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He's nervous. It's not a feeling he could openly describe, but Flins finds himself writing the same sentence for his report for the third time, and it still doesn't make sense. Frustration quietly blossoms within him, as enduring as the night, which is slowly descending upon the cemetery. This incipient agitation slowly eats away at him, eroding the confidence he has built up over weeks. Every time he looks up and sees nothing but the empty cemetery, this state worsens. And the night is still young, as people say.
The longer the shadows grow, the more difficult it becomes to concentrate on the small table on the 'porch' just beneath the lighthouse, which holds an unfinished report and a small box wrapped in brown paper and tied with blue string. The small package sits in front of him like an omen to what will happen today. It'll take all of Flins' courage to see this through - the quiet whispers of the Wild Hunt are nothing compared to what will happen tonight.
Yes, he's nervous.
Something flits past the rocks next to the lighthouse - just enough for him to catch a glimpse of the glowing figure of a ghost out of the corner of his eye - and then it disappears again. On this special day of the month, the shadowy figures have gotten into the habit of teasing him. Otherwise, they go about their own business, their routines beyond the world of the living and final peace - but on an evening like this, blessed with the last rays of the setting sun, they become bold and daring. They sense his inner tension and that's probably why they enjoy haunting the lighthouse and his 'porch office'.
Another glance at the sea and the light reflecting off it tells him that it's almost time. As evening turns to night, the air cools and the gentle sound of the waves lapping against the rocks and small sandy beach lulls this part of Nod-Krai to sleep. Though tonight, there's something else to hear: a soft clattering under the song of the wind. He hears the sound of heavy boots crunching in the sand, as well as the clinking of tools and a dented, rusty bucket. It's the sound of a backpack filled with utensils needed for honest, hard work. And, finally, the sound of your heavy breathing after the long journey here, which makes his heart skip a beat.
You're here.
It doesn't matter that you've been coming to the cemetery once a month for years to tend to the graves. Each time you arrive with your filled to the brim backpack, exhausted and slightly sweaty from traveling all the way from Nasha Town, it feels as if the ground is crumbling away beneath his feet. Gravity reverses when you look at him with these beautiful, knowing eyes. It's almost impossible for him not to disappear into the cemetery's shadows, intimidated by how you're just... yourself. Your real, true self.
"Hey! Good to see you!" you pant, smiling broadly as you make your way up to the lighthouse. Though you're weighed down by your large backpack, countless tools, the small folding shovel, wire brushes, and other items attached to your luggage, there's a certain lightness to your step that captivates Flins once again. The way your hair bounces with each step and your cheerful expression make the sunset look dull - all this has an inexplicable effect on his state of mind.
He clears his throat as he gets up.
No matter how hard he tries to suppress his gentle smile, which by his standards is akin to an outburst of pure euphoria, he can't help but let it show. But, to hide how much he has been looking forward to your visit, he rushes over and offers to take your heavy luggage.
"Let me take that."
Though you immediately wave him away with a snort. "Nonsense! I've been carrying that stuff around all day, so the last few steps won't kill me." With that, you trudge past him to the small porch at the foot of the lighthouse. You set your backpack down on the ground with a 'hup!', causing it to rattle and clatter inside and out. The seams are tight, holding all the tools necessary for properly maintaining the cemetery graves. There are so many tools, so much weight, that the walk from Nasha Town is a workout in itself. The bag contains brushes, pointed metal sticks for scraping off stubborn dirt, a shovel, a small hoe for weeding, and many other necessary items.
And, there's also a small extra bag that you bring with you every month. This bag contains all sorts of little things you don't need to make old stones beautiful again: No, this bag contains useful items that a certain lonely Lightkeeper needs to live in a cemetery. Sure, Flins has the bare essentials, but it's the unnecessary little things that someone like him doesn't think about that make life worth living.
"I brought the mint candies you liked so much last time," you say, cleaning your forehead from sweat with the back of your hand. "And the sour cherry juice."
"That's very kind of you." Flins appears beside you and watches as you pull things out of the bag: two boxes of candies, a bottle of cherry juice padded with paper, two packs of fishing line, three new fishing hooks, a new buckle for his boot, and a flower, dried and pressed by hand, as always. You made the last gift yourself - a flower not from Nod-Krai, but red and resembling a small windmill.
His heart is in his throat as he accepts the flower. As if providing him with things were perfectly natural, you push all the items to the center of his desk, pushing aside the small package wrapped in brown paper. He takes it inconspicuously and quickly slips it into his pocket.
“Let me compensate you for the goods.” As always, he tries to give you money for the gifts, but you shake your head and wave him off. As always.
