Chapter Text
It is four-thirty-four AM when Illuga gets the knock at his front door, and he doesn’t care that he was still awake at that hour (his sleep schedule is fucked beyond repair; at this point he just wants to get through each individual day with his dignity intact) the fact of the matter is that it’s rude to go raising hell on someone’s front door at four-thirty-four AM.
Fuck. Four-thirty-five AM, now.
“Someone better be on fire,” he snaps as he throws open the front door, “or doused in gasoline, or threatening to bomb an orphanage—” He takes in the sight before him; blinks rapidly and rapidly re-evaluates his approach. “Grandmaster Varka?” He spots the weird limpet-human-thing hanging off of Varka’s side, and starts evaluating if he’d somehow become drunk without noticing. “Sir Flins?”
Varka grins awkwardly at him, and hefts Flins further up where he’d started to fall, and tries, Illuga assumes, to look like this isn’t the weirdest fucking thing to happen this week. “Hi, Captain. Mind if we come in?”
More rapid blinking from Illuga, then he promptly remembers himself and his manners and frantically beckons them in. “Yes, yes, of course. Make… Make yourselves at home, uh…” He’s unable to take his eyes off of Flins. He’s not— He’s not really sure that humans are supposed to be that liquidy; it looks like Flins has abandoned the idea of bones altogether. “Is he— Is he alright?”
“Hmm? Oh, yeah.” Unceremoniously, Varka sort of— dumps Flins on the couch, where he proceeds to just sort of. Liquify into a Flins-shaped puddle. He seems content, though, so Illuga’s in no hurry to move him. “Sorry about barging in on you like this— I wasn’t… really sure who else to go to, to be honest!”
Is Flins purring? He’s making some sort of continuous content-noise where he’s got his face buried in one of Illuga’s throw pillows, and it’s seriously wreaking havoc on Illuga’s ability to focus. “Yeah, I can— I can see that. What— What happened, exactly?”
Varka scratches the back of his neck. “Well, we were at the Flagship—”
“Fuck,” Illuga says. Varka nods in agreement.
“And, you know, Flins can’t get drunk off of spirits— he says it’s more like an energy drink, or coffee—”
“That would explain a lot.”
“Right? That’s what I said— anyways, so I asked him if there was anything that could get him to a state similar to intoxication, which— he was cagey about the details, you know what Flins is like—”
Yes, intimately. “Go on?”
“Well, I managed to weasel it out of him!” Varka looks inordinately proud of himself. Illuga doesn’t have the heart to tell him that if he managed to get any sort of personal information out of Flins, it was information that Flins let him have, so he doesn’t. “Turns out, kerosene has a similar effect! I kept telling him, I should have guessed as much—”
“Kerosene?” Illuga repeats, certain he’s misheard. “That— That—” He looks at Flins, who’s enraptured with one of the tassels on one of Illuga’s throw pillows, and his voice dies in his throat. “That… That makes sense.”
Varka nods. “Right? He’s a flame, really, so it’s entirely logical, I just…” He heaves a great sigh. “Apparently, kerosene is quite potent! I don’t think he managed a full glass before he just sort of—” He gestures ineffectively at Flins on Illuga’s couch, slumped over like an unshelled mollusk. “Liquified!”
Illuga straightens up like he’s been shocked, the full implications of what Varka’s saying only hitting now. “Wait, he’s— he’s drunk? You got Sir Flins drunk?”
Varka frowns at him. “Well that’s— That’s a little— err— heavy-handed—”
“How did you get Flins drunk?”
“Honestly, I have no idea!” Varka runs a hand through his hair. It’s standing up on end, Illuga notices. He gets the impression that the fairy on his couch might have something to do with that. “He was fine one minute, and then— and then— and then he was all liquidy the next!”
Illuga sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “And your response was to bring him here?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly fancy lugging him all the way back to Final Night Cemetery, no,” Varka admits, then says something that just completely throws Illuga for a loop: “He requested that I bring him here.”
Illuga stares at him, gobsmacked. “He did?”
Varka nods. “Aye. Wouldn’t listen to anything I said about how you were probably asleep— told me I was dead wrong, actually; said you didn’t sleep until the sun came up when you could…?”
