Chapter Text
Illuga was late, and this was unusual.
Four plump fish on hooks in hand, Kyryll fussed with the open flame, feeding it another log and silently cursing its lack of ability to stay ablaze. Human fire was so temperamental – just like the creatures themselves, really. A̶̲̅ ̵̮͛͜d̴̰̹̀̍ì̷̪͠s̴͕̀ä̶́͜p̴͇͑p̴͙̈͘ͅo̶̗̜͝ḭ̵́n̵͎͛̿ṭ̵̂͊m̷̢͉̈̕ě̵̛͓n̵̺̦̈̋t̷̨̹́ said the voice of Kyryll that lived inside him, the one wreathed in azure flames. The human form of Kyryll paid it no mind.
Kyryll hung the fish from a hook at the side of the Lighthouse and looked about for a bucket to place them in. Much longer and they’d not be fresh. But cook them too soon, and they’d be spoiled. He knew the Young Master would eat them quite happily all the same – the man eats Mandragora, for crying out loud – but Kyryll would not derive the same pleasure he usually does from watching him eat less than perfect fish, and that would never do.
He knows his sour mood is just a result of the late hour; an eagerness to make the most of the little time they have together. By now, they’ve usually eaten dinner. It being wintertime, it was too cold to sit outside on the bench; which made it Kyryll's favorite time of the year purely because it gave him the perfect excuse to invite Illuga into his home. He’d sit there, on the single chair in the paltry excuse for a place that Kyryll supposed humans called a living area, and every single time he’d try to offer the chair to Kyryll instead. “But Mister Flins…” he’d protest, and Kyryll would shake his head with a small smile. “You are a guest in my home,” Kyryll would say, and Illuga would grumble something about bringing a chair in his next supply run. Kyryll would refuse, saying it was too much trouble - and then he’d bring out the Firewater to change the subject. Illuga was a quick and enthusiastic drunk, so Kyryll would quietly monitor the amount he was knocking back, replacing the Firewater bottle with water at just the right moment so Illuga was merely rosy instead of riotous. These days, Illuga usually ended up sleeping over, a sign that Kyryll didn’t dare to hope was a signal that Illuga might somewhat enjoy his company as well. Illuga came to him mostly out of pity, he knew this; and he felt thankful the Captain had such a big heart and was so generous with his time. But a Fae could dream. And so, Kyryll would scoop him up under one arm or, on days he’d drunk a little more than usual, carry him entirely in his arms, cradle him there before depositing him onto the bed upstairs. Exhausted, Illuga would fall asleep almost immediately – and Kyryll would allow himself five minutes of indulgence watching the air rise and fall in and out of the person he adored the most before he forced himself out on patrol. When he would return late the following day, Illuga would have gone to work; taking all the temptation of his presence with him.
He does not know when he started measuring the worth of his life in the hours spent with Illuga. All he knows is he never wants that time to end, and he does not know what this means.
Illuga, Illuga, Illuga. The shape of his name on Kyryll’s lips rounded perfectly on the tongue; the perfect name for the perfect man. I̸̪̿l̵͕͑̑l̷̜͂u̸̜͂͘g̸̪̐a̸̗͂-... rumbled the voice inside, and Kyryll told it to quieten down even as he enjoyed hearing it.
But where was he? If Kyryll gazed into the distance, he could almost conjure up the distinctive bounce of Illuga’s walk in the distance, the happy wave of his gloved hands as he spots Kyryll in kind. In his mind's eye, he sees him: supplies dragging behind him as the sun sets around his head like a halo, offset by the golden glow of his lamp —
Kyryll narrowed his eyes.
A golden streak of light was barrelling its way across the barren downs, towards where the sea parted to allow passage to the lighthouse. It raced faster and faster towards him, leaving flurries of glimmering sand in its wake in rhythmic, panicked strokes. It took a moment — but when it hit, a sense of dread slid into Kyryll’s gut like ice down the small of his back.
It was Aedon. Alone, without his beloved master, and making his way to Kyryll as fast as his tiny wings could carry him.
Illuga. Illuga was in trouble.
His feet moved on their own, conjuring his polearm on instinct as he started towards the little bird. Breaking into a sprint, Kyryll allowed his flames to speed his movements, pushing his feet forward in a blur that allowed him to pass across the water as if utterly weightless. By the time he reaches Aedon, he’s moving so fast that he’s nothing more than a blur of blue flame.
