#azul.interacts

Silence settled around you like the unsettling calm that had been forged by the lightkeeper and without a word, you placed your hand in his. The rain that had been gently falling, comes into a drizzle until no longer, the skies cry. Albeit, you are soaked through your clothes and the cold is already deep within your bones. The fine fabric of his gloved hand is chilled by the rain, too, and though it is not warm, a certain comfort bleeds through your skin.

"Not exactly the tour I was expecting, but I won't say no to a guide,” you chuckle rather nervously, trying to make light of the situation. Flins had now straightened from his bow, his form seeming to tower in the gloom as he turned your hand over within his own. 

In all honesty, he hadn’t really expected you to take his hand.

A low, soft hum escaped him, a sound that seemed to weave into the mist. "A fortunate surprise for me, then.” He begins walking, not toward the distant exit as you had assumed, but to a nearby shelter nestled in the shadow of the lighthouse—a detour that would have rendered your arduous journey through Nod-Krai's perilous depths entirely useless. All that effort undone in a single, violent interruption. Seriously, nobody has told you how far away the burial grounds actually are.

"Your presence here brings a much-needed light to this place," he speaks again, his tone as cool and smooth as the surrounding stones. "Though I must apologize; the hospitality thus far has been... lacking.”

"You more than made up for it with the rescue," you say, the words feeling more genuine than your attempted joke earlier. The memory of him fighting earlier, utterly dashing and striking that it felt like your breath had been stolen away, banishing the horrors into nothingness, momentarily eclipsing your shivering. "I'd take a lack of hospitality over being a permanent resident here any day."

You fall into step beside him, your hand still enveloped in his; his grip is neither tight nor loose, but possesses a deliberate, unyielding hold that silently communicates he has no intention of releasing you. And so, your immediate dilemma seamlessly shifts, the terror of the abyssal creatures fading into a more intimate, flustering confusion that coils in your chest—a single, looping question: why did you actually take his hand?

“You jest,” he chuckles. Perhaps it was a trick of your overwhelmed mind, or perhaps it was the new, fragile peace, but the gloom itself seemed to brighten, the air now shimmering with motes of light that danced around the two of you. 

Though, in the midst of the whirlpool of your thoughts, he, too, falls in the same quiet bewilderment. In all honesty, it isn’t his first time that he had extended his hand—he’s done so countless times before, to the lost, the frightened, the dying. But this is the first time someone has actually taken it. Properly taken it. No hesitation, no desperate grasping, no fading pulse beneath his fingers nor nothing at all. And for reasons he can’t quite name, that simple act makes his chest feel oddly light, his composure slipping for the briefest moment. 

He wonders if you noticed the way his thumb almost twitched, as if tempted to tighten his hold. Ridiculous. He’s guided countless souls through far worse storms—so why does this one feel different? Why does your hand feel heavier in his? It’s inconvenient, really. Entirely unnecessary. 

(And yet, when he chances a glance at you, your damp hair catching faint glimmers of lantern light, he thinks, perhaps—)

“Flins.”

“Yes?” He hums, low, questioning, without looking back. The sound carries easily through the mist, like a thread pulling you closer. 

“You’re still holding my hand.”

“Ah, my apologies.”

Though he doesn’t let go. Instead, he seems to consider the act of it—the way your fingers fit so easily against his gloved palm, how natural it feels despite the strangeness of it all. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, albeit it does leave you with questions and thoughts that rampage inside your head.

You glance at him. “You know, most people let go after apologizing.”

“Do they?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him before. “That seems inefficient.”

You laugh softly, a sound that fogs the chill between you. “Inefficient?”

“Well, yes,” he replies, almost defensively, though there’s a faint smile curving his lips. “It would be rather rude to abandon someone halfway through an escort, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s one way to justify it,” you say, shaking your head, though you don’t pull your hand away either. Somehow, that feels like its own small confession.

The path evens out, and the faint light of the lighthouse glows ahead, cutting through the fog like a gentle beacon, and spilling across both of you. You notice the way the light pools softly over his shoulder, gilding the edges of his hair, tracing faint gold along the curve of his jaw. He looks different under it—less distant, more human. Or maybe that’s just the exhaustion catching up to you.

“Cold?” he asks quietly, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

“A little,” you admit, voice barely above the whisper of the wind.

He hums, thoughtful. “Then I suppose it would be best if I didn’t let go after all.”

You blink, caught off guard, and for a moment you don’t know whether to laugh or hide your face. “That’s—”

“Efficient,” he finishes for you, deadpan, though the faint curve of his mouth betrays the joke.

It shouldn’t make you smile as much as it does. And yet, here you are, grinning like a fool in the middle of a graveyard, your hand still tucked safely in his. Somehow, the setting makes it all stupid, it’s gloomy and dark, and yet, you’re here, indulging yourself in whatever this is. You had only come here for the sake of politeness and curiosity, but still, in the very depths of your mind and everything you are swearing for, maybe you don’t regret it one bit.

By the time you reach the lighthouse steps, the mist has thinned into nothing more than a veil over the sea. You pause, the both of you standing still before the resting area—a table littered with all kinds of things accompanied by a singular chair—, and only then does he finally release your hand. The air rushes back in like a held breath let go.

You flex your fingers once, the ghost of warmth still dancing around your skin where he had once touched. “So,” you say, feigning nonchalance, “do you do this for everyone? Holding their hand and everything?”

He turns slightly, his expression unreadable in the soft glow. “You make it sound as though I go around holding everyone’s hand,” he says, voice laced with amusement. “I assure you, it’s only you.”

You open your mouth, but no reply comes out—just the quick flutter of your heartbeat and the failing gears of your thoughts filling the space between you. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?

He inclines his head, almost in a bow. “The storm has passed.”

(—maybe it’s warm after all.)