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—Today the old man made us escort a caravan until… —The sentence hung in the air like a sigh that never quite managed to be born.
Beneath the cold new moon, whose glow barely brushed the world with a pale caress, Illuga had arrived later than usual at the Final Night Cemetery. The headstones, aligned like stone guardians, cast long, sharpened shadows over the damp earth. The wind murmured among the crosses and mausoleums, carrying with it the briny scent drifting from the coast of Nod Krai.
There, between shadow and silence, Flins waited for him patiently. Yet this was strange, almost unnatural.
Because, usually, it was the other way around. Flins would lose himself in the labyrinths of his own mind while walking along the coast of Nod Krai, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon, as if at any moment a sign, an omen, or a trace of the wild hunt might emerge from the waters. He let himself be carried away by thoughts that ebbed and flowed like the tides, chasing echoes only he seemed able to hear.
But that night, something invisible and unsettling urged Flins to return home before the moon reached the highest point in the sky. He could not name what he felt; it was a faint shadow, a premonition tangling in his chest like silent ivy. As the clock shed the minutes with almost cruel slowness, his heart began to beat with a strange weight, as though it sensed an absence he did not yet understand.
He knew nothing of Illuga. That silence, brief yet piercing, began to weave shadows through his imagination. Uncertainty brushed his skin with cold fingers, and the thought of remaining still became unbearable. For an instant he was on the verge of gathering his things and setting out toward Piramida, determined to cross the entire night if necessary just to find his boy. Because when love calls, there are no distances or weariness that can hold it back.
And then, as if fate had heard his musings, the door opened.
Illuga appeared beneath the threshold with that presence that always seemed to alter the air around him. Both of them remained motionless, startled by the sudden closeness, as though each had secretly summoned the other. For a second that felt eternal, only their gazes existed: the relief, the tenderness, the silent reproach for needless worry, and the unbreakable certainty that, even in doubt, they would always end up finding one another.
—You arrived early…
Illuga’s eyes lit up with an unexpected gleam when he discovered Flins only a few steps away, as if that coincidence, so small in appearance, had been an intimate miracle reserved for the two of them alone. In his gaze danced something more than surprise: relief, joy, and that quiet emotion born when the heart fears losing, and suddenly finds what it thought was gone.
—How was your day? —Flins murmured, tilting his head slightly in response to the comment, with that softness that seemed to wrap itself around each of his words.
And so, as every night, the ritual began.
Flins listened attentively, letting Illuga’s words slip between them like a warm thread binding them together. It was then he learned that Illuga had served as a guardian for a caravan, escorting merchants along roads already too familiar. It had not been a difficult journey, but it had been tedious. After Dottore’s fall, the activity of the Abyss and the Wild Hunt had almost completely diminished in Nod Krai, appearing only as distant echoes and storms that threatened the horizon yet never quite broke.
Peace, at last, reigned.
For those who grew up with racing pulses and ears attuned to the faintest crack, tranquility does not always taste like rest, sometimes it tastes like emptiness. There are days when silence weighs more than battle, when calm cannot fill the space once occupied by the urgency of survival.
Illuga spoke of it without complaint, but Flins could read between the lines: that involuntary nostalgia for danger, and the restlessness known only to those who learned to live with a sword drawn.
And as he listened, Flins understood something with silent tenderness: if the world no longer needed Illuga to fight every day, then he would make sure to be the place where his heart could find purpose.
Because even in times of peace, there is always something to protect, and that night, the only thing that mattered was right in front of them.
—And you… Mr… —He halted the phrase as a soft blush tinted his cheeks, then shook his head gently—. Flins.
Even after nearly a year together, the ease with which Illuga sometimes called him “Mr. Flins” remained a small mystery worthy of study. Flins had asked him to avoid such formality, yet there was something in that blend of respect and affection that seemed unwilling to fade.
—I came across a fissure not far from the Fatui facilities —Flins said, downplaying it. It was not merely a fissure; rather, it seemed like an improvised experiment by some of Dottore’s followers. But there was no need to trouble Illuga with unnecessary worries, especially when Flins’s attention was fixed on something far closer and more vital than any distant risk.
The silence that followed was laden with complicity: between the alertness that always inhabited their worlds and the quiet certainty of being together, there was something no fissure, experiment, or shadow of the past could disturb.
