Chapter Text
There is something distinctly different about the Flagship’s atmosphere when Flins next visits, and it takes him an embarrassingly long time to put his finger on what it is.
Had a fight broken out? No, the atmosphere, while strange, is still too relaxed and jovial for such a thing; not tense and anxious like it would be after a fight.
Is there a celebration of some sort…? No, no; Flins looks around, but all he’s met with is the usual merriment that follows where drunken revelry is concerned.
So then, what is it?
He scans the room one final time, slightly irritated that he can’t find it, when it hits him:
Language.
Not the individual, crass words that might be tossed around in settings such as these— Flins is well-accustomed to those; both from his visits to the Flagship, and from Illuga’s surprisingly foul mouth— but an outright change in spoken tongue.
Of course, such things are plenty ordinary in Nod-Krai— it is nothing if not a melting pot— but certain tongues remain more elusive than others. Liyuean and Sumeran are plenty common; merchants and curious explorers alike often frequent Nod-Krai’s distant shores, but other tongues, such like the ones Flins is hearing, are much rarer.
He flags down Demyan; takes a seat at his usual table with his usual shot of firewater, and contents himself with listening.
(He’s not— nosy. Or, he tries not to be. He enjoys knowing things, yes, but he doesn’t use that knowledge for personal gain. A certain nobleman in the Belyi Tsar’s court once did, certainly, but on his sunnier days Flins likes to think that it was something akin to self-defense. One could never be too sure with fairies.)
“The pretty one who lives in the lighthouse?”
“‘… lives?’”
Flins hides a smile in his glass.
“Oh, shit, err— ‘to live?’” No response. The first voice tries again: “‘To dwell?’”
“Oh! Dwell!” There’s a pause, and then the second voice continues, now sounding more aggrieved: “Quit teasing me— my father’s going to kill me, did you know that? He’s much older than me!”
“And? That’s not a problem. Haven’t you heard the expression? ‘If he ain’t over thirty, then we ain’t getting flirty?’” There’s a sigh, then— “I mean, you’ve seen the Grandmaster, haven’t you? What I wouldn’t give to be run through with his third claymore—”
The second voice makes some sort of squawking noise, and Flins freezes, because holy shit, wait a minute, he knows that voice. Its pitch is lowered, consonants harsher and vowels more uncomplicated, but he’s quite certain that if he twists just the slightest bit in his chair that he’ll see—
Illuga. Sat at a table in the far back, with numerous empty tankards around him (no firewater, though, Flins notes) with another individual whom he instantly recognizes as the Vice Captain of the Knights of Favonius' Fifth Company— Lohen, he’s pretty sure his name is.
(He’s very sure. To forget a name in the Belyi Tsar’s court was to offer yourself up on a silver platter. A certain nobleman died with that knowledge etched into his brain, and it doesn’t matter how hard Flins tries to forget; that knowledge will follow him til the day he dies.)
“Why are you like this?” Illuga asks. His voice is muffled, and when Flins looks over he sees that he’s covered his face with his hands. Even so, he can see that his ears are bright red. “Everything out of your mouth, it’s just— filth!”
“I’m only speaking the truth!” Lohen insists. “If he’s older, than he knows what he’s doing! What good is a dick if he can’t aim it?”
Illuga makes another squawking noise, this time a bit closer to a whale that’s been stabbed a few times, and frantically downs his drink like it’s a poison antidote. Meanwhile, Lohen cackles like a witch and flags down Demyan to refill their drinks.
Flins stares down at his own drink, and wonders if he’s dreaming. He feels like he’s dreaming, certainly, and the fact that he— well, he has an idea of whom Illuga and Lohen are speaking; ‘lighthouse’ aside he’s— aware— of Illuga’s feelings for him— and it— he—
His face feels very warm, and with a jolt of horror, Flins realizes he’s blushing.
“Of course, aim means nothing if he’s not got the strength to back it up—”
Flins wishes fervently that he were able to become drunk. He feels like it’s an accurate— nay, the only response to his given circumstances, but alas: alcohol just doesn’t affect him the way it does the rest of the populous.
