully deserving of. “Did you get yourself accidentally married to some Fae?”

“Noo,” Varka answers, offering a bold, cheeky smirk. Not forced at all. “Why would you say that?”

“No reason.”

He makes his way back to Flins, metaphorical tail between his legs and all.

This time he’s spared from breaking into the Lighthouse, at least. It’s easy to spot Flins’s lonesome figure, clad in black and unmoving. Flins appears deep in thought in the faint glow of the tombstone he’s standing in front of.

As Varka hikes up the Cemetery path, he can’t help but think Flins looks distant and untouchable, every bit the unhuman creature of legend he is. It feels blasphemous to even walk up to him, like Varka’s mere mortal presence will break that spell of ethereal contemplation.

He’s not about to have second thoughts just because Flins looks very pretty in the lights, though. Varka clears his throat as he reaches the row of tombstones and sparse glowing flower-beds Flins is standing over, uncaring that he might be bothering the souls of the dead.

Varka has a speech prepared and all, he’s ruminated over what to say for the better part of his trip to the Cemetery, which wasn’t long at all but it was better than nothing. The speech is lacking in an adequate opening and, also, there are some parts he still doesn’t quite know how to articulate in front of Flins without revealing himself as a complete fool. Actually, it’s more like he has the concepts of a speech. Which is why he says nothing at all.

It’s Flins who breaks the silence, smooth voice turned somber. “Good evening, Grand Master. For the sake of clarity, I have reflected upon what transpired between us and… I wish to offer my apologies. It appears I was the one who… how did you put it? Overstepped.”

“Huh,” Varka says, “Wait, what? Why are you even apologizing? You didn’t do anything!”

“Indeed, I didn’t. I simply assumed you would be acquainted with the traditions of my kind. In hindsight, it was a foolish presumption, born of my wishful thinking. I truly am sorry.”

Varka easily shrugs off Flins’s apology, determined not to let the other man flip the script. He’s here on a mission! He had a speech and all! “Hey, none of that. We’re equally to blame for the misunderstanding, as far as I can see it.”

“I’m afraid there’s no way to reverse the effects of being bonded. But I can keep my distance, if it would ease your discomfort.”

“Discomfort?” He questions, head tilted sideways in confusion. Sure, discovering he’s accidentally married a Fae has been a truly unprecedented development. But Flins has never made him uneasy in any way. “It’s not the word I would use, but— oh, before I forget to ask! Would you tell me these effects you speak of?”

“Of course. There’s a certain affinity between bonded pairs, liable to the species of each part of the pair. You might not have taken notice of it, but I have been able to perceive you with better clarity, for lack of other ways to put it. I can reach you more easily,” Varka hums, urging Flins to go on. That would explain how Flins manages to pop up exactly where he is. “Additionally, I find myself unable to lie to you. In legends, my kind is known for not being able to speak false, which is truly more myth than truth. But I cannot lie to you, Varka.”

“Sweet Barbatos.” That’s a lot to mull over. Varka files the information away, “What you said before, did you mean? That you would leave me alone?”

Varka notices the exact moment he puts his foot in his mouth by the solemn look in Flins’s eyes. With some difficulty, Flins says, “I would, if it’s what you wish.”

“Holy shit, no. I do not wish for that at all.” Before he can process it, Varka is stepping towards Flins and closing the distance between them until he can drop on one knee at Flins’s feet.

He takes one of Flins’s hands in both of his and carefully rids him of the heavy leather glove. Varka then lifts the hand to his mouth, lips brushing delicately over Flins’s knuckles. Looking up at Flins, adoring eyes meeting embers of burning gold.

It’s not the grand speech he had planned. It’s a spur-of-the-moment, kind of cliché type of gesture, if he’s honest with himself, but the gloomy acceptance he glimpsed in Flins’s gaze deserved nothing more than a show of his willingness, his burning devotion worthy of Varka’s reputation as the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius. Chivalry isn’t dead, but don’t ask him about the horses.

“I wish to be with you,” He murmurs, pressing another soft kiss to Flins’s alabaster skin. “Sorry for not making it clear.”

A distant sort of amazement colors Flins’s voice. “You… do?”

“Yeah!” He nods, a broad grin pulling at his lips. “I mean, I wouldn’t have gone and married you right away, but I guess it was time for me to settle down, huh?”

“You’re taking it… quite lightly, I must admit. Are you certain you desire this?”

“Haha, what more can I say to convince you? Kyryll, I do want you,” He admits, figuring earnest honesty will do the trick if glamorously romantic gestures won’t. “To be honest, I’ve been infatuated with you for a while, I just didn’t think you reciprocated. The suddenness of all of this surprised me, is all. Actually… I don’t think I regret any of it. Do you?”

“No.” It comes out fast and forceful, as Flins’s hand tightens in his hold. “I do not.”

“Well, then that settles it!” Varka proclaims with a boisterous laugh. He lets Flins pull him to his feet, and welcomes the Fae’s arms around his neck with a hold of his own, one hand on a bony hip, the other slotting at Flins’s nape.

He’s spared more laughing by Flins pulling him down towards his mouth, cold yet soft lips meeting his own. The kiss is light and chaste, nothing more than a promise. Varka misses him as soon as their lips part. He bends down, chasing the feel of Flins’s mouth, his smooth skin.

He’s pressing a trail of feather-light kisses over the curve of Flins’s jaw, when something occurs to him. He stops, lips still pressed to the Fae’s skin.

“Actually,” Varka murmurs, suddenly sheepish, “We should hold a celebration in Mondstadt as well. It’s kind of a big deal, you know… Besides, I figure Barbatos would be upset if I didn’t marry in the Favonius Cathedral. Surely you won’t mind?”

Flins chuckles lightly. “It would be an honor, Varka. I believe you’re deserving of a celebration in your homeland, when you make your triumphant return. I wouldn’t take that from you, of course.”

“Sweet! I’ll send word back home, then. No chance they’d let me get away with eloping in a foreign nation, haha!” Leaning back, he meets Flins’s gaze with his most-winning smile. He can’t help but notice his eyes do glow, after all. “A spring marriage sounds nice to you? We could hold the celebration at night, if you’d like.”

“As long as it is you, dear Varka,” Flins presses the words right against his lips. “I do not have any preference.”