Archive of Our Own

They meet when Illuga is nineteen. His father—or rather, the Starshyna, because he’s supposed to call him that now—has just given him a position in the Lightkeeper governance framework, and he’s going around introducing him to people.

Illuga doesn’t think it’s that important. He’s barely even an intern. “And besides,” he says, as his father leads him further up the decrepit, winding path to Final Night Cemetery. “There can’t possibly be an advantage in knowing every Lightkeeper, even if you wish for me to rise in the ranks.”

Nikita laughs. “You’ll want to know this one. Trust me.”

Illuga would feel unfilial if he kept protesting, so he drops it. “Who is this person, anyway?” he asks instead, motioning to the grand, cavernous lighthouse. “I thought high-ranked Lightkeepers typically received positions of command, not solitary ones.”

“Oh, no, my boy.” Nikita looks back at Illuga with that fond wisdom in his eyes. “He’s not a commander. He’s not much of anyone, really, as far as the records are concerned. Just an ordinary Lightkeeper stationed at his lighthouse.”

“As far as the records are concerned,” Illuga repeats, frowning. What could that mean? The Lightkeepers’ records are scrupulously exact. They wouldn’t gloss over something important, not unless… “He doesn’t want to be high-ranked?”

Nikita gives him a knowing look. “Now who would want that?” he asks, smiling slightly.

And then he knocks.

Illuga’s first thought when he sees Flins is: Incredible. Because he’s so clearly not ordinary; he’s uncommonly tall, uncommonly well-kept, and uncommonly gorgeous. The Lightkeepers are a ragged bunch, true-to-life. They’re all just people. Flins is supposedly one of them, just like anyone else. And yet Illuga looks at him and understands, suddenly, why his father took him here.

“Ah. Starshyna,” Flins says, bowing his head. His glimmering silver lantern chain clinks against itself when he moves. “Welcome. What may I do for you?”

“Flins!” Nikita says, grinning at him. “I wanted to introduce you to my son, and the newest member of the Lightkeeper officers—this is Illuga. I’ve mentioned him many times, but never brought him along until now. Thought this was as good a time as any to get you two acquainted!”

“Oh?” And then Flins turns and looks at him, and Illuga freezes in place. “I remember. The Starshyna has had nothing but praise for you for many years. How wonderful to meet you at last.”

Illuga looks up at him and channels seven years of courage and says, just like he’s supposed to, “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Sir Flins.”

Flins looks briefly surprised, but that expression quickly dissolves into a smile. He covers it with one gloved hand. “I assure you, Young Master,” he says, extending his other hand. “The honor is all mine.”

Okay! Great. This is actually going pretty well. Illuga extends his hand for a handshake. He needs to make sure his grip is firm, but not overly so, and that he shakes two times exactly, not three, not one, but two, exactly two, just like he’d practiced—

Flins lifts his hand to his mouth and delicately kisses the back of it.

Illuga blinks.

“The Starshyna was liberal in his praise of your abilities,” says Flins, looking right into his eyes. “What a shame that he neglected to mention your striking figure and lovely eyes. A man deserves a warning for this sort of thing.”

Thus Illuga’s second thought when he sees Flins is: What a fucking creep.

Illuga stares at him, bewildered. His hand is still in Flins’s gloved hold; he yanks it back like he’s saving a damsel in distress. His face might be burning. He can’t quite tell. “…Sir Flins,” he says, because he really can’t figure out what else to say. “Surely you don’t mean that.”

Flins’s eyes seem to glimmer at this, gold and strange. “Please,” he says, smiling again. “I’m always sincere.”

Damn. Illuga gave him a chance, and he trampled right over it. He presses his teeth together and takes in a long, slow breath. He is here to make a good impression, and he’s damn well going to do it.

“Well now, Flins,” says Nikita, beaming again. “Mind if we talk business for a bit?”

Flins sighs. “And here I was hoping you’d only stopped by to introduce me to your handsome protégé,” he laments, but he’s still smiling that polite smile. “Please, Starshyna. Go ahead. I am forever your loyal servant.” Here he looks briefly at Illuga, then away again. “Both of you,” he says, this time with meaning.

“Okay,” says Illuga. “Great.”

Then he bolts.

***

“Dad,” says Illuga, too affronted to remember his etiquette. “Don’t tell me he’s always like that.”

Nikita turns to look at him. “Like what?”

“Like—like—!” Illuga waves his hands wildly, his eyes wide. “I’m—I’m surely much too young for him! He can’t be one of those men who chases after young people!” Can he? Can he? Actually, Illuga is pretty sure he can. Maybe there’s a reason he’s so isolated. Maybe his solitary lighthouse is less of a preference and more of a punishment…!

Nikita laughs uproariously, rudely interrupting Illuga’s inner monologue. “My boy,” he says, amused. “Flins is nothing of the sort! He’s an old-fashioned gentleman, you know the type. Likes to find something to flatter in everyone.”

“He didn’t have to pick my appearance,” Illuga mutters, still flushed. He’s never thought of himself as particularly good-looking. It seems an odd comment to make.

“He said it himself: it’s only because I’ve already praised your diplomatic skills to hell and back.” Nikita looks over at him. “Don’t let that get to your head, boy. You’ve got a long way to go before you’re ready to become the proper head of the Lightkeepers.”

Illuga huffs a disbelieving laugh. “I’m nowhere near, obviously,” he says, bowing his head. “I’m a child.”

“Hardly,” Nikita says. “You’re a young man now. In a harsher time you might have been sent to war years ago.”

This makes Illuga fall silent again. He walks for a while in half-shameful contemplation. He might have fought a war, if there had been a war to fight in his youth. Slowly, the docks draw into sight.

“Besides,” says Nikita, looking at him with a slanted grin. “Flins is an excellent man with great moral character. You could certainly do worse for yourself.”

Illuga trips over the gravel.

Nikita laughs at him, rich and loud. “Hah! Your face!”

“Please,” Illuga says, flushed down to his fingertips. “You’ve made your point. How old is he, anyhow?”

“Ah, no one knows. But he’s got a youthful enough spirit, though, doesn’t he? And his joints all work—that counts for a lot.”

“Certainly too old for someone like me,” Illuga decides firmly.

“Hm,” says Nikita, and then he says no more.

Illuga hears the implicit words in his silence. He tugs his collar high and walks faster.