"No way," you reply emphatically. "It's enough that you pay me for my volunteer work." You emphasize the word with unmistakable gravity. "With money. I don't work at the cemetery to make money.”
"And yet, you should be rewarded for your hard work.” The flower in his hand is light and beautiful, though not as beautiful as you are. He will keep it safe with the files, tucked between loose pages of a book. It's small gifts like this one that makes his heart flutter. "The Lightkeepers should pay you a wage."
"Pff, yeah, right!" Your shake of the head loosens a strand of hair, and he barely resists the urge to brush it back into place. Instead, he swallows and pushes down the tingling sensation in his chest. “We both know that’s not going to happen. Besides, we're not doing this for money or fame, are we?”
"Yes, you're absolutely right." Still, he'll sneak some Mora into your luggage before you leave. He always does.
The sun has now disappeared completely behind the horizon, and the cool night air settles like a thin blanket over the cemetery. Flins is glad he lit the small cooking station next to his 'office' at the lighthouse: The miniature stove radiates a pleasant warmth that will be appreciated tonight. The past few nights have been cold, almost frosty at times. It doesn't bother him much, but he worries that you might catch a cold. Should he suggest that you come earlier next month instead of in the evening? No, then you wouldn't stay overnight, and he really enjoys your nights together.
"What's for dinner?" Your question finally snaps him out of his thoughts. For a moment, Flins just stares at you blankly. He'd like to claim he forgot about dinner because he was busy with important duties, but the truth is, he thought so much about the best dinner option that he couldn't decide.
"I... wanted to let you decide," he finally blurts out. "In case you're craving something specific."
Anyone else would have probably believed his white lie, but your knowing gaze makes him cringe inwardly. Your eyes - by the spirits' peace, your beautiful eyes - have that look you give him when you see right through him. After all these years, you've learned to read him; memorized his quirks and idiosyncrasies and know exactly when he's just trying to save face.
"Let's agree on fish and vegetables then, shall we?" You propose, as a peace offering, with an amused snort, graciously choosing not to call him out on his lie.
"Sounds good to me," Flins replies meekly and pushes one of the boxes on the porch aside to get to his fishing gear. The fishing rod is old, and as if you had foreseen it, it needs a new hook. The graveyard keeper of the old cemetery, the one who does voluntary work for the Lightskeepers, is omniscient and omnipotent, he thinks with longing and love in his chest. You always knows when he needs something.
But just when Flins turns back to you, he notices that he's now standing alone on the old porch. He looks around, searching for the only non-transparent figure besides himself in the cemetery, but you are nowhere to be seen. The wind carries the giggle of a little phantom to him as he stands in the shadow of the lighthouse and turns around, desperately searching for you. He had planned to spend a few more minutes talking to you, but the soft 'clank!' from farther away informs him that you have already started working on the gravestones.
He presses his lips together and tells himself to go catch some fish. The small package in his bag is eager to fulfill its purpose, but while you are working on the graves and tending to the resting places of the spirits, it's just not the right time. It took him months to find something suitable. Only the small, loud merchant from Sumeru finally had something that would do you justice. It's a gift appropriate for someone as indescribable as you. You, who is so important, so indispensable, so... You.
Now, he just needs to muster up the courage to give it to you.
Fish. First, the fish. After a good dinner, it'll be easier to take this important step.
Flins goes to the north side of the cemetery and stands on one of the rocks. Water gently murmurs against the rock, carrying the scents of the sea and sky - of an endless expanse where only salt and the distant metallic stench of the Kuuvahki Experimental Design Bureau can be perceived. He casts his fishing hook into the water with practiced ease and remains motionless so as not to scare away any fish. It would be embarrassing not to catch anything today of all days. It's one thing for him to go to bed hungry, but letting you go to bed without dinner is beyond his honor. If he has to, he will catch a fish with his bare hands!
The soft scratching of brushes and tools on stone from the other end of the small island mingles with the melody of the wind and waves. Some might find this sound disturbing in an otherwise pleasant setting, but to him, it means you are nearby. This fact alone shines brighter than the lighthouse ever could, lighting up his night. Even if it's not that special day of the month, his thoughts are often with you. He would never neglect his duties, but he always has your scent in the back of his mind. It's as sweet and pleasant as the flowers in the cemetery. In his head, he hears the sound of your voice when you tease him lightly, knowing he finds it charming and likes to make the occasional cheeky remark himself. Your laughter - oh, your laughter! - threatens to haunt him in his dreams. Sleep is no friend of his, but every now and then dream is inevitably filled with you and the way you look at him with a knowing, understanding gaze.
