Chapter Text
Flins’ house is a mess when Illuga arrives one week— not on a supply run, because he’s still trying to be better about that one, but he does have cream on him, because, well, he likes the way Flins smiles when he sees it— and it’s such a fucking disaster that Illuga asks him if he’s lost something important.
Flins huffs a laugh and looks around the crowded space, eyes rueful. He’s dressed like he’s meant to be doing heavy labour of some sort— his hair is tied back, sleeves rolled up, and the top three buttons of his shirt are undone— and as Illuga looks around at the old wooden crates scattered all about, he supposes that that’s not actually too far off the mark.
“Heh. It does look like I’ve lost something important, doesn’t it? Dear me…” Flins tails off, an amused smile on his face, then shrugs his shoulders. “No matter. May I help you to anything, Young Master? Water, tea?”
Illuga slowly shakes his head and sets his backpack down upon one of the only unoccupied spots around Flins previously-spotless homee+, shrugging off his coat a moment later. “No, I’m— I’m quite alright, I— oh, I brought cream, by the way—” Flins chirps and immediately looks resigned; Illuga shoots him a grin— “Can I help you with any of… this?”
He gestures around at what he’s pretty sure was once Flins’ living space, now looking more like a storage unit, and Flins immediately begins blustering: “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that—”
“I don’t mind,” Illuga tells him. “Put me to work, Kirya.”
Flins blushes, the way he always does when Illuga brings out that particular nickname, then turns and hands Illuga a crowbar. “Anything that isn’t already opened,” he says, and so Illuga goes and pries the lid off of the nearest crate he can find, and promptly finds himself at a complete loss for words.
“Kirya,” he hears himself say after finding his voice. “What— What is all of this?”
Flins makes an inquisitive noise and wanders over to where Illuga is standing. “Oh,” he says, an expression of faint surprise on his face. “I was wondering where those had gotten to— help me sort through them, Young Master? I’m afraid I’m looking for something quite specific— and it might not even be in this one at all, hmm…”
Illuga is silent, struck speechless as Flins begins taking out some of the most beautiful articles of clothing he’s ever seen from the box, handling each one like it were a ration pack, and Illuga— Illuga can’t believe what he’s seeing, the embroidery, the gemstones and the— the lace, there’s delicate shirts made of a fabric that flows like water over Flins’ hands, and skirts made of layers and layers and layers of fabric, each one gossamer thin—
He unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth, and manages: “Where did you get all of this?”
“Hmm?” Flins looks at him in mild surprise. “Oh, they’re mine.”
Illuga swears his eyes bug out of his skull. “They’re yours?”
“Yes? Oh, come now, Young Master,” Flins says, a teasing grin pulling at his lips, “what else did you expect me to wear at court? Not my Lightkeeper uniform, surely?”
Illuga’s eyes go even wider, if possible, and he looks at the crate again with new eyes, scarcely able to believe what he’s seeing: “These— These— These are from the Belyi Tsar’s court? All— all those years ago?”
Flins tsks. “‘All those years ago,’ you’ll give me a complex, Young Master,” he complains, and turns his attention back to the opened crate, specifically to the shirt atop the rest. He picks it up, and makes a noise of pure delight, “Oh, I did wonder where this had gotten to! I was afraid I’d left it behind when I’d left…”
His voice fades to a mutter, a soft, albeit slightly sad smile on his face as he rubs the fabric of the shirt between his thumb and forefinger.
“As I recall it, the quickest way to a certain nobleman’s heart,” he murmurs, “was always through the gifting of soft clothes such as these. He abhorred rougher fabrics, you see. Couldn’t stand the feel of them against his skin.”
“That much hasn’t changed,” Illuga offers, and Flins huffs a laugh.
