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Lovesick 〖Farewell〗

In which Flins finds it in himself to gracefully bid you adieu (and wishes he didn't). (Lovesick series- Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.)

Flins x Gn!Reader, 18k words.

Everyone, you once again have beloved @hhhecates to thank for beta reading this fic!! Also, a warning: ginger in excess is not good for dogs. You should, in general, always check with a vet before you introduce something new to your dog’s diet. Tldr do not give your dogs ginger. Anyway, you can go read the fic now <333

✦—————————————✦

Part I: Lovesick.

✦—————————————✦

You first meet Flins when you step on him.

Alas, when a quickly descending foot flatly makes contact with a cylindrical object, said object is bound to roll and send the possessor of the aforementioned foot first flying, then crashing roughly to the ground.

This is not an ideal situation during the best of times. Unfortunately you're surely only halfway through the very worst of times, which is why the situation is made altogether far more dire.

There are eight enemies behind you. There isn’t a single weapon on you, because it’s on one of the Wilderness Hunters behind you instead, embedded stupidly in its waist like a third arm. Or. Well.

You doubt even the calmest Ratnik you’ve met could joke her way out of this, let alone you.

“Well,” you rasp. Your throat hurts and there’s a dull ache all along your right side. Getting slammed into a rock generally does that to one. A tree is also a good option if no tall rocks are available. You’re pretty sure the agony in your hand means you’ll never use at least a couple of your fingers ever again. Just a little longer. You clutch your head. Hopefully there’s another Ratnik at the closest Tideseal Stone– you’re not sure you can operate it in your current condition.

Truth be told, you’re not sure you can even make it there.

Your fault for dallying, for not being cautious enough, for letting your newly-engaged patrol partner slip off to celebrate with her fiancée, for not carrying an extra lamp. You never expected so many of the Wild Hunt to lurk along– not when you’d cleared the area out just two days past.

Clever creatures. It was a bigger party then, and they must have hidden themselves away. You wipe away a sliver of drool off your chin– heavens, everything hurts.

Not so far… Tideseal Stone…

You’re not sure if those are your words, your thoughts or your prayers.

You’re also not sure where the lamp you just tripped over went. Curses. You needed that thing. But ah, does it mean a Ratnik–?

No matter. You’ll have plenty of time to mourn them later. You hope.

Taking a step back, you attempt to steady yourself on your feet, but stumble. Expecting to slam into the cool sand beneath, you brace for the impact– but warm hands grab your shoulders instead.

You slump heavily against a tall, warm body and an arm holds you close by the waist, with little to no effort spent. The stranger rests a hand firmly on your hip, fingertips brushing your thighs, keeping you carefully in place.

Through your spinning, hazy gaze, you watch an arm extend from behind you, clad in a dark sleeve, a gloved hand at the end of it. It holds the lamp from before, and crackling energy swallows the monsters before you whole.

✦—————————————✦

Your colleague, Nikita, is the one to bring you home. He’s so incredibly sweet– an immense shame, because you’re pretty sure he’s married.

Recovery took long– you slept several hours a day and then all night first at the Ratnik base in Nasha Town, then in your own home (where you insisted to be moved). Your suspicions of Nikita being married are soon proven correct when he comes to check on you– evidently the man is far older than you thought (you now regret being friendly and informal) and also has a young son, Illuga, that could be anywhere from six to sixteen (you cannot tell children apart.)

The two make for a very sweet sight– Nikita brought along a small basket of food and wine, and little Illuga (how old is this boy?) gently set some flowers in your arms before affixing his father with a stare that plainly said– ‘can we go now?’

You thank them with far more formality than Nikita is used to seeing from you. Clearly he makes a note of this– his smile widens for the slightest moment. (This makes you want to die.) He then tells you he’s soon to become the new Sergeant Major of the nearby Lightkeepers, and you sheepishly congratulate him. (Thank goodness Lempo Isle is conveniently supplied with many very lovely cliffs.)

You very sincerely tell Nikita you hope he becomes the next Starshyna, and he laughs, knowing precisely why you wish it.

“Not to worry,” he amusedly tells you. “There’ll be no shortage of heroes around, even with me posted far away.”

Your face warms. “To be sure!” Why did you say that. You sound like you hail from an old (and poorly written) Fontainian play. There’s a small pause before you remember– “ah– I’m sorry I can’t really offer refreshments in my present state.” ‘Present state?’ What the fuck?

Nikita bites back a laugh. You hope he dies on the job. (You don’t.)

“No worries,” he reassures. “I’ll wait on your porch while you freshen up. A friend will bring over some snacks and drinks– he’s coming over from Speranza with only the finest for you. We asked Katya for your usual.”

“Oh! That’s… really nice of you, Sir.”

He chortles this time, clearly unable to keep it in. “Hey now, I haven’t been promoted yet– but I’ll make you my guest of honour if I ever throw a party, how’s that?”

“Oh, I couldn’t! That should be Illuga!”

Illuga looks at you, spooked at the mention of his name (seriously, how old is this kid?) and huffs as his father musses his hair.

What a mess.

Nikita smiles and tells you the two will be outside. You hear a whiny “can I go now?” right as the door clicks shut behind them.

✦—————————————✦

You don’t know what to wear. You do not wish to set a single foot outside your house– nor do you want to let even a single more foot in.

Deciding to just pull something casual on, you step out, determining to tell your saviour you’re simply too tired for conversation today when you notice who he’s standing with and quickly change your mind.

Now who could that be?

You barely have time for a proper ogle when you’re interrupted.

“Ah, my friend!” Nikita smiles, and you instantly resent your mussed hair and unironed clothes. Oh, you look like the most veritable used tissue next to this– woah. You didn’t think anyone could ever entice you this quick, and yet– but maybe. Just maybe. It’s probably his eyeliner– and oh–

“Friend?” Nikita smiles gently at you, and you grimly conjure up the very cliff you’ll leap off tonight in your mind’s eye. “This is the man I spoke of. His name– you may call him Chudomirovich.”

Chudo-what?

Man, what the hell. Parents nowadays– and you thought Chlamydia was a bad name.

“Hey!” You smile warmly at Chud, then instantly regret it when he gives you a smile and a bow. Who is this man? And is he also your superior? Fuck.

“Hello.” He tips his head and the very gentlest of smiles graces his pretty lips. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance. Please, let us drop all formalities– we are all Ratniki. We are all friends.” When you nod relievedly, his smile broadens. “As such– you ought to call me by my given name, of course. No need for honorifics.”

Your smile wavers. His eyes twinkle.

What was his name? Crap. What was his name? Chumorvich? Chudmivoich?

Yours is surely soon to find itself carved roughly onto a headstone. Argh.

“Of course!” You smile gently, and he beams in return. He’s suddenly not as beautiful to you as he was a second ago. In fact, he’s the ugliest thing you’ve lain your eyes on in a while. His ashen skin? Gross. What is he, a vampire? And the red in his eyes makes them look infected. He should see a doctor. The way he dresses– surely no one needs that many belts and bits and bobs. And his eyes?

You bite back a shudder. Creepy man. You can’t wait for them to leave. You’ll entertain them for some minutes, then make up an excuse–

“Why, my friend.” Chum smiles. “Do invite us inside. Worry not– we come well armed with supplies. It is our intention to spruce up your home, as well as make you a meal. Surely you’ve been deprived of hearty sustenance since your bedrest?”

You deflate. Well. A free clean and good food… surely you can tolerate Chum for a bit longer. You can’t help but give him a relieved smile, which he gently returns. “Of course, Ch– friend! Come inside.”

✦—————————————✦

Nikita leaves early in the evening. He was apparently supposed to leave sooner– you hear him giggling and telling Chum he has to make a quick trip to the greenhouse on the way, although flowers aren’t likely to appease his wife. Chum wishes him luck.

You can’t help but notice that a considerable portion of his time here has been spent in the pursuit of coaxing his name out of your lips. He’s hidden around the house pretending to not hear your calls of um, everyone? You guys? He’s given you a little trinket and leaned closer in as you muttered a quick thanks. By the sea, he even made you dinner– a large one too, so you could have the leftovers tomorrow, although he wasn’t very keen on tasting or having it with you, preferring instead to sip reluctantly at a wine glass. (The dinner was mediocre. You miss the lunch they got from Speranza’s, but alas it is well on its way to the exit.)

Currently, you’re occupied with clearing up the table and doing the dishes. Chum pretends to be very busy with his hundred little belts– you’re sure he’ll chivalrously offer to do the dishes in the hopes that you’ll thank him, but you’re confident you can keep the cliffs for another day.

You’re too busy mulling the cliffs over when you realise you’ve dumped the dishware into your sink before clearing out any scraps first and sigh. You’re about to heft them out when you’re checked by his gentle voice calling your name.

“Allow me,” he chides. “You are yet recovering.”

“It’s alright, friend.” You sigh, and he smiles. “You’re a guest– you’ve cleaned my home and made me food, which is more kindness in one day than all the Lightkeepers together have shown me in my lifetime. Seriously–”

“Your fortitude does you credit, but your body will only suffer if you keep this up.” Chum frowns. “You have traces of abyssal corruption and you know it– yes, they are minute, but present still. Please, rest.”

You laugh. “Chum, corruption is a heavy word for a literal scratch. Most of the damage I took was from being chucked around, which. Ow, but still. I only got a really tiny abyssal scratch– why are you smiling?”

His smile widens. “No reason, dear friend. Pray rest.”

Well, if he insists.

“I’ll be on the couch, then, my uh. Good pal.” You wave, then confusedly pat his shoulder. It’s only when you’re snuggled on the couch, too cozy to move when your eyes widen as you realise–

You forgot to thank him.

You shrug. No matter. You’ll thank him once he’s done doing the– your dishes, you figure. No point in exerting yourself.

Argh. You bury your face in your hands. This sucks. So much. He’s such a nice man, truly, and you don’t even remember his name.

Think, you sternly tell yourself. Think, think. Think. Think…

✦—————————————✦

When you awaken, it is afternoon, and you are in your own bed. You know it is by the quietness outside– Nasha Town is never placid, save for lunchtime.

There’s a note on your bedside table, weighed by a bottle filled with warm water (warm water! Maybe he is handsome after all.) The fireplace is also warm– there’s powdery ash coating and smothering the now nearly dead embers. (He bothered to make sure you were carefully tucked in with a fire in the grate! Forget Nikita. You can make do with Chum.)

Thoroughly charmed and smiling to yourself, you grab the note and amble over to the window, because Chum dear even shut your curtains for you– and only halfway, to still let some light in. You grin at the little carved blunthorn rhino perched upon your mantelpiece. Really, now that you think about it– Chum is an exceptionally good looking man.

Stumbling over the last few steps, then seating yourself on the windowsill, you shove your dishevelled hair out of your eyes and begin to read the note he left you.

Dear friend, it reads.

I hope my note finds you well rested. I write to assure you– you need not worry in the slightest of the state of your hearth, for I have taken the liberty to make a final cursory sweep of it and recondition any out of order appliances. The tap in your bath room leaks no more, and your doors have all been carefully oiled.