Illuga’s struck speechless. “I am… shocked he remembered that. It came up once in conversation, months ago—”
Varka snorts. “Kid— can I call you kid? You’re like, twenty years my junior— That shouldn’t come as a surprise to you. Have you met him?” He gestures to the boneless fairy currently occupying more than half of Illuga’s couch, who seems to be involved in a rather intense staring contest with one of Illuga’s lamps. “He’s whipped.”
Illuga feels himself flush red. It’s— new, this thing between him and Flins. Very new. Of course, in the grand scheme of things, Illuga doesn’t consider it that much of a departure from what they had originally (the main difference is that Illuga doesn’t have to be worried about being caught staring, now— or at least, he gets to worry about it in a new and exciting way; Flins is a menace with his teasing) but it’s still— it still makes him feel like he’s had lava poured into his insides every time he’s reminded of exactly how Flins cares about him.
And, he supposes, requesting to be brought to him when utterly wasted counts.
He sighs, and turns back to Flins, who’s got the end of one of his pillows stuck in his mouth and is chewing on it. “Thanks for bringing him here,” he tells Varka, and crosses the room to gently extract the pillow from between Flins’ teeth. “Don’t eat that, silly fairy, that’s not for you— uh.” He looks back at Varka, who looks far too amused by the present circumstances. “I’ll keep him in one piece?”
Varka snorts. “Good luck,” he says heartily, then nods his head, and heads out the door. Illuga stares at that door for a while, then looks back at Flins, who’s not chewing on anything anymore, and he says: “This was absolutely on purpose, wasn’t it?”
Flins pouts at him. Pouts! “I don’t know… what the Young Master is talking about,” he mumbles, words slurred, and Illuga is sort-of in awe, because he doesn’t think he’s ever heard Flins slur before. He’s always so articulate, Illuga is… he’s a little enchanted, truth be told. “Grand… Grandm’ster Varka said… ‘Flins,’” he says, and Illuga sticks a fist in his mouth to keep from laughing, because Flins is doing a shockingly spot-on impression of Varka. “‘Surely there must be some-something that can— can get you drunk.’ And then I— then I told him, I told him, ‘You will—’ uh—” Flins screws up his face as if he’s trying to remember, and then he shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t— I don’ remember. But that’s ok! And then— and then Varka brought out the… the… γαμώτο, Ιλούγα, ποίᾱ ἐστῐ́ ἡ λέξῐς για ‘κηροζίνη?’”
“Uh,” Illuga says. Flins nods like this is an answer in and of itself.
“That’s what I said,” he says. “So, Varka— Varka had firewater, and I had κηροζίνη. That ought to teach him a lesson about tempting fairies with drink, heh…”
He looks inordinately pleased with himself. Illuga, to his own consternation, realizes he’s charmed by the whole thing, and sighs heavily before pulling Flins to his feet.
“Alright, come on, to bed with you,” he says. “Best to sleep it off— woah, woah.”
He stumbles a little. Flins has immediately attached to him like a limpet, hanging off of one shoulder like Illuga’s the only thing keeping him upright— and honestly, he might be. Illuga half-suspects that the only reason Flins doesn’t have his legs locked around his waist is because he’s forgotten he has legs.
Sure enough— “I think I’ve forgotten how legs work, Young Master.”
“You’re a little wobbly,” Illuga agrees. “Here— hang on a minute—” and he swings Flins into a bridal carry with virtually no effort. “Fuck, you’re light— it used to worry me, you know? God, I was convinced you didn’t eat enough—”
He cuts himself off. Flins is just staring at him with those big yellow eyes of his— enchanting, Illuga’s always thought, utterly fucking enchanting— and he says, in a hushed whisper: “Is the Young Master going to carry me over the threshold, now?”
Illuga chokes. “What?”
“I don’t think any spirits followed me here, but it’s always good to check— and then— and then—” A downright wicked grin crosses his face, and he leverages himself upright enough to whisper in Illuga’s ear: “And then perhaps the Young Master would take me to his bedroom and indulge me some particular attention, hmm?”
Heat floods Illuga’s face. “You’re a menace,” he wheezes out. Flins proceeds to look very proud of himself, which is not helping Illuga’s blood pressure. “How are you this well-spoken? Aren’t you drunk?”