You really get him. No one else can make that claim. No one else understands who or what Flins is, but somehow, you do. You look beyond his exterior and see what's really behind the blue flames and lantern. You accept him as he is, which is probably one of your most positive qualities. That's exactly why he wanted to give you something. It took him forever to find something that's good enough, something that matches your beauty. But now that it's in his pocket, neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with a simple blue ribbon, he has doubts.
What if you don't like it?
The fact that he put a lot of effort into choosing it doesn't guarantee that you'll like it. His grip on his fishing rod tightens as he considers the possibility that you might even hate it. Oh. What if he completely misjudged your taste, and you hate his gift? Or even worse, what if you find his attention - and thus his affection - intrusive and disturbing? What if you never come here again because of that?!
Lost in thought, Flins misses twice as a fish takes the bait and disappears with it into the depths of the sea, leaving the hook shiny and bare. It's a good thing he's alone - it would be really embarrassing for you to witness this, considering how patient and skilled of an angler he usually is. Being the epitome of calm clings to him like a shadow, a clear advantage in activities such as fishing. However, the distant sound of you working on the gravestones is enough to make his usually steady concentration disappear almost completely. His thoughts wander far from fish and fishing hooks to the question of how it would feel to run a hand through your hair. He'd love to bury his nose in your hair and deeply breathe in your scent; he'd love to sink into a moment of absolute bliss, even if it were only for one lonely moment.
But then Flins distracts himself from these shameless daydreams. It's nice to hope that he can make it clear to you in a believable, not-too-intrusive way that he really enjoys your company. The fantasy that these feelings could be reciprocated is tempting, but a downright ludicrous thought. That someone as radiant as you would appreciate this infatuation is unthinkable. Unthinkable. It would be far too good to be true.
"Oh, since when do you fish without bait?"
His grip on the fishing rod tightens, and his free hand automatically moves to his pocket where the small package is safely stored. A violent shiver runs through his neck and shoulders when you appear behind him out of nowhere, pressing yourself close to him so you both have room on the rock. You gently hold onto the sleeve of his coat; so close, so warm.
"The fish aren't biting well today," he says curtly, but that only elicits a chuckle from you, which gets under his skin.
"More like they're biting too well." Your voice is sing-song, a mixture of words and the promise that, at the end of time, a whole life with you awaits him. Wishful thinking, he scolds himself. A beautiful voice for a beautiful person. Though Flins really could listen to you for hours, even if you were reciting from a dictionary, as every word fuels the blue flames in his chest that burn only for you. Yet, the immediate closeness makes him nervous. He clears his throat and reels in his fishing rod.
"One fish will have to suffice for both of us. Forgive the disappointment." His gaze flits to the medium-sized fish he has caught. He must keep secret the fact that several specimens have already escaped him in order to preserve his already fragile ego.
"Disappointment?" you laugh. "Why are you downplaying your achievements? You caught one, didn't you?"
Nothing can dim your light, not even the prospect of a meager dinner. That's admirable.
"Are you making good progress?" Flins asks as he helps you down from the rock and picks up the fish. He has to change the subject, because otherwise he'll hand you the practically glowing gift from his pocket right now. However, that requires a different atmosphere than unprocessed fish and the bland aftertaste of an unsuccessful hunt.
"Eh, could be better. The tomb on the south side of the island is really old." You walk back to the lighthouse together to prepare dinner from the fresh grilled vegetables and fish. "I can't save the inscription."
"I understand."
With a slightly sad expression, you continue. "Isn't that terrible? What if, at some point, no one remembers you anymore?"
He grunts in agreement. "It's a cruel but inevitable reality. Eventually, our lights will join the flow again, and even our echoes in history will fade away. It's part of the cycle."
"Yes, I suppose it is." The gentle sound of your voice wavers slightly, with such melancholy that Flins' face twists almost imperceptibly. The mood quickly turns macabre in his conversations with others, as it does in this one. It's just a shame to see a sad shadow flit across your face; compassion and kindness just oozes out of you - probably the reason why no one else voluntarily tends to the old cemetery. It's a task that requires a very special kind of empathy. It's a rare gift that's truly hard to find these days.
"I didn't mean to upset you. If it's any consolation, I will certainly never forget you,” he says. And thank the spirits - it seems to work. Instantly, the sparkle in your eyes brightens, mouth turning into a gentle smile. It's like watching a sunrise. You brush a strand of hair from your face with one hand, the slightest hint of embarrassment in your expression. It's a gesture that casts an almost magical spell over him, proving once again that he has no chance against the fact that he fell head over heels in love with you a long time ago.
