[flshtopher]

stay still 💤

[flshtopher]

for his sweety 🐉

[flshtopher]

eepy 💤

[flshtopher]

another life ☀️🌙⭐️

[flshtopher]

can we keep him? 🥺

[flshtopher]

sesamemochi

[flshtopher]

kavetham / what remains

Alhaitham is the stupidest, most brilliant man Kaveh knows.

They meet as students in the Akademiya. He looks back on those early days, when Alhaitham’s rigid rationality and individualism had been endearing rather than infuriating. Kaveh could admit he liked him then.

Funny, how things change.

And yet, Alhaitham doesn’t change at all.

(Perhaps it was Kaveh who changed, who woke up one day and realized the budding, delicate thing between them wouldn’t – couldn’t – last.)

Kaveh doesn’t see him after the abrupt end of their joint research project. In fact, he makes a point of not seeing Alhaitham, which isn’t very difficult when Alhaitham doesn’t like to be seen and when Kaveh knows exactly where to find him.

It isn’t difficult, to pretend they were never friends at all.

Kaveh graduates. The Akademiya tries to give him a house, and he sends someone to tell them he isn’t interested. He does not want for work, for wealth. The people start to call him the Light of the Kshahrewar, but renown does not put a roof over his head. Admiration does not fill his stomach.

In the end, his lofty ideals land him right back where he started.

There’s the house he rejected, waiting for him right in the heart of Sumeru City. There’s Alhaitham.

Stubborn as the day they fell apart. Still just as brilliant. He hasn’t changed. He’s insufferable.

How long has it been? Does it even matter, when Kaveh still remembers the way Alhaitham takes his coffee? When those piercing eyes still haunt him at night, when his fingers still itch to tangle themselves in hair soft and silvery like moonlight?

The scent of his soap, the timbre of his voice… He tries to forget them. He tries, he tries, he tries—

Because Kaveh doesn’t like Alhaitham.

But he cannot deny the trust that still remains beneath the rubble of their once friendship.

Alhaitham is quieter after Kaveh returns from his extended trip to the desert. The Sages are gone. Sumeru City is different, yet fundamentally unchanged. Kaveh knows something happened. He hears the rumors, the fantastical tales that surely can’t be true because if they are then—

“You could have died.”

It hits him suddenly, the chilling realization that he could have returned to an empty house. A home without Alhaitham.

All because Alhaitham – this brilliant, insufferable man – chose to rescue a god without so much as a word when Kaveh was right there, when Kaveh could have helped.

(He says as much, in a burst of raw emotion that leaves him red in the face as Alhaitham idly flips through the pages of a book with the same blank expression Kaveh has always hated.

“Yes, I could have died,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “But I didn’t.”

“Ugh, that’s not – that’s not the point!”)

Kaveh doesn’t like Alhaitham.

Yet, when Alhaitham dozes off with his head on Kaveh’s shoulder, he’s reminded of a simpler time. Before the bitterness. Before their differences became too much to bear. He looks at Alhaitham then, exhausted by all that has happened. Vulnerable, because Kaveh is the only one who gets to see this human side of him at the end of the day.

The trust between them remains.

And, with his lips ghosting over moonlight, Kaveh knows deep in his soul that the love remains as well.

[flshtopher]

‘write letters to friends and reminisce about old times’

hbd grandpa 🎉

[flshtopher]

childe gen / stitches

ajax is small for his age. skinny, with ribs that show beneath his pale skin and elbows like knives. he takes after his mother—the first of her three children to do so—and the hand-me-downs he receives from his brother are ill-suited to his slight frame.

but clothes are clothes, and ajax knows better than to be picky.

no one in their little village of morepesok is particularly well off. not in the way the city folk are. his father takes him once, a special trip to the capital, and ajax marvels at the sights and sounds. the streets lined with more people than he’d seen in his entire life combined, and the myriad of shops with their goods on display behind frosted windows.

zapolyarny palace, off in the distance, with its grand spires and crystalline walls.

ajax feels a little self conscious in his too big coat and worn boots. he doesn’t belong in a place like this. and yet, he wants more than anything to stay.

(to stay, to observe, to be seen, to belong.)

when he returns to morepesok, to his cozy home and shared bedroom, ajax finds a tear along the seam of his pant leg.

it’s a small thing—easily fixed with a needle and some thread. his mother mends the garment with deft fingers, the in and out, in and out, in and out motions practiced and uniform.

“i’ll teach you one day,” she says, laughing softly at the way his eyelids droop after a long day of travel and adventure.

yes, his mother will teach him, just as she taught him how to cook and clean and haggle down at the market. ajax takes after his mother, after all.