“I’m very good at words,” Flins says solemnly. “I like words.” A pause. “Is the Young Master going to bed me?” and Illuga swears that he just fucking dies, at that point.
“Not while you’re drunk,” he says— or thinks he says. Honestly, who fucking knows, anymore. Illuga sure as hell doesn’t. “Ask me again when you’re sober.”
Is he really having this conversation? He wonders hazily. Is this what his life has become? Half an hour ago he was staring at an overdue report as the words swam off of the page and around his head, and how he’s entertaining a drunk, clingy fairy, who’s trying to get him to bed him, of all things— good grief.
“Methinks the Young Master doth lie,” Flins mumbles as Illuga pushes open the door to his bedroom with one foot. “Does he intend to—”
“No,” Illuga says quickly, because he’s not sure he’d survive hearing the end of Flins’ sentence. “No, it’s— you need… sleep…”
He trails off, and promptly feels like an idiot. “You’d sooner sleep in your lantern, wouldn’t you?”
“Meh,” Flins says, then doesn’t offer anything more. Illuga nudges him gently. “Hmm? Oh,” he squirms around a little; squirms closer, Illuga realizes, and his heartrate kicks up a notch, “I could— I could be convinced, if— if the Young Master might share…”
Illuga levels him with an unimpressed stare. Flins pouts at him. “The Young Master is so warm, Illuga,” he mumbles, and rests his head on Illuga’s shoulder. “He’s so warm, and toasty, and I don’t— if I can just— just be near him, that’s— that’s more than enough, really, for me…”
He trails off, just resting his head on Illuga’s shoulder while he stares at him with tired lantern-yellow eyes, and Illuga— fuck, man. Flins has a certain way of talking, sometimes, when he thinks Illuga isn’t paying attention— or, apparently, when he’s drunk— where he allows this devastating self-deprecation to seep into the spaces between his words, and it’s so subtle. Illuga’s afraid that he misses it, half the time, but he catches it when he catches it and right now it’s screaming like a foghorn, and Illuga— he just, he wonders, sometimes, because from the way that Flins talks, sometimes, it’s almost as if he doesn’t believe himself worthy of Illuga’s companionship at all, and it sort of— well, it breaks Illuga’s heart, to be frank.
So he lays Flins so fucking gently onto his bed, with all the mismatched quilts, and the stuffed mandragora Anleifr had gotten him for his birthday one year, and then starts in on the buckles on his coat, the ones on his boots.
“Why do you have belts on your thighs, Sir Flins?”
A shrug. “I don’t know. The press—press— the pressure is nice, I guess.”
A sigh. Illuga takes Flins’ lantern off its clasp at his hip, careful to handle it gently, because he’s holding Flins in that moment, and if he drops him then he’ll never forgive himself, and sets it on his bedside table, idling momentarily to stare at the flame.
“Hehehe, see something you like, Young Master?”
“Yes,” Illuga admits. “I’ve never seen a flame that colour before. It’s very pretty.”
Flins doesn’t respond, but he’s gone bright red, so Illuga counts it as a win.
He works at Flins’ necktie, marvelling at the soft texture (he’s noticed, by now, that Flins fucking abhors anything rough or prickly— all his shirts are soft if not silky, and even his coat, while thick and sturdy, is nowhere near the roughspun that Illuga himself prefers) and undoes the first few buttons of his button-up.
“How far does the Young Master intend to undress me?”
“Get your mind out of the gutter. Have you ever tried sleeping in your day clothes before? It’s uncomfortable and makes you feel like a— a slug when you wake up.”
Flins huffs a laugh. “A slug?”
“Not all of us can pull poetry out of our asses even while sloshed, Sir Flins.”
He deems Flins’ attire suitable enough for sleep after a bit more fussing (fuck, he’s pale. Illuga knows he’s not one to talk, living in the far North, but Þórr on ice skates, Flins just takes it to another fucking level) and before long he’s got him situated among the pillows and blankets.
Flins is still looking at him expectantly, though and Illuga is very soon to learn why: “How bereft am I, alone in my lover’s bed without my lover himself to keep me company.”