The ingredients to your next meal have been already yarkd– all you need do is assemble them and break your fast. I hope you find my preparations satisfactory.

Ah, and as I found you in a slumber too deep to be roused from, I reluctantly bore your spare key upon my person and locked the door (with care) on the way out. It is yet with me. If you wish to retrieve it, you may find me at the offices of the Ratniki.

Yours faithfully,

Chum.

✦—————————————✦

Fuck Chum.

First drawing you in like the little worm he is, then hitting you with ye olde Embarrassment Beam. You didn't know lighthouses had an option for those. Worse, he made you dig through an old dictionary for the word ‘yarkd–’ it apparently means prepared.

So much for his fancy, gentlemanly bullshit– he did some lousy meal prep is all, and the meal he prepped was a dry as hell sandwich.

“And it didn’t even taste that good!” You grab the little rhino carving and glare at it. It glares back. You put it back down.

Argh.

You know you’re being irrational– you know you are. You don’t need the rhino to reproach you too.

Yours faithfully, Chum.

Archons, you heard that in his voice.

How did he find out? Did you sleep-talk? Did you let it slip somehow? You were just so tired– and that’s probably exactly what he wanted.

“Go to hell, Chum,” You hiss, skin still prickly and warm as you drag a coat out of your closet. You can’t exactly leave your key with some stranger– ah no, ‘upon some stranger’s person’ after all. Stupid idiot. You’re going to have to change your locks after this. But first, Chum needs to be thanked.

✦—————————————✦

Chum had better like your thank-you offering.

The flowers are beautiful– bunched up in a redolent little bouquet (albeit the smallest you could find– spite is a powerful force) and yet.

The small, fragrant bouquet– which your new friend would probably call a nosegay– was unexpectedly expensive. Quite a bit more so than its larger, showier (but far less aromatic) cousins. Of course, you weren’t going to embarrass yourself before the beautiful Richeza, so you laughed the price tag off (with tears in your eyes) as you handed her your mora.

You’ve known Chum for just one (1) day and yet he’s already cost you– literally and figuratively.

With your dignity already extinct, you’ve decided to just come clean: you do not know his name. You’ve tried really hard to puzzle it out, but you quit.

You’ll just have to describe him to your fellow Ratniki and hope for the best.

✦—————————————✦

“Flins?” You yell. “His name is Flins?” Saying so, you jerk the bouquet (nosegay, his voice whispers in your mind) up to your shoulder to chuck it out the door of the Lightkeeper base before remembering the price tag and hurriedly bring your arm down.

Maybe you should keep it for yourself– or gift it to Richeza. Or your poor patrol partner who you just accidentally yelled at.

Watching her blink rapidly, you suddenly deflate Argh, your sweet, sensitive friend. Where is her fiancée when you need her? “Oh– sorry, I didn’t mean to–” you start to say, and suddenly see her eyes crinkle as she’s overcome.

“No!” She cries. “I’m sorry! If I hadn’t snuck off that day to celebrate– I’m so sorry!” Saying so, she launches herself into your arms and begins to weep in earnest. You’re very touched– and simultaneously very startled, and so you accidentally jerk your hand up, sending the nosegay (bouquet, bouquet!) limply flying a foot or two away and out the door.

Lovely, you think. I’ve bagged the honour of meeting that gentleman with a wilting bouquet and snot on my clothes.

You shut your eyes with a wince as it arcs to the floor, choosing instead to hug your friend and let bygones be bygones when a soft rustle makes you glance up again.

Chu– Flins stands at the threshold, his towering body casting a looming shadow your way. He seems to have caught his gift just in time. When he sees you still busy with your friend, his eyes widen in a polite apology and he steps outside and away.

Turning your attentions onto your friend, you quickly dry her tears. A few quick quips and haughty reassurances (“hah! Of course I recovered fast, can’t have you canoodling on the job. I’m a well respected third wheel, you know.”) have her quickly laughing again. Once you’ve waved to her and watched her leave with her new temporary squad (and her beloved. Everyone has a wife nowadays, where’s yours?), you turn to face Flins.

Honestly, he’s as pretty as any wife. His eyelashes… no, focus.

He wears a curious expression as he faces you. His aristocratic brows have the faintest arch to them, and there is a smile playing somewhere along the outline of his lips.

He makes for an elegant figure– an arm pulled behind him, the other hand holding the bouquet carefully up to the sun. You see some lightkeepers grin and wink as they walk past behind him, and realise what it looks like.

“Hey.” You plod over with a resigned sigh, and his eyes narrow further. His lashes, you realise, are ombre like his hair, and the sunlight filtering through to his gold eyes makes them look like…

Like wheels of cheese, you sternly tell yourself. You refuse to pine after Mister Chum Flins.

“Hello.” He smiles. “Without preamble– I first wish to return to you your key.”

“Ah, thank you.” That’s nice of him, but who knows what he could have done with it in just a few short hours. To his credit however, he seems like a friend of Nikita’s, which is probably a good sign. But then again, you shouldn’t trust some strange men, no matter how good loo– seeming.

“Secondly,” Chins continues, “I have a small question; albeit it may be a little improper.”

Your own eyes narrow, and not just because of the sun. “Go on.” Yeah, you should change your locks.

Flins bows in thanks. “My thanks. I simply wished to enquire– are you not angry with your friend?”

Huh?

“Er– a bit, I suppose,” you say, nonplussed, then feel a bit embarrassed for thinking he was about to ask you out, as if it wasn’t you who got him the bouquet to begin with. “But she– that’s– she couldn’t have known what was going to happen.” You shrug. “And it wasn’t that bad, either.”

“Indeed.” Flins’ eyebrows raise in amusement. “Not quite that bad– just far worse. I had to bring you to the Lady Moonchanter before returning with your limp body to Nasha Town– and I confess, I did not think you would survive. But perhaps the moon does work miracles.”

HUH?

You blink up at him, startled, and his lips twitch ever so slightly. You would never have noticed it were you not so close, the tip of the bouquet in his hand close enough to brush your collarbone.

And now you’re left feeling worse than before, because as it turns out, not only did he take care of you and fix up your home– he’s apparently also the one that rescued you and took you as far as Hiisi Island, before bringing you back to Nasha Town. And you now owe the young Lady Moonchanter a favour– she’s a mere teenager, burdened more by her duties than even her heavy antlers that are bound to only grow.

And you do not remember either of their names. The poor girl probably used her own blood to heal you, and yet you can’t recall what she was called. Luna? Laura? Moon above and Moon below, you’re the worst sort of scum– well maybe not the worst in Nod Krai, but pretty damn terrible.

All you can do is hang your head and stare at the ground. Any passerby glancing at your defeated form would think you’re getting broken up with, what with your clenched fist and slumped shoulders.

But if nothing else, you refuse to be ungrateful. Setting your jaw, you square your shoulders and look Chum in the eye.

“Sir,” you say. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t quite catch your name when Nikita first mentioned it– and it was rude of me to call you Chum. I really am sorry.” Chum’s– no, Flins’ lips raise into a smile, his lashes lowered with north and good humour, and you feel a little lighter as you continue. “And, honestly, I can’t remember the Lady Moonchanter’s name either. Was it Luna?”

Chum laughs and laughs.

When you head home that day, the sound of it rings in your ear, and you get the feeling that to hear it is a distinction in itself. And when you lie in bed, belly full and warm with the mediocre meal he sent you back with, you turn to the rhino on your mantle and meet its glare.

“Kyryll,” you tell it, and yawn. “His name is Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.”

✦—————————————✦

You like to think Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins really quite likes you. No, not in that immature way– it’s just that he invites you to his home sometimes (you did not expect it to be the Final Night Cemetary) and sometimes he’ll come visit with more mediocre food and even fragrant flowers.

You find out he has a penchant for rocks. Shiny rocks. And bones. You find the former fascinating. The latter left you more than a little befuddled, and then… afraid.

Which leads to you standing on his doorstep one morning. The morning mist is cold, but your spine runs chillier. You should've brought a thicker coat– but what you need more is an answer.

“Mr. Flins.” Your knuckles sharply rap against the door of his crypt of all places. “Mr Flins. Sir.”

There's several still moments, punctuated by a clang, and then rustling. When Flins finally opens the door, he's mussed and without his coat. A dog runs out, whining. What the hell was a dog doing in there? Or even out here?

“Mr Flins–”

“Dear friend.” He gingerly lowers the accusatory finger you've pointed at him with a hand. His palm is as smooth and firm as metal, and his skin is warmer than anything should be on this miserable island. “What brings you here?”

“Mister Flins–”

“You may call me ‘Flins,’ or even simply ‘Kyryll.’”

You narrow your eyes. “I doubt I'll ever offer such fond familiarity to a gravedigger.”

Flins heaves an exasperated exhale. “First you accused me of being a vampire. Then–”

“It makes sense–”

“Now you call me a gravedigger.”

“Mr Flins, you play with bones.”

“I do not– how, pray, does one come up with such misbegotten accusations?”

You narrow your eyes and try to peek past him into his… house, but he slams an arm in the way, looking more irked than you've ever seen him. Or perhaps ‘irked’ is a strong word– just not as calm. He's almost smiling with that eerie face of his, and here in the gloom it truly does not look the slightest bit handsome.

You clench your jaw. “What are you hiding from me?”

“...the bones I was playing with.”

“Where do you get them?”

Flins pinches his nosebridge. “My dear friend, are you truly asking if I ethically source my bones?”

“Yes.”

He huffs. “If you really must know…” he trails off. “Well, you'll not believe me. Why don't you wait a little longer? I am almost certain we will witness a demonstration shortly.”

That's suspicious. Does he want your bones to play with, too? You're suddenly glad you remembered to change the locks.

You sigh. “Sure.” Well, here goes. If nothing else, you know you're strong. This vampire here's not the only one with a vision.

✦—————————————✦

The hours come and go. The ‘demonstration’ does not. Flins dodges all your questions, insistently claiming it will happen presently.

Flins serves you tea. He boils it for a while, seeming to enjoy the aroma wafting around his tomb. It’s only when your longing glances at the tea set become too obvious that he pours you some. It’s piping hot and immensely bitter. You’re too civil to sigh.

“So.” You plop your chin in your palm, elbow braced against his dinner table. “Where’s your defence?”

“My bones are ethically sourced,” he promises. “That is all I can offer at present.”

You sigh. “Okay.”

Scratching your shoulder, you pick up a book to read. It’s Liyuan, and a bit old. You trace the embossed words along the title– Golden-Winged King. The damp has aged the paper faster, making it thin and powdery. When you open it, the spine comes clean off and falls onto your lap. When you look up at Flins in horror, he tells you it ‘tends to do that.’

Once you’ve made yourself still more comfortable, Flins excuses himself away, telling you he needs to urgently write some reports. He vanishes into a separate section of the crypt. Before you can make up your mind about whether or not you ought to follow, he returns with his things and keeps you company.

