Work Text:
This isn’t good.
Illuga grimaces as his body jolts, heavy eyelids snapping open as he fixes the hunch in his back with a subtle grunt. Work hasn’t been the most lenient lately—at least not time-wise and effort-wise—and the exhaustion of three back-to-back missions on the Wild Hunt seems to finally be catching up to him. He can already feel his head falling forwards again, his thoughts scattering like seafoam ashore, and everything goes black for a moment before he remembers: he’s on patrol. He’s supposed to be taking a three-minute break. He can’t fall asleep now.
C’mon, stop it. Illuga pries his eyes back open and tips his head back against the hard bark of an Alder tree, spreading his fingers back and forth against the damp grass like the touch is enough to keep him conscious. He clicks his tongue under his breath, trying to focus his gaze on the falling sun beginning to drown behind the horizon line.
It’s quiet. It’s usually quiet on patrol, but it’s too quiet. It’s hard to keep his eyes open when he can hear promises of rest taunting him in the silence.
He groans low in his throat, and a prickling, moist palm comes up to cover his eyes defeatedly. Illuga isn’t some child who’ll get scolded for taking a nap, is he? It’s better to take a short rest here, out in the middle of nowhere, than head back to the rest of the Ratniki and pass out in front of them mid-sentence. That would be unbecoming for a Squad Leader; not to mention that it’d be humiliating, especially when he’d told everyone he had one more patrol left in him before he’d listen to all their advice and get an actual night’s worth of sleep.
Everything goes black again. Illuga swiftly realises sleep is taking him with the last flickers of his consciousness, and he slams his head against the back of the tree to rouse his consciousness back into gear. The pain kicks in when the frustration dies down, and he bites a pained whine into his lip. Ouch, damn it!
Trying to fight it is quickly proving to be useless. The silence is like noise now, growing louder and louder and bringing him closer to that long-ignored feeling of sleep. Sleeping is quiet. It’s quiet right now. It’s the same thing, really.
Illuga’s got the instincts to awaken at a bristle of noise if danger’s what he senses along with it. It’s a polished, sharp skill he’s honed through years of battle and sticky situations. If something as much as breathes at him wrong, his eyes will snap open and he’ll jump straight into battle mode. Maybe he’ll kick it where it hurts. Maybe he’ll take it down all by himself. Maybe he’ll pierce its tough flesh and bring the beast a well-deserved death.
The thought brings a peaceful smile to his face, and his eyes slip closed again. Yeah, a nap won’t hurt anyone. It’s not like Illuga’s so tired that this quick nap will bleed into the next day—he’ll wake up pretty quickly. Probably. And if it does bleed into the next day, he’ll just say he got lost… or something…
…
Huh. His head’s falling forward, but there’s something warm and silky beneath his chin stopping it from sagging.
His neck feels pretty supported. This is nice.
…
“Young Master?”
…?
Illuga yelps, eyes shooting wide open as he slams his head back into the Alder wood. “Oh—Ow, fuck! What—”
“Apologies, Master Illuga,” chuckles the voice in front of him. Illuga hasn’t quite finished his return to Teyvat from Dreamland, but the sound is familiar and warm, and he feels himself relaxing anyway. “I did not mean to provoke such a reaction.”
Another hand comes to cradle the back of his head, soothing the spot with a fervent warmth as Illuga hisses from the pain, and he blinks rapidly to orient himself back into awareness. His gaze tracks the gloved hand supporting his chin, following the fingers down to the arm, and his mind is blank when he sees Flins squatting in front of him and looking terribly amused.
“What… Sir Flins?” Illuga murmurs, still trying to process what’s happening.
He blinks as Flins pulls himself a little closer, the hand on the back of Illuga’s head starting to rub at the sore spot in a way that makes his ears twitch and shoulders loosen. Flins seems pleased by the way Illuga’s head tilts up, perplexed, smoky eyes tracking Flins’s every movement, too groggy to protest the thumb resting just beneath his lip and the fingers curled under his jaw.
Sir Flins is here…?
Illuga blinks.
Why’s Sir Flins here? What’s he…?
Illuga blinks again.
“Wait, Sir Flins?!” Illuga yelps, shoving Flins’s hand from his chin with an embarrassed noise, and he grabs his wrist to hold it down and away from his face. Legs kicking at the green, Illuga quickly scoots backwards past the tree, slipping that other gloved hand out of his hair as his knees curl up defensively.