Whatever his father says, he’s not convinced that Flins isn’t a creep who wants to prey on poor innocent… adults. Poor innocent adults who hold positions of authority over them. Yeah. That.

***

Illuga successfully avoids him for six months. Well, he says avoids; it’s really quite easy, given that Flins almost never leaves his isolated lighthouse. He only shows up to Piramida for the twice-yearly Lightkeeper conference meeting.

In reality Illuga avoids him for the shortest possible amount of time. Short of hauling his ass south to the cemetery, he’s actually seeing him as soon as possible. Whatever. Whatever! It’s fine!

Anyway, Illuga has had six months to consider it. In that time he’s met dozens more Lightkeeper officials, and all of them have had something nice to say to him when they meet him. Perhaps he overreacted that first time, and Flins was being acceptably polite. And everyone deserves a second chance, don’t they?

So when Flins arrives for the conference, Illuga seeks him out.

“Sir Flins,” Illuga greets him, nodding briskly. “I’m glad to see you made the journey safely.”

Flins looks at him and blinks several times, like he’s readjusting to something. “Ah,” he says, suddenly cordial again. He smiles, that same delicate smile, like a lady’s fan held before her mouth to conceal her real expression. “Young Master. How lovely to see you here, in your element.”

See, Illuga tells himself. Totally normal! This is the world’s most normal interaction and there’s absolutely nothing weird about it at all! “Indeed,” he says, relieved. “I’m at this meeting in an official capacity as a secretary, but the Starshyna has also given me the opportunity to welcome our guests. Would you like me to show you to your seat?”

Flins tucks one arm behind his back. “My, how chivalrous,” he says, his voice lighter than before. He takes Illuga’s arm. “Please lead the way.”

Okay, slightly weirder. But he’s a gentleman; it makes sense. Illuga doesn’t shake off the grip. He walks through the venue, finding the seat labeled for the staff at Final Night Cemetery. There’s only ever been one seat. Never a companion.

Flins cuts his thoughts rudely short by making a sound halfway to a laugh. “If I’m provided with a dashing escort at every Lightkeeper event, I may have to start showing up more frequently.”

“An—excuse me?” Illuga says, too fast. And they’d been doing so well!

“You are escorting me, are you not?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then you are my escort.”

Illuga takes a deep breath and composes himself as best he can. “Sir Flins,” he says sharply, consciously creating distance with the title. “I will show you to your seat, and then I will head to my own, where I will take notes in silence for the duration of the meeting. Thank you very much for attending.”

“My pleasure,” says Flins, not faltering in the slightest. “And what of the afterparty?”

Illuga knows about this part, at least: there’ll be a huge banquet after the meeting, mostly as an incentive for all the Lightkeepers to actually show up. Everyone will eat and drink and be uproarious. “No one needs notes taken at the afterparty.”

Flins looks down at him. “No,” he says, quieter than before. “But perhaps there is more to you than taking notes.”

His voice is strange, this time, less flirtatious but no less striking. Illuga’s stomach feels strange. “I won’t be there,” he says firmly. He unwinds their arms from each other and inclines his head. “Here is your seat, Sir Flins. Have a good day.”

With that, Illuga takes his leave. Though Flins doesn’t ever reply, it somehow doesn’t feel as though he’s gotten the last word.

***

The party, like all Lightkeeper parties, is grand. They light up all of Piramida with fireworks and eat to their hearts’ content and then some. The alcohol flows liberally enough that Illuga can smell it even from outside the city walls.

He’s never liked parties. It’s not that he doesn’t like being joyful; he loves celebrating things with friends and family, and there’s certainly merit in taking a moment to enjoy life’s successes. But parties aren’t his kind of celebration. He hates being out of control, hates being surrounded by alcohol and strange looks. When he was younger parties were fine, but now that he’s older, people always ask why he isn’t drinking, and he never knows how to answer.

In any case, once the party starts there’s nothing to do but leave.

Illuga doesn’t mind solitude. He finds a seat on the edge of a platform, his legs dangling off the metal construct. He gazes out at the endless ocean and wonders idly how long it’d take to swim to Final Night Cemetery. A long time, he thinks. He’d probably die of hypothermia long before he made it.

He whistles into the crisp night air. Aedon flutters up into existence and stretches its wings, making a pleased sound.

“Hello, Aedon.” He clicks his tongue a few times, whistling between the sounds, a poor imitation of bird-trills. Aedon understands anyway. It flips around in mid-air and swoops beneath his feet.

Illuga looks down at it, smiling a little. “Careful, Aedon,” he says, the same warning his father used to give him when he was young. “It’s a long way down.”

“Oh, is it?”

Illuga yelps. He tries to leap to his feet and nearly stumbles off the platform.

From behind him, the same voice laughs. “Careful, Young Master. As you said, it’s a long way down.”

It’s Flins, because of course it is. “So you do know that I’m a child,” Illuga accuses, turning on him. He crosses his arms over his chest. “It seems highly improper to flirt with me under those circumstances.”

Flins blinks. His eyes are bright in the night-dark, like lantern-flame contained in his face. “Who said anything about you being a child?”

“Only children need warnings not to fall.”

“Is that so? I’ve warned many a drunkard away from the platforms, too. And what of new residents who’ve just moved in? What of those neglecting their surroundings?”

Illuga huffs a sigh. Word games. He’s sick of word games. “You know what I meant.”

Flins looks at him, long and measured. For once, his mouth isn’t drawn into that polite smile. “If I’ve made you uncomfortable, please forgive me, Young Master. I was under the impression you were nineteen.”

Illuga flushes. “Twenty, actually,” he mutters under his breath. “My birthday was last month.”

Flins looks mildly surprised. “Ah. I’m sorry to have missed it.” He glances over his shoulder, back at the party and the fireworks. “I imagine the celebration was nothing short of splendid.”

“There wasn’t one.”

“Surely the Starshyna would want to celebrate his beloved son’s birthday in all the grandeur afforded to him.”

Illuga sits back down on the platform and looks out at the dark, watery horizon. “I told him I didn’t know my own birthday.”

Flins turns back to him. He walks a few measured steps closer. Illuga half-expects him to sit next to him, too close to be proper, but instead he leans against the metal scaffolding on the other end of the platform, far enough that perhaps they could ignore one another if they wanted to.