/

in and out, in and out, in—

ajax is sixteen, and everything is red. his hands, his clothes, and the snow around him—everything is red, red like blood, warm and sticky and red.

focus.

there’s—a wound. a gash. on his side, right beneath his ribs. they don’t stick out anymore, he notes distantly. vaguely. he’s filled out since joining the fatui. puberty, they say. training, and pushing his body to its absolute limit, and then pushing beyond.

his head spins, and his hands shake, but he holds the needle between his thumb and forefinger just as his mother did.

the tear in his old pair of hand-me-down pants, the tear in his flesh—they mend the same. needle and thread, in and out. where his mother’s stitches were even and neat, his own are sloppy. like a child’s, he thinks, and he laughs because it’s funny. he’s funny. sweet, shy little ajax, replaced by some abyssal beast.

red, red, everything is still red, but he’s stopped bleeding for now. held together by sutures and the will to survive and the desire to be seen.

ajax is sixteen, and the boy who took after his mother is dead.

[flshtopher]

zhongchi / and they were roommates

“hey, zhongli?”

it’s a friday night, and ajax finds himself in the living room of his and zhongli’s shared apartment. specifically, he finds himself with his head on the other man’s lap, both of them dressed down to their pajamas as the narrator of some national geographic documentary drones on about… ajax isn’t sure honestly. his mind has been on other things. namely—

“are we… together? like. together-together. dating-together.”

zhongli hums. his fingers still in ajax’s hair. ajax kind of wants to throw up.

“it’s just that—we do things,” he says. “things that uh, friends usually don’t do. i think. like right now. fuck, what i mean is—“

“would you be interested?” zhongli asks, effectively cutting off his quickly derailing train of thought.

“oh.” is he interested? well, yes. probably. zhongli is his best friend. he’s attractive. unfairly so, really. kind. reliable. a little airheaded, but in a stupidly endearing sort of way.

being with zhongli is easy. a little too easy, maybe, with how blurred the line between friendship and something more has become.

“i think so.” ajax blinks. smiles. it feels right. “i think i want to try, at least, if you’re interested.”

zhongli smiles back at him, gentle and warm and a little shy. “of course.”

“dinner tomorrow night then? we can go to that new place downtown you mentioned last week.”

“it’s a date.”

[flshtopher]

zhongli & childe / zhongli babysits a child(e)

he is… soft. round, in the way children typically are, with soft ginger curls and big blue eyes and plump, freckle-dusted cheeks.

this, zhongli knows, is not childe or tartaglia. rather, he is ajax of morepesok, and he is afraid. the bravado of the fearsome eleventh harbinger has been replaced with something gentler. something that could almost be described as shy.

most curious of all is the fact that ajax does not say a word.

he understands zhongli, answering his questions with nods and shakes of his head. yes, his name is ajax. yes, he is lost. no, he does not know where he is.

“and how old are you, ajax?” zhongli asks.

ajax looks down at his hands for a moment before holding up four fingers.

then and there, zhongli decides there is nothing he will not do for the boy.

several times throughout their midday stroll, zhongli catches ajax staring at toys and various other trinkets with wide, sparkling eyes. yet when zhongli offers to purchase said items for him, his answer is always the same.

he shakes his head. no.

then, he hesitates.

the object that catches his interest this time is a stuffed dragon. more specifically, it is a stuffed dragon modeled after zhongli’s own exuvia.

the slight hesitation speaks volumes.

ajax really, really wants it.

so zhongli makes his way toward the vendor, ajax balanced on one arm while his free hand digs around for his mora pouch. for all that childe has humored him in the past, this is the least he can do.

what he doesn’t expect is the wet kiss ajax places on his cheek after the plush is safely deposited into his arms.

thank you.

ah. he really doesn’t stand a chance.

“you’re welcome.”

next on the agenda is lunch at wanmin restaurant. ajax is seated on his lap, and surely he can feel the contented rumble of zhongli’s chest as he feeds the boy bites of fish and rice. part of zhongli—the part that is more beast than man—aches to keep ajax all to himself. to protect him from those who would do him harm.

still, zhongli knows that suddenly whisking the boy away will only frighten him further. times have changed, and he is no longer morax but zhongli, a simple funeral parlor consultant.

as the sun begins its descent below the horizon, ajax gently tugs at zhongli’s hair.

“hm?”

ajax makes a small noise in his throat and points to a stand a few paces away. it’s lined with colorful pinwheels lazily spinning in the late afternoon breeze.

“would you like to purchase one?”

ajax bites his lip and nods.

“alright then.”

zhongli sets him down and watches fondly as the boy runs to the stand on short, stubby legs. he expects ajax to pick the red pinwheel. childe likes the color red. instead, ajax turns around and presents him with a yellow pinwheel.