“Good evening, Master Illuga,” Flins greets, smiling a little too widely. His amber eyes track Illuga’s tight grip around his wrist, staring at it for a moment before he looks back up at him and gestures at it vaguely. “Did my touch offend you? I was merely trying to keep you from collapsing, as it would be quite troublesome if you were to injure your neck.”
“Huh?” Illuga relaxes his grip and realises just how tightly he’d been holding the other in his panicked haze. If his face isn’t aflame, it definitely feels like it is. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to grab you that hard—You surprised me!”
“I’m not bothered by it,” Flins assures, still sporting that easy smile as he draws his hand back to his side. “But I must say… It is quite dangerous for you to be sleeping out in the open like that. Who knows what would happen while you’re vulnerable in slumber? You could have gotten hurt.”
“Hey, I’m aware of that! If anything dangerous came by, I would’ve woken up in an instant. My senses are keen enough for that,” Illuga argues.
Flins quirks an eyebrow. “Is that so? You seem to have been caught off guard by my presence, though. I’ve been in the area for… Well, not a small amount of time. And you allowed me to get worryingly close to you without rousing.”
“Well—That’s—I…”
Illuga’s expression sours, heat crawling down from his neck to his shoulders. Flins isn’t wrong, exactly…
But it’s Flins! Flins, notorious for being so atrociously undetectable, slinking wherever he pleases like a shadow beneath heavy boots. Illuga’s instincts aren’t wired to him, and he doesn’t think they’ll ever be; even after knowing this mischievous Ratnik for as long as he has, he still gets spooked by him. It’s not his fault, it’s Flins’s, for being so—…well, Flins!
And, okay, perhaps letting Flins get close enough to touch his chin and hold his head like that—maybe there’s a bit of an issue there. Illuga’s brow creases as he tries to figure out what he should reply to that: why Flins’s voice made him relax rather than tense, why Flins’s touch didn’t fly him straight back into awareness, why Flins is able to… bypass all these normally infallible barriers.
…Well. He knows the answer to that, too—but it’s not exactly something to be said aloud.
“Because you’re not dangerous, obviously.” Illuga tries for confidence, but his ‘obviously’ does not sound like it’s obvious at all. He folds his arms in front of him, pouting. “You’re not exactly famous for having a very conspicuous approach, either.”
A number of similar emotions seem to flit across Flins’s face in rapid succession, each a different flavour of amusement that makes Illuga want to bury himself underground. “Why, I suppose that’s quite the compliment. I’m honoured to be classified as something other than a ‘danger’ to you.”
“That’s not what I—… Never mind.” Illuga sighs, adjusting his position to one that doesn’t make him seem like prey afraid of being hunted. He watches as the last glimpse of the sun is swallowed by the vast ocean, the sky erupting with inky hues that chase the warm tints away to make space for the stars. Then his gaze tracks Flins’s face again, speeding heartbeat finally back at a normal pace, and he pats the grass next to him. “…Why are you even out here anyway?”
Flins watches Illuga’s hand and seems to understand, and he lifts himself from his squat with an air of elegance very specific to the mysterious guardian. His boots crunch against the blades of green as he lowers himself down, and he crosses one leg and extends the other forward. They sit like that for a long moment, letting the wind fill the silence, and Illuga can already feel his head getting light again.
“I believe I should be the one asking you that question,” Flins finally says, glancing at the other with a glimpse of curiosity in his eyes. “It’s unwise for a patroller to be this susceptible to sleep, especially at this time. You should be getting rest somewhere more suited for restful activities.”
“…It was just a quick nap,” Illuga mumbles. He’s not entirely sure if he’s trying to convince himself or Flins—either way, it doesn’t seem to be working. “And I’m almost done with patrol, anyway. The Lightkeepers who usually work at this time should be raring to go by now. I was just taking a short rest on my way back.”
“Well, we should get going then, no? I’m sure the Ratniki will be pleased that your rounds are completed—they’ve been hoping for you to take some time off for yourself, you know,” Flins says smoothly. “You’re actually faring better than most would after the number of missions you’ve completed these last few days. It truly is impressive.”