* * *
After a few hours - which included a sparse but decent dinner - the whole of Nod-Krai has gone to sleep, except for the two of you. It's unclear exactly what time it is because, between a soothing cup of hot tea and many different topics of conversation, time has flown by. He asks you what's new in Nasha Town, and you respond with tales of your guild's casual escapades. You mention that the number of Fatui is increasing and what that means for the area. In return, Flins tells you about the restless spirits, as if something alarming is about to happen. There's a little small talk here and there, the kind you make when you're secretly in love.
You sit next to the small stove on which dinner had been prepared by you. In the warm glow of the heat, with a blanket draped around your shoulders, this spot is perfect for staring up at the night sky.
"Honestly, what's in this stuff?" you ask, swirling the sad remains of your tea around in the dented metal cup. "It looks and tastes like dried grass."
"It's supposed to be an excellent tea blend from Sumeru," he replies, staring into his unfinished cup of tea. "The small, loud merchant sold it to me after I--" He breaks off abruptly, having almost revealed that he bought something special for you from the merchant.
"After you what?"
"Ah, nothing. Anyway, she said the tea blend was a real delicacy and highly sought after.”
"Hmm." You take another sip of the drink and grimace slightly at the bitter taste. “So either our taste in tea isn’t as refined as theirs in Sumeru, or she just sold you some junk.” “
"I suspect the latter," Flins replies, emptying his cup in one gulp without flinching. No, it really doesn't taste good, but the bitterness distracts him from the fact that his hand is already hovering over the small package in his pocket again. Is now the right time? Or maybe not? Is there even such a thing as the right time? Maybe he should just leave it alone. Why risk destroying such a beautiful friendship over something so uncertain like love? He doesn't have much experience with friendships or relationships, at least not ones this... deep. There's something exciting about these extremely complex feelings he has for you, but also something very anxiety inducing.
"You know," you suddenly begin, avoiding his gaze. Your free hand plucks at a few blades of grass. "I look forward to coming here every month. To spend time with you."
Flins' grip on his mug tightens. "Really?"
"Yes." With a quick shrug, you admit that you're having trouble finding the words. "I, uh- Ahh, I don't know! It's just nice to spend the night here. It's never weird with you like it is with other people.”
“Weird?” He knows these simple, one-word sentences aren't good conversation, but the realization that you enjoy spending time with him as much as he does with you sends a jolt through his body. This tingling sensation runs between his shoulders and down his back, leaving pleasant goosebumps in its wake.
"Well, talking to you is so easy," you say. "It's uncomplicated. We always find new things to talk about.”
"I agree." Flins is not easily shaken, not by a long shot. But right now, the ground feels like its giving way beneath him, and he has no idea how to respond. Of course he always finds things to talk about with you - after all, it gives him the opportunity to enjoy your voice for hours on end! When you tell him about things happening in Nasha Town, you gesture expansively, making the story so vivid that he feels as if he were there himself. Every minute he spends with you once a month at night is the best time of his life!
He takes a deep breath. Now is the moment. No more overthinking. No more worrying that you won't like it.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the small package. The brown paper crackles slightly as he holds it out to you and the glow of the stove reflects off your large, questioning eyes.
"For you," he says with a little emphasis when you hesitate to accept it. Only then do you put the cup down on the grass and take the gift. With extreme caution, you pull on the blue string and remove the paper, revealing a small box barely larger than the palm of your hand. His gaze follows your every move, his breath held.
"Oh!" It's hard to tell exactly how he feels when you let out this surprised sound. Something inside him tightens, but the glow in your eyes as you take the brooch out of the box calms him a little. It's a beautiful brooch: exquisitely crafted silver nestles against a blue gemstone that reminds of the blue flames of his lantern. Even in the dim light of the stove's coal, the gemstone shimmers as if it had just been polished. And if you look closely at the gem, you can see several colors converging and refracting the light. It's a whole palette of blue tones, light and dark.
"It's so pretty," you say, your voice carrying an undertone he can't quite interpret. There's something in your voice, a hint of decadent amusement. "But-- Okay, wait a second, let me just-"
With the blanket slung around your shoulders, you scramble to your feet and hurry over to your backpack. A few seconds later, you find what you're looking for and rush back to your campsite.
"Make some room." Without waiting for an answer, you squeeze between him and the stove. Even through the blankets and clothing, Flin instantly feels your body heat; the something in his chest tightens even more, now hot and excited, and the tingling between his shoulders spreads to his neck, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. You smell so sweet and enticing that he has to breathe shallowly to avoid being overwhelmed. He may be many things and have experienced a lot, but no one has ever had this kind of effect on him!