Illuga rolls his eyes. “Hold your horses,” he grumbles. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”
He can feel Flins’ eyes on him as he undresses, absently tracking muscle contours and scar tissue alike, and he turns the fairy’s words on him without a second thought: “See something you like, Sir Flins?”
“Direct questions…” Flins mumbles, and Illuga huffs a laugh. “Does the Young Master demand an answer?”
“Yes,” Illuga replies. “Yes, he does.”
Flins sighs, and rolls over onto his back, hair splayed all around him like a halo, and Illuga’s fingers twitch. He wants to run his fingers through it very, very fucking badly.
“Then, yes,” Flins says, and Illuga blinks at him owlishly for a moment, distracted, before it clicks and he feels himself go red.
Flins chuckles at his reaction. “You cannot fish for compliments and then blush when you receive them, Illuga.”
“You’re one to talk,” Illuga replies, then bites his lip, wringing his hands with the sleep shirt he has yet to put on. He might… he might be trying to butter Flins up before he asks his next question: “Can I braid your hair?”
Flins blinks at him. It’s the most alert he’s looked all evening, but there’s still a little syrupy drunkenness in his gaze, which is why, Illuga tells himself, he has to repeat himself.
Flins blinks some more at him. “My hair?”
“Yes,” Illuga says. “Can I— Can I braid it? It’ll get all tangled while you sleep,” he says, because fuck it, what in the actual goddamn fuck has he got to lose? He might as well go down swinging. “It’ll get all tangled while you sleep, and really, Sir Flins, you have such lovely hair, it would be such a shame if—”
“Alright,” Flins says, and leverages himself upright. He overshoots a little, falling flat on his face (he is… literally folded in half, Illuga realizes a little hysterically, and it’s not— it’s not like in the books he read as a teenager; Flins literally looks like he doesn’t have hipbones—) before he rightens himself, gathering his hair around one shoulder. “Come here?”
Illuga is across the room before he’s even finished speaking (his shirt is still in his hands. He should put his shirt on. Would that look out of place? He hasn’t put it on in all the time he’s been yapping like an idiot, surely, that would look— weird? He does not put his shirt on) sitting at Flins’ right side as he runs one hand through his hair.
He curses softly. Motherfuck, how is it so fucking soft?
Flins huffs a quiet laugh, and Illuga realizes he’d asked the question out loud. “I have a very… routine,” Flins mumbles, evidently, still a little drunk. “Is very— very precise. Lots of little bottles.”
“I can tell,” Illuga says, a little envious. He’s lucky in that his own hair doesn’t require too much maintenance; he goes to bed with it wet and then somehow doesn’t look like a disaster when he wakes up the next day, but it would be nice, he thinks, to have the sort of thing Flins does. “How many bottles?”
“So many,” Flins says in an agreeing sort of voice, then sighs and peers over his shoulder at Illuga, which sort of. It has the (unintentional, surely) side-effect of just completely robbing Illuga of breath and cognitive thought and higher thinking all in the same moment, and his hindbrain just goes hnng pretty over and over again before he shakes his head and refocuses.
Flins is talking. What’s he saying?
“Is the Young Master going to braid my hair, or is he going to continue running his fingers through it?” Flins says, and Illuga goes crimson, because motherfuck, that’s— that’s literally all he’s been doing. “Both— Both is good, but I’m—” Flins yawns, which is incredible. Illuga has never seen him do that before. “The Young Master is running the risk of putting me to sleep, I fear…”
“Sorr— err,” Illuga freezes for a moment, then sighs and lets his head hit Flins’ shoulder. “How do you keep from apologizing all the time? It’s a fucking hazard, Flins.”
Flins snorts. It’s entirely unglamorous, honest and reactionary, and Illuga thinks he might fall in love a little, at that moment. Just a bit.
“Fairies are brought up differently from humans,” he explains. “Humans are told to apologize when they err. Fairies are empha— empha—” Flins shakes his head. “They’re told the importance of not doing that.”
“Doesn’t that get you in trouble?” Illuga asks, and slowly begins sectioning Flins’ hair off. Holy fuck, he’s got a lot of it. Illuga rapidly re-evaluates his strategy. “Like, with humans who don’t know?”