“I don’t like parties,” Illuga confesses, all in a rush. “I hate drinking. My men once pressured me to drink and I had too much for my constitution and I think I had a panic attack. My birthday is in the dead of winter, when everyone likes to drink to keep warm, so I just… told him I didn’t know it. Avoid all the trouble.”

“Hm,” Flins says, quiet enough that the sound barely carries over to him.

Illuga doesn’t know why he said all that. He feels a bit foolish. He’s never told anyone that before; he’s not ashamed about his dislike of alcohol, but he is ashamed about lying to his father.

Eventually Flins shifts his weight and speaks again. “I must confess, I’m quite the opposite. It takes enough drinks to kill a man for me to feel anything at all.”

Illuga breathes a laugh. “Must be expensive. All that alcohol, just for you.”

Flins looks over at him, then away again, back at the distant horizon. “I’ve found it’s very rarely worth it.”

“Yes,” says Illuga quietly. “Me too.”

They stay on the platform at the top of Piramida, staring out at the water in silence, until the fireworks start again.

***

Illuga moves up the ranks. It’s only natural—he’s been tailor-made for this. He’s had the role of Lightkeeper sewn onto him like a stitched suit, made to fit perfectly. And so he gets more responsibility, and more, and then he’s being sent to a peace conference in Nasha Town as an official Lightkeeper delegate.

“This seems like a step too far,” Illuga protests, even as he’s putting on his coat and packing his things. “I’m sure there are better candidates to represent the face of the Lightkeepers to the nation.”

Tetyana, the middle-aged woman he’s been shadowing, scoffs. “Come on now, Illuga,” she says, smiling her grisled smile. “Who better to attend than a fresh, pretty face? Much better you than me, I’d say.”

This time, Illuga doesn't flush at the compliment. She’s lamented his so-called ‘good looks’ too many times to count. Illuga suspects it’s just his youth, but he appreciates it anyway.

“Besides, it’s not as if you’ll be the only one,” she adds, filing away the remaining documents he’s been dealing with. “You’ll have that Final Night Cemetery fellow to show you around. He’s familiar with the area.”

Illuga’s hands falter on his own coat button. “I will?”

“Well, yes,” Tetyana says, chucking something at him. “Don’t forget that. Your inn reservation.”

“Thank you,” he says automatically. “But—wait, please. How did you know Flins will be there to assist me? I can’t assume he’ll just drop everything and show up to help me.”

Tetyana looks pointedly at his bag. “Your inn reservation has two occupants listed in the room.”

Illuga’s face warms. Well. That would definitely do it. He checks the reservation card. Sure enough, there he is, Illuga Koschmar, listed right next to the reservation issuer, Sir Chudomirovich Flins. What a strange concept, their names put next to each other.

“Anyway, don’t worry about it,” she says, waving her hand again. “This meeting isn’t even about you. All you have to do is say some shit about how Lightkeepers respect the peace and want to keep it. For the benefit of all Nod-Krai.”

“For the benefit of all Nod-Krai,” Illuga recites, only half-present. He’s still thinking about their names when he gets on the boat.

***

Flins is waiting at the dock like a woman waiting for her husband to return from war. When he sees Illuga’s boat, he walks right up to the dock and stands there, his hands folded in front of himself very politely. When Illuga steps off the boat, he offers one gloved hand and says, “Young Master.”

Illuga doesn’t need to be steadied. He takes it anyway. “Sir Flins,” he says, smiling a little. “Surely you didn’t need to greet me dockside.”

“Mm. I didn’t,” Flins says. He takes one of his bags before Illuga has to ask. “I’m currying favor with the Lightkeepers’ newest diplomatic official, so that when he becomes Starshyna, he’ll look upon me favorably.”

Illuga gives him a withering look.

Flins just laughs. “You must know I’m only joking, Young Master.”

“You’d better be,” he says, hauling up his second and final bag. Flins doesn’t offer to take this one, and he wouldn’t give it up even if he did. He likes carrying his own things. “It’s almost treasonous to speak of a Starshyna’s replacement before they’ve passed the position on.”

“Rest assured,” Flins says, smiling at him again. “I’d want your favor even if you never became Starshyna.”

Illuga huffs and heaves his bag higher on his shoulder. “Flatterer,” he accuses, because now he recognizes it for what it is. “You must be like this with everyone.”

“Perhaps.”

Illuga can’t make heads or tails of him. He looks at the road and ignores Flins’s strangeness. “Where are we?” he asks instead. “I’ve been to Nasha Town very few times. I assume we’re heading to the inn?”

“The Flagship,” Flins corrects.

Illuga blinks. “The… tavern?” For some reason, his chest hurts. He thought Flins understood that part of him, at least when they’d—well, never mind. It’s not terribly important.

“The inn is in the rear quarters of the tavern. It’s the only place I stay in town; I’m fond of the owner.” Flins turns again, this time headed down an incline. “Just down here, Young Master. We’ll get you settled with your things, and then I’ll show you around, as promised.”

The odd pain in Illuga’s chest evaporates entirely. He doesn’t want to think about what that means.

Sure enough, there’s a separate counter for inn residents in the back of the tavern. Illuga checks them in—yes, Illuga Koschmar, here with his guest, yes, they want one room, yes, their check-out time is correct, yes, please take the Lightkeeper credit for this payment, no, they don’t want a pass to the tavern—and takes his bags into the room.

Flins politely sits in one of the chairs and occupies himself looking at the wall while Illuga gets settled. It doesn’t take long; he takes out his lantern and his novel, and his three Lightkeeper political guides, leaving all his clothing and protective gear in the bag.

Illuga heads over again and straightens his coat lapels. “Ready when you are.”

Flins looks over at the bags, surprised. “You’re not planning to unpack your possessions?”

“No.”

“It might help you feel at home,” Flins says, looking at him sideways. “I’m very particular about it, that’s why I ask. Every one of my belongings ought to be in its place, or else I get quite restless.”

His voice is strange. Illuga swallows. He leans down to tie his shoes, mostly to avoid looking at him. “Few of my things belong to me. At least, not to me alone.”

“Hm,” says Flins, finally looking away from him. “I know the feeling.”

When Illuga lifts his head again, Flins’s back is turned to him, and his hair cascades down his back like so much lantern-oil. Illuga swears it glows like it’s got flame running through it, but then Flins turns around again and he hurriedly looks away.

