You and Leon have a routine. Your place, his place, injured or unscathed, it doesn't matter. You eat, you laugh, and neither of you says anything about being stupidly in love with the other.
“You really didn’t have to drive me home, Leon,” you slur over your shoulder as the two of you approach the front door to your apartment. The sickly green paint is chipping, and the brass until number below the peephole is hanging on by a single nail. It’s a shit hole, but when you’re out in the field for a third of the time, at headquarters for training or briefs (or medical intervention) for another, there’s really no point in shelling out half your paycheck for a nicer place. “Or walk me to my front door.”
“You’re one limb down,” he says with a toothless grin, gesturing to the sling nursing your right arm as you attempt to fish for your keys in your bag, forgetting that he’s carrying them in the pocket of his leather jacket. He jiggles the keychain in front of your face, your vision slightly blurring as you try to focus on the moving gaggle of brass. When you almost lose your footing, tripping over your own ankles, Leon lunges to steady you with a hand on your elbow. “And apparently still woozy from the pain meds.” With one hand still on your arm, he unlocks the door with the other, pushing it open so he can guide you across the threshold.
An almost immediate wave of relief crashes over you as you step inside, greeted with the scent of your fresh linen laundry detergent, the sight of your overstuffed sofa, the teddy bear propped against the back of it. Thankfully, you got a nasty case of the cleaning bug prior to leaving for the mission, so a pristine apartment welcomes you back, encasing you in the detoxifying smell of lemon furniture polish and freshly-vacuumed carpet.
“Let’s get you some dinner,” Leon suggests. His voice is only slightly muffled by the cotton in your ears, the pain medication you took before they set your broken arm at the tail-end of its effectiveness. “What’s the easiest thing to eat with one arm?” He mumbles to himself, instinctively reaching for the takeout menus you have stashed in a kitchen drawer like he’s done a hundred times before. He knows better than to ask you what you want to eat. He never gets an answer to that question. You’re far too indecisive to work well under such pressure, which is funny, because he’s always saying that he’s never met an agent so quick on their feet as you. Whether it’s true or not, you’ll take the compliment.
You watch from the sofa as he navigates around your kitchen, flipping through the paper menus before settling on one, punching a number into your landline. Your eyes stay affixed to his arms as he holds the phone to his ear, speaking your usual dinner order into the receiver. They’re so, so big. So big and bulging and so incredibly beautiful, as though sculpted from marble by Michaelangelo himself. A perfect David come to life in the flesh of a corny, old-souled government agent with the haircut of a boy-band drummer.
Speaking of, swaths of icy blonde hair fall across his forehead, framing his temples. He blows a few vagrant strands out of his eyes as he turns on his heel to face you, speaking a gratitude into the phone before hanging up the call.
Maybe it’s the drugs, maybe it’s the way he came to your rescue during the mission, wrapping your arm in a makeshift cast before either of you could get medical attention, but you’re suddenly confronted by an internal hurricane of feelings you typically repress. Feelings far too intense to be attached to friendship. Feelings of want and need. Need to confess. Need to confront.
“What’d you get us?” You say instead. Not even the lip-loosening medication can bring those thoughts to the surface.
Leon would never admit it to you, but you’ve occupied most all of his waking thoughts since the monet the two of you started working together. From the time he wakes up in the morning, long before his alarm even has the chance to go off (because he stopped sleeping a full eight hours many moons ago), until he lays his head back down on his pillow to do it all again, he’s thinking about you. Work, eating, breathing, BOWs–all background noise.
No, he’d never admit it, but Leon’s been in love with you since you walked into that briefing room and shook his hand for the first time.
And since then, he’s been attached to your hip like a lovesick puppy, the two of you sharing more meals than not, crashing on the other’s sofa when the drive back home feels impossible, and the idea of sleeping a room over is all too delicious. So, there’s nothing special about tonight, beside the fact that you’re giggling more than usual, and your feet were extra ticklish as he rubbed the ache from them, the two of you lounging together on the sofa, waiting for dinner to arrive.
Totally normal.
He fed you orange chicken, even though you could definitely manage on your own, even with your dominant hand out of commission.
Again, very normal. You’d washed his hair on multiple occasions when a cracked rib or two prevented him from raising his arms. That’s what friends are for.
They come to the rescue when the other is in need.
What they don’t do, however, is kiss the other on the cheek and call him their ‘boyfriend’.
He was in the middle of washing the dishes used during dinner when you came up behind him and pressed your lips to his face.
“You’re such a good boyfriend, Leon.”
Not normal.
You slap your only available hand over your mouth, as if to shove the words back down your throat. But it’s too late. With the faucet spitting water, his hands covered in dish soap, mid-scrub, Leon freezes.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. Or do that–kiss you, I mean.”
Every last drop of that pain medication has now left your system, the situation far too sobering to keep you under a haze any longer, and you see it now, clear as day. You kissed Leon and called him your ‘boyfriend’. A good one too. And by the rosy tint spreading across his face like a bad rash, you think he liked it.