He writes. You read. He writes. You eat. He writes. You ask him where the bathroom is, and you swear you see his eyes widen for a moment. Is he one of those weirdos that doesn’t like people needing to use his bathroom? You just needed to pee, but by the moon, you’re going to take the fattest–

“The lavatory… Well, this is a crypt.”

You deadpan. “You don’t have a bathroom?”

“Friend,” he protests. “I do. It is simply a tad cold and dark. Allow me to make arrangements before you make use of it.”

Ah. Well. You refuse to be embarrassed. He’s the one that insisted you stay, so if he has to go check if he flushed and maybe air it out a little, that’s on him.

What a weirdo. You bet he didn’t put down the toilet seat either. How odd, to act like a gentleman and yet not really be one?

Flins returns soon and politely points you to the bathroom. You really need to know the whens and the whys of a crypt having functional plumbing. Stepping into the corridor, you see it’s not that bi– ah, there’s a turn. It would appear it is, in fact, that big.

How does all this work? Does he have a septic tank or does he dump everything into the ocean directly? Where does he keep his filters? You don’t think you passed a kitchen on the way here, but the bathroom was quite close.

It’s a bit ominous. Right at a dead end. You glance back down the dimly lit hallway to the base of the L, where the… living room is. Ha. A living room in a tomb. Ha ha ha.

The loo is uneventful. A bit dusty and dry, as though it hasn’t been in use– which isn’t possible, unless he has a second secret loo he plays with his bones in. This is plausible, since there’s a whole other hallway, and possibly even more that you haven’t yet had a chance to snoop through.

Adjusting your clothes, you lower the lid (to teach the ‘gentleman’ some basic bathroom etiquette) and flush. When you try to wash your hands, though, you find that the sink handle won’t budge.

When you finally wrench it open, the faucet makes a horrible gurgle, then spits out no small amount of sludge, before some clear water finally comes into view. You reach over for a bar of soap and your fingers meet dusty, cool marble. What the hell.

Was it so hard to just let you take a piss in his actual loo? What the hell is this?

Well, it’s a good thing lightkeepers carry soap on them, in case… well you’re not sure since you’ve never needed one, but it was in the kit bag HQ gave you, along with some knives, flares, a tinderbox, rope, candy– candy?

“Ooh.”

“Dear guest? What are you doing there?”

You hurriedly shut your bag and run the tap. “Washing my hands.”

Flins does not respond.

✦—————————————✦

More waiting. The dim and gloom swallow time whole. You’re not hungry, nor thirsty (maybe that’s all the ginger cookies and the bitter tea) and much to your surprise, not exactly bored, either.

You notice Flins has a few cabinets strewn around, and when you ask what’s in them, he looks almost pleased as he introduces you to an old coin or a shiny rock, carefully wrapped in strips of plain silk, and encased in various boxes.

Your earlier doubt is quickly transformed into reluctant pity. He clearly really wants to talk about all his shiny rocks, and truth be told, he’s a fine storyteller, as well as being fine in general. He briefly tells you about whatever fancy rock he’s holding, as well as a little anecdote, relating any pertinent stories, or the tale of how he came to acquire it.

It’s cute, and you can’t help but grin a little as he asks about your interests in turn, and smiles at you with gently lowered lashes. He even asks all the right questions, which quickly makes your reluctant pity turn straight to panic.

For a second, the wheels of cheese in his eyesockets– for just a moment–

No. How could you? He listens to your chatter and you fall in love? How silly. Especially when– and your eyes widen as you suddenly remember– you came here to investigate him for gravedigging.

“Er, friend–?”

“I just remembered–” You blink up at him in horror, and he sighs.

“I know. The deferment stretches on.”

Or perhaps not.

There’s the sound of paws skittering across tile as the dog from earlier bumbles into the crypt, a clean bone in its mouth. It spits it out right by Flins’ feet and immediately turns to the trestle table on which there’s nothing but crumbs anymore. Seeing this, the thing starts instantly howling.

“Agh!” You cover your ears as Flins hurries to shush it, patting its head and reaching for a drawer, from which he pulls out more cookies. He tosses them onto a tray in the corner and the dog swallows them all in a single breath, then looks to him for more.

“No more, friend.” Flins glares at it sternly. You’re not sure what to think of Flins addressing both you and the dog the same way. “You’ve had a heavy breakfast. Meat so soon once more will only make you vomit like last time.”

The dog huffs and plops onto the floor.

“Is it yours?” You finally ask.

“No. We have a transactional relationship. She fetches my bones, and sometimes keeps me company while I carve and assemble them.”

“Ah.” There’s a lull in the conversation, before you drily ask, “and where does she get the bones from?”

Flins waves an elegant hand. “The sniffer moles. Her prey. What a beast does in the wild is of no concern to me.”

You huff. “She may be laying waste to your necropolis, Mr Flins.”

He smiles. “No, friend. In fact she quite loves its denizens and is adored in turn. They have witnessed much carnage, and the sight of sprightly life soothes many sore eyes.”

✦—————————————✦

“Flins, we need to start doing better things when we meet. That or we need new bones because there’s only so many animals we can make with these.”

Flins exhales, tilting his head slightly. You wonder why he brings his knuckles to his chin when he never props it on them. He never slouches.

At length, he answers. “True. Our little friend has brought us nothing save for bird sternums and pelvic girdles.”

“And the skulls,” you groan. “Nothing but skulls.”

“My, the skulls… with them, we could make a veritable monstrosity.”

You hum, and start arranging the vertebrae along the humanoid structure’s shoulder (calling it a skeleton feels a bit generous). It now has a chicken head, along with its normal mole head, and also another chicken head. Flins places a fishhead at the tip of its tail. “A chimaera,” he says, gesturing helplessly.

“This is stupid.”

“Please be gentle.”

“This is foolish.”

“That feels harsher, friend.”

At length, he continues, tilting his head slightly towards the floor. "There is the other thing, of course. We could carve jigsaw pieces out of the bones."

This suggestion is so oddly specific that you're instantly certain of it being what he actually does, instead of laying random bones out on his table. That does make a lot more sense, now that you think about it. You appreciate him trying to spare your feelings, but you wish he'd just told you everything at the outset– and actually, you're not sure about his intentions anymore. Because Flins is a bastard, and he fucks with you at every turn. Argh.

It’s not his fault. It’s not his fault. With how much you embarrass yourself, you really ought to learn to bounce back well.

Whatever. You are a mature adult. You know what? You refuse to be embarrassed. How could you have known to properly navigate his hobby in all its... unconventional glory?

And so– "oh!" you exclaim. "Ah, that does make a lot more sense.” Wow, you sounded collected. “Do you have any jigsaws you've put together already?"

Flins’ eyes light up with what clearly isn’t just relief, and in the gloom of the crypt, the effect is welcome. "I most certainly do. Would you like to see them, friend?"

Well. Okay, sure. You nod.

You brace yourself for things of a macabre nature, but everything is surprisingly normal– and even beautiful. All the little jigsaws are stunningly well crafted– little skeletal figurines of monsters and adversaries, in various dynamic poses that must have taken an age to make. When you mention this to Flins, he smiles, and affirms it. Clearly he's very proud of his bone carvings (made with ethically sourced material), so you decide to not judge, especially knowing some of the things you read in your spare time. No one wears hypocrisy well, not even you.

“Ooh,” You murmur as you bend your knees to look at an especially detailed jigsaw of a Frostnight Herra. “This is beautiful, Flins. The pieces are so thin– it doesn’t even look like bone. They look like these little paper jigsaws I saw once– they looked like they had a million pieces.” You turn to him, wide eyed, and he blinks slowly back, looking unreadable for a moment.

Finally, he softly smiles, and a soft puff of breath leaves him as his shoulders relax. You feel the warmth of it brush against your ear as you straighten, and your heart jumps in your chest.

You’re glad to be nearing the end of the displays now. Once you’ve seen the final few, you turn to Flins with a smile.

“Well,” you snort. “I think I’ve affirmed you’re not a grave digger. I also think I’ve spent long enough here– how many hours has it been, do you know? Anyway, I think I should head back.”

Flins looks up from where he’s seated, rapidly blinking. The lamplight catches on his soft lashes, and you try not to stare at them too keenly. “So soon?” he asks. But Flins, you’ve learned, is too well bred to protest. And so he tugs your coat off the rack, and holds it chivalrously out for you.

Although Flins, you find out, isn’t well bred enough to resist wrapping it snugly round you, adjusting the collar gently with his fingers. When he finally pulls away, they brush your jaw, and their warmth lingers all the way home.

✦—————————————✦

“Ever since that day,” you tell Flins between crunches, “I feel like the Lantern Fae has been keeping tabs on me. Not to sound self absorbed, but I feel like I see him on the way home.”

Flins wordlessly places more cookies on your plate. “Truly?”

“Mhm.” Placing aside the cookie for just a moment, you take a sip of your tea. Flins has gotten better at making it– it’s not so bitter anymore, and at the townspeople’s recommendation, he’s even begun adding dried herbs and spices to it on occasion. It’s not always good, but you appreciate him trying– over the months you’ve come to realise he’s not the fondest of tea, and if given the choice, never has any.

The reasonable extrapolation , therefore, is that he continues buying tea for any lightkeepers that may visit.

What you refuse to think too much about, though, is him going out of his way to add all the flavours to his teas that you ever mention liking.

After all, Flins is eccentric. He likes causing mischief, and underneath his distant demeanor is a man made of empathy and pragmatism. Even so, he doesn’t keep many friends– and the ones he keeps, he treats well.

This sucks. You can’t believe you, Nikita and the dog all get the same treatment. It sucks especially when you suspect that over the past several months, you’ve been nursing a tiny sprig of fondness for Mister Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.

“Friend?” Flins prompts, and you blink rapidly at him, broken out of your thoughts. “What plagues you so?”

“What plagues me? Ah.” Crap, what plagues you? A lot plagues you. The thought of walking all the way back and having to remember what you have at home so you can plan what to make for dinner, then to make said dinner, clean the house, take a bath, wake up early and polish your weapon, do your laundry, clock in for work around early afternoon, walk over to Flins’ after bidding your friend home. Like the thought of making the shoemaker a visit before your soles give out, when you’ve been too tired to. Like the scratch along your shoulder that aches and pulses in the night. You try not to think too much about it, because you swear paying it attention makes it throb worse. Case in point.

“Mm?”

“Dinner.” You sigh. “I can’t be arsed to make dinner.”

Flins gives a soft laugh. “Why not take some days off to recuperate? Finding mundane tasks too arduous is an intimation of the body; it needs rest.”

You squirm. “I guess.”

The truth is, you know exactly what tires you– it’s the journey made from here to home. Your patrols take you north of Lempo Isle anyway, and so resisting the urge to pay Flins a visit becomes difficult when your usual boatman comes into view. How are you to turn around and head home when the sight of his face makes you smile so wide it nearly hurts? The journey back always seems like a small price– right up until it has to be paid.

Flins taps his fingers to his knee in a soft, mechanical motion. His eyes do not stray from your face. “Or,” he asks gently, “is it the sojourn here that fatigues you so?”