Flins looks faintly amused, like he knows Illuga’s been staring, but he doesn’t bring it up. “I assume you don’t want to go drinking?”

Illuga blanches. “Please. Anything else.”

“Worry not, Young Master,” Flins says, smiling. He holds the door open like he’s got nothing better to do than wait for Illuga, wait for him for all the time in this frantic world. “I think I know what you’ll like.”

So Flins takes him to the highest point of Nasha Town to look down upon it, and then they go to an antique store and Flins buys himself three strange coins and an old bottle cap. Aedon takes an interest in the bottle cap and Flins places the cap carefully on its head like a crown. He tests the ridges with his fingers before nestling it between Aedon’s feathers, like he’s making sure he won’t cause it pain.

“It’s a geo construct,” Illuga reminds him, letting Aedon perch on his shoulder. “It hasn’t been a normal bird in many years. It doesn’t need to chase after shiny things.”

“Still,” Flins says, smiling at the bird as it preens. “Each living thing deserves something nice to their name. Something to be wholly theirs.”

Illuga watches him fix the bottle cap back into place. His throat feels thick.

“Anyway, Young Master,” says Flins, standing up straight again. “Shall we head to the mechanical workshop? I thought you might like to see how custom prosthetics are made.”

Illuga swallows the odd feeling and suppresses a smile. “Sir Flins,” he teases, “are you saying you expect I’ll lose a limb in the line of duty?”

“Certainly not,” Flins says, mock-serious. “A precious Young Master like you should never be allowed onto the battlefield. You ought to be saved for a diplomatic marriage, with how handsome your face is.”

Illuga kicks at a loose piece of gravel. His face is warm. “Am I really?” he asks, quieter than usual. “I think I’m somewhat plain.”

Flins laughs.

“I’m serious,” Illuga says petulantly. The one time he wants Flins to flatter him, and he’s passing up the opportunity. Just his luck. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

“You’re very handsome,” Flins says, not quite as polished as usual. This time it’s just his voice, no flowery language, nothing at all to shield him. “You’ve always looked resilient. Like you’d survive anything, and still manage to soften your gaze for something you love. There is mercy in your face.”

Illuga blinks rapidly at the sidewalk. He’d expected Flins to say something about his jaw or his nose or some such feature. Instead he gets this. “That’s not something you’d glean from my appearance.”

“I can see it, when I look at you.” Flins turns to him for a long, measured moment. Then he shakes his head.

Illuga looks at him, at his oil-spill hair and his lantern-light eyes. He searches for something, anything, in his appearance. Maybe he sees something. Maybe he doesn’t. He can’t quite tell. He thinks Flins is beautiful, but then again he’s always found Flins beautiful.

Their eyes meet. Illuga sees a flash of something, gold flame turning blue with heat, and then it’s gone.

“There it is,” says Flins, smiling a little. “I see it now.”

Those words make Illuga dizzy. He pulls his coat closer to his shoulder. “I’m hungry,” he says, before Flins can say something else that will leave him spinning.

“Whatever you say,” Flins says.

They eat in silence.

***

Flins doesn’t sleep with him. He sits at the table and opens a slim volume he’d pulled from his satchel and doesn’t even look up as Illuga undresses for bed.

“Not coming to bed?” Illuga asks, feeling a little ridiculous. He’s twenty-one now, for fuck’s sake; he has women and men under his command back in Piramida. He doesn’t need to be asking this like some neglected wife.

Flins glances up, then looks back down just as quickly. “I wouldn’t wish to interrupt your rest, Young Master. If the light is too bright, I can read in the tavern instead.”

“It isn’t,” Illuga says quickly. He sits up straighter, adjusting his white robe.

Flins’s eyes flicker, like he’s thinking about looking up again but won’t let himself. It makes Illuga’s pulse race faster. The woodpecker in his chest beats faster, tap-tap-tap, straining at its confines.

“What I mean to say is, don’t leave,” Illuga blurts, tugging the bedclothes over his shoulder. “The room is already paid. Don’t buy another.”

“Mm,” Flins says. He puts the book down. “May I light my lantern while we rest?”

Illuga frowns. A lantern lit while they sleep? But Illuga knows what lurks in the dark, so he gets it, at least a little bit. “I don’t mind.”

So Illuga fixes the bed while Flins undresses, and then Flins lights a candle with a strange blue flame and lays down. He falls unconscious within minutes, entirely dead to the world. It’s so strange that Illuga taps his shoulder, trying to wake him, and gets nothing for his efforts. It’s just him and his oil-splash of hair on the pillow and his tall frame curled up into the smallest space it can take.

Illuga sighs and turns away again. Flins, he reminds himself, is from a cemetery, where his only companions are the dead and the mourning. Maybe it makes sense that he sleeps this deeply, when his waking world is no different.

On the table, the strange blue flame flickers like a heartbeat. Illuga, a man named after his nightmares, sleeps sweetly in its glow.

***

“For the benefit of all Nod-Krai,” Illuga announces to the meeting in Nasha Town’s neutral-ground center the next evening. “The Lightkeepers support the peace agreement between the Frostmoon Scions and the Knights of Favonius, and will gladly help facilitate negotiations as required.”

“The Krumkake Craftshop agrees,” says the strange, half-mechanical woman next to him.

“Yeah!” says the little girl sitting in her arms. “Stop fuckin’ fighting! I want my lakkaberry trade routes cleared up again!”

Illuga valiantly suppresses a smile. The meeting, as promised, moves on.

In the end, that’s all he has to say. Just one line, one well-rehearsed line that he stayed up reciting until the pattern was programmed into his mouth. For the benefit of all Nod-Krai. So the Knights and the Scions reach peace, and Aino’s trade routes are reinstated, and Illuga ends up at the Flagship, all alone.

He supposes Flins’s job is already done. He’s shown Illuga around; Illuga gave his speech successfully, and now he just has to get home again. It’s not like he’d expected Flins to accompany him that night, or anything, but—

But nothing, Illuga corrects himself. But nothing.

He falls asleep in the inn room alone, his arms tucked close to his chest. In the morning he gets up and takes the early boat back to Piramida before the sun rises.

***

They don’t see each other again until the summer Lightkeeper conference.