“Indeed it has not,” he replies, then hesitates for a moment before gently placing the shirt off to the side. It’s lovely, really; a blue so deep it borders on black, laced with delicate silver stitching up the sleeves— Illuga swears he’s able to see a forest in hidden among the darkness as the fabric shifts, reflected in the light, and selfishly, he hopes that Flins will wear it, sometime. Even more selfishly, he hopes he’ll get to see Flins wear it, too.
“You can touch them, Young Master,” Flins says suddenly, as if he can tell some of what Illuga’s thinking, and he startles. “They will not break under your hands, I promise you.”
Illuga’s not so sure about that— his hands are not delicate; marred with scar tissue and calluses alike. Surely, he will only rend apart the old silk, ancient embroidery and precious gemstones alike.
But he takes Flins at his word, gently sifting through the crate, holding various articles of clothing up for Flins’ perusal— they’re sorted into three piles, and somewhere along the line, Illuga works up the courage to ask the purpose of all this.
Flins sets another shirt into the first pile, the one with the pretty dark blue shirt, and says, “Miss Ineffa informs me that Young Mistress Aino has recently developed something of a fixation upon the Belyi Tsar’s court and its nobles.” The ghost of a smile goes across his face. “Specifically, the fashions of the time. I don’t think the politics of the court are of much interest to her right now.”
Illuga frowns at him, then looks around the room as it begins to click. “You’re— Are you looking for things to give to Aino?”
Flins shrugs his shoulders. “Whyever not? Neither Miss Ineffa nor Young Mistress Aino had asked, but undoubtedly they will be enjoyed no? Besides, it’s… it is better than them sitting, gathering dust, though…” Flins’ eyes drift towards the smallest pile, the one full of the shirts and the skirts and the accessories which he’d lingered on before setting aside, and he says: “Perhaps… Perhaps some will be outfitted upon their original owner, again. With a… different purpose, than before.”
For some reason, the sentiment makes Illuga’s heart hurt, but in a good way, almost? He senses that it will be a cold day in Muspelheimr before he fully understands all the nuance and complexities that exist between Flins and ‘a certain nobleman,’ but this… this feels like catharsis, somehow.
Then, he lifts the next item out of the crate, and his throat goes dry, his heart skips a beat, and he thinks to himself, oh, wow.
“Kirya,” he says, and his voice is trembling, but God help him, Illuga has more important things to contend with then and there. Such as: “Do you— Can you still fit into this?”
“I don’t see why not; I’ve not changed that much in seven-hundred years— oh.” A downright devilish grin splits Flins’ face, evil to the core as he takes in the corset which Illuga had found. “I should have expected that you’d find that. Planning something, Young Master?”
Illuga’s face flushes red. “No!” he hisses, even though— even though that sounds like a great idea, actually, Flins in a corset, fuck— he shakes his head and pulls himself back to the present, hoping dearly that Flins hadn’t noticed his lapse in focus. Based on the fairy’s shit-eating grin, that was wishful thinking. Still, Illuga soldiers on: “I just… you know?”
“Quite,” Flins says in an agreeing tone of voice, and he takes the corset which Illuga had procured and presses it against his midsection, twisting this way and that as if he’s modelling it for Illuga, and then he turns his back and says, “lace me up, Ιλούγα?” and Illuga swears his brain just melts out of his fucking ears.
He still goes forward, though, because he’s not a fucking idiot, “You’re doing this on purpose,” he mutters, gathering the ties in his hands. “Aren’t you?”
“As you enjoy testing my willpower,” Flins mutters, gasping softly when Illuga draws the ties too tight, too fast, “so too do I enjoy testing yours.”
Illuga curses under his breath. “Kinky bastard.”
Flins huffs a somewhat-breathless laugh. “I know you are, but what am I?”
“Testing my patience,” Illuga says, then ties ooff the lacing with a flourish and spins Flins around, hands on his waist. “Holy fuck.”
Flins’ lips twitch at the corners. “I hope I still pull it off.”
“You know you do,” Illuga mutters, then seizes ahold of Flins by his collar and pulls him down for a bruising kiss.