Illuga scoffs. His body feels warm, his face feels warm, and Flins is practically radiating warmth next to him. He tries not to let himself get swept away in Flins’s words, as charming and flattering as they usually are, but it’s not like the effect is entirely lost—especially not when he’s this worn out, this bare. He is faring better than most would. He is a little impressed with himself. Flins may use his compliments in a way that drives Illuga up the wall sometimes, but it’s not like Flins is one to lie.
“You think so?” He lets out a soft breath, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. “Well, it’s my responsibility, I guess. And—Hey, you never answered my question. What are you doing out here?”
“You neglected to answer mine, too,” Flins points out, skirting around the topic again. Illuga feels a familiar flicker of indignant frustration in his gut. “Shouldn’t we get going? Are you unable to move?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Is there something impeding your ability to walk the last stretch of the way?”
“No—I’m not injured, Flins.”
“I could carry you the rest of the way if your condition is unstable.”
“I’m doing fine, there’s nothing wrong with me!”
“Then I suggest we depart from here. The sooner we can get you to bed, the better.”
Illuga frowns. Can Flins stop? He doesn’t want to go back yet. He likes what’s happening right now—the view, the silence, the man next to him. He likes this warmth, this coziness, the lack of responsibilities and hustle and bustle and—ah, no, he’s being selfish. He should go back; he shouldn’t make the other Lightkeepers worry about him any longer. He should let the next group of patrollers start so someone’s actually surveilling the area, that someone being much more aware and prepared for it. It would be wise for them to go back now.
Flins starts to stand, and then he stops. His piercing yellow eyes flit down to Illuga from where he’s half-risen, blinking like a cat trying to understand something complex, and Illuga stares back. Why’d Flins stop? Did he read Illuga’s mind? Is he secretly a mind-reader—is that the big secret? Wow, this is a pretty underwhelming way to find out.
And then Flins makes a show of trying to rise, and there’s a visible resistance to the motion. Illuga looks down. His hand’s grabbing Flins’s coat.
Illuga’s hand is grabbing Flins’s coat.
Illuga—Wait, his hand?
“I—” He immediately lets go, scrambling backwards again. “Oh. I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry, I’m—I think I’m too tired, my… My body’s not keeping up with my mind right now. I didn’t mean to grab you, we can go—”
“No, it’s alright.” Flins folds his legs as he drops back onto the ground, smiling languidly. “Don’t apologise.”
The exhaustion must be worse than Illuga expected. He’s normally good at controlling these impulses, but it’s… Well, something isn’t in working order right now. Illuga drags a hand down his impossibly hot face, peeking through his fingers at whatever teasing expression Flins must be making—but when he opens his eyes fully, he doesn’t see it. Flins does look amused, but when does he not? Right now, he just looks… tender. It makes Illuga’s stomach do something funny.
“We can afford to stay a little longer. We’re in no rush, anyway.” Flins shrugs, looking back out at the sea, saving Illuga the mortification he was expecting. Instead, he glances back just long enough to take Illuga’s fingers in his—and archons, Flins is warm. But Illuga doesn’t flinch.
He lets Flins pull him closer again, shuffling against the grass until their shoulders bump, and then he opens his mouth to tell him that they should go, they shouldn’t keep the others waiting, they shouldn’t be selfish right now when it’s something as important as patrol that’s on the line.
No words come out.
Illuga sighs, and then his head begins to loll, and it happens to land against Flins’s shoulder. He bites down a smile at the way Flins startles, how his head turns ever so slightly, and Illuga feigns ignorance as he continues looking out at the ocean. This feels so… odd, and he knows it’s unbefitting of him—when was the last time he allowed himself to lean on someone like this? When was the last time he let this gnarled knot of selfishness allow itself to fester in him? But the liveliness of it is like a drug—his heart’s pounding, this view is so beautiful, and even if every rational thought in his head is telling him to stop then his head’s been empty since he first fell asleep.
Flins is warm. Illuga thought he was warm from just sitting in his close proximity, but with his cheek pressed against the other’s body as chilly Nod-Krai air rolls over them, he realises Flins is warm. There’s little to say and little left unsaid in this emptiness, here in the evening’s blanket where only him and Flins reside. Honestly, if he grabs Flins’s nape and pulls him down just enough to close a distance too far between their faces… No one would know anyway, right? And if Flins makes a soft, surprised, satisfied sound into Illuga’s mouth when their lips slide together, Illuga would be too sleepy to remember the events of tonight—or that’s the story he’d go with.
It’s perfect.