“It’s just all so domestic, I think, and–well, I wasn’t thinking–but you know what I mean.” You swallow hard, your throat suddenly scratchy and hoarse. The bewildered expression on his face, unreadable in its blankness, makes you sick to your stomach. His eyes are as wide as saucers, his lips slightly agape, and for some reason, you think a defensive ramble is the best course of action to take. “We’re just so…close, and lines get blurred, and...I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying, I think I just–”
He cuts you off with a kiss. A real one this time. All-encompasing and electric, tasting like wasted time and mint toothpaste.
His hands grab your face, holding you close, not letting you shirk away, or continue babbling into his mouth. You’re completely and utterly enraptured by his touch, and although there’s no lack of passion tucked into the corners, it’s all care and affection. Three years’ worth.
“Leon,” is all you manage to whisper when his lips detach from yours and he retreats in inch, hands still lingering to cup your cheeks. His pupils are shot, black circles eclipsing the blue of his irises, as piercing and formidable as ever.
“I think I’ve loved you for a long time,” he says, dipping down to press his forehead against yours. “And you might be too woozy to remember this tomorrow, but I at least want you to know tonight.”
You tilt your head upward to capture his lips in another marriage of love and long-earned feelings. It’s cooler this time, not as hot and messy as the first one–far more controlled in its decision. “I think I love you too, Leon. No,” you giggle, bottom lip grazing his. “I’m sure I do.”
“And that’s not the medicine talking?” His brows are cinched together in what seems like genuine concern, and it’s amusing–knowing your own feelings–to think he could even doubt your devotion.
You shake your head, planting a soft peck on the tip of his nose. He smiles wide, flashing a set of perfectly imperfect teeth, beneath the gesture. “Nope. All me.”
After the two of you explore each other’s mouths, making your way to the sofa in the throes of your affection, Leon pulls away, if only for a second to gaze into your eyes. “So…I’m a pretty good boyfriend, huh?”
Headcanon that Kaeya keeps saying unreciprocated "I love you"s for the past two decades because he keeps whispering it in Khaenr'ian.
.
He'd hug Diluc on his bed after a nightmare and whisper it into his brother's hair. Diluc just thought Kaeya's mumbling nonsense after a bad dream.
He'd say it to Jean after she patches him up after a rough knight's training. He blames it on adrenaline when she asks.
He'd say it to Crepus during a rainy day tucked under his dad's arms, leaning into him as he paints. The words are drowned out by the storm.
.
Jean confronts him once, after Crepus's death. Beside his bed, wounded and cold; the last Ragnvindr in Mondstadt. "It's nothing," he'll say, and she just furrowed her eyebrows further. She's heard him say it too many times to pass it as gibberish. But she lets it go.
.
He'll whisper it as he tucks Klee in, her eyes closed and her breathing soft.
Albedo perks up when he hears it. "It sounds familiar," he would remark. "Khaenri'an?"
Kaeya glances at him and grins. "Maybe,"
"Never heard the phrase. What does it mean?" Albedo asks instead.
Kaeya knows that the most likely possibility is that Albedo had only learnt ancient Khaenri'an, not whatever warped abyssal version of Khaenri'an Kaeya uses. But he wonders if the reason Albedo doesn't know it is because no one had ever said it to him, not even his master.
"It's a term of endearment," is the vague answer Kaeya responds with.
.
Kaeya says it to Diluc, frustration seeping into his voice as he slings his brother's arm over his shoulders and away from battle. Idiot, Kaeya would think. He should count his lucky stars that Kaeya cares.
Diluc spares him a glance. "You always say that,"
"Say what?" Kaeya bites out, no less annoyed.
Diluc butchers the pronunciation so badly that Kaeya would've laughed in any other circumstances.
Diluc, Kaeya, and random aches Kaeya experiences every now and then that scare Diluc every time without a fault. you know this random pains here and there and there's a second you think 'oh damn, I'm done for' but that's just your body acting like a bugging PC trying to reboot by smashing itself into the wall.
so. here's the thing.
Kaeya is the buggiest PC to ever happened to be born.
he can be walking with no care in the world, just chilling, chatting, and then he's folded in half, his chest aching, and he's carefully recollecting what the heck it is now. usually it's just a strained muscle, some awkward pose at sleep, some dumb decisions from the old days such as old wounds or scars or such.
and he's just. lying on the ground, waiting for it to pass, unable to talk as his brain is solely focused on pain, and this dumb body-rebooting happens when Diluc is nearby, and Diluc is freaking out.
he genuinely thinks his brother is having a heart attack. then he settles for aneurysm. then he decides against it and thinks it's kidney stones. then Kaeya takes a deep breath, stands up, dusts himself off, and says they should be going.
Diluc: to the Cathedral???
Kaeya, blinking: what for?
Diluc, at the verge of having aneurysm of his own: YOU HAD A HEART ATTACK??? LIKE. JUST NOW???
Kaeya: I think I'd be aware of it, no?
(spoiler: he probably would not. that's the reason why Diluc always brings Kaeya to the Cathedral to get his idiot of a brother checked up. especially if these random aches last for two-three hours and Diluc feels himself greying prematurely)
it's something that stems from childhood, but when he was a kid it was less frequent, but did scare Crepus a couple of times to the point Adelinde was thinking of calling the healer to her master rather to the kid who already returned to ruining the vineyard with Diluc.