Flins hums a note. “It can,” he says, “but tha’s— that’s what the silver tongue is for, isn’t it?” A pause. “Γλυκομίλητος. Πειστικός?”
“Silfr-tunga,” Illuga offers, then shakes his head. “I guess… I guess that makes sense…”
He quiets as he focuses, starting at the crown of Flins’ head as he works his way down, gently tugging locks of hair this way and that as he plaits a braid down one side of Flins’ head.
Flins, meanwhile, seems to genuinely be falling asleep where he sits, head cushioned on one hand. It’s not making Illuga’s job any easier; on the contrary, he reckons that the braids he puts in Flins’ hair are going to be very lopsided, but there’s something so achingly warm about the whole thing that Illuga can’t bear to move him.
“You know, last time, it was me who was drunk,” Illuga murmurs, and gets a sleepy hum of acknowledgement in turn. “I don’t think you braided my hair, though.”
“Mmmm, the Young Master was— he did quite a number on me, actually,” Flins mumbles, and Illuga knits his eyebrows. “I… heh, I nearly walked into a tree when you asked to call me ‘Kirya.’”
Illuga snorts, then covered his mouth with one hand. “There’s scarcely any trees on Final Night Cemetery.”
“My point exactly,” Flins responds, then sighs. “Th’ selfishnish— shelfish—- the wanting of the Fae Folk can’t be understated… I would have heard that name leave your mouth over, and over, and over again— an’— an’ then over again again until my ears stopped working.”
Illuga feels himself go a little red. “I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about it.”
“Really? I think I wear my longing on my face, when you’re ar-around.”
“I…” Illuga trails off, then shakes his head. He adds a few more links to the braid he’s working on, then says: “Sometimes, it’s less scary to pretend you can’t see it.”
Flins pauses. “Go— Go on?”
Illuga hesitates, then figures, what the hell. With a bit of luck, Flins won’t remember this conversation tomorrow, and Illuga can move on with his life content in the knowledge that this will never be brought up ever again.
“Knowing… Knowing that someone feels the same way about you as you do about them,” he says softly, “it’s— it’s a big thing. Lots of potential— potential for joy, yeah, but also— fuck, Kirya, there’s a big potential for sadness, too. It’s that— that age-old question you know? ‘What do I value more? What I could have, or what I do have?’” He shrugs his shoulders. “The idea of losing you, your friendship… God, that almost hurt too much to bear.”
Flins doesn’t say anything for a long, long while, and Illuga’s starting to fear that he’s said too much, when Flins speaks: “I din’t consd— c’nsid— I didn’t think I was a good match for you.”
Illuga startles. “What?”
Flins shrugs one shoulder. “What can a centuries-old Fae who lives outside his own tomb offer the sun?” he asks. “Stories are— they’re so great, Illuga, like really great, but they are eph— ephemeral, a-and fleeting. I fear I am transient at my core.”
“I don’t— I don’t care about what you can ‘offer’ me,” Illuga says, more out of surprise than anything else. “I just— I just want you. That’s it.”
Flins huffs a laugh. “At the graveyard that I call mine, in the old, abandoned lighthouse that gets called my ‘home’?”
“Yeah,” Illuga says softly, then stronger: “Yeah. I like it there. It’s yours, like you said, so it’s comforting. Safe. It’s— Honestly, Kirya, it’s a bit— it’s a bit like a second home to me.”
Flins doesn’t respond for a moment, and Illuga thinks he’s genuinely managed to render him speechless, which is a first for him.
So he ties off one braid, and starts in on the other, gently pulling Flins’ hair up and off of his face.
“There used to be so many pretty hairstyles, Illuga,” Flins mumbles. “Com— Complicated braids, plaits, twists— court-ready. Only… thralls, they had short hair. Nobles made theirs long.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe it was habit! Now, though, I think I just like it.”
Illuga slows his ministrations. “You don’t often tie it back.”
“No,” Flins agrees, and shakes his head. “I never could, at the court. So, now that I don’ have t’— be all… courtly anymore…”
He trails off, and Illuga nods slowly. He still— he still has questions, though. “Kirya, doesn’t that— doesn’t that interfere with fighting the Wild Hunt?”