There’s a Fatui facility pretty close by. You’re confident you can find a guy to shoot you.

“Uh,” you dumbly say, and Flins glances away toward the fireplace, cheek twitching. His thigh tappies grow faster for a few seconds until they suddenly stop.

“My friend, why don’t you allow me to escort you home?”

✦—————————————✦

There’s something in you that just refuses to end things at just a ‘thank you.’

Perhaps it’s for the best, though, because Flins deserves far more for first bringing you home, then making you one of his Mediocre Meals. He was so sweet and gentlemanly (and inordinately affectionate– no, friendly) that you’re pretty sure he’d have tucked you in if you’d allowed.

It was late by the time he left. Knowing as you know now that his home is really quite far, you’d tried to insist he stay the night, but he very politely declined, opting instead to stay at the Flagship before setting off early in the morning.

And so you pick up the bag of gifts you’d tucked away beneath a bush while your favourite boatman (and the only one you know) drags his boat ashore for you. You’d hidden the little gift bag away while on patrol, and much to your delight, the Wild Hunt hasn’t messed with it. Thank goodness.

You’re about to drop your usual fare into the boatman’s palm when a third hand suddenly catches it instead. Jerking back, you shriek, and so does the boatman. Mister Chudomirovich Flins only offers one of his eerie smiles. When he speaks, though, his voice is warm.

“Hello, friend,” he says. “May I escort you home?”

✦—————————————✦

Although Flins is too well bred to shun your gifts (potpourri and reed diffusers, since he seems to enjoy some scents) he puts a firm halt to your apologies. Instead he tells you of your new arrangement, which is simply that of your roles being inverted. Once his patrol comes to a close, he’ll make his way from Paha to Lempo, escort you home, and spend some time with you before concluding his ‘sojourn.’ He does not take your input on this, save for suggesting he simply return home after work, with you doing the same.

Your response is a quick “no.”

The next thing you debate is where he’s to stay while he’s in town. He suggests the Flagship, to which your answer is once again a quick “no.”

“You’re staying at mine or you’re heading home.”

This point is kicked about till you’re breathless from the brisk walk and simultaneous chatter. Man, you swear you have more stamina than this. You’ve known Flins for over two years now, so you’re well aware of his stubborn streak– but you also know his stubbornness is often a bid for propriety. In this day and age though, and particularly in Nasha town, the concept is made moot, or “frankly pretty stupid,” as you tell him, reaching up to scratch an itch on your shoulder.

“There’s no need to waste your money at the Flagship when you could just stay over. Listen, I get it.” You shrug. “It feels a bit like moving in, but we live too far to– to.” Ouch. A sharp pain suddenly rings where you'd scratched, in a single, focused spot. You try not to wince, but it’s too late for pretenses when your feet have come to a sudden stop.

Flins reaches out a hand in alarm, steadying you against his chest as you stumble. For a moment, your nose is full of a dry scent you can’t quite place, before you shift to place your cheek against him instead to breathe better.

“Friend?” Flins asks.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “It’s my shoulder.”

Flins pulls away and frowns. He’s the most expressive you’ve ever seen him. “Friend.” His gaze is icy. “At the site of your abyssal injury?”

“Injury is a strong word,” you reassure. “‘Tis but a scratch.”

Flins does not laugh.

Your happy chatter comes to a quick close. Flins links his arm through yours and drags you straight home, insisting you speak little to conserve your strength, much to your chagrin. You’re fine! You were made woozy for what, three seconds? And yet, upon depositing you on your doorstep, Flins turns elegantly around and makes a beeline for the Lightkeeper’s base.

“Flins!” You yell. Argh. “Pighead! I’m fine!” Jogging after him, you yank on his arm. He blinks as you glower. “Don’t you dare disturb the healers at this hour.”

“The healers are well equipped to function at all hours,” he answers in his usual patient way. “Their occupation demands it.”

“Flins–”

Flins walks away.

✦—————————————✦

In the end, no amount of wheedling is enough to convince Flins. He’s quick to escort a healer straight to your home. As if that weren’t embarrassing enough, he seems to have recited the incident in the worst, most exaggerated way.

“And so you felt faint?”

You shoot Flins a glare over the healer’s shoulder. He’s got your shirt pulled low over your shoulder, which had made Flins politely exit the room until he was summoned back by the healer, in case he needed to receive further instructions for your care. (As though he were my boyfriend, you can’t help but think).

“No, I didn’t. I just felt a bit lightheaded and stumbled.”

“Ergo faintness,” Flins adds. Your glare worsens.

“That’s not a good sign,” the healer mutters. No shit, you think. “How long have you had this scratch?”

It’s Flins’ turn to glare. You shift uncomfortably. “For um. Over two years now, I think?”

Flins soundlessly exhales. The healer purses his lips.

“Well,” he says. “Not a good sign.” (I heard you the first time, you think). “But what’s good is that it’s taken this long for you to feel any effects.”

Oh? There’s a sinking feeling in your chest. The feeling is soon vindicated when the healer goes on to say– “Well… if you had any dreams of seeing your grandkids grow up, you’re gonna have to wake up. But you can dream a bit longer ‘bout your kids.” He stands up and gestures for you to pull up your collar as he continues. “You’ll probably have to deal with this for a long time. abyssal corruption doesn’t leave, and even better– it festers. You might lose a shoulder in your old age, but you’re gonna be fine. Probably.”

“Probably?” you exclaim, and he gives an embarrassed laugh.

“I mean, we don’t really know a lot about this sort of thing. Most people would’ve just died in your place, but you got lucky. Maybe unlucky.” He rubs his face. “Come to the healers if you face more problems. Maybe visit that Moonchanter. But I don’t know how much we can really help if it gets bad, so take care. Your body can only fight it if it has the strength for it. You have to make sure you eat well and rest lots. Plus light exercise while you’re on break.”

“Ah.” You lick your lips. Your throat feels dry all of a sudden. Flins disappears into the hallway. “Well. Thank you, for coming here and– everything.”

He shrugs. “Just my job. I’ll see myself out.” As he turns to leave, he bumps into Flins, who makes his way over to you with a glass of water in hand. Setting it on the table beside you, he turns to escort the healer out. You hear him making hushed inquiries in that soft, polite voice of his, and sigh.

When you reach for your glass, you find it to be warm, and the thought of Flins fumbling with your kettle makes your eyes suddenly sting. He’s always so kind. Really, you think as you slowly sip, you’re quite lucky. You’ve seen the things abyssal corruption can do, and it’s not pretty. You’re lucky, to have friends that care for you, to be expected to live till your midlife, to have Flins bring you warm water when it’s cold. Your fingers tremble a little as you recall the way he held you against him when you stumbled.

When Flins returns to your room to wish you a good night in that gentle voice of his, your heart sinks, because his eyes look like discs of gold.

✦—————————————✦

It takes some time for everything to sink in, for you to adjust to this newness. You find that rest really does drive the impurities back– several hours of sleep result in the scratch looking far less irritated than it was before. Seeing as you’d spent the night worrying and dampening your pillow, this raises your spirits well enough for you to prance over to the kitchen to make yourself a meal.

You’re reminded of Flins’ presence when you find one of his Mediocre Meals waiting for you on your table.

Right.

It’s around lunchtime, which must mean he’s on his way to Paha Isle right now. He left no note this time, which somehow makes your heart sing more, although you’re too frazzled to try to puzzle out why.

Since you’re officially on leave now, you decide instead to get your home in order. You’ll have to buy groceries, too. You loathe laundry, so you should probably start sectioning your clothes– you refuse to do it all in one go. Figure out dinner. Man, feeding yourself is an endless process. You really have to clean your gutters out, too, before the rains get worse and turn to snow.

You’re patting down your furniture for stationary with which to make a list when your lock clicks and your door glides open. Flins steps inside and changes smoothly into your house slippers, as though it were second nature. You blink at him, half confused, half wondering what to clean the windows with, as he greets you and sets your groceries down on the coffee table.

“Have you just arisen?” He asks. “Judging by your eyes, you seem to not have had a restful night.”

“Huh?”

A slight furrow forms between Flins’ eyebrows, so slight you would not have noticed were he not directly in your face. The back of his overwarm hand brushes your forehead, and if he now thinks you have a fever, that’s on him.

Somehow, despite having spent the night over, his clothes are pressed, and smell dry and fresh. They smell like him, and the scent does little to quell your dizziness. Forget corruption– a crush seems to do worse to you.

“Uh,” you say. “What are you doing here?”

Flins blinks. (He’s cute, you think). “Taking your temperature.”

“No, I mean. In my house.”

He wordlessly gestures to your coffee table, and you sigh.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you tell him, frowning. “I’m sorry you had to bother–”

“Apologies,” he interrupts, “but I must ask you to simply thank me hence, and even that only if you wish. If you are in need of my services, I will offer them. I fail to understand why it is expected of me to treat you with the coldness of distant civility, when my assumption was that we were friends.”

“Huh? We are friends!” you splutter. “It just feels like you do a lot for me, and I can’t do enough in return.”

Flins is too well bred to interrupt a second time, but he looks very much as though he’s fighting the hugest eye roll of his life.

“My hope,” he says drily, “is that my silence will enunciate what my words cannot.” Saying so, he tugs you over to a couch, puts your plate in your hands and vanishes into the kitchen. You hear soft clinks before he returns with a glass of water.

“Make your way to Speranza when evening comes,” he tells you. “I have to leave now, but will return for the night– with spare clothes, if you will allow.”

“And a toothbrush,” you automatically add. “But wait– the dog? Not that you should be staying here to begin with–”

“If you desire, I can bring her here. I suspect she grows lonely on the Isle without either of us around. Also, do not worry for the boatman. Do not worry, he has not lost custom- there is yet a person that avails themself of his services.”

All you can do is blankly stare.

Man, you just woke up. You need a second to process– wait, is he seriously–? Moving in, more or less? Common etiquette classifies this as ‘uncivility,’ and yet Mister Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins insists on imposing?

“Flins,” you finally say, overwhelmed. “It’s a scratch.”

Flins pauses, then, true to his word, electing to ignore you, walks over to open the curtains instead.

“These are sordid,” he muses, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. “They will need to be washed.”

“Flins–”

“Your gutters are in need of cleaning as well, if I correctly recall. Well.” Flins shrugs. “Leave to me what you cannot do. Feel free to tackle the rest. I will be late to return– pray head to bed whenever you think it right. You need not wait for me.”

“Because you think I’m crawling into bed with you? Hey! Explain yourself! Where are you going? Hey!”

✦—————————————✦

“You know,” you say, moving your bishop across the board. “You should stay at the lighthouse instead of the crypt.”

“Why so?”

“The crypt scares everyone.”

Flins smiles, but does not move a piece. He simply surveys the board, which means you’re soon going to lose. “The crypt is dry. The lighthouse is blustery, and the spectres often slip inside to gawk.”

You laugh. “Even the ghosts? Seriously?”

Flins blinks, bemused. “Even, you say?”

“Ah.” You wave an embarrassed hand as he checks you. Fuck. “Forget– hey!”