No one thinks of Nod-Krai being warm, and yet when they host the conference, Illuga feels too hot in the meeting room. He’s speaking, this time, not just taking notes. He gives his report on the peace meeting and on his division’s supplies. He listens politely to everyone else and smiles as best he can.

The minute the meeting is adjourned, Illuga flees the too-hot room only to be met with the too-hot outdoors. He groans into the unapologetic, sticky air and strips off his coat. “Fuck,” he mutters, looking up at the sky.

It’s still light, just barely, but the Lightkeepers will celebrate until it’s long gone dark. He could sit out on the edge of the Piramida platforms again, looking out over the world like he usually does, but he doesn’t feel like it tonight, for some reason. Maybe when the sun goes down. Instead he finds a bench near the garden trellis and sits, watching the light of the party dance across the leaves.

And then he hears voices.

“Really, it’s not anything special,” a woman’s voice says. “It’s just—ah, just some plants I’ve put together for the residents.”

Illuga brightens. This must be one of Piramida’s gardenkeepers! He’s been enjoying her handiwork just now; it’s a lovely garden, full of aerial hanging plants and strange foreign succulents that don’t take much of their scarce water supply to maintain. Very practical. He’s just thinking that he ought to tell her as much when—

“Nonsense,” says a familiar voice.

Illuga’s steps come to a halt.

“A lady should never diminish her efforts,” Flins says, in that same polished voice he always uses. It’s nice. Too nice. “Why, with your talents and your lovely face, I’m sure many people would appreciate your company.”

The lady sighs, like she’s burdened by something. “That’s kind of you. I’m still put out from the breakup. Perhaps finding someone new would be a good thing.”

“In that case, I’m sure you’ll find a partner quite soon.” A pause. “Miss, do you dance?”

“Ah, not really. Just the usual. Line dances… Bar singing…”

“If you wouldn’t mind, I would love to teach you.”

“Would you really?”

“Certainly. Shall we head to the gardens you mentioned? I would love a view while we dance.”

Illuga finally unfreezes. He realizes, with a jolt of panic, that they’re heading towards him. Flins and this—this gardener-woman are going to dance, and he’s standing right there, right in their way, and Flins used that same voice he used on him the first time they met, and—

“This one,” the lady says, drawing closer. “I’ve always liked the succulents.”

Illuga’s stomach hurts. He slips away before either of them can see him.

***

That night he can’t sleep. He lies awake staring at the ceiling in his Piramida residence, which he rarely stays in. Although it’s supposed to be his home, it feels unfamiliar. He’s too much a soldier to remember how to enjoy sleeping in a soft bed.

Illuga can’t quite muster up the energy to leave. He compromises by opening his window and staring out of it, despondent, like this’ll change anything.

Most of the partygoers have retired for the night by now, but a few of them still continue. Illuga watches the light dance along the walls of the innermost section of Piramida. It makes something swell pleasantly in his chest. He doesn’t like parties himself, but isn’t this what he fights to protect? The people’s joy and peace?

“Do you miss it?”

Illuga jumps and slams the window shut. Or—well, he tries to slam the window shut, but it creaks and freezes stubbornly in place halfway down the frame.

Flins breathes something that might be a laugh. He rests his arms on the windowsill and looks up at the city center with him.

“Flins,” Illuga says, his heart still racing. “Don’t go around doing that. You scared me.”

“My sincerest apologies, Young Master,” Flins says, bowing his head exaggeratedly low. There’s a hint of a smile glimmering on his mouth. “It’s only that I know you can handle me.”

Illuga looks at him, then away again. He’s not sure he can handle Flins at all. He thinks of the gardener and the dancing and feels a little strange. “Still, you shouldn’t do that. What if you’d been at the wrong person’s window?”

“I wasn’t.”

“You might have been.”

Flins hums like he knows something Illuga doesn’t. “I’ll never get it wrong,” he says. “I know how to find you.”

For some strange reason Illuga believes him. He looks at the city again. The lights are almost entirely extinguished. This time he looks beyond the city, to the expanse of wilderness and ocean surrounding it.

Eventually Flins draws away and leans against the window frame next to him. “I asked if you missed the party. You were looking at those lights like you treasured them.”

“Not really,” Illuga admits. “I just like watching people celebrate. Maybe I enjoy the party from a distance, but I enjoy it nonetheless.”

“Mm. What a chivalrous point of view.”

It’s so ridiculous that Illuga laughs, startled. “Chivalrous? I’m just a soldier. Of course I like to see my people safe.” His hands tighten on the window frame. “You’re the more chivalrous one, clearly. I saw you taking that gardener woman out to dance.”

Flins smiles, this time with his eyes. “Ah. She was indeed lovely.”

Illuga contemplates wrenching the window shut again.

“She was quite heartbroken,” Flins continues. “I decided I’d attempt to get drunk tonight. This poor lady had five empty glasses before her, so I abandoned my pursuit and took her out to cheer her up. Her girlfriend had dumped her; she was despondent. Naturally, I found it within myself to teach her a few of my favorite dances.”

Illuga lets go of the poor, undeserving window frame and instead crosses his arms. “You spoke to her like you used to speak to me.”

Flins is silent.

“Like you wanted something,” Illuga says, his voice a little wild. “I just—I remember it. You used to speak to me that way, and now you don’t. Why? Am I not as handsome as you remember?”

“More,” Flins says quietly. “You’ve grown more handsome. That I can assure you.”

“Stop it,” Illuga snaps, drawing his arms closer to his body. “Just—go find someone else. I don’t know. Go dance with gardeners all night.”

Flins looks at him, long and measured. In the pause Illuga begins to feel embarrassed about his outburst. He flushes under Flins’s gaze, ready to apologize and forget it. But before he can, Flins laughs. Soft and real, with his eyes crinkling and his hair glimmering.

Illuga bristles. “What is it now?”

“Young Master,” he says, still smiling mischievously. “You think I wanted to romance her? Goodness, no. She’s not interested in men, nor I in women.”

Some strange tension in Illuga’s shoulders exhales and quietly retreats. He turns away and pretends it doesn’t feel like relief. “I wasn’t asking about that,” he mutters, though it sounds like a lie even to his own ears.

“Regardless,” says Flins, smiling a little. He looks up at him, his eyes glimmering. “There’s no need to worry. I might flatter to get into people’s good graces, but I always know who my Young Master is.”