W̸̟̖͑͘ͅh̶͙̏͑ȇ̵͍̪̕r̷̗̥̀͜e̶̘̦̗͝ ̸̧̮̙̑i̷͔̓͝ṡ̴̡̛̛̺͙ ̸̛̗͍͔ÿ̴̺o̵̻͂̾̽ṳ̵̂͝r̷͚̈̅ ̶̨͈͆m̸̫̎̓a̵̻̝̪͋s̵͖͍͑̊̊t̴̖̼͋̽̕e̶̛̪͖̻ŕ̴͕?̴̦͛̀
Aedon warbles perilously in response to the Azure Flame, golden wings taking him in an arc, darting around the blazing fae and in the direction of the coast.
The thing known as Kyryll moves even faster.
The boxes of supplies are strewn about the beach; decimated into nothing more than broken shards of wood and glass. Kyryll does not have a heart in this form, but he feels it clench nonetheless when he sees a torn part of Illuga’s coat, fluttering from the helm of the ruined supply cart. Three mangled Fatui corpses were strewn about the scene — one with the dismembered claw of a colossal rifthound lodged directly in his stomach. There was blood, too, so much blood, matted in the hair of the Fatuus at his feet and in a bright, crimson river leading to the sea. Illuga must have stopped to help them, Kyryll thought, the panic rising and rising in his throat.
But where was he?
Angered, he whirled toward Aedon with a snarl – but the little bird suddenly flew directly past him, back out towards the sea. Towards the sea, where a stream of bubbles floated on the surface of the water.
A̷͚͌̔̐̿͂ĕ̸̔̅͜͠͝d̷̺̄ǫ̶̧̛͉͍͓́̑͌̅n̸̺̙͐͆͊͗!̴͔͙́̈́͒͆ ̷̮̳͓͉͝W̵̥͎̭͑ĥ̷͔̝͎͙̟͗é̴͇͙̓̎̍̀r̸̢͔̱̼̟͘e̷͇̲̹͕͖̎̆̂̀̉ ̴̘̾͌̀̊i̸͎͔͕̞̗̓̚͝s̶͕̟̓̔͝—̴͈͚͓̉͆ͅ
Aedon dived headfirst into the ocean.
Illuga was down there, Kyryll realised. How long had he been submerged? Had something held him down? Would Kyryll be too late? On instinct, he sharpened his form into blades of lightning and carved through the waves.
Illuga floated in the water, ensnared in the maw of the biggest rifthound Kyryll had ever seen. It was dead – Illuga’s spear was shafted directly through its skull. And yet, they’d fallen into the ocean together, the massive beast dragging Illuga with it. Illuga, whose doll-like body rose and fell with the movement of the ocean; tiny bubbles of air tumbling from his lips.
Kyryll didn’t have to think. In a blast of energy, he melted the flesh of the rifthound clean from the bones, the vibration turning its teeth to dust. Illuga floated free, eyes shut and face pale; the image burning itself into Kyryll’s mind's eye even as he transformed and carried him ashore. He laid him carefully on the beach, trying and failing to ignore the way his little head lolled back, jaw horribly slack. Aedon landed by his master’s cold, outstretched palm, nervously pecking at the fingers which would so lovingly stroke and caress him. The fingers that did not move.
He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t breathing.
And the decision was simple after that.
Ȏ̴̤̘͝n̶̛͔̓͘è̸̩̈͗ ̶̡̘̘̳͂̓̊h̵̻͈́̒̾̃ṳ̴̝̩͚̊̅n̴͉̲̥̿̎̐̕d̶̹̏ṙ̶̼̝̞͉̐̚e̷̻͉͌̾̍ḑ̴̮͈̃̈́̄ ̸͕͔͓̻̒̅y̸̨̗̘͆̄ȇ̶̠̠͔̜a̷̳͓̍r̷͒̿̚͜s̷͕̬̓.̸̯͌͆͝͝ said the Azure Flame to Aedon.