“Pay better attention henceforth.”

“Whatever. I quit.”

“You still have a chance– victory may yet be yours.”

“Victory may be in reach, but I can’t see it, ergo I don’t know where to reach, Sir. I yield.”

Flins grins. He’s so cute. “Alright, then. Once again, I emerge victorious. Now for my prize.” Saying so, he lifts up the little pouch on the table, set in the middle. It clinks. Flins’ smile grows wider the wider he opens it. Looking inside for a long moment, he finally sets the pouch down with a chink.

“What occasion brought these gifts about?” He asks coyly, and you cover your face with your hands.

“Your birthday,” you mumble, and he laughs one of his rare, soft laughs. “I’m sorry, I know I missed last year’s–”

“And the year before.”

You groan, and he laughs again. Gosh, he’s cute as hell, but by now, you’ve gotten quite good at smothering the thought. “The year before, I’d just met you!”

“And the year after, you were in no condition to celebrate,” he reassures. “Do not worry. My jabs are merely in jest.”

Your embarrassment is quickly overcome by exasperation. “Flins. It was a scratch.”

He raises an elegant hand with a shake of his head. Diva. “I will hear no more of you on the subject,” he says. “Ah, but I must ask– how did you come to know of the occasion?”

“Ah, that.” You grin. “You’re a special little boy. The Sergeant Major himself told me. He said he might come by later with cake and wine if he has the time.”

Flins raises an elegant brow. “Here, or?”

“Here,” you confirm. “He said he might bring the kid, too. How old is Illuga anyway? Ten?”

Flins chortles. “I believe he turns sixteen this year.”

“...my bad.”

The rest of the evening is spent investigating your cupboards for more board games. Flins laughs every time you find a piece missing– the miseries of analog board games are the little bits and bobs you end up losing. You’re reduced to crawling around and checking behind the furniture, then beneath and finally in desperation, above. You find nothing.

Although it was he who wanted to play, Flins does not mind. He’s in a very good mood– if you’d known a little bag of coins and gems would make him this happy, you’d have bought a dozen more little pouches, bankruptcy or no. Flins is adorable.

You’ve known him for a little over two years now, although it feels like a lot more. Perhaps it’s because he’s practically made your residence a second home– he has spare clothes and belts and bones lying around. Even a little safe in which to keep his mora. The guest room is now wholly Flins’, which you don’t mind, since you barely receive guests anyway.

It’s nice, having a kinda-sorta roommate. He’s always making himself useful around the house, and he doesn’t disturb you often, since he’s hardly around. Most days, he’ll check in on the lighthouse while he’s out patrolling, and will return to the shoal by night, where you await him. Then you head back together, sometimes stumbling along because of the rain and sludge, sometimes laughing and plucking flowers off the tall, grassy stalks lining your path. Always with linked arms, though.

It started off as a precaution– Flins just didn’t want you stumbling because of an abyssal flare up, is all. What if you were walking by a cliffside? By a wide mole burrow? A thorny bush?

You’d frowned and agreed, and ever since, Flins holds out an arm to you as you step closer. You link yours with his and walk home, kept warm by the proximity. Flins is never cold.

Your home is, though. Shuddering, you reach over to the window to shut it, and spot Flins in its reflection. When your eyes finally focus on his features, made hazy by the moisture stains, you find him looking right into the glass, back at you.

When he speaks, his voice is as soft as you’ve ever heard it. “Is it too cold for your liking?”

Too cold? All of a sudden, you are entirely too warm. For a moment, you’re frozen doing nothing save for staring outside, praying you’ll see Nikita ambling up the path and be broken out of this moment, yet not knowing why you wish it.

“It’s alright,” you force out. “And um. I don’t think Ni– the Sergeant Major’s showing.”

Flins ambles over and places his fingers on the windowsill, right next to yours. If he moved just a bit to the left, his body would be flush against your own. As it were, you feel his warmth through his several layers of clothing, the small gap between you, then lastly your own clothes. Flins is always so warm.

“Although it most certainly is not my place to offer familiarity on the Sergeant Major’s behalf, I doubt he minds your friendly address.”

Huh? Oh, right.

“Oh yeah, probably. But still.” You pause, wondering how to lug the conversation along. “By the way, if he’s really not coming, or showing really late– why don’t we start with dinner?”

Flins’ fingers flex ever so slightly on the windowsill. You berate yourself for staring at them, and his smooth knuckles, and the blue veins trailing across the back of his palm in patterns you’ve never seen before. How odd.

His voice breaks you out of your thoughts. “Ah– truth be told, I lack an appetite today.” He gives you an abashed smile. “You are welcome to start, however– after all, this is your residence.”

“What? No!” You scoff. “Eat without the birthday boy? Come on, I’ve got wines from Mondstadt I’ve been dying to try. Maybe we could do that instead? I just figured we shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach, so maybe a snack first?”

“Ah…”

“Ooh and I also got some really tasty stuff from Speranza’s,” you babble. It’s either that or you ogle at his fingers. “I told them it was for the handsome lightkeeper, so they went all out.” You wink.

“Friend– ahem.” He coughs into an elegantly furled fist, not meeting your eyes. What’s up with him? Ah, does he not like the food you got him? Does he have allergies?

It was something you realised when you stopped by Speranza’s to get him something. Thankfully both you and Flins had some free days, so you had plenty of time to sneak over without him insistently linking arms with you. You’d cheerily walked over to Katya, greeted her and told her you’d wanted– what?

You’d never realised you’d never really seen Flins savor anything before. Sure, the occasional snack– but he usually packs all of his meals, and eats on the job. You like your leisurely breakfast, but Flins… on the weeks that he keeps vigil by night, you naturally eat separately, and you don’t really go out to eat a whole lot otherwise.

And so Katya had looked pleasantly on as you buffered and stepped back, confused. You’d asked her what Flins usually ate when he came by, but she’d told you that his every purchase was with you in mind.

And so you’d told them to just pack whatever they thought tastiest. You suspected Flins was the sort to peruse the more expensive side of the menu, but oh well. The things you do for love.

Presently, you’re employed in blinking up at him from underneath those pretty lashes, and the longer you watch, the more thoughtful he looks, until he finally stalks over to your couch and takes a seat, gesturing for you to do the same.

“Friend,” he says, his expression inscrutable. “I have a secret to tell.”

“Oh, okay.” You take a seat. How exciting! Flins never talks much about himself, so this is quite the treat. “Ooh, is this about a crush?”

Flins pauses. Frowns. “Pardon?”

Ah, right. “Someone you fancy,” you explain, softly snickering, and he looks at you carefully with a smile for just a moment too long. You swallow. You know his smiles mean nothing, but unfair pretty is still unfair pretty. You can hardly be blamed for ogling the prize, especially when you’re still thoughtful enough to resist the gamble.

“No.” Flins laughs his soft laugh. When he inhales, shoulders rising, the last vestiges of a smile still playing amongst his cheeks and lips, you breathe in with him. “No, this secret pertains to my mystery identity, that I have needlessly kept from you for far too long.”

You wait with bated breath. Hold on, is he a vampire after all?

“Friend, I am a lamp.”

When Nikita arrives, he’s met with you blankly shovelling garlicky bread into your mouth as Flins burns and absorbs his meal.

✦—————————————✦

“So. How does this work, exactly. Do you still take baths?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need to eat?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are you like– a god?”

“No.”

“What if you were in lamp form and I chucked you into the sea.”

“...Pray, do not.”

“Huh.” Stumbling, you accidentally step on Flins’ toes. You mutter an apology as he steadies you, an easy reassurance falling off of his lips. “So does all this mud bother you?”

“I suspect that would be a universal annoyance, save for our fair lady over yonder.” Saying so, he nods at Friend, who continues barking at nothing and delightedly sprawling into the mud at intervals. “I suspect a leash is in order.”

“Oh, leave her be. I’ll bathe her once we’re home.”

Flins smiles eerily. “You may try.”

Upon reaching home, you do try. You wish you didn’t.

“Rash promises were made,” you grunt, as she pummels her head into your belly in an attempt to run past. “Bitch. That really is just what you are– hold still.”

Friend howls. Flins only smiles.

“You, Sir,” you pant, “are also a bitch. Help me.”

“No, thank you. Friend prefers you to me.”

“That’s not–” you start, then turn to Friend as she tries to back up to jump over you. “Hey!” you bark. “You’re filthy! And you have a shitty name that you can thank your dad for!”

Flins chuckles, safe beyond the threshold of your tiny (and now very muddy) bathroom. Ignoring Friend’s beseeching gaze over your shoulder, he calls over to you as you wash the mud off of her hind legs and tail. “What does that make you, friend?”

“Me or the dog?” you snap, and watch in the mirror as he bites his lip to keep back a laugh. “The unlucky nanny, obviously!”

“I do not think Friend is quite qualified.”

You glare at Flins darkly in the mirror. He blinks at you, pouty lipped and wide eyed, the very picture of angelic innocence– at least if you ignore the rest of him. You wonder what all he hides away under those clothes of his… wait.

“Hey, Flins,” you call. When he hums in return, you blurt out what you simply could not keep in, steadily keeping your eyes on the dog. Cursed curiosity. Or ‘curst,’ as he would call it. “If you’re a lamp, does–? Do you have, um.”

“Hm?”

Never mind. That is an insane question to ask. “Forget it. Help me dry Friend.”

He tosses you a towel and stands at a distance, politely lacing his fingers together. You glare again, civility almost forgotten.

“What was your question?”

“I said, forget it.”

As soon as you stand, Friend, sensing bathtime to be over, runs out and instantly flings her sopping wet body onto your bed. You deadpan, too tired to fight her anymore. Lethargy has been sapping away at you recently. Just the cold, you tell yourself.

“I’ll just sleep on the couch, then.”

“Take my bed, please. I will–hm?” Flins steps closer, looking at you carefully through his prettily lowered lashes. “My friend, am I mistaken in believing you appear unwell?”

“Really?” Your intention was to sound cheery, but the end result is as though fondant found a voice. “I just haven’t been feeling too well recently. Probably just the cold, or something seasonal.”

The slightest furrow appears between Flins’ brows. “And it never occurred to you to bring this to my notice, or to a healer’s?”

“What are either of you going to do?” You ask, surprising even yourself with the bitterness that laces your words. “Burn the abyss out of me?”

Flins reaches to grab your wrist, but composes himself at the last moment, holding onto the excess fabric of your sleeve instead. When he speaks, his voice wavers the slightest bit, and the temperature in your hallway– your now shared hallway– takes a sudden drop. “My dear– friend? Is it beginning to fester?”

You shrug. You’re unable to meet his eyes when you know you did, in fact, see a healer. And that their honest diagnosis was: who knows. A desperate visit to the poor, sweet Moonchanter could not conjure up a different verdict, and her apology was written plainly in her lowered head and clenched fists.

Flins seems to take notice of your pursed lips and shifting eyes. Tugging you over to your couch in a rare moment of forcefulness, he seats you down, gently still and props a cushion behind to make you more comfortable. Once he’s brought you a glass of warm water, he sits on the adjacent loveseat.