"Now I know that this merchant from Sumeru is a sly one," you say, leaning against his side. Shoulder to shoulder. You're so close that he can count your eyelashes. "Here. Open this."
You present a second box, hand it to him, and snort with laughter when he looks completely surprised. A second brooch, identical to the first, shines at him from the small box. It's the same shape and has the same gemstone. Completely identical.
"These things are probably a real bestseller." Your voice is warm, but you still speak softly. As close as you are, a whisper is enough. "Does she sell them to every idiot who wants to give their crush a gift?"
"Probably." It takes him a moment to understand the word 'crush', to really process the meaning of it. But then, a hand is already next to his temple, playing with a long strand of blue hair. He swallows. You're always beautiful, but up close, you're simply stunning.
"It's really sweet that you wanted to give me something pretty." Your faces are getting closer and closer, and your shoulders are pressing against each other. He's warm; you're warmer. Your scent lulls him, causing him to lower his eyelids wearily and tilt his head slightly to the side. You're so close, yet so far away. There's just too much space between you.
"I-- Yes, I wanted to-" Words. They're impossible to grasp, to form into a coherent sentence. His hand reaches your jaw, follows the soft skin, and finds its way behind your head to grab your neck and pull you close. But he waits - for a few terrible seconds during which you have the chance to turn away if you don't want this. Decades, centuries pass in those few seconds while he waits and longs for the taste of your lips.
A giggle from a phantom in the shadows then distracts him. Spectators are unavoidable in this place, much to his annoyance. But in that fraction of a fraction of a second when he's distracted, you finally take pity on him. The feeling of your warm, soft lips closes his eyes and tightens his grip on your neck. He pulls himself toward you, breaking the chains he has imposed on himself, and dives deep into the feeling of kissing you.
The first gentle, tentative kiss is skipped over almost instantly. Your lips crash together greedily, searching for something desperately desired and hoped for so long. The bitter aftertaste of Sumeru tea lingers between you as your lips move together, complementing each other perfectly. Every breath is shared and enjoyed to the fullest; his hand is firmly on your neck, pulling you closer, while you seek support by holding onto his coat. As you turn to face each other, to give more room for the sensation of being lost in this breathtaking moment, the blanket slips from your shoulders. Flins notices and pulls you close, wrapping his own blanket around you. You end up half-sitting on his lap, still not dreaming of interrupting the succession of kisses.
Again and again your lips meet, exchanging sweet and short kisses as well as deep and hungry ones. It's impossible to say where one ends and the other begins, impossible to stop leaning so deeply into each other that there's only longing, fire, and desire.
At some point, Flins pulls back for a second to tilt his head and deepen the next kiss; but you rush after him, wrap your arms around him, and let yourself fall backwards. His hand immediately catches your back, and he sinks down to the floor with you. He hovers above you, and after a second, he's pulled all the way down by his collar. There, more kisses await him, half hidden by his hair, which shields your faces like a curtain from overly curious phantom eyes, and half hidden by the scratchy old blanket wrapped around you.
It's clear that this is only the beginning of the evening. His lips are soft, reverent, and worship every little spot they touch, while his tongue is hot and unapologetic, seeking yours and insisting on tasting you with full greed. His breath brushes hotly across your skin as he scatters fleeting kisses across the corner of your mouth and jaw. For years, he has longed to explore every inch of you, though he never believed it possible, not even in his wildest dreams. But now he's here, getting to experience touching you, tasting you, and making you sigh. Some divine being must be smiling on him, having granted his deepest wish. Even if the Wild Hunt were to devour him tomorrow, this night ensures he finds peace in every realm of reality.
Your lips part again and again, only to find each other as quickly as possible each time. Like the ebb and flow of the tides, you are so closely connected that you could not be separated in a thousand years. Desperate kisses are interrupted only by soft sighs and smiles. Gentle hands hold the other close, pulling them nearer: Your fingers are lost in his hair, and he has a firm grip on your hips. Your two free hands have found each other, fingers intertwined and names are softly whispered, pleading and encouraging.
"Flins-!" Your voice, little more than a soft but urgent plea, is like oil poured on fire. The ghosts and phantoms of the cemetery retreat into the shadows, showing surprising respect for his privacy and allowing you both to enjoy each other's company to the fullest.
His chest now feels light and warm - all traces of his nervousness have disappeared. Instead, he's filled with the desire to explore you, enchant you, and take you in completely.
Yes, as people say, the night is still young.