I̶̪̋͒͝ ̷͖̦̻̄ͅh̶̲̰̮͚̓́́͛e̸̛͖̦̝r̴̥͕͈͌e̸͈̰̾͛b̸̢͙̥̦̅̋͑ỷ̷̫̟̟̉̽ ̸̜̐f̸̯̼͒ọ̴̹̐͊̓́r̶̨̘͔̬̉̈́s̵̮̳͂̋̾͑a̵̢͊k̶̨̡̫̔̈́̍e̴̱͑͘̕ ̶͉̓͠ò̶̑̾͜ǹ̴̨̛̲̗͊̈́e̵̹̠̭̤̅̒̕ ̸̹͚͌̂̕͜h̷͙͎̾̀̄u̷̘͗n̵̞̠̽̌͐ḑ̷̲͂͠r̶̺͓͎͌̀̌ȇ̵̡́̓͋ḑ̶̧͂͐̊͝ ̸̘́̆̆y̵̛͍̭ḛ̶̚a̷̝̓́r̴̢̛s̶̻̗̭̰̕̕ ̷̝̤̃̓̕͝o̵̭͙̖͒f̶͖̊̍͠ ̸̰͍̈́̾͆͋͜m̸̹͖̼̽͗ỳ̴̗̜̼̏͝ ̴̩͈̆l̶͙̣̚í̷͓̪͈̕f̸̳̍̉̈́̃e̵̳̝̳̼̓̉ ̴̹̇̏ͅt̵̢̺́ö̶̝́ ̵̱̼͎͓́S̶̖̰̈́͋̓͘ǫ̴̘̓̅̀l̸͖̟̈́̆͂͆ö̴͚̫̆̂͝v̷͎͗͒ę̵̧̟̒͛ͅĩ̶̡̭̮͘'̴̢͉̬̖͌s̷͇͐̋ ̵̺̝͆̇̂͝h̸̲̳̩̘͒e̸̺͙͇͛̈́͝i̴̬̇͂r̶̦̀̊̂.̷̨͌̒̉ ̷̻̭̖̀͘
The golden bird hopped into Illuga’s palm, staring at the blaze of flames sometimes known as Kyryll. It paused for some time, then cocked its head, as if listening to an unheard voice – then shook its feathers, a melodic chirp of affirmation leaving its beak.
Just as Kyryll felt a dull, cold blade of ice settle deep in the center of his chest, Illuga’s forefinger twitched.
——— ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ ———
The walk back to the lighthouse felt longer than usual, and Kyryll felt the weight of every step. It wasn’t due to the fact he was carrying Illuga, either - the man was as light as the packs of dried pulses he was so diligent in bringing to Flins every two weeks. No; it was the weight of what had just happened that dogged his thoughts – the weight of what he had almost lost.
He’d maintained his human form just in case Illuga would wake up, which made processing how he was feeling that little more difficult. It wasn’t easy, living in a body. Especially a body made for an entirely different type of being. Kyryll was used to the quirks of humanity at this point; how a trill of adrenaline would shoot through his system at the start of battle, or how the heart inside his chest would speed up when Illuga smiled – he understood the principle, the logic of it. But it was never quite… organic. He could deflect with humor when necessary, buy himself time to organise his thoughts so they were palatable to most, but in a crisis… well. He handled things much better in his lantern, all things told.
But if he hid in his lantern, he could not cradle Illuga in his arms. Precious, lovely Illuga, whose head was lolled onto Kyryll’s chest; fists balled as if mid-battle. He was frighteningly cold, too - and the first thing Kyryll did upon entering the lighthouse was to start removing his sodden, freezing clothes. The waters in Nod Krai were sub-zero on a good day, and Kyryll did not trade one hundred years of his life for Illuga to freeze to death on the floor of his home in wet gear.
One hundred years. Kyryll let a part of himself ignite the wood in the fireplace as the other parts of him moved around Illuga, gently removing him from his torn, bloodsoaked coat. It was absolutely worth it, of course. Illuga was the most precious thing that Kyryll knew of. Besides, this version of him had lived a long life; and the older, primordial core of him had endured longer still. The flames in the fireplace roared into life, and the smaller part of his flame he had used to ignite it was engulfed, swallowed by it, quickly winking out from existence. Another year gone. But it didn’t matter. He needed to light the fire quickly. Kyryll barely felt its absence, so small it was in comparison to what he had cut out of himself on the beach.
Heat blossomed throughout the room. Kyryll never bothered with the fire unless Illuga was coming to visit. It was unnecessary. Aedon was glad of it, he noted, watching the little bird place itself right in front of the flames and fluff its feathers.
“You’re welcome,” said Kyryll. Aedon nuzzled into a ball and ignored him. Perhaps the little bird was hoping to be thanked, the human part of the thing called Kyryll reasoned. The part that blazed couldn’t confirm in this form, however; and thus, he said nothing.