Thank-you to all of my new Internet stranger friends for being so gracious about having my post shoved onto your dashboards. I loved reading all of your kind tags and comments! Both Martin and Bosco have been gone for several years now but for 24 hours, they felt very present in my life. I greatly appreciate this gift. ❤️
Thank you to everyone who commented in their tags or messaged me. Indeed, today is “Martin and Bosco Day”. I originally whimsically blazed this photo on 13 July 2022. I never expected Martin and Bosco to travel so far and make so many new friends. The experience has been such a gift for me.
This machine allows anyone to work for minimum wage for as long as they like. Turning the crank on the side releases one penny every 4.97 seconds, for a total of $7.25 per hour. This corresponds to minimum wage for a person in New York. This piece is brilliant on multiple levels, particularly as social commentary. Without a doubt, most people who started operating the machine for fun would quickly grow disheartened and stop when realizing just how little they’re earning by turning this mindless crank. A person would then conceivably realize that this is what nearly two million people in the United States do every day…at much harder jobs than turning a crank. This turns the piece into a simple, yet effective argument for raising the minimum wage.
People will always be exploited in capitalism, its part of the system. Thats how it *works*. There is no way to achieve freedom of the working class without dismantling capitalism
I don't think Tolkien is a good fantasy writer because he scored the highest at some objective Best Fantasy Book Test that every fantasy writer has to take, I think he's a good fantasy writer because he created a world based on things that he was interested in. I feel like a lot of fantasy writers think that they need to create a whole language for their world because Tolkien did and obviously his books are the best so they have to emulate him, but Tolkien did that because he was a linguistics nerd. I think the lesson to be learned from him is not that you have to include elves and deep history and new languages, but that you have to write endlessly about the things you are a huge nerd about and use those things to create your fantasy world
Superman said, “all immigrants are people and deserve respect and love they aren’t aliens they are humans and the people who disagree should die” and supergirl said, “A women’s purity shouldn’t be defined by the man who has caused them harm and the exploitation of young women is disgusting and the men who do such things should die” and they are right
do you think the fact that he almost killed Kaeya eats at Diluc everyday? like do you think every so often Kaeya stops by to gather some belongings from his old room, or just to visit, have tea or discuss knights of favonious affairs and Diluc takes one good look at him all grown up, and he thinks to himself, “There might be a world where I never saw you like this.”
the way Kaeya caves in when everything comes at him all at once, and Diluc is a witness to how his little brother crumples under the weight.
Kaeya got sick, and that's morbid enough in itself, and Diluc is scared shitless, his mind racing every possible thougt. and Kaeya sits on the bed, his fever raging inside for over four days, he hadn't gotten even a wink of sleep, fatigued and overworked to the bone.
Diluc watched Kaeya burn himself out for the sake of protecting and guarding from what's to come. half a year of planning, strategies, battles no one was a witness to, all along his usual work as a Cavalry Captain with no Cavalry and Quartermaster with quarters half-empty. Diluc watched it and did nothing to stop his brother from it.
he did his bit — helped with some of the battles, logistics, intel; Fatui now are bonded both legally and illegally, any threat to the border of Mondstadt would cause a war Snezhnaya can't afford to go into. Kaeya worked relentlessly.
Kaeya drew a signature, shook hands, walked out of the courtroom, and promptly collapsed, his body halting him effectively in tracks.
however, Diluc also learned that beside this huge work Kaeya is in charge of many more, and he couldn't afford to take a break; more than that, the Abyss was lurking, searching for something, and Kaeya knew what they needed.
but he is sick and can't even stand up to welcome anyone, entering his home. he feels himself useless, utterly inefficient, not worthy of any care and kindness he receives bedridden. he tries to shoo Diluc away, bitter and angry, but Diluc stays.
Diluc stays and his heart skips a beat, horrified, when he notices eyes, filling with tears — one golden and scarred and one blue and clouded from the fever.
Kaeya never cried, even in immeasurable pain.
'what's wrong?' Diluc stammers, rushing to Kaeya's side, and Kaeya suddenly starts sobbing, clutching his hands on his hair, tangled and greasy, wet from sweat, and he cries, and cries, and cries, and mumbles slurred 'I'm sorry, so, so sorry', and all what Diluc can do is to hold him and cradle, not letting him fall into the smithereens.
with the next beat of his heart, Diluc realises why.
This machine allows anyone to work for minimum wage for as long as they like. Turning the crank on the side releases one penny every 4.97 seconds, for a total of $7.25 per hour. This corresponds to minimum wage for a person in New York. This piece is brilliant on multiple levels, particularly as social commentary. Without a doubt, most people who started operating the machine for fun would quickly grow disheartened and stop when realizing just how little they’re earning by turning this mindless crank. A person would then conceivably realize that this is what nearly two million people in the United States do every day…at much harder jobs than turning a crank. This turns the piece into a simple, yet effective argument for raising the minimum wage.
People will always be exploited in capitalism, its part of the system. Thats how it *works*. There is no way to achieve freedom of the working class without dismantling capitalism
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