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The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over Nodkrai’s restless fields. The air shimmered with a quiet gold, softening the harsh edges of the war-worn land. Wildflowers swayed lazily in the breeze, their petals catching the light like stained glass.
Varka sat beneath the twisted trunk of an old pine, legs crossed, his back supported by the worn bark. Draped across his lap was Flins, whose long, glacial-blue hair spilled like silk over Varka’s thigh and down to the grass. His eyes were closed, his face peaceful — for once — and his breathing slow, as if he were letting himself truly rest. The black and silver chains of his usual attire were set aside for now, but he still wore the same somber expression even in sleep.
Varka’s hands moved with practiced ease, fingers nimbly weaving a flower crown from the stems and blooms scattered beside him. He didn’t need to look down — his muscle memory did the work, shaped long ago during quieter days in Mondstadt. Back then, Razor had been the one thrusting handfuls of flowers into his hands, demanding “forest gifts” with wide eyes and a dirty face.
“Flins?” Varka said softly, voice low so as not to startle him. “You awake?”
There was a pause, then a faint murmur: “Mmh… Are you done, Varka?”
“Almost,” Varka replied, plucking a tulip from the pile. He twirled it between his fingers. “This one’s for you — yellow tulip. It means light. Thought it was fitting.”
Flins didn’t respond immediately, but there was a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“And this one here,” Varka went on, holding up a tall purple bloom, “gladiolus. Strength of character. Very noble, very stoic. Remind you of anyone?”
“You really know your flowers,” Flins murmured without opening his eyes. “Old man.”
Varka gasped, scandalized. “Old?! I’m not even close to retirement age! You’d think someone who looks like a haunted prince would be more respectful.”
“I already am,” Flins said dryly, sitting up at last. His gaze — sharp, calculating, and slightly amused — met Varka’s.
The sunlight caught in his pale lashes. With his long coat still draped over his narrow frame, chains catching faint glints of light, and the ghost of a smile on his lips, Flins looked like he’d stepped out of a myth. Untouchable, enigmatic — and yet here he was, letting Varka place a flower crown on his head.
“Here,” Varka said gently, setting the crown atop Flins’ long hair, right between the elegant drape of his bangs and the glint of his metal shoulder guard. “Not bad, huh?”
Flins tilted his head slightly, feeling the weight. “How do I look?”
“Like royalty,” Varka said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “A smug little heir to the flower throne.”
“…That’s not a thing,” Flins said, but he was clearly fighting a smile.
“Wanna learn to make one?”
Flins arched a brow. “You’re offering to teach me?”
“Don’t act surprised,” Varka said, puffing up slightly. “I taught Razor when he was a pup. You might be older than both of us combined, but I bet you’ve never even touched a daisy.”
Flins gave a quiet chuckle. “Fine. Show me.”
For the next hour, the two of them sat together under the slowly shifting sky. Varka taught with the calm patience of someone who had done this a hundred times — how to bend the stems without snapping, how to hide the ugly ends beneath petals, how to wrap a crown that held its shape. Flins listened intently, quiet and focused, his long fingers fumbling more than once. A few of the vines snapped. One flower turned to mush in his grip.
But Varka never laughed. Just grinned and guided his hands.
Eventually, Varka sighed and stretched, his joints popping as he stood. “Alright, I’ve got some terribly exciting paperwork to file. Try not to make the forest explode while I’m gone.”
Flins hummed without looking up. Varka gave him a pat on the shoulder, then disappeared into the woods, leaving him in the fading sunlight.
As soon as the footsteps were gone, Flins sat up straighter. The moment of peace passed. His expression turned focused.
“…Alright,” he muttered to himself, glancing at the discarded pile of flowers. “Let’s see if I was paying attention.”
He wasn’t. But he tried anyway.
Flins grabbed whatever blooms caught his eye — he didn’t care about the meanings, not really. They were just colors and textures to him. It was only because Varka cared so much that he even bothered to remember which ones bent better or which stems didn’t fall apart. A few were wilted. One was probably poison. And he still wasn’t sure how to braid grass.
But after a while, he stared down at the tangled mess in his hands. It looked less like a crown and more like a particularly decorative knot.
“…Could be worse,” he muttered.
When Varka returned, brushing pine needles from his shoulders and squinting against the orange-tinged sky, he paused. Flins was standing there stiffly, something clearly hidden behind his back.
“Flins,” Varka said, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not holding a dead squirrel back there, are you?”
Flins scowled. “…No. Here.”
He produced the flower crown with minimal ceremony. It was crooked. Wild. There was an aggressive-looking weed poking out from one side. He looked genuinely embarrassed.
“I tried.”
Varka stared at it — then back at Flins.
It was a disaster. But it was his disaster. And Varka could see the effort in every awkward loop and snapped stem.
“…It’s perfect,” he said softly. “Come here.”
He took the crown and — without a hint of irony — placed it on his own head. It flopped a little to the side. A petal immediately fell off.
Flins blinked. “You’re wearing it?”
“Of course,” Varka said, tapping his shoulder. “Best gift I’ve gotten all month.”
Without a word, Flins stepped forward and leaned into him. Varka’s arm came up naturally around his back, pulling him close. Flins rested his head against the older man’s shoulder, his long hair brushing Varka’s arm.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The wind passed through the clearing, carrying with it the faint scent of crushed flowers and pine. Above them, the first stars blinked into view.
Varka closed his eyes, crown still tilting off his head, and smiled to himself.