Why did Illuga insist on wearing something with so many ridiculous buckles? Not for the first time, Kyryll pondered the purpose of the harness strapped around Illuga’s brawny chest. He’d playfully suggested to Illuga the strap on the front was a way to get his attention – it had only taken two tugs on it for Illuga to throw a mug at him, after all. Kyryll smiled at the memory, unravelling the leather buckle and folding the fabric carefully as he set it aside. A handle, perhaps? A̶͖͑ ̴̡̽l̴̘̎e̸̳͛a̸͉̓ŝ̶̯h̴̬̓ said the voice inside him, and Kyryll paid it no mind.
It wasn’t until Kyryll’s hand started to unbutton Illuga’s dress pants that Aedon blazed into life – flying to the scene of the crime and giving Kyryll a sharp nip on the finger. Kyryll batted the bird away but it came on stronger, claws out – so he deftly caught it with a swipe of his hand, the wings held firm in his grip.
Ḯ̸̜̋ ̶͚̒m̴͙̀̃e̵̛͎̔ä̴͉̥͝ṉ̷̾ ̷̠̓h̸̟̻̿i̷̬͌ḿ̶̬ ̸̠̐n̴͙̺͊̿ö̷̥ ̴̯̑͠h̷̥͛á̶͉̏ȓ̵̜̎m̸̹̊͘.̶̘͕̆
H̶͇͇̒͌è̷͖̤͘ ̴̜͆ẇ̶̘̠i̷̪̤̍ļ̵̌l̴̙̙̎ ̶̨̼͊̾f̸̲̅r̸̤̖͋̓e̷̤͌e̷͖͒z̶̛͙͛e̴̦͑ ̷̬̼͛ì̵̢͎̃f̷̤͊ ̵̤̩͑͐I̴̺̝͒ ̷̦̒͝d̸̲̿͛o̸͈̒͗ń̵͎'̵͙̩́̂t̸̨̬̆̾-̷̪͒̒
The little bird went limp in his hand. If birds could sound exasperated, the responding chirp it let out might be exactly that.
Kyryll removed the rest of Illuga’s clothes under Aedon’s watchful gaze, trying his very best to project a businesslike, matronly manner and not to pay attention to the generous curve of Illuga’s ass or the swell of muscles in his scarred arms. T̴͖̣͝ȓ̸̨ḯ̵̬̂e̶͖̒̈́d̶͚̈́͘ ̵͎̟͐̈́ạ̶̊͘ń̶̖̦̔ḏ̶̩͊ ̴̻̏̓f̴͎͌ą̸̰̔̌i̸̱̿̑l̷̲̇͆e̶͎̊d̸̛̝̒ said the voice inside him, and once again, Kyryll put a lot of effort into paying it absolutely no mind.
There was nothing to dress him in, Kyryll realised. He could manifest his clothes at will; thus circumventing the need for any sort of wardrobe. Yet the longer the young master lay nude and passed out on the floor, the more beady Aedon’s eyes became – so with a glare, Kyryll removed his own shirt, sliding Illuga’s arms inside it and fussing with the front. The height difference between them meant the shirt drowned him; and Kyryll gave up on buttoning it in a panic when his hands brushed something between Illuga’s legs that felt distinctly like… well. That.
Aedon trilled. Birds can’t speak and Kyryll wasn’t human, but he could still detect judgement when he heard it.
“Send for some more clothes, then,” said Kyryll to the bird, tone dour. “If you go now, I imagine they’d be able to send someone from Nasha town by morning. I’ll make sure he survives the night. You have my word.”
The little bird did not move – and if Kyryll did not know better, he might think Aedon was staring him down. It was entirely still for a good, long moment - then flew upwards with a start, brushing a wing gently over Illuga’s face and heading directly out the window and into the distance.
Kyryll watched the bird fly away, and wondered why the sight made him feel vaguely excited. He’d have to take a turn in his lamp and figure out why.
Y̵̟͊͌o̴͇̖̿u̷͎̲̚ ̴̯̂ḱ̶̨̧̾ṋ̸͗o̵͕̟̔̚w̵͉̔͋ ̸̮̾ͅẘ̴̨̡̓h̴̲͛̈ỳ̵͉ said the voice in his head. And to that, Kyryll scowled.
——— ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ ———
Illuga woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed.
His polearm had been in his hand, but now it was empty. The skin there was freshly bandaged, as were the cuts on his chest. An experimental suck on his lips revealed the tinny taste of blood; but other than that, as injuries go, his damage was not half bad. The Fatui though… they all must have perished, Illuga thought grimly. He’d not thought they’d be able to hold off the hounds without some casualties, but he’d rushed to help anyway, hoping to save at least one.