Illuga inhales sharply. Then, before he can think better of it, he says, “Illuga.”

“Yes,” says Flins. “Who else would my Young Master be?”

“I mean to say that you ought to call me by name.”

Flins pauses. For just a moment, he looks like he’s been caught entirely off guard. His lips part, but he says nothing. Then, slowly, he says, “Are you quite sure?”

Illuga frowns and pushes the window up again. “Why wouldn’t I be? It’s just a name.”

Flins exhales slowly. “Just a name,” he says. Then, quietly, “Illuga.”

Illuga leans out the window. Flins moves away briefly, trying to readjust, and stumbles on the rooftop. Illuga instinctively throws his hand out, and catches Flins’s arm, steadying him. He probably doesn’t need it; the roof here is fairly flat, and he’d have caught himself easily if Illuga hadn’t offered. But Flins takes it anyway.

His hands are cold and ghostly pale, almost blue. Illuga realizes just then that he’s never seen them before. Never seen much of Flins’s skin at all.

“Careful,” Illuga says, letting go of him again. “It’s a long way down.”

Flins steps closer to Illuga’s window, so that when Illuga leans down they’re at eye level with one another. “You needn’t warn me, Young Master. I scaled the walls to get here; I know how far the fall is.”

Illuga blinks. “You… scaled the walls?”

“To see you,” Flins says, nodding. “We didn’t see each other all night.”

“You could have come in the front door.”

Flins smiles wryly. “Not without your approval.”

Illuga doesn’t quite know what that means. He waves his hand vaguely and leans forward on his elbows. “Next time you want to visit me, just knock. I’ll let you in.”

“How considerate.”

Illuga looks at him drily, amused. “See, this is what I’m talking about. You speak to me in these word games. You don’t speak to anyone else that way.”

Flins smiles, just a little. When the searchlight sweeps over his face, his hair glimmers with that blue-flame light long after the beam has swept away. “Certainly not,” he says. “Only the Young Master gets to play these word games with me.”

“Illuga.”

Flins hesitates. For a long moment, he’s silent.

Confronted with the quiet, Illuga’s face feels warm. He clears his throat. “You don’t have to. I don’t mind if you keep calling me your Young Master. There are worse things.”

“Illuga,” Flins says suddenly, looking right at him.

His own name sounds so strange in Flins’s mouth. His breath catches in his throat.

“Illuga,” Flins says, leaning closer. He breathes out, long and slow, and then he closes his strange eyes. “One day you’ll understand.”

“Again with the word games.” Illuga sighs and leans forward again. “I give up. You’re intolerable. Come back when you can say what you mean without making me figure it out myself.”

He tries to shut the window. It hits the same snag as before, stuck halfway down, unable to close.

Flins breathes a laugh. “As you wish, Young Master Illuga,” he says, and then he leans up and takes Illuga’s face between both of his bare, glittering hands and kisses him on the mouth.

He’s cold. Too cold. His skin glitters blue even under the yellow searchlights. Illuga shouldn’t have told him to call him by name. Shouldn’t have let him take an inch. The kiss feels like breathing. He should stop. He should cut it off. Should close the rusted window on him and leave him out there in the night with all the other monsters.

Illuga tangles his hands into Flins’s hair and kisses back. In the distance, the last dregs of the party lay themselves to rest.

***

In the fall Flins comes to Piramida.

“You like him, don’t you, Illuga?” Nikita says, waving his hand vaguely with a smile. “He can stay at your place. No need to pay for rooms in our own city, is there?”

Illuga supposes there isn’t. He doesn’t stay at his house very much; he mostly lives on the road, so that bedroom isn’t too meaningful to him. He can sleep on the couch for however long Flins will be here. Or perhaps, he thinks, perhaps they’ll both lie in his bed, and he can stand guard over Flins all night long while he sleeps so deeply that he looks dead.

He arrives the following day. Illuga goes to the docks and waits for him.

When he disembarks, Flins seems surprised to see him. “Young Master,” he says, nearly stumbling over his own feet on the dock-ramp. “Pardon. I’d thought you were busy.”

“Very,” Illuga agrees, nodding seriously. “I’m receiving an important guest all day, didn’t you hear? A very demanding man, I heard. He’ll surely keep me occupied the whole time he’s here.”

Slowly, a smile spreads across Flins’s face. “Ah. You’ve told them all that I’m quite the primadonna?”

“It isn’t so far off,” Illuga says. “You’ll surely keep me occupied all day, at any rate.”

Flins hides a cough behind his glove. “My goodness, Young Master. How forward.”

Illuga blinks. He runs his own words over in his mind, trying to find the—ah. Ah. That’s it. His face heats up. “Sir Flins, I didn’t mean—surely you know I’m just talking about the—there’s a crafts market going on today,” he says quickly, switching tracks entirely. “They have many gemstones. I thought you’d want to look at them all.”

Flins, predictably, brightens. “Only look?” he says, grinning. “Good thing I packed light. Lots of room for new belongings.”

Only then does Illuga notice that Flins has no luggage at all. The only things he’s brought with him, it appears, are his usual clothes, his lantern, and a small Lightkeeper-issue shoulder bag, probably full of supplies. “Oh,” he says, faintly disappointed. “I wanted to carry your things.”

“Carry yourself, Young Master. That is enough for me.”

Illuga looks at him sideways. He gets the feeling, sometimes, that he’s missing something with Flins, missing something he should have known ages ago. “This way,” he says.

He leads Flins to his Piramida residence, the apartment on the top floor of a towering complex. It’s accessed through a covered staircase. Flins must have had a hard time climbing all the roofs to get to the top. Illuga pictures him, disheveled from his climb, his gloves off, gritting his teeth as he scrambles for the next roof. The mental image makes him smile.

“What’s so amusing, Young Master?”

Illuga blinks the picture away and smiles at his feet. “Nothing in particular. Come on—we’re here.”

When he unlocks the door, Flins waits outside it politely. Illuga stares at him, waiting for him to come in.

Flins motions vaguely. “Close the door.”

“Excuse me?”

“Close it,” Flins requests again. “I want to knock.”

Illuga furrows his brow. But he closes the door anyway, and so they stand separated by the door, Illuga inside and Flins outside.

Then Flins knocks.

Illuga doesn’t quite see the point of all this. Still, he opens the door and pretends to be surprised. “Oh! Hello, Sir Flins. I had no idea it was you.”