Beneath the large, heavy jacket Illuga almost always wore was a sleeveless shirt Flins had never quite understood. It barely covered the smooth skin of his back, and yet it seemed to suit his partner’s elegant indifference.
As Illuga began to prepare dinner, Flins let himself be wrapped in the stillness of the night and allowed a gesture that until then had lingered at the edge of his desire: sliding his hand over Illuga’s bare back. At first it was a shy brush, exploring the center, and little by little his touch grew surer, until it came to rest upon an old scar whose story he knew by heart. That mark, a reminder of the accident three years earlier that had decimated Illuga’s squad, was a remnant of pain that had never fully healed.
And even so, Flins placed his lips upon that spot, soft and cool, with a mixture of reverence and tenderness that spoke more than any words. It was a small, intimate gesture, yet filled with all the care and love he felt for him.
—Fl… ins —The tremor in Illuga’s voice was a start Flins had not anticipated, and yet it fascinated him. For an instant, the world seemed to shrink to that small shiver between them, and Flins chose to step back, almost in apology.
—I’m sorry —he murmured, lowering his gaze, when suddenly he found himself surrounded by Illuga’s arms. The warmth that enclosed him was not reproach, but shelter. Illuga looked at him with an intensity that seemed to say more than words could: he was not upset.
—You just caught me by surprise. You… can do it again —he whispered. In that simple permission lived a blend of trust and challenge, a silent bridge inviting Flins to cross without fear.
And though that night Flins did not touch Illuga’s back again, he knew he would not waste the chance the next day. It was the day of the Lightkeepers monthly meeting, an event Flins had long avoided attending. Not out of true aversion, but through clever excuses: he “always had something to do.” Illuga, however, knew the truth, this refusal was nothing more than a small lie to escape formality, and did not hesitate to drag him to Piramida. There, Flins ended up listening to the long speech of the Starshyna, solemnly celebrating the triumphant return of one of the squads, whose complete success echoed among those present.
In the dimness of the hall, where they could barely be observed by indiscreet eyes, Flins allowed himself a small boldness. With an almost imperceptible motion, he removed his gloves and once again touched the warm skin of Illuga. He did not need to see his face to imagine the blush tinting his cheeks; he was certain, even, that the color spread down to his neck. A shiver of jealousy and desire ran through him: the darkness and the fact of being in a public space stole from him the chance to admire Illuga’s expression in that instant, an image that would have been worth more than any military triumph.
Only a soft, husky moan answered him. It was the only thing he received before Illuga’s arm pushed him away with firmness, dragging him out of the facilities. Internally, both were grateful the others had remained inside; explaining why Illuga was hauling away the mysterious man who seemed to melt into the shadows would have been an impossible challenge to put into words, and perhaps they did not even wish to try.
The night air welcomed them like an accomplice, and in that silent escape, Flins understood that even vigilance and formality could be defeated by the urgency of shared intimacy.
—Seems I’ll have to teach you some manners —Illuga said, his tone hovering between annoyance and amusement, as they finally reached his modest house on the outskirts of Piramida. Flins let himself fall onto a small sofa, spent, while Illuga sat atop him—. Touching in public is… indecent!
—And that’s what bothers you? —Flins replied with the thread of a mischievous smile—. Or that I don’t touch… further?
Leaning close enough for his lips to graze the sensitive curve of Illuga’s ear, Flins felt the restrained tremor in his partner. Illuga reacted with a light strike against his torso, barely a warning gesture, and pulled away, visibly nervous, unsure where to place his hands or how to control the silent fire they both shared.
The air between them vibrated with a trace of tension and complicity, where the mixture of reproach and desire became a delicate, irresistible, inevitable game.
As if he had finally gathered courage beneath Flins’s intense gaze, Illuga lifted his eyes and, with an almost imperceptible movement of his hips, yet enough to make Flins tighten his grip around his waist, the tension between them turned palpable.
—And what if I were the one who, in an… indecent way, had…? —His words caught in his throat, betrayed by the effect of his own movement. Flins could not help but smile at the silent triumph of that gesture, small yet devastating.
—I would die in peace… and happy —he whispered, with the certainty only shared desire can grant.
And so, beneath the immaculate moon of Nod Krai, two people wrestled in a silent game: one attempting to teach manners and failing spectacularly, and the other savoring every small victory, teaching positions and secrets that would linger in memory. But that, perhaps, is a story for another time… or maybe not?
The end.