That rifthound was huge. Illuga shivered at the memory - then started once more, remembering the fight, the descent, the never-ending water. Its claws had been so large that even when Illuga stabbed it through the mouth its grip had not relaxed one jot; dragging him down with it via his polearm strap. Aedon had flown out of his lamp then, thrashing in the water and flying into its eyes – but it was too late, it was already dead, ghastly eyes staring open-ended into the abyss. Sinking into the sea, Illuga had roared for help, screamed, panicked – but by the time the ocean covered his head, he’d been overcome with this strange sense of … calm. He’d thought of Mister Flins, then. Perhaps he’ll save me, he thought, and he felt comforted by the mental image even as he accepted it wasn’t going to happen. He was okay with dying. He’d been given more chances at life than most other humans. He’d been proud of the Lightkeepers. He loved his dad.
And he’d loved Mister Flins too.
The lights had dimmed as he sunk, his world shrinking and shrinking in diameter until it was entirely measured by the bubbles of air that he desperately tried to stop disappearing from his lips. There were fewer, and fewer, and then fewer still. His memory is hazy after that; in the darkness there was a light – a blue, blazing flame – that gave way to glittering, overwhelming gold. A hand had reached for him, then; a stranger, yet someone so strangely familiar all the same, as if a bit of himself had left and come home again. He’d held the stranger's hand, followed him out of the tunnel and then…
For the third time, Illuga sat up with a jolt. This was not his home in Pyramida. He was at the lighthouse, in the bedroom he usually stayed at when he’d drank one too many on a supply run. He was in the lighthouse, in the bedroom, and he was not alone – because next to him was…
Mister Flins. Tall, handsome Mister Flins, entirely shirtless and laid serenely next to him like an oil painting.
Illuga sat bolt upright for the fourth time in quick succession, and began to feel a little whoozy from all the blood rushing to his head at once.
There was suddenly so much skin. Much, much more skin than Illuga had ever dared dream of before. Mister Flins wore about twenty layers of clothing on a good day, so to see him so … disrobed felt positively – well. Suffice to say, Illuga felt positively about it. He’d wondered what was under Mister Flin’s many, many layers, of course he had, spent a great deal of time wondering about it actually – but never had he imagined he’d look this good. Well, okay, he had imagined it, he’d totally imagined it, but now it was real and oh, so very solid and toned and oh, about a hair’s breadth away from his naked body? He might lose his mind. He might have died on that beach and awoken in a better place. It was awesome, here, in bed with the man he’d nurtured a crush on for a good few years now. The blood wasn’t just rushing to his head at this point, oh no it absolutely wasn’t.
Illuga was also almost entirely naked, which wasn’t helping him hide the places where the blood definitely wasn’t rushing. Enough blood was still in his head, however, to register that his state of undress wasn’t so strange, all things considered. He’d almost drowned in icy water in all his clothes, and it would have spelled instant death to keep them on — he knew that and Flins knew that, they’d both attended basic wilderness training. But the reality of Mister Flins’s too-large shirt draped around his shoulders; the unreality of Illuga’s palm, currently laying on Flins’s bare chest? His warm cheek, resting upon the shallow curve of Flins’s bicep, scarred shoulder tucked neatly underneath him, his naked side pressed against Flins’s hipbone, the head of his cock brushing the inside of his thigh—
With a sharp intake of breath, Illuga jerked his hips back in alarm. Heartbeat heavy in his ears, he tried to slow his breathing so as to not wake his sleeping colleague. His sleeping colleague who had clearly just saved him from what would have been certain death, and to whom Illuga was currently rutting up against like some kind of beast. Guilt flooded Illuga’s system, running hot and cold through him all at once. He was dirty. Disgraceful. How could he think about something at a time like this? What — what on earth was he thinking?
(Years later, Illuga would be giving the wilderness training, careful to remind his young troops that near death experiences incite all sorts of wild, uncontrollable emotions in the experiencer, and it was something to which they all must prepare. And his audience would giggle and blush and elbow one another in the ribs; and Illuga use the pause to allow himself to drift for a moment, to drift and remember that night long ago when–)
What was he thinking? He knows the answer to that question, of course. He’d thought about it — and about Flins — for a long, long time. It had started innocently enough. At first, he just thought that his mood lifted around the man; a pleasant companion was always a pleasure to be around, after all. But then, he’d begun to notice his physical features, too. Flins was a good few inches taller than any other Ratnik, and elegant in a way that couldn’t help but catch Illuga’s eye. His hair was long and silky, fluttering out behind him when he walked. Illuga had to fight the urge to sink his hands into it. And speaking of hands… the way Mr Flins would brush his long, bony fingers over a stack of reports was positively distracting. There was no denying his attraction, then. Illuga longed for Mister Flins; longed for his hands to stroke over his skin, pinching and squeezing and leaving fire in their wake. Illuga wanted to get on his knees, take the digits into his mouth and suckle on them whilst Flins watched.