“this one?”

yes.

before they leave, ajax tugs on zhongli’s coat and motions for him to bend down. he receives another thank you kiss for his troubles.

and later, when the moon is high in the sky and ajax and his stuffed friend are tucked safely beneath the covers, zhongli presses his own kiss to the boy’s forehead.

“good night, ajax.”

he turns to leave, but is stopped by a tiny hand grasping his shirt sleeve.

then, ajax speaks.

“stay… please.”

zhongli smiles. “of course.”

[flshtopher]

thomato / fatui assassin thoma

when thoma washes up on inazuma’s shores, he’s found not by the kamisato clan, but by the fatui.

they take him in, make him one of their own, and thoma swears his loyalty to a goddess who has no love for him nor her people.

the second time thoma steps foot in inazuma, he is a young man on a mission.

infiltrate the kamisato clan. 

keep an eye on the yashiro commissioner. 

await further instruction.

(thoma knows, of course, that there’s only one way this can end.

he knows, but kamisato ayato makes it so easy to forget.)

thoma blinks, and suddenly he isn’t just a lowly housekeeper. chief retainer, they call him. inazuma’s fixer. it’s been nearly ten years of intermittent reports to an organization he feels more disconnected from by the day, of being told ‘not yet’ by higher ups he’s never met.

it’s been nearly ten years of watching over a young lord who shoulders too many burdens, who works tirelessly for a future that will not come to pass.

nearly ten years of shogi games he’s never once won, of suspicious hotpots, of thwarting assassination attempts because thoma’s will be the last face ayato sees when the fateful day comes.

it’s an ordinary day when ayato smiles at him, soft and just a little crooked, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling, and thoma catches himself thinking,

‘i wish i had met you first.’

in another world, another life, perhaps it would have been ayato who found him on the shores of inazuma.

the order comes not long after.

silence kamisato ayato.

in the end, thoma finds him in the rain.

it’s a familiar scene — ayato, standing beneath the downpour, no umbrella in sight. this is the part where thoma comes running, where he frets and ayato laughs and thoma catches himself staring at the wet tracks on cold, pale cheeks.

this is the part where they walk home together, shoulders brushing beneath a too small umbrella.

(it’s always one umbrella, never two.)

now the game is up, and yet, thoma fights the urge to shrug off his jacket to offer ayato some modicum of shelter.

“is it time?”

“you knew.”

ayato smiles, polite and so very wrong. “of course i did.“

ayato’s blood is warm. thoma nicks the delicate skin beneath his eye with a blade that feels too heavy in his hand, and ayato nearly takes his head.

they’ve sparred hundreds of times. thoma can count on one hand the occasions he’s bested ayato.

(it would’ve been so easy, to slip poison into his favorite milk tea, to sneak up on him as he slept.)

it ends like this:

with ayato on the ground, mud dirtying the white of his clothes. with thoma on top of him, knee pressed to his chest, blade at his throat.

“you could have killed me ten times over by now,” thoma says, because this is wrong. it’s supposed to be him on the ground. it’s supposed to be him at ayato’s mercy.

“i always wondered why it was you.” ayato meets his gaze, and he smiles that soft, crooked smile thoma has come to love. “when you came to us — to me — i considered it an insult. you were unremarkable in every way, but the fatui thought you capable enough to be my executioner.”

(he’s beautiful, even like this.)

“i suppose i underestimated you. from the very beginning i knew who you were and what your mission was, and yet… i enjoyed our time together. i grew fond of our charade. i grew fond of the person you pretended to be, and part of me foolishly clings to the hope that it wasn’t all just an act.”

thoma doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. the rain continues to fall, and thoma — he’s standing at the precipice of something dangerous.

“it wasn’t,” he says. “none of it was — i wouldn’t… it wasn’t an act.”

(his father spoke of loyalty and righteousness, but his mother—

she spoke of freedom and love.)

thoma lets himself fall.

“i love you.”

ayato doesn’t say it back — not right then — but he’s the one who reaches for thoma’s hand as they make their way home.

the rain slows to a drizzle. there’s no umbrella to hide beneath, but their shoulders brush every step of the way.

[flshtopher]

every so often, childe finds himself without words.

it’s not something he can explain, but zhongli never asks for an explanation on the days childe can only answer in soft hums and with gentle touches.

the quiet moments they share are nice. comforting, in ways childe never thought possible. zhongli is a warm body to lean against. he holds childe’s hand, lays kisses atop his head and smiles as if the weight of six thousand years no longer sits upon his shoulders.

sometimes, zhongli will read from the book he keeps on the end table. his voice is deep, grounding, and he has enough words for the both of them.

(he has so many words — too many, some argue — but childe hangs onto every single one.)

evening shifts into night, and childe finds his voice again between silken sheets and strong arms.