Flins smiles a little. “Hello, Young Master,” he says, similarly cordial. “My apologies for showing up unannounced. I really had nowhere else to go. You wouldn’t mind putting me up for a few days, would you?”

Illuga breathes a laugh. “Ridiculous man,” he says, shaking his head. He throws the door open wider. “Come in already. I know you want to.”

Only then does Flins step inside.

The house isn’t terribly large. It’s the top floor of a Lightkeeper complex, so the whole building goes unoccupied sometimes, when they’re all out on deployment. It’s nice, though, to have a home to return to. Illuga’s apartment has a large kitchen and a small relaxation space and, of course, the bedroom with the large window beside it, where Flins stood before.

“Well,” says Illuga, sweeping his hands to encompass the whole place. “Go ahead.”

Flins looks at him oddly. “Pardon?”

“You said you like all your belongings to be in their proper place.” Illuga sits down in his favorite chair. “I know you didn’t bring much, but if you want to find a proper place for everything, please, be my guest.”

Flins’s hands hesitate on the clasp of his bag. “Young Master, this is your home. I shouldn’t be the one to decide where things ought to go.”

Illuga shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

So Flins busies himself unpacking. Illuga hadn’t imagined it would take long, but he’s actually got a lot in that bag. He takes out no less than three candelabras, then an array of gemstones, which he spends some time assembling on the mantle. Then he positions his lantern on the bedside table, just as he had in the inn.

“Do you always sleep with that?” Illuga asks, gesturing to the lantern.

Flins looks up, but doesn’t quite smile. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” Illuga admits, looking at the now-flameless lantern. “The opposite, actually. I remember that night; I had no nightmares. I haven’t slept without nightmares in years.” Maybe ever. He probably slept peacefully when he was little, before the attacks. He doesn’t know. He can’t remember much of his birth parents, or anything before the Lightkeepers, really.

“Good.” Flins’s eyes soften a little. “I sincerely hope it can keep the nightmares at bay again. You deserve that peace, Young Master.”

His voice is too soft for someone just wishing him the best. Illuga swallows. He doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to think about that lantern-flame, the same color as the oil-slick shimmer in Flins’s hair. Doesn’t want to think about Flins saying it takes enough drinks to kill a man. Doesn’t want to think about the way he looked when Illuga told him to call him by name, like he’d never tasted anyone’s name in his mouth before.

He knows. He’d be an idiot not to see it.

“What about that craft market,” Illuga says instead, because he’s a coward.

Flins only smiles. “Of course, Young Master.”

They walk the streets of Piramida together all afternoon. Flins buys so many gemstones that he can hardly carry them all. He gives one of them to Illuga and spins a story about how it was the eye of a famous witch, who brewed poisons for any women who wanted their husbands dead under mysterious circumstances, no questions asked. Eventually her own husband used one of those poisons on her, and it turned her eyes to glittering emeralds, green with envy for all the women with peaceful marriages.

“Quite the story,” Illuga says, looking down at the small green stone. It sparkles innocently in his hand.

“Mm,” says Flins. “I made it up.”

Illuga huffs a breath through his nose. “I get the feeling that much of what you say is spinning stories.”

Flins wraps his fingers around Illuga’s and closes their hands together, the emerald in the middle. “Keep an eye out,” he says, instead of answering his implicit question. “It’s said if anyone finds the witch’s other eye, they should give it to their lover for luck.”

Illuga tucks the stone away into his satchel. “Really? Wouldn’t the witch’s eyes only bring misfortune for couples?”

“You’d be surprised,” Flins says mildly. Then, with one last look at him, he says, “Shall we head home? It’s almost time for dinner.”

Illuga follows him. Inside his bag, the gemstone glints green, catching the last rays of daylight.

***

Nighttime. Illuga sits in bed reading his novel. This time, he watches very carefully when Flins lights the lantern.

He doesn’t light it until he’s already sitting in bed. Then he reaches out with his hands, and seemingly without using a match, the flame comes to life, blue and glimmering. The minute it lights, his body goes slack, like a marionette with its strings cut. All the tension bleeds from his face in an instant, like it’s the relief of a lifetime to finally rest.

Illuga smiles to himself. He bookmarks his page and shuts it. “Good night, Flins,” he says, not looking at the man lying next to him at all.

The blue flame flickers. Illuga watches it until his eyes soften with sleep.

He dreams of falling off the Piramida towers, falling and falling and never hitting the ground, just soaring above the world forevermore.

***

Flins stays for two days. On the third an icy wind sweeps through, biting through Illuga’s sweater when they walk back to the docks together. He shivers and tugs it closer.

“Are you quite alright, Young Master?”

“Fine,” Illuga says briskly. He stands taller and dismisses the shiver that rises in his arms. “I should have brought my coat. I forgot it’s nearly winter; it’s getting cold again.”

“Mm,” says Flins. He adjusts his singular bag on his shoulder, this time full of gemstones and things from the market. “Your birthday is in winter,” he says, not quite a question.

Illuga nods, surprised. “I didn’t know you remembered.”

“In the dead of winter, when everyone drinks to keep warm,” Flins recites. “I remember.”

Illuga huffs a dry laugh. “Everyone but me, I suppose.”

Flins smiles a little. He readjusts his gloves, fastening the button tighter across his wrist. Illuga catches a glimpse of the skin beneath it, pale and blueish, like he’d died of frostbite once upon a time.

“Young Master,” says Flins suddenly, out of nowhere. “If you liked, you could visit. For your birthday, I mean. I know Final Night Cemetery gets cold, but I’d keep the fires lit all night for you.”

Illuga blinks. “You mean, visit you?”

“Not unless you’re seeing other men from my cemetery.”

“Not really, no,” Illuga says, smiling. “Unless you count visiting the graves of the honorable Lightkeepers who came before me.”

Flins looks pleased.

“I’m not seeing other men at all,” Illuga blurts, not quite sure why he says it. “I mean, I care for my soldiers greatly, but you should know, that’s not the same.”

Flins looks stricken. Slowly, his eyes fill with gold, like a spark fanning into flame.

“I’m saying I understand,” Illuga says, looking at his feet. His face is warm. “When you flirt with other people, I understand. As long as you know who your Young Master is, when all is said and done.”