Archons, he was so hard. No matter how far he pushed his hips back, the tip of him kept lightly dragging over Flins's hipbone — a delicious friction that he absolutely should not be chasing. All this, despite the fact that Illuga had pressed his ass against the wall in a bid to avoid this exact situation.
Bent at the hip as he was, Illuga’s face was currently very near Mister Flins’s face; a fact that was underscored when Flins turned in his sleep, rolling on his side to face him. The tips of their noses were so close they were almost touching — so close that when Illuga breathed out in a shuddery, anticipatory gasp, the long strands of hair that framed Flins’s face stirred where they lay over his lips. Gaze magnetically drawn, he took the opportunity to freely admire the thin, feline curve of Flin’s mouth — to freely imagine placing a kiss upon the soft swoop of his cupid’s bow.
And just how might it be like to kiss him, Illuga wondered.
And at that exact moment, Flins's eyes snapped open.
”Young Master,” whispered Flins — and Illuga shivered at the phrase, despite willing himself not to. Flins looks at him for a very, very long time, and Illuga has forgotten how to breathe.
”Is there… something you need?” says Flins.
Yes, thought Illuga desperately, a flood of emotions suddenly welling up and threatening to breach in the corner of his eyes. I almost died back there. I almost died and my last thoughts were of you. I want you, I need you. I want you and need you so, so very badly, but I’m too scared to ask because I am scared what you might say back.
”Where are my clothes?” asked Illuga — and hated himself, hated how small and stupid he sounded; how plaintively obvious the answer was considering that Flins had fished him out of subzero water — how rude the question sounded considering Flins had very likely just saved his life.
Flins’s eyebrow twitched — and Illuga felt the brush of his thousand yard stare fall steadily over his features; eyes beautiful, irises that bewitching, pale lamp-yellow, even in the dark.
”Was that really what you wished to ask me?” said Flins after a moment, his voice gentle, so gossamer soft; as if coaxing a small animal.
Illuga couldn’t meet his gaze then — he felt so exposed, as if Flins had gazed inside of him and seen his innards, his stuffing, the foolish strawman at the core of him. Something inside of him curled inward – and yet, something pushed outward too, something made of will or bravery or damned foolish stupidity; something that despite itself and all its misgivings, wanted to be known.
The words fell out before he could stop them.
”No.”
——— ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ ———
Kyryll had no need of sleep, but he kept up the pretence even when alone — in part, out of a stubborn affection for the idiosyncrasies of humanity; but also to allow himself the indulgence of extended fantasy. Being fae, it was impossible for him to dream, of course — but being alive for as long as he had been had gifted him with a rich and complex set of experiences that he could summon at will; reliving, manipulating and luxuriating in the realm of his imagination until the sun crept over the Design Bureau and signalled it was time to wake.
The dilemma, then — when one of the starring cast members of recent fantastical memory was very real, almost entirely naked, and very, very much in his bed — to retreat to the relative safety of some imagined fantasy, or choose to be present?
Both were dangerous. But Kyryll couldn’t help himself. At their core, fae were covetous and greedy by nature — and thus, he chose to thoroughly enjoy both.
The lighthouse was gone. A man as worthy and brave as Illuga deserved so more than the dingy, dilapidated hovels found in Nod Krai; and so, instead of an itchy woolen blanket and Flins’s shirt, in Kyryll’s minds eye he lay on fresh pressed linen on a poster bed, sunlight streaming in through the window and casting shadow on his monogrammed pyjamas. P̷̤̈́é̷͙r̸̫̆f̸̺́e̸̻͆c̶͚̃t̵͓̆i̴͈̽o̷̟̅n̴͓̽ said the voice wreathed in flames.