“thank you,” he whispers at last when the moon is high, and zhongli only holds him tighter.

[flshtopher]

[flshtopher]

zhongchi / alright

it is, perhaps, unfair of childe to expect anyone to wish him a happy birthday when he hasn’t actually told anyone that it’s his birthday.

the only people who know and potentially care enough to celebrate are an ocean away. every year they send a letter to ask if he’s coming home, and every year childe sends back the same excuse. he’s been busy since he was fourteen.

busy training, busy climbing the ranks, busy serving the tsaritsa.

birthdays are meant to be joyous occasions, and childe’s life is anything but. the abyss swallowed him whole, and he wasn’t blind to the way his parents and older siblings looked at him in the days and weeks and months following his return.

(scared  — as if he is someone dangerous.)

yet, childe remembers being young and bright eyed and so very innocent. he remembers a time before, when the smell of seafood would fill their house and his mother would sing in the kitchen as she prepared all his favorite dishes. he remembers sore ears and cheerful laughter and promises of a special ice fishing trip, just him and his father. he remembers the homemade sweets, the warmth of being celebrated and loved.

there’s no use in dwelling on days gone by. 

(who would choose to love a thing so tainted by the abyss anyway?)

“childe,” zhongli says, and there’s no questioning the fondness, the adoration in his voice as he squeezes childe hand beneath the table. “are you alright?”

childe laughs. he hasn’t been alright in a very long time, and yet…

his chest feels lighter when he’s with zhongli.

wanmin restaurant is as lively as ever, but it’s easy to pretend he and zhongli are the only ones there when the god looks at him like he’s the only person who matters.

today is childe’s birthday. zhongli is none the wiser.

dinner will pass as it always does, with lighthearted conversation and furtive touches, with zhongli piling food into his bowl because he cares.

the day will pass like any other, with no celebration and no cake, but childe will greet tomorrow from the warmth of zhongli’s arms, with the knowledge that zhongli has chosen to love him.

the boy who crawled out of the abyss — he isn’t alone anymore. he’ll never be alone again.

"i’m alright,” childe says, and he means it.

[flshtopher]

zhongli doesn’t die in the way mortals do.

concrete roads replace ancient stone paths, skyscrapers rise up and statues erode, and zhongli dies a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand deaths.

“have we met before?”

“no,” zhongli says, drowning in the depths of familiar blue eyes.

a mortal dies when his heart stops beating.

a god dies when he is forgotten.

and zhongli—he would gladly die a thousand deaths by his beloved’s hand, because to be forgotten is to be known. 

(a thousand deaths, for a thousand lifetimes by his side.)

[flshtopher]

zhongchi / letters & (unkept) promises

“i’m leaving,” childe says, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them. his cheeks are flushed, but he isn’t drunk.

(just tipsy enough to have a good time,

never drunk, never vulnerable—)

“i see.” zhongli sips his own drink. it’s an osmanthus wine from his personal collection—a bottle he’s been saving for several hundred years now—yet it tastes bitter on his tongue. “when?”

“tomorrow. noon.”

another bitter sip. the evening passes far too quickly.

then childe is gone, with little more than a wave of his hand and an until next time, xiansheng.

next time.

as if there will be a next time, when childe has no reason to return to liyue now that the curtain of rex lapis’ elaborate play has fallen.

childe is a warrior, one blessed by celestia and tainted by the abyss.

he is mortal.

he will die.

(it haunts him—the thought of childe’s life being snuffed out at any moment. perhaps he will bleed out while zhongli takes his afternoon tea an ocean away, or perhaps he will fall as zhongli examines a new batch of ores at the market.)

zhongli doesn’t know where childe has gone (that’s confidential, xiansheng) but he knows the days feel longer now.

a month passes.

a letter arrives.

xiansheng,

how are things faring in liyue?

i find myself missing the warm weather and good food.

let’s get lunch together soon.

no signature, no return address.

zhongli smiles.

(a confirmation, a promise.)

another month passes. a year, then two.

the letters keep coming.

some are written on thick stationery, and others are written on scrap paper. zhongli loses sleep when he notices the dried blood on the edge of one particular letter.

xiansheng,

sometimes i wonder if you’re still reading these letters.

sometimes i wonder if we were friends, or if it was all in my head.

i miss you.

childe’s neat handwriting is wobbly, the ink smudged.

and not for the first time, zhongli feels his chest tighten. he feels—

he feels powerless.

he feels so very human.

no return address. no way to tell childe he misses him too.

then, the letters stop.

a month, two months, three.

half a year.

zhongli takes a leave of absence from work. packs his bags and, for the first time in well over a thousand years, boards a ship to snezhnaya.