He still feels like he should try.
“And what if I wanted to be the one aiming, hmm? What then?”
Decorum aside, Flins necks his shot in one and frantically asks for another.
“Ohohoho! He’s quite tall, are you sure you could manage?”
“I can lift him one-handed. I think I’ll be fine.”
Two, three. Flins feels the need to have at least six more shots, and then perhaps he’ll attempt to wend his way home and then fall into the ocean and die. He feels a bit like he’s died already. Is he dead? Is this the afterlife? What’s happening, anymore?
“Hah, you sound like you’ve already made up your mind! Fancy telling him that, hmm? He’s sat right over there— and based off the colour of his face and the empty shot glasses he’s got around him, I’d say he knows exactly what we’ve been talking about.”
Flins’ blood runs cold.
“S-Sir Flins!” Illuga stammers— in the common tongue, this time, not that it would have mattered. Flins is, unfortunately, quite well-versed in a number of different languages. “I didn’t— we weren’t—”
“This is where you tell him, ‘oh Sir Flins, won’t you please let me have the honour of bedding you—’”
“Cease!” Illuga shrieks, and stuffs a piece of bread in Lohen’s mouth. “Cease! You shall not yap! No more yapping will be coming from you henceforth—!”
Lohen scoffs, and, amid chews of bread, says: “So you’re not interested?”
Illuga looks incensed. Flins is half-convinced that he’s about to turn around and throttle Lohen, who also looks like he thinks that, except he looks excited by the prospect, and so Flins does the only (logical, reasonable, sensible course of action given his present circumstances) thing he can.
He turns to Illuga and says: “Are you interested, Young Master?”
Illuga makes a noise akin to a nervous bleat. Lohen wolf-whistles, then laughs when Illuga turns and begins hitting him with pieces of bread.
“Alright, alright, I’m going!” he says, then wriggles his way out of the booth and bows. “Gentlemen. A pleasure doing business with you.”
He turns and saunters off, calling out Varka’s name as he does so: “Grandmaster! What say you to a duel? A little… friendly fire to get the blood pumping, hmm?”
Flins watches him go for a moment, listening to Varka’s attempts at calming his knight’s bloodlust, and then turns to Illuga, who still looks as though he doesn’t believe his present circumstances are real.
He holds up a hand when Flins opens his mouth. “Sir Flins, I’m going to need like— thirty seconds before I can speak— hang on—” He reaches over, and Flins watches, wide-eyed as he necks Flins’ firewater like it’s a poison antidote.
“Ok,” he gasps, and slams the shot glass down. “Wow, that’s— that’s some powerful stuff, I…” He blinks heavily, then shakes his head. “Holy fuck…”
Flins hesitates for a moment, then cautiously slides into the seat just opposite Illuga. “So, is… is what you’ve—” He coughs. “Been discussing with the Vice Captain, is… is that true?”
Illuga stares at him warily. “Would you— Would you leave if it were?”
Flins is shaking his head before Illuga’s even finished speaking, and he watches as Illuga’s eyes blow wide in response.
“Sir Flins, are you— please don’t tell me you’re teasing me…”
Flins huffs a laugh, and shakes his head. “My tongue cannot lie,” he says, switching back over to Illuga’s language because he enjoys the way it makes him blush. “Besides, I confess I am…” He pauses for a moment; mulls over his words. “Hmm. I am not unopposed, if you should wish it.”
Illuga’s eyes go wide.
“Are you just unopposed?” he blurts. Flins raises an eyebrow at him.
“Bold, but it serves you well,” he murmurs, then sighs. “If I were to ask you, Illuga, if you had a room here, would that suffice? Or,” he leans in closer, whispers right in Illuga’s ear: “need I go into detail about all the things I’d have you do to me?”
He swears Illuga stops breathing for a second. Then, he’s up from the table in a flash, pushing his way through the crowds with a single-minded determination.
Grin pulling at his lips, Flins follows.