If Illuga had been in the court of the Belyi Tsar, he would most certainly have been a Prince — and from the few rulers of the realm that Kyryll had bedded out of boredom, he didn’t know a single one who hadn’t had some sort of curiously embroidered sleepwear. He’d found it riseable at the time… but somehow, in this context, sort of fitting. Besides, Illuga has such a pretty name — befitting a handsewn monogram in gold. His royal crest might be embroidered with swords and nightingales, fac fortia et patere in cursive just underneath. If Kyryll thought hard enough about it, he could almost see it; the looping, handsewn gold letters adorning Illuga’s breast. How wonderful it might look, tucked under the tufts of his lover’s crimson-tipped hair. And how glorious it might be, to tear it off him piece by piece and cast it willy-nilly onto the bedroom floor.
Yes; make no mistake — in his fantasy, they were lovers. Very much so.
Affection made one soft, Kyryll mused — studying the sleeping man in reality, even as he overlaid the sun-drenched image of the royal fantasy upon him. Kyryll was hundreds of years old; and yet this foolish imagining of the man he desired was somehow irresistible despite his advanced years. It was trite, he knew — but he indulged all the same.
How might he serve the Young Master, Prince of Dreams?
In the dream, Kyryll might gently stir the Young Master awake with a kiss to the cheek. In the dream, the Prince might watch, jaw slack and mesmerised, as Kyryll loosened the buttons on his stupid monogrammed pyjamas one after the other. In the dream, Kyryll might bring his mouth to Illuga’s hipbone just to hear the noise he’d make; might take him in his mouth in a leisurely, unhurried way until the Young Master would moan wantonly into the silk pillows so as not to wake the servants. Kyryll might play with him like this, would play with him like this; bringing him to completion again and again and again, until the young prince had no more left to give and was terribly late to all his stately meetings that day.
But — regrettably — they were not in a fancy castle and Illuga was not a Prince, Kyryll had to remind himself. Not to mention that in reality, Illuga was not his lover. Whilst he was fairly certain that Illuga did pass a curious glance or two his way from time to time; his youthful infatuation with him would very likely fade with age. And besides… Kyryll was fairly certain Illuga was pretty inexperienced, if not entirely untouched. The ancient, primal part of him found this possibility very interesting indeed — but the part that had matured past certain… urges simply hoped that Illuga had only had positive experiences. He deserved only positive experiences. He deserved the best experiences. Kyryll hoped he had taken lovers who had cared for him as much as Kyryll might care; who might — for example — gently expose the sliver of skin between his collarbone and jaw and place a worshipful kiss there.
How that slice of skin tormented Kyryl so! Even now, it peeked out tantalisingly from under Kyryll’s shirt. And now, just like every other time, Kyryll wanted to lean in and run his teeth along the scar.
B̴̛̻̲ị̷̚͘t̸̠̻̐e̷͉̹̓̋ ̵̟͍̇̄h̵̺̻̿í̷̢̛m̸̪͍̾́ said the voice, louder than usual. Kyryll paid it no mind.
Regrettably, the young prince began to stir, and Kyryll pulled back the veil of fantasy as sharply as he could manage, if only to remind himself of what was real and what was not.
He loved Illuga. If he thought about it, he knew this to be real; he didn’t need a round in his lamp to ponder the meaning of sacrificing one hundred years to know this. He loved him wildly, deeply, fiercely even. He loved him with all the fury of a burning fire, with every single little piece of him. He loved Illuga, and Illuga did not, should not, could not possibly love him back.
But it didn’t matter, not really. Illuga was alive, and that was worth everything Kyryll has.
The core of the thing called Kyryll watched, utterly charmed beneath shut eyes, as Illuga seemed to have a series of little realisations about his current predicament. Each time, his beautiful eyes would go wide and his lips would form a little “oh”. And oh, oh, Kyryll loved him so very, very much, oh dear yes he very much did. Lovely, wonderful, brave Illuga, whether rushing into battle or wriggling next to him in the bed, so full of life, the soft, warm parts of him brushing up against all the dead parts of Kyryll in such a tantalising way that he had to reel in the thing inside him by sheer force of will.
Illuga leaned to his side. Unwisely, yet indulgently, Kyryll did the same. Illuga exhaled, and Kyryll thought it warmer and more wonderful than any mortal fire. Illuga came closer and closer still; Kyryll felt the body he inhabited respond in kind. The heart he didn’t need thrummed into life; various parts of him electric and stiff and tingling.