“Hmm? Oh,” Flins seems genuinely thrown by the question, “I guess— I guess it could? I like to use all of my senses when in battle, Ιλούγα, and I— I have a few secret ones! I can see real good, Ιλούγα, with— with the flames..”
Illuga is endlessly curious, but holds his tongue. Flins is starting to slump over, eyelids drooping, and he senses that he doesn’t have long before he passes out completely.
So, he finishes up the braid he’s working on, ties it off, and bodily pulls Flins back until he’s lying down flat on his back, then yelps when Flins grabs ahold of him and tugs him down too, until he’s sprawled ungracefully across Flins’ front.
He feels like his face is on fire. “Flins— let me at least put on a shirt—”
“You’ve had all this time, and you only want to do something about it now?” Flins complains, but lets go of Illuga without delay— the only thing holding him against Flins now is gravity.
Although…
“I mean, if you’re not bothered,” Illuga mutters, and just as quickly Flins’ hands are on him again, tracing patterns of scar tissue that cover most of Illuga’s skin.
“It is no great chore to look at you,” Flins mumbles. “On the contrary, I think some might consider it a reward.”
Illuga feels his face heat up, and mushes his face into the junction between Flins’ neck and shoulder. “Flatterer.”
“Is it— Is it really ‘flattery’ if it’s the truth?”
Illuga pauses for a moment, considering it.
“Well fuck,” he says. “I guess not.”
Flins seems pleased by his answer. “This is— This is what I keep telling people,” he mumbles. “If it’s my opinion, it can’t be insincere, can it? I can’t— I can’t lie about my opinion. That’s like— That’s like Fae 101, o-or something, right, Ιλούγα?”
Fuck, Illuga likes the way his name sounds in Flins’ mother tongue a little too much. He thinks he might understand a little, how Flins feels when he calls him ‘Kirya.’ “Something along those lines. I always found the iron ‘allergy’ to be a little more, uh, pertinent, though.”
Flins doesn’t reply for a moment, and Illuga senses that he’s managed to surprise him, again. For some reason, it makes him feel sad. “Most people would disagree with you,” Flins tells him. “Isn’t it better to know that the pern— pernishus… that the mean creature you’re dealing with can’t tell an untruth, than to know something that they try to avoid?”
Fuck, he makes Illuga’s heart hurt. “Maybe for others,” he says. “I just want to make sure you’re unharmed, and fuck, Flins, that iron ‘allergy’ can do a lot of heavy lifting on that end.”
“Mmm,” Flins says, and sounds a little troubled. “Cold… Cold iron is especially painful… it’s almost… sticky? No,” he shakes his head. “Welded. It’s like it welds, when it’s cold. Very unpleasant.”
Illuga thinks that he and Flins might have two different definitions of the word ‘unpleasant,’ and makes sure to tell him as much.
Flins only shrugs his shoulders. “There are— words, in the Fae language, that— they describe the pain caused by iron. They jus’— they don’t translate, Ιλούγα. Tha’s why I like ‘unpleasant.’ Be-Besides,” he interrupts himself to yawn, “why make a fuss of something that can’t always be fixed— be fixed fastly?”
“Please make a fuss if you run into iron,” Illuga says immediately. “Please make a very loud, very annoying, very noticeable fuss.”
Flins sighs. “The Young Master is so strange… fine. If it would be pleasing to him, I shall inform him of when I happen upon iron, even though it doesn’t happen a lot.”
“Do you promise?” Illuga presses, because he knows the deal with fairies, and promises, and right now he doesn’t feel like playing fair.
Flins cracks open one eye to look at him, and somehow, he looks impressed by Illuga’s audacity. “You could have toppled the Belyi Tsar from his throne, with a wit like that,” he mumbles. “Yes, Ιλούγα. I promise.”
Illuga nods slowly, and settles down back against Flins, tugging a blanket up over them a moment later. “The sun’s going to rise in about a half hour,” he mumbles, now fighting back a yawn of his own, because fuck. It is late, isn’t it? “We should… be unconscious before then.”
Flins doesn’t respond, and Illuga frowns before looking up at him. Somehow, he’s not surprised to see that he’s already asleep, and he chuckles to himself before tucking the blanket in more securely around Flins’ body.
“Sleep well, álfr,” he mumbles, then closes his eyes, and drifts off as well.