Flins smiles. He takes his hand, like he did the first time they met, and kisses it carefully, on his bare wrist right above the sleeve-hem of his sweater. “Illuga,” he says. “Of course I know.”

Then the ship’s horn sounds, and he steps on board.

Illuga stands at the dock and watches the boat until it disappears over the horizon.

***

In December the water becomes half-frozen, and the boat trip is more treacherous than usual. Illuga takes the boat halfway, and makes the rest of the journey on land from the main port of Paha Isle.

He walked this same path with his father, years ago, when he met Flins for the first time. Back then he’d been anxious, weighed down by everyone’s expectations of him. Now he’s weighed down only by the backpack he’d packed in secret before he left. He didn’t need to keep the trip a secret—no one would mind if he wanted to visit Flins—but it felt thrilling, keeping it a secret. Like he was getting away with something.

Maybe twenty-two is a bit old for keeping secrets. Illuga doesn’t know. He isn’t twenty-two yet; one more day. He can have one more day of this giddiness.

At last the base of the grand lighthouse comes into view. The woodpecker in Illuga’s chest is hammering away again as he raises his hand to the door. When he knocks, he knocks to the same rhythm as his heart, tap-tap-tap.

Flins opens the door. “Young Master,” he says. Then, before Illuga can even ask, he corrects himself: “Illuga.”

He holds the door, and Illuga steps inside. He’s never spent long enough in here to observe it; now he looks around, trying to memorize everything and glean meaning from it. “You weren’t lying,” he says, glancing at the gemstones covering the mantle. “Everything really does have its place.”

“Naturally,” Flins says. He walks to the mantle and picks up a gem, then sets it back down carefully. “I doubt you brought decorations, but if you wish to move anything, please do.”

He must trust him greatly, to allow him to move his carefully-positioned things. Illuga doesn’t plan on it. But as he walks past, one of the gemstones on the mantle catches his eye. It’s green, shimmering, and perfectly round. “Flins,” he says slowly, picking it up between his fingers. “This looks like the witch’s eye you gave me.”

Flins looks pleased. “Yes. Because it is.”

Illuga turns around, startled. “You said—” Here he falters, and places the gemstone back down quickly. “You said the witch’s other eye was supposed to be given to a lover.”

“Did I?” Flins says, smiling. “Probably I just meant that gemstones make good gifts to those you care for.”

Illuga breathes a laugh. This ridiculous man. He’s spent so long wondering which of Flins’s stories were true that he’d nearly forgotten to read between the lines. The fact of the tale is irrelevant, with him; what matters is the reason he tells it. He picks up his bag again. “Never mind that,” he says. “Show me to my room.”

“Your room?” Flins says, grinning. “Goodness, Young Master, you’re moving so fast. Are all of my possessions becoming yours already?”

Illuga looks at him sideways. “You keep saying that,” he says, holding onto his backpack just a little tighter. “Talking about belongings, like they’re so important to you.”

“They are,” Flins agrees. He holds open the door to the bedroom.

“You must hate having me over,” Illuga continues. He sets down his bag and unpacks his few non-clothing possessions. “Spoiling your perfectly-organized home like this.”

“Why would I have offered if I minded?”

“Maybe you’re humoring me on my lonely birthday.”

“Hm,” says Flins. He leans delicately against the doorframe, watching him unpack with strange interest. “Perhaps—and just consider this—perhaps it’s the exact opposite. Perhaps I’m tired of my Young Master belonging to other people, and selfishly wanted to make him join me for a few days. To steal him away and put him with the rest of my things.”

Illuga looks over his shoulder. “Flins,” he says drily, smiling knowingly at him. “This is ridiculous. You know I’m not one of your belongings.”

Flins smiles, a little sadly. “I know.”

“If anything,” Illuga says, his heart beating faster, “you’re one of mine. Since—” Oh god, what is he doing? “Since I’m your commander now. You answer to me, and you are mine.”

Flins looks stricken.

Illuga stands up hastily, leaving the bag unzipped behind him. “Only if that’s alright with you,” he says quickly. “I don’t mean to say—that is, you don’t owe me anything. I’m fine continuing as we are, if you don’t—”

Flins takes his face in both hands and kisses him.

Thank fuck, Illuga thinks, slumping into his touch with relief. He’d hardly remembered how this felt; it’s better than he remembered, making his hands buzz and sweeping all the cold from his system. He sighs through his nose and slowly loops his hands behind Flins’s neck.

“Young Master,” Flins breathes into his mouth. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

Illuga stands up a little taller and looks into his eyes. “Call me by my name,” he demands, his hands tightening in Flins’s long, glittering hair.

Flins doesn’t. Instead he lets their mouths meet again and Illuga doesn’t even mind, because he’s got Flins’s strange blue-pale hands on him and his oil-spill hair slipping between his fingers and his mouth cold against his, and that’s alright, that’s alright.

***

“Kyryll.”

Illuga blinks himself awake. Flins is looking down at him, his hair falling like a curtain over Illuga’s face. “Hmnh?” he says, half-awake.

Flins is majestic above him. His eyes burn like the flame in the bedside lantern. It’s extinguished, but just barely; there’s smoke still trailing from it, like it had just had its light snuffed.

“My name,” Flins says. He leans down closer. “If you’ve given me your name, I should give you mine in return. Kyryll.” Flins draws away again. “This is my promise to you. Now that you have it, I cannot ever break it.”

He leans down and kisses Illuga’s forehead, like he’s protecting him from something. Illuga sighs, pleased, and sits up to look at him.

Maybe Illuga should be worried about what he is. No human has hair like that, that fazes in and out of being. No human has skin like they’ve already frozen to death. No human has that captured-flame look in their eyes, just waiting to burn its confines away and set the world ablaze.

But no human has Illuga’s heart, and Flins does.

“…Kyryll,” he says softly. He tastes the word in his mouth, forms the shape of it. “Kyryll.”

Flins looks at him like all the fireworks going off above Piramida, like coming home to a soft bed and knowing how to sleep in it. “Illuga,” he says, closing his eyes again. “Young Master.”

“Good,” Illuga says, already half-asleep again. He curls up, content, and sighs into the pillow. “Call me that forever, as long as you won’t forget who you belong to.”

“I would never,” Flins says. “So long as you remember who it is that belongs to you.”

Illuga smiles.

When he sleeps, the nightmares do not follow.