Flins says nothing. He doesn’t even look at you, staring instead at his loosely clasped fingers with downcast eyes. His elbows rest against a knee and a thigh– you’ve never seen him slouch before in all the years you’ve known. You hear Friend’s growls in the next room, and the sound of ripping fabric. This seems to break Flins out of his reverie– he looks up with a heavy sigh, and you can suddenly believe he really is over a thousand years old.

As stupid as it sounds, this was why you couldn’t bear to tell him– or anyone. No friends, no comrades, no acquaintances are aware of what’s wrong with you– and you hardly know either. There’s few signs– muscle spasms, sudden stabbing pains and aches. Sometimes it feels like the pain inches from your shoulder towards your chest, lapping softly at your strength with its soft tongue.

Friend ambles guiltily in the room, with the wobbly walk of a dog that knows it fucked up. The sight of her is so comical, with the feathers and fluff clinging to her whiskers and lashes, and her tongue that’s snaking round her teeth in a desperate attempt to get it out, that you can’t help but smile and walk over to clean her up.

Once she’s all clean, you give Flins an amused glance, but wilt a little at his expression. It’s stony, almost angry. Friend slinks quietly away, which only makes you feel worse. She’s always so cheeky with her father. You don’t think she’s ever feared him in her life.

“So,” you say, getting up from where you and Friend were seated on the floor. When you push yourself up with an arm, Flins’ eyes dart to it and you know he’s taking notice of the fact that it’s the uncontaminated one.

There’s a pause as you seat yourself on the loveseat next to him and shakily bring the glass of water to your lips. It’s warmer than before, and Flins’ glove is damp with steam. You carefully exhale.

“Is it not your intention to speak to me of this?” Flins finally asks. He looks so defeated. You’ve never seen his shoulders slope so visibly before. “I understand we are not family and tread the strange line twixt friendship and– camaraderie. I do not claim to be fully cognisant of–”

“Kyryll, no.” You bury your face in your hands, before abruptly sitting up straight again. You need to tell him– and particularly with what’s to come for the future. “I’m not– it’s not like that. I owe you an answer. I love you very much.”

For a moment, Flins just stares, lips slightly parted. You sweat– there’s a reason you didn’t specify what love– and not that it matters. There is no more than friends. There’s just something different than friendship. You love Flins dearly, regardless of how that love manifests– you owe him and all your other loves an answer and a heads up for what’s to come.

When Flins speaks again, his voice is soft and breathless. It is reminiscent of something very specific, something so insignificant and humdrum you’d long forgotten it; in your mind's eye, you envision little you running your fingers quickly over the mellow flame of a lit candle. Back and forth. Back and forth. You did it fast enough that it never burned– but slow enough still to feel its warm softness against your palm, your fingertips.

There is nothing softer than an open flame. It is a texture that cannot be described– more pliant than the fluffiest wool, more velvety than the belly of a newborn pup.

“You are very dear to me,” he quietly murmurs, with a tenderness you refuse to dwell upon. “Therefore, while I ought not demand an answer…”

“You can demand whatever you want from me,” you firmly say. Ah, good; your voice didn’t waver. “It’s fine, I’ll tell you. I’m gonna be quick, so brace yourself.”

Flins purses his lips and finally looks away from his hands, meeting your eyes. His pupils flit over your face, as though he were taking note of your features. In the past you might’ve laughed at him for it, but today, he’s almost justified.

“I spoke with the healer,” you finally confess. “I also spoke with Lauma, the Moonchanter. They both told me the same thing– abyssal activity and corrosion is hard to monitor and predict. They told me it progressed faster than what was estimated. They don’t know if it’s going to recede or kill me. They have basically no idea what’s going on, besides that it’s. Not good.” Reaching up to your chest, you start unbuttoning your shirt. For once, Flins doesn’t look away. Once the collar is loose enough, you pull it down over your shoulder, and Flins draws his legs nearer to himself as he sees the little purple stain rippling beneath your skin.

“For now,” you continue, “it makes me really tired, gives me muscle spasms and light chest pains, and it hurts randomly. In the future, it may just kill me. I don’t know. I really don’t know.” You sigh, tugging the shirt up again. You fumble as you button it back up, taking several more seconds than you usually do. Flins’ fingers twitch as though he wants to help, but he stays still next to you.

“Are there any… courses of action you can take?” he asks at length.

You shrug. “Not in Nod Krai. The healers told me to head to Sumeru for treatment, so.”

“So you’ll go?”

“About next month. But Natlan first.”

Flins heaves a sigh– an act of uncharacteristic transparency. Natlan has been consumed by the war against the Abyss for Archons know how long. You’ll first have to journey to the Flower-Feather Clan, and then it’s a long way across one and a half nations to Caravan Ribat.

“We have a few Ratniki that are from Sumeru,” you sooth– or at least, try to. “A couple leave next month, so they’ve offered to take me with them. I’ll be okay. And then… I have a couple friends there already. They won’t decline taking care of me.” I hope.

“And when was the last time you conversed with these friends?” Flins frowns. “This ought not be your only course of action.”

“This isn't my only course of action,” you huff. “I can find a job– I could easily be an adventurer. That’s cake after everything I’ve done here. I– It’s not like I don’t have money, either. I’ve been with the Lightkeepers for so long–”

“I hope it isn’t your intention to bear the brunt of your soon-to-be rapidly declining Mora alone,” Flins mutters, and gets up. He stands still for several seconds before nodding at you in his usual polite way. Your chest aches. “Allow me a moment.” He bows. “I will return shortly. You ought to rest.”

✦—————————————✦

Death, Kyryll notes, is the truest companion to a finite life. There is nothing else that may last.

This was a lesson he ought not have forgotten.

He’s unsure of how many abyssal fiends he’s hunted in the past few hours– or are they minutes? Days? Time means little to a man that isn’t even a man at all. He lived seven hundred years, then slept hundreds more– and yet it is a little mortal that makes him count every minute spent with them.

No matter how many of the Hunt he immolates, hordes more emerge before him, desperate to eradicate a formidable foe turned careless. Kyryll is grateful then to the many companions of an infinite life- chief among them being the stubborn will to exist. In its refusal to yield to death, the abyss at least acts as an unending receptacle for his unending wrath.

Every minute spent away is a lifetime lost, he thinks. There is a hollow feeling in his chest– what chest? Kyryll is an open flame, a fiery beast that swallows his enemies whole. He feels them writhe and disintegrate inside of his belly, but his hunger can hardly sate when they’re burnt away so quickly.

The emanating heat leaves trails of vitrified sand in his wake. Attempting to flee is futile– fire is always quick to spread.

Wretched vipers, to have stung you, to have poisoned you. How galling– not galling. How could galling ever even begin to encompass it? Kyryll’s tears are molten flame, and he hears the Hunt wail as he weeps over it. If only– if only. If only he’d rampaged before as he does now. Perhaps they would never have touched you then.

(In the darkest recesses of his mind, he knows it to not be true. The Abyss is not finite life– its truth is not death, but hunger.

With how sweet you are, it would have tasted you anyway).

✦—————————————✦

When Flins returns home, it is dawn, and you are asleep.

You’re sprawled across his bed, clad in your soft nightclothes, draped in his blankets. No doubt Friend has claimed yours– foolish dog, unaware of what’s to happen to you.

Or is she unaware, truly? She must have scented the Abyss on you since your very first meeting. How was she to know any better? That it wasn’t your constant state of being? She can hardly be blamed for not being mindful of the correct parameters of human normalcy, what with her master being a lantern.

As he moves about the room, he can't help but think to himself– how odd it is, that in the face of an immovable calamity, the world remains as it was before. He still hears human chatter and laughter in the distance. The sound of a barking dog, of nocturnal birds made irritable by one other and their slippery prey.

Flins first shrugs off his coat, then his gloves and deposits them on a chair by the window with unusual carelessness. In the privacy of his bathroom, he sheds the rest. Sluggishly tugs on looser trousers, a smooth silk shirt. It’s been washed with the same soap as yours. He wishes he couldn’t smell it and brings a sleeve up to his nose.

Stepping out, he carries on as usual. Checks the locks, fills your water bottles, Friend’s water bowl. He considers fixing up your wobbly closet that you've been whining about for days, since the door to your room is wide open, but decides against it for now.

As he walks past his door to the living room, a thin blanket in hand, he thoughtlessly glances over to you, and goes still. A moment passes, then two.

Try as he might, he cannot tear his eyes off of you.

Flins is a fae. What does he know of mortal love?

What do I not know? He wonders. He knows you, and Friend, and Nikita. Is that not enough?

He’s never felt more hollow.

Resting a palm next to your head, he bends over you, long hair trailing over your arm, firm fingers sinking momentarily into your pillow. Then, bringing up the hand to your forehead, he kisses his own knuckles softly.

✦—————————————✦

Part II: Farewell.

✦—————————————✦

The days first drag on as you slowly break the news to your friends, and then the weeks suddenly speed by, shoving and tripping you until you’re stumbling up the plank and onto the ship that’ll take you south past Ochkanatlan, to the Flower Feather Clan.

Your house was left as it is– the only changes made being to your closet, which was stripped of most of its clothes, valuables and necessities. Flins insisted you put the Mora and jewellery into a bag he gave you himself. It’s made of a dark leather, and lined with soft, white fur from within, both taken off the corpse of a beast nowadays rarely found, if ever. It is heavy, sturdy, and has the additional quality of bearing an enchantment that drops thieves into the depths of an impenetrable sleep.

You call this extreme. Flins calls it a necessity. It’s a bit laughable, really. You’re leaving Nod Krai, and you’ll be with trusted friends throughout your journey.

“Who’d rob me?” You’d asked with a chuckle. Flins had only smiled. Just in case, he’d said.

You’re more grateful to him than you’ll ever be able to say.

Your friends, noticing your distress, had offered to take up your luggage and scout out the cabin. One of them stands politely nearby, conversing with some porters as she keeps watch. The other must be in the room already, keeping an eye on all of your bags. You’ll likely have to remain cautious until you’ve ascertained you’re at open sea.

Flins has come to bid you farewell. He stands next to you as you look over the railing and down at the port. Nikita, as well as your other friends, already bade you farewell the previous night– after all, the nature of their work did not allow them all to come see you off today. You were chipper till the end, but couldn’t help but cry in bed later.

When you’d awoken in the morning, you'd thought the previous night’s outburst theatrical. Pathetic, even. Now that you’re actually about to leave, though, the cold wind pickpocketing the moisture from your skin as it speeds past, the bobbing of the groaning ship below, your tears seem reasonable once more.

Your arm really hurts, too.

You wonder what’ll happen if you die onboard. You know your friends would try to send your corpse back– but whether or not that’s feasible is a mystery.

No.

Shutting your eyes tight, you imagine the thoughts squeezing out of you. What’s to happen will happen– there’s no point in borrowing anxiety from the future.

Besides– you’ll regret not giving Flins a proper goodbye.

And so you turn to him, determined to smile till the last, but end up with stinging eyes and trembling hands as you clutch onto the front of his coat and cry yet again. It’s so embarrassing– no doubt you’ve been singled out for being a crybaby, and yet. And yet.

It’s worth it, when polite Flins, forever bound by propriety, shrugs it quietly off and wraps an arm round your shoulders to tug you towards him. It is akin to being engulfed in the gentlest of flames and you’re once again reminded of when you used to skim your fingers over lit candles. Back and forth. Back and forth. The flames were so soft.

Flins is softer still, when he tells you in a murmur to take care. Friend, sensing something wrong, presses her nose right into your thigh and you slip a hand off Flins’ chest to bring it to her warm head instead.

Your final subjects of conversation are prosaic. You speak of how cold it is, of the food the Ratniki brought you yesterday, of how Nikita boasted about Illuga’s many virtues every chance he got. Flins even smiles and laughs, and you swear you’ll never see a lovelier sight so long as you’ll live.

Toward the end, Flins breaks into a mischievous smile and tells you he’s left you with some gifts, that his bag wasn’t that heavy on its own. When you ask what he gave you, he pretends to not have heard and talks to Friend instead, who is by now covered in balm, thanks to the copious amount of kisses you’ve lain upon her large, broad head. You kiss her snout again for good measure, and she licks your chin, your hands. You bite back your tears. Reapplying the balm to your lips once more, you turn to Flins with a rueful smile as the ship’s horn blares loudly above.

“Well, you have to get off now.”

“That I do, don’t I?” He exhales. “Farewell.”

Flins glances down to Friend for a long moment. When he finally meets your gaze, his eyes gleam, and you hope it's not just your desperation manifesting as imagination. You deserve a few tears, surely.

As you laugh softly and pat his cheek, he brings up a palm to press yours against his skin for a heartbeat, for two, for three. Shutting his eyes, he brings your fingertips to his mouth for a kiss.

When he opens them again as he steps away with a heavy, heaving breath, you’re forced to blink away your tears. His irises shone like gold.

✦—————————————✦

Even the phantasms grow restless without you.

They're nothing but remnants of the memories of the living, vestiges left behind like the afterimages of a bright light. Even so, Flins hopes it isn't mere delusion to see them grow restless as he returns to the crypt without you once again.

It's been a couple weeks now, and Friend grows more and more restless with every passing day. Flins tries his best to comfort her, but for once, he wishes Nikita would show up unannounced, thick arms laden with diversions.

Wine is of little use. He cannot distract himself with work, either– not as ceaselessly as he would like, with Friend growing uneasy alone. Besides, the Wild Hunt does not divert him– it serves to do the opposite. Looking upon them only fills him with a familiar fury that has since simmered to white hot embers, waiting to be lit the moment there is more kindling present.

Fog and gloom obfuscate time at the cemetery– and just as well, because Flins has no intention of tracking what passes by. He prays the months fly by soon, so your missive may finally make its way to him. He begged you to write to the Lightkeeper base at Nasha Town specifically, but his colleagues are yet to receive word of you.

In the first days of your absence, he feels his pride being pricked when he makes his way over to the receptionist to ask for any word of you.

By the time a month is up he feels only desperation.

Even so, Flins refuses to despair. How long can it take, really? Perhaps a letter was lost. Perhaps it is yet on its way. Soon enough, it'll land in his trembling fingers. He’s sure of it.

A year passes, but 'soon' does not come.

Flins' composure returns to him by the second year. He realises it as he's moving his things from the crypt to the lighthouse, your words ringing in his head. Or at least, he thinks, feeling a familiar hollow in his stomach, an approximation of them.

You should move to the lighthouse, Flins. The crypt is creepy.

The crypt is empty.

He'd called the lighthouse draughty, if he correctly remembers. Well, no more. Were you to return, you'd likely prefer a more comfortable home. The lamp itself has been left untouched– fixing it is of no consequence and would only be a waste of time, but the lighthouse is now cozy, furnished and most importantly– insulated. You get cold far easier than him, after all.

He finds he can look upon the situation with a certain forbearance that he hadn't thought possible when he'd first walked off the ship that was to carry you far from him. He'd come to learn that its journey to Natlan was as uneventful as it could get, so the natural thing to surmise was that you safely made your way into the hospitable arms of the Flower-Feather Clan.

He refuses to allow his mind to stray any further.

By the third year, it does stray the slightest bit. After all, he's developed a bit of a bad habit.

Walking along the beaches of his Isle with Friend's leash in hand and nothing on his mind– save for you– had fast become an addiction. Lost in pleasant reminiscences, he once again relives the feeling of having you near him, the comfort of knowing you are safe in your somewhat shared home, the eagerness felt in watching the boatman draw nearer to his shore, so he may soon debark on yours.

By the fourth, he decides it is a habit he has to shed.

His dreams fester inside of him the way the Abyss did inside of you– they whisper to his memories and poison them with sweetness, taint them with an allure they never had.

It disgusts him.

In his mind, you are more beautiful than before, your voice more dulcet, your charm exaggerated. He ascribes meaning to actions you made thoughtlessly, fantasizes more joy and affection in the most prosaic of moments. It wrecks him to realise– he has forgotten what you truly sounded like.

His powers of remembrance are far more potent than that of any mortal, but fantasies have coloured his memories in tints he desperately wishes to erase. It makes him stay up for several days, forgetting his duties in the process of desperately recollecting all those minutiae that made you, you. After all, you deserve to be remembered for yourself, as yourself.

When Nikita finally finds Flins after several days of noncommunication, it is in the crypt, with papers strewn around him. Some bear your face, others you in your uniform. Some bear your fingers, some you in combat, and still more drawn from the perspective of a companion with whom you must have linked arms.

Even as Nikita makes his way over to the ever-alert Flins, he does not hear. A glance over his shoulder shows Nikita that the next portrait is once again you– this time with your back turned, slipping your heel into your shoe with a finger.

When Nikita puts a gentle hand on Flins’ shoulder, the latter jumps, then stops.

✦—————————————✦

The fifth year serves as a credible distraction.

Not only has Nod Krai newly escaped dire trouble– murmurs of change and a brighter future are on the horizon. When Flins thinks of old friends and new, however, there is both much and little comfort to be found: he loves them dearly, but you will never be introduced to them.

Flins hadn't thought much of it– partly due to being as busy as he was, and partly because five years is but a yawn to a fae. By now his mind has reached a certain stage of sangfroid– perhaps you are dead, and perhaps you are not. Perhaps, if you're alive, you've simply chosen to not return to Nod Krai, for which he does not blame you in the slightest, particularly with all that has recently come to pass.

His steady stream of fortitude is forded abruptly, however, when Nikita bitterly mentions 'half a decade' to have passed. It is only then that Flins is forced to concede to what he refuses to give word, even inside of his own mind.

Five years were nothing– just the merest drizzle of time, unseen to most of his kind. But for Nikita to so bitterly call it 'half a decade,' for Illuga– grown up Illuga– to cautiously ask what happened 'so long ago–’ makes Flins' body run far cooler than it should.

Another Ratnik lost to the night, he thinks.

After all, little mortals are but ants to time. The same drizzle he can flick off of his shoulders with a finger might just have swallowed you whole.

Pretending to partake of his lunch proves harder than it should. The purpose of his visit to the Starshyna had been to retrieve little Friend, who had stayed with him while Flins dealt with his greater-than-usual troubles. Running into Illuga was ill luck indeed. He's glad when Illuga finally leaves. When he strokes Friend’s back as she lays by his feet, it is with the tenderest of touches. And when she whines and raises her nose to his knee, he looks at the greys around her eyes, and stiffens.

In the privacy of the lighthouse, Flins cries himself sick. You were likely too sweet for even Time herself to resist a taste, and the last bit of life you left behind for him will soon follow.

✦—————————————✦

Part III: Lovesick.

✦—————————————✦

“Hey! Traveller! Is that Flins over there?”

Flins sighs.

Now, of all times? Truly? He doesn’t have the bandwidth to entertain guests, no matter how precious and respectable– not today.

Not when Friend is missing.

Time is cruel– Friend is not as alert as she used to be. A decade is enough to pepper whites and greys in her fur, brush pain across her joints and gently drape her senses with dulling silk. It does little to dampen her love of life or old joys, however, and he fears that in part to be the reason for her disappearance.

Flins has an irregular schedule– and it’s been especially worse in recent months, ever since the most dismal sort of trouble came along to plague Nod Krai and gnaw at his patience. Truly, if his suspicions of some street rat having stolen his Friend are proven true, he’ll make it as though they never existed at all.

Precious Friend, stalwart and curious even in the face of his true form. Clever, lively Friend, forever keen on bringing him new treasures and coming along on his patrols.

Invaluable, cherished Friend, that he and you loved together.

He feels a bit stupid, agonizing over a dog, but what inherent value is there to anything in this world, really? Flins knows better than anyone– that things cost as much as the price you ascribe to them, and Friend is priceless.

Flins had held out hope year after year, awaiting your missive. His long years ought to lend speed to Time’s flow, but instead it crept by at a snail’s pace, nipping at him with its unseen teeth. He bore it well– corresponding was difficult with the sheer distance between the two of you, so that would explain your silence for a while, yes?

In the meantime, he’d decided to safeguard your belongings. After all, you’d want them upon your return.

In time, though, his heart had grown so heavy at the sight of your home that he abandoned it as a residence entirely, opting instead to stay first at the crypt before vacating it as well under the guise of your advice. While the crypt was forgotten altogether, Flins would regularly come around to maintain your home– he would ensure it remained in good condition, at least for a few more years. Just a few more years. He knows he ought to sell it to someone that may need it more, but all the empathy in this world could not make Flins concede a single inch, let alone the house.

When the exalted Traveller was made his acquaintance, he feared it may have to see actual use. The famous duo, however, was content to remain at The Flagship, and Miss Lauma also extended her warm invitations. And so Flins could keep you all to himself for another year more.

But, Flins thinks, worriedly making a round of your yard, he’d rather lose ten such houses than Friend. She’s not in the trash, not behind the tree or the bushes. She hasn’t even dug up your flowerbed this summer.

Where could she be?

He’s broken out of his frantic musings by the sound of footsteps and shimmers coming closer.

Well.

While it’s more than a little crude to ask an esteemed guest and hero to look for his pet dog…

✦—————————————✦

“Friend!”

Perhaps this wasn’t one of his better ideas.

“FRIEEEND!”

Definitely less than stellar.

“FRIEND, WHERE ARE YOU?”

“Positively arcadian,” he quietly murmurs. Were you here, you would’ve swallowed a laugh, shoulders stiff and a smile threatening to spill onto your face, wide as a crack in a glacier. When he glances up, however, a faint smile on his lips, he sees only Paimon.

“What did you say?” she asks, and he shakes his head politely.

A part of him wonders if he should just yield. Heavens know where Friend is now, and if she really hasn’t responded to all this noise, there’s a good chance she never will.

She’s a clever dog, after all, with a certain precious quality no mercenary could pass up. The thought of her somewhere, afraid and maltreated sends a stave through his heart. She deserved a better name than Friend. Kyryllmirovna, perhaps?

He exhales, and the air before him shimmers violently. Paimon flinches and ducks behind Lumine.

“Paimon’s never seen him lose his cool before,” she loudly whispers. Flins bites back a second sigh.

He’s looked all over Nasha Town already, and even made his way south through the Nothing Passage, to the Eye of Kratti. He went as far as to make Aino a visit, and emphasised to her that Friend meant more to him than even her little robots, to her. (This served only to anger her, although Ineffa had offered to keep an eye out).

“I suppose there is nothing left to do,” he quietly says at length. He cannot think of a single more place she could be. “Ky– Friend is lost to me for good.”

“Oh– no, Flins, don’t give up yet!” Lumine exclaims. Bunching up her fists, she shakes them at him encouragingly. “We haven’t even asked Jahoda yet! And we could visit Lauma and make her ask all the animals around!”

“Friend has a reputation for sniffing out treasure, Miss.” Flins clicks his tongue, looking more transparent than ever. “If someone has seized her, with the number of arrivals and departures Nasha Town’s port witnesses on the daily, I…” he trails off. Before he can speak again, someone in the distance does.

“Moons,” they cry, “you really are a bitch– agh, my bag!”

“Careful! Should I chase it away?”

“Don’t you dare, Miss Zvoni!” says the first voice. There’s a bark, the sound of someone tripping, then a full, hearty laugh. “This dog– she’s mine! I can’t believe you still remember me, Friend.”

Flins feels his body warm and for a moment, wonders if the blaze inside of him will burgeon right out.

He's unsure of what to feel. So, the little thing went looking for…?

In the past, Flins had often wondered– what does he know of mortal love?

Now, though, he wonders– what does he need to, when his body trembles, when the air before him turns hazy with his hot breath, when the traveller gently tugs on his sleeve and points furtively at her eyes to tell him his are aglow. What does he need to, when he anxiously wraps his fingers round this hair to smooth it down and smother the heat in them? What, when his chest hurts at the sound of your voice, at the smell of you filling his nostrils?

He's glad he's hidden by the tree he was looking for Friend behind, glad for a moment to collect himself. His head hurts and his vision is altogether too bright. When Lumine reaches out to hold him up, he clasps her hand tightly.

"Flins?" Her voice is gentle, but worry is written plainly in the arch of her lips and the furrow between her brows. "Are you okay? Follow my breaths, okay?"

Before Flins can so much as nod, though, Paimon lets out a squeal of delight and flies over to– you.

"Woah, hey!" She kicks her feet midair in delight. "What are you doing here?"

"Paimon!” you laugh. “I live here! Well– I used to. Probably not anymore. That was a while ago."

"Here as in Nasha Town or here as in this house?"

"Both, silly. I used to be a Lightkeeper, you know. I was the best of them all."

Flins hears Zvoni snort, and then you laugh again. Every giggle makes his heart constrict and somehow beat easier all at once. Blind to Lumine's confusion, he braces himself against the tree to simply listen.

"Come now, Zvoni, I really was. Why else do you think Nikita himself sent you to fetch me?”

"He told me you were a friend,” Zvoni teases, made easy in your presence already. Flins smiles. “He did not comment on your talent nor your skill."

You huff. "Turns out we're not friends, then. I'll still do him a favour and join you guys, though."

"Seriously?" Paimon leans closer, incredulous. "After all that, you want to take on the Abyss again?”

Flins hears the rustle of fabric, and sees you shrug plainly in his mind's eye.

"I can always run to Lumi for help again,” you say, “Speaking of, where is she?”

Flins stiffens, then straightens in the same breath that Paimon chirps– “right here! With our new friend, hehe.”

“Ooh, new friend?”

Saying so, you cheerily step inside of the gate– your gate– and glance round to first see Lumine, then Flins himself.

How odd, he thinks. He imagined all of your movements precisely. The sprite in his mind and the you of the physical world act the same. You stepped in and turned on your heel, your head tipped tightly to the side, a smile still on your lips. Your fingers are even busy patting Friend’s massive head, just the way he knew they would be.

But you look so different– although the change is perhaps exacerbated by the long years of your absence. And, perhaps, mortals are just more used to gleefully changing when no one is looking.

You're skin is darker. Your features are softer and rounder, the sort that come about with plenty of rest. Your fingers have new scars on them and your arms are thicker.

The greys he'd sometimes spot in your hair are now impossible to see, however. You heft your bag– the one he gave you, he realises– with the same arm that had once housed the evil he'd thought would take you.

And your expression– your expression–

“Flins?” you whisper.

Gone is your liveliness. In just a moment, he watches you still, wide eyed. The bag drops heavily onto the grass as you raise a hand up to your lips.

For a moment, everything is still. Lumine purses her lips as Zvoni and Paimon give you concerned glances. This seems to make your earlier theatrics dawn on you. Blinking your tears rapidly away, you try for a laugh and his chest constricts at the sight of your tongue slipping nervously out of your lips to lick them.

Flins knows he ought to offer some justification for this reaction– and you seem to be having the same thoughts. Before either of you can turn to Zvoni, however, Lumine picks the moment to play the hero. Thank goodness.

“Oh– Paimon, remember we needed to check, um. Something at the port? Miss Zvoni, could you take us there?”

Before Zvoni can protest, Lumine tugs her and Paimon speedily away. Flins catches the latter’s angry squeaks carrying on the wind– “what is the meaning… Are you doing–” before they're too far to be heard.

There's several moments of silence, then. Flins resolves to thank his golden hero later as he watches you watch the trio go, and wordlessly helps carry the rest of your luggage to the porch. You eye him keenly as he reaches into his pockets to pull out a key, then blink as he offers it to you on a gloved palm. He hopes you don't notice the way his hands shake.

His shyness dissipates a little when he sees you tremble too. Your fingers first miss the key to begin with, then fumble with the lock. Flins waits patiently, content to simply look at you.

“So,” you say, as the door clicks open. You survey the clean interior and look at Friend’s already full water bowl for several moments before turning instinctively toward the shoe-rack to slide your boots off. “How have you been, Flins?”

“I have been,” he simply answers as you both step inside and toward the mantel to place your keys atop it, in their usual place. He's relieved then to see the tension leave your shoulders as a smile creeps upon your lips. They look soft– clearly Sumeru’s winds have treated you better than Nod Krai’s.

“I have too, yeah. Then I met Lumine some months ago, and I was good.” You smile at him, and he sees your eyes moisten once more. “I've been counting the hours till I could see you again.”

A tear slips past your lashes and runs speedily down your cheek. Flins catches it at your jaw and it soaks slowly into his glove.

“I heard Miss Lumine cleansed the abyssal corruption inside of you,” he murmurs, and you nod, not stepping away. His breath hitches. “I owe her more for it than anything else.”

You laugh softly. He wishes he could trap the sound inside of him, where his heart would be were he human. “A fae owing someone?” You ask. “I thought you folk preferred having the upper hand.”

Flins remains silent.

What is he to say, when you stand so close to him, letting his fingers rest on your shoulder? When you look at him so carefully, as though committing him to memory? When your eyes catch on his, and he feels your pulse quicken when you refuse to look away?

Now Flins truly wishes he knew of mortal love, for he is tempted beyond temptation to kiss you, but knows not if he may see it returned. For a recluse that vies for distance from society, he suddenly wishes to understand its every minutiae; for someone so determined to remain unattached to it, he's unsure of how to tell you he's been the string wound round your finger for nearly a decade now.

How odd– for him to owe you, despite the numerous favours he's bestowed upon you. Somehow your happy thank yous and grateful smiles seem to amount to more than his every kindness.

He’s wanted you here for so long– he’s dreamt up so many pretty compliments to give you– but when he reaches inside of him he finds them replaced by a thrumming desperation. Now that you're before him, truly, he finds himself tongue tied. He knows he needs to speak, even if simply to fill the silence. Something lighthearted, or something welcoming and yet all that leaves him is a gentle–

“I have not had the upper hand in many years now.”

You shakily exhale; he wishes he knew why. “Oh?”

You'd tried for your usual cheeriness, Flins knows, but your voice came out as a murmur he wishes he could swallow. He does swallow; but your words slide past your lips into empty air instead of into his own. All he can do is hum in response, and you let out a quick breath, an almost laugh.

There’s a stilted pause that somehow still isn’t made uncomfortable. You finally reach up and press Flins’ free hand between both of yours. Looking up at him, now somewhat having regained your composure, you speak.

“Thank you, Flins, for everything you did for me while I was here, and while I was away. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to contact you– I tried, I really did, but there was just no possibility of it until Natlan’s war against the Abyss finally ended.” You inhale. “I met the Traveler and Paimon some months back– and I came here as soon as I recovered.”

You exhale shakily once more. Tugging his hand to your lips, you press a kiss to his gloved knuckles. Running a thumb over the spot, you quietly tell him– that you’ve missed him.

In spite of this, you’re somehow startled when he raises your fingers to his for a reciprocal kiss. First to your knuckles, then your open fingertips and finally your palm, before he lowers your hands whilst still keeping them engulfed in his.

“May I ask a favour of you?” He quietly asks.

For a moment, you’re too stunned to respond– both because of his actions and yours. You can’t find it in yourself to be displeased, though. There’s a little sliver of budding hope inside of you that is fast sprouting into something larger. Flins’ eyes look to you more golden than ever, and in them you see a strained urgency you feel needs a response. And so when you nod, breathless, Flins draws in breath, whilst simultaneously leaning closer to you.

When he begins speaking, he does so with his eyes on your entwined hands. “I… do not know where to begin. What I do know, however, is that I have felt your absence keenly; that I do not wish to feel it again.” He brings his eyes up to yours, and the sun comes out, creeping into the room and across his eyes through the crack in the curtains, setting them aglow.

You cannot breathe.

Flins can’t either, it seems. When he continues, his voice is strangled. You wait for him to regain his composure, but your heart swells at the realisation that he is content to be discomposed before you.

“Please,” he begs. “I do not know what mortals call love, but I am made foolish by you. Please. Even if all I am allowed is to light your doorstep, keep me close. I have never begged before, but I will beg forevermore if you'll let me. Even your glances are enough. Please, do not leave me. Not again. Please.”

When all you can do is stare at him, he stares back, downy lashes aflutter with nerves. And when you reach up to gently kiss him, you feel him melt as he wraps his arms around you.

reblogs are vv greatly appreciated! ♡♡

Hi hi!! Thank you so much if you've made it all the way here! You deserve a little kith for your troubles <33

Also, I'd appreciate everyone checking out my beloved friend @sizzles-z-4002's pinned post!! They make the most wonderful art and their commission prices are vv affordable <333

And lastly– like I said before, Friend may have eaten some ginger cookies in this fic, but please don’t feed any to your actual dogs! A little is okay, but always check the ingredients list carefully and contact your vet just in case any time your pet eats something out of their recommended diet :3 <3

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