Despite the temptation, he absolutely shouldn’t open his eyes, Kyryll thought. There was no happy ending waiting for him at the end of that story. Kyryll should keep his eyes shut and pretense held firm, wait for Illuga to fall asleep, then go out on patrol. Kyryll should allow Aedon to arrive with other Lightkeepers tomorrow in his absence; clothe Illuga in his absence; take him back to Pyramida and leave Kyryll with his absence. Kyryll should keep his eyes closed now and indeed later, when Illuga eventually meets someone for whom he has genuine, human feelings for - a human who can love him back properly, a human whose soul isn’t disconnected from their body; a human whose true nature didn’t have teeth. Kyryll should keep his eyes tightly, firmly closed at their wedding; ignore Illuga’s absence as they take their honeymoon, keep his eyes closed when he smiles upon receiving the news that they have children. And then, when those children grow older and his remaining years start to dwindle, Kyryll might keep his eyes more tightly closed than ever when he hears of Illuga’s passing, keep them closed to prevent the tears from falling at his funeral, keep them closed as he tries to come to terms with a world in which Illuga is absent. A world like that? He might as well keep his eyes closed forever; for without Illuga, there really wasn’t much worth seeing, any more.
Kyryll loves Illuga. He knows this is for the best; knows that he is capable of loving Illuga despite the absence of Illuga loving him back. And yet…
At their core, fae are covetous and greedy by nature. And so, despite itself, despite knowing that any future absence of Illuga might be made even more exquisitely, terribly, uniquely painful that it will already be by his actions – the thing that called itself Kyryll opened its eyes.
Illuga was alive, and he was breathtaking. Kyryll could hear his heartbeat; could see the result of that steady thump-thump-thump staining Illuga’s cheeks and painting his ears red. His fluffy, silver hair fanned out like a halo around his face, bangs perfectly framing his sapphire eyes. The red center was like a hewn jewel, drawing Kyryll to him like a magnet. And oh, how those eyes scanned Kyryll's face; how they lingered across his lips, flicked back to his eyes. And no, Kyryll did not imagine that; did not imagine the way his Prince gazed at his mouth, did not imagine Illuga’s tongue darting out to nervously wet his own.
I̷̝͉̓́ ̸̡̭̏̓l̶̟͖̉o̴̰̗͆v̶̟̈́͐ͅë̵̺́̕ ̸͕̓̓͜y̶̖̑o̵͓̻̽u̴̹̻͋ ̴͓̲͝s̴̨͍̈o̶̘̓̉ said the voice in his head, and Kyryll knew it to be true. Indeed, Kyryll knew that any future pain would be worth it for Illuga: for even one precious moment with Illuga. And thus, Kyryll gave in, as he always knew he would, by placing a soft kiss on the corner of Illuga’s mouth like an apology.
The spell was broken. Instead of resting away, to Kyryll’s utter, utter surprise, Illuga sighed with pleasure. It was a small, shuddery thing; a delicate whimper that sent arousal snaking up Flins’s spine. Seized by a hunger to hear him do it again, he leaned in, crowded his mouth with his own, kissed him, kissed him again, ran his tongue gently across his lower lip until Illuga’s jaw went slack and allowed him entrance. A third kiss made Illuga melt against him, a trembling palm warm against his cold chest — and with a fourth, Kyryll seized his wrist and pressed it down on the bed, rolling on top of him. The shaky moan that Illuga let out at that was so intoxicating, so alluring that Kyryll had to pause and gather himself — a moment that he supposed humans called taking a breath.
”Have you done this before?” Kyryll asked — not because he needed to know per se, but because he wanted to hear Illuga’s explicit consent before going any further. Consent was important; for human morality, of course. But also because Kyryll desperately wanted to hear Illuga explicitly say he wanted him. He wanted him to say it, and then say it again, and then, later, more breathily, a third or fourth time, just to underline the point. To ensure nothing was under duress, Kyryll released Illuga’s wrist; that forcefully buried part of him gleefully noting that Illuga did not move it from where it had been pinned.
Ḭ̶̋̈n̴̼̓ͅt̷̳̭̆e̷͖̔͠ȓ̸̛͈̠e̴͈̽ͅs̴̭̉t̵̝̪́͌ḭ̵͑͊n̸̬̭͝g̸̭͂ said the voice within, and Kyryll paid it no mind.
Illuga was breathing heavily, pretty eyes large and pupils blown, an angry blush on his face that almost matched the tips of his hair. He seemed irritated that the kissing had stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
He opens his mouth to answer Kyryll’s question, and out of that pretty mouth comes lies. And even in this, Kyryll loves Illuga. He loves him so very, very much.
——— ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ ———