STAR ZONE ACT III @lees-brainrotzone - Tumblr Blog

Jul 4

...AND THE SWEET PROMISE OF SPRING

childe x reader content: hanahaki disease, hurt/comfort, wc 8.9k notes: the happy cousin of this :) tags: @evadnesworldmasterlist

There is a particular quality to winter in Morepesok that exists nowhere else in Teyvat.

Not the cold itself — cold is cold, and you have read about Dragonspine's shadow in the books Ajax sends from his postings, have heard him describe the Shogunate's seasonal grey and the frost coming in off the sea in Liyue Harbor, and none of it is precisely the same as the cold of home, but all of it is recognizably winter. What is particular to Morepesok is the silence. The way snow falls there with a completeness that feels deliberate, like the sky making a decision, like the world choosing, for a few months every year, to muffle everything that might otherwise be too loud. You grew up inside that silence. You learned, inside it, how to hear the things people weren't saying.

You learned that skill, mostly, from Ajax.

Ajax, who was loud about everything except the things that mattered. Who would throw himself headfirst into any physical confrontation with a grin that suggested he found the possibility of being hurt genuinely funny, who argued with his father about dinner and his mother about curfew and Teucer about absolutely nothing with the cheerful aggression of someone who had decided conflict was just another word for engagement — and who went absolutely, completely silent on the subjects that meant the most. Who said nothing about the Abyss for years after he came back from it. Who said nothing about the Tsaritsa's commission beyond what was required. Who carried things alone because carrying things alone was the only methodology he trusted.

You had always understood this about him. You had understood it and loved him for it and occasionally wanted to shake him for it, and the understanding had been, for most of your life, entirely sufficient. It had been sufficient until sometime last spring, when you had woken up one morning with a feeling in your chest that was not quite pain and not quite anything you had vocabulary for, a pressure behind the sternum that you had at first attributed to the seasonal shift, to the grey weeks between winter and spring that Morepesok did particularly badly.

By May you were coughing petals into your palm and you understood that it was not the season.

You had known Ajax since before he was Childe, before he was Tartaglia, before he was the Eleventh Harbinger of the Fatui or anything else the world had decided to make of him. You had known him when he was simply the boy next door in the most literal possible sense, the boy who had appeared at your fence one September morning when you were both six years old and informed you, with the directness that would come to define him, that you were going to be friends.

"I didn't agree to that," you had told him.

"You will," he had said, and climbed over the fence, and that had been that.

His mother, Natalya, had found the two of you an hour later in the back field attempting to build what Ajax had described, with great confidence, as a fortification, and what was in reality a pile of sticks that would not have fortified anything against so much as a mild breeze. She had brought you both inside, made tea, fed you something warm, and looked at the two of you across her kitchen table with the expression of a woman who understood exactly how this was going to go and had simply decided to be gracious about it.

You had spent more time in that kitchen than your own after that. You had eaten there, studied there, helped Natalya with the younger children when they came along one by one, watched Ajax grow from the boy who climbed fences into something larger and more complicated, something the world kept reaching into and rearranging without asking permission. You had been there when he disappeared into the Abyss. You had been there when he came back, changed in the way that those places changed people — fundamentally himself, but shifted on some axis that nobody could quite identify, the same picture in a different frame.

The eyes were what you thought was the thing.

The same color they had always been — that particular shade the Morepesok sky attempted in autumn and didn't quite achieve, something between grey and blue that had no clean name, that you had grown up looking at from the other side of the fence without ever thinking to name it because it was simply there, the way weather was there, the way the cold was there, the way Ajax was there. But behind them, after the Abyss, something different. Something that had learned to move through a room differently, to assess before engaging, to find the exits before it found the people. Something careful. Something that had seen the bottom of something and come back up and never quite let anyone forget, in the quality of those eyes, that it had been somewhere you couldn't follow.

You had watched those eyes across dinner tables for years. You had watched them find exits and run numbers and assess, and you had watched them do the other thing too, the thing that was harder to describe — the way they softened when Teucer said something ridiculous, the way they went distant when he thought nobody was watching him think, the way they found you, sometimes, across rooms, like he was checking that something was still where he left it.

You had noticed all of this. You had known it to be Ajax, who he is, how he works, and you had not examined the it too closely, because your catalogue of Ajax was full already examining it closely felt like standing at the edge of something with unclear footing.

And then one May morning you opened your hand and found a petal in it, and understood, with the clarity of something that had always been true finally being looked at directly, that the filing had been wrong.

Not wrong that you knew him. Wrong about what the knowing was.

You stood in your kitchen in the early morning with a petal in your palm and tried to be honest, possibly for the first time. You thought about six years old and a fence and a boy who informed you of a friendship before you'd agreed to it, and twenty-three years of everything after — his mother's kitchen and Teucer's voice and every road you'd walked and the way his laugh carried through walls and the specific relief of him walking into a room, which you had always attributed to friendship, closeness, familiarity, and which you now understood, holding a white petal the shape of a snowdrop, was something else entirely. Had always been something else entirely. Had been something else entirely for so long that the something else had grown roots you hadn't tracked, had become structural, had become the thing the rest of your life grew around without you noticing it was growing.

You thought: Ajax does not love you the way you love him. Ajax loves you the way you love him minus the specific thing that makes your hands go still when he walks into a room, minus the thing that makes his voice through a wall enough to settle something in your chest that didn't know it was unsettled, minus the thing that had been depositing itself in layers for twenty-three years until the layers became a flower and the flower became two and the two became a palmful of white petals on an ordinary Tuesday in May.

You thought: I am twenty-nine years old and I have known this person since I was six years old and I have apparently been in love with him for some significant portion of that time and I have hanahaki.

The absurdity of it sat in your chest alongside the flowers.

You looked at the petal in your palm. Snowdrop-shaped. Morepesok's flower, the one that bloomed in the cold, the one your mother had tried to grow at the fence line and never managed, the one that came up in the folk songs about winter and waiting and loving things that didn't come back.

Of course, you thought. Of course it's snowdrops.

You closed your hand around it. You got dressed. You went to work.

You did not tell anyone.

That was in May. By the time winter came again and Ajax came home on leave, you had seen the physician twice, filled a small glass jar with what the coughing produced, and become very good at the particular skill of managing something in private that would cause significant disruption if it became public.

The physician's name was Katya, and she was neither unkind nor falsely optimistic, which you appreciated. She had seen hanahaki before — not often, but enough to have a professional relationship with its mechanics rather than a poetic one. She examined you and reviewed your history and set down her notes and said, in the even voice of someone delivering information rather than judgment:

"How long has the feeling been present."

"I don't know exactly," you said. "It built gradually. I can't find the start of it."

"But your best estimate," she said.

You thought about it honestly, which you hadn't let yourself do before. You thought about the year he came back from the Abyss, and how the shift in him had made something protective surge in your chest so strongly it had alarmed you, and how you had explained it to yourself as the natural response of a close friend, and how you had believed that explanation thoroughly enough to stop examining it. That had been — seven years ago. Perhaps more.

"Long," you said.

Katya made a note. "Long-standing cases are more complex," she said. "The growth has had time to establish itself. There are treatments that slow the progression — I'd recommend beginning those immediately. And there is, of course, the surgical option."

"I know about the surgical option," you said.

"The surgery would remove the growth entirely," she said. "The flowers would stop. You would recover fully." A pause. "You would retain all memories of the person in question. The relationship would be intact. What the surgery removes is the specific quality of feeling that feeds the growth. The love itself, in its current form."

"I understand," you said.

"There is one other resolution," she said, and her voice shifted slightly, becoming more careful, the way voices became careful around things that were true but statistically uncommon. "If the feeling is returned — genuinely, fully — the flowers sometimes respond. In cases where the love becomes mutual, the growth loses its conditions. It can recede." She paused. "I say sometimes. In long-standing cases the roots are deep. It is not guaranteed. But it is possible."

You sat with that word for a moment. Possible.

"I'd like you to consider the surgery seriously regardless," she said. "I don't want you placing too much hope in an uncertain outcome."

"I understand," you said again.

Possible.

She adjusted the treatments and you went home and you did not think about the word possible any more than was useful, which was to say you thought about it constantly, turned it over like a stone, examined what was underneath it, and then put it back. You had done this your whole life with things that were too dangerous to want directly. You were very practiced at it. You were so practiced at it that you almost convinced yourself you weren't doing it.

Almost.

He came home the way he always did — all at once, loudly, filling the house with the specific energy of a person who had been somewhere dangerous and was making up for it by being extremely present somewhere safe. You heard him from your own house, Teucer's shout and then the sound of Ajax's laugh, which carried, which had always carried, which you had used as a locating tool since childhood.

You went over that first evening, as you always did, because Natalya knocked on your door with the same words she'd used for twenty years: he's home. And you put on your coat and walked the twenty steps between your door and hers and came into the kitchen where he was already seated at the table with Tonia on one side and Teucer attempting to climb him like a structure, and he looked up when you came in the kitchen.

He grinned. The specific one — not the Harbinger's smile, not the weapon he deployed in Liyue Harbor to unsettle merchants and diplomats, but the one that was only here, only home, only in this kitchen with Teucer trying to climb him and the soup already on the table and you coming through the door. The one that had something in it you had been looking at for years without naming, the thing it contained that the other grins didn't, the specific quality of a face that has just seen the thing it was waiting for.

You registered this with the clarity of someone who now knew what they were looking at. The knowing made it worse. The knowing made it something — no, the knowing made it everything.

"You look terrible," he said.

"You look like you haven't slept in a week," you said.

"Two weeks," he said, cheerfully. "Come sit down, Natalya made the good soup."

You sat down. You ate the soup. You listened to Teucer's stories and Tonia's careful questions and watched Ajax with his family, the way he was with them, the way all the combat precision and the Harbinger authority folded itself entirely away and left only this — a boy from Morepesok who loved his family with the same whole-body commitment he brought to everything else. The world knew Childe, Tartaglia, but they could never know the way he listened to Teucer with his whole body, leaning in, the grin becoming something softer when Teucer got to the funny part. They could never know the softness he had from child to now, so at odds with the man he was today. And certainly, they would never know the way his eyes found you, occasionally, across the table, in the gaps between stories. Not scanning the room, but (and here, you felt the word possible beat harder within your chest) almost looking at you specifically, checking, the way you checked things you wanted to make sure were still there.

Every time they found you, the flowers bloomed a little.

You breathed carefully. You did not cough. You watched him across the table and thought about possible and then put it back under the stone.

Later, washing dishes with Natalya while Ajax was put to work reading to the younger ones, she stood beside you and said, quietly, without preamble: "You seem thinner."

"It's been a busy autumn," you said.

She looked at you. Natalya's looks were their own form of communication, complete sentences conveyed entirely through the quality of attention. She had been doing this since you were six years old and she had been reading you accurately for all of that time.

"Are you well," she said, and the way she said it was not small talk.

"I'm fine," you said, which was what you said to everyone, which was the sentence you had built into a reflex over six months of practice.

She looked at you for another moment. Then she went back to drying dishes, and neither of you said anything else, and you understood from the quality of her silence that she was filing something, that she was going to return to it, and you would need to be careful.

You managed well, for the first week. The treatments Katya had given you helped — not much, not enough, but enough that you could go a day without the cough surfacing, if you were careful. If you rested. If you didn't laugh too hard or walk too fast or sit in a cold room for too long, all of which were conditions that proved difficult to maintain in Ajax's company.

He found you, on the eighth day, sitting on the back porch.

You had come out because the kitchen had felt too warm and the warm was making it worse, and you had been sitting on the top step for ten minutes breathing the cold air carefully when the door opened behind you and he came out and sat down beside you with the ease of twenty-three years, the ease of two people who had spent enough time in shared silence that silence required no explanation.

"Too loud in there," he said.

"Little bit," you said.

The field was white and still. The amber lights his mother had strung on the porch twenty years ago cast their small warm reflection in the snow, doubling themselves in every flat surface. He sat beside you and you felt his warmth at your shoulder, the specific warmth of him, and the flowers did what they did, the pressure blooming in your chest, less painful than warm. You breathed through it.

He wasn't looking at you. He was looking at the field, with the focused patience he had developed after the Abyss, the new ability to be still. The line of his jaw in the amber light. The way the cold made his breath visible, small clouds of it, regular.

You looked at him looking at the field and thought: I am going to die of this.

"You've been quiet this trip," he said.

"You've been loud enough for both of us," you said.

"I'm serious." He wasn't looking at you. He was looking at the field, in the way he looked at things when he was thinking carefully about them. "Something's different."

"Nothing's different," you said.

"Don't," he said, and the word had a quality that stopped you, a flatness that was not unfriendly but was very direct. "You've been doing that thing where you're managing something and pretending you're not. I know what that looks like. I invented that."

"You did invent that," you agreed, carefully.

"So what is it," he said.

You looked at the field. The snow was doing its continuous soft work, adding to itself, patient and thorough. You thought about telling him. You thought about the words that would carry the information from inside you to the air between you, and you ran them, and they came out wrong every way you arranged them, every arrangement either too much or not enough, either requiring him to do something with a feeling he didn't have or requiring you to watch his face do the thing faces did when they were deciding how to be kind about something. You thought about possible and then you thought about what Katya had also said, carefully, about not placing too much hope in uncertain outcomes.

"I haven't been sleeping well," you said. "The autumn was long."

He looked at you. The same look his mother used, you had always thought — that quality of full attention, of someone reading the space between words.

"Okay," he said, finally. Not convinced. Allowing it.

You sat on the porch until the cold drove you inside, and you did not cough while he was there, and when you got home you coughed for a long time into your cupped hands over the sink and looked at what came up and thought: I have to be more careful.

Natalya found out on the twelfth day.

Not because you told her. Because you were Natalya's and had been for twenty-three years, and Natalya had watched you grow up in her kitchen, and Natalya noticed things that other people were not looking for.

She found you in the morning, in the kitchen before anyone else was awake, and she set tea in front of you and sat down across the table and looked at you in the way she had always looked at you when she had something to say that needed saying.

"Show me your hands," she said.

"Natalya—"

"Show me your hands."

You opened your hands on the table. You had been careful, you had thought you had been careful, but there was a faint staining at the edge of two fingers, the kind that came from what you'd been coughing into your palm and wiping quickly, the kind that was almost invisible in poor light and was not invisible in morning kitchen light to a woman who had been watching your hands since you were six years old.

She looked at your hands for a long moment. Then she looked at your face.

"How long," she said.

"Since May," you said.

The sound she made was not quite a word. She reached across the table and took your hands in both of hers, and held them there, and said nothing for a long moment, and you sat in her kitchen in the early morning light while the house slept and felt, for the first time since May, the specific relief of being known by someone.

"Have you seen someone," she said.

"A physician in Zapolyarny," you said. "I have treatments. They help."

"The surgery," she said.

"I'm not having the surgery," you said.

Her hands tightened on yours, fractionally. She looked at you with an expression you had never seen on her face before, or had seen and never had it directed at you — the face she made when one of her children was doing something that frightened her and also, underneath the frightened, something that had run out of patience.

"Then why," she said. The voice of someone who already knew.

You looked down at her hands over yours. Large, warm, the hands that had made tea and soup and everything warm in your life that you hadn't made yourself. "He has been the main thing," you said. "For twenty-three years. The surgery removes the source. I can't — I can't have it taken from me and then stand next to him and remember that it used to be there and feel the shape of where it was." You looked up at her. "I would rather have it and die of it than live without it next to him."

Natalya looked at you for a very long time.

"That is the most foolish thing," she said, softly, "that anyone has ever said in my kitchen."

"Probably," you agreed.

"He would not want this," she said. "If he knew—"

"He can't know," you said, immediately, and something in your voice had an edge that surprised you both. "Natalya. Please. He cannot know. Not because I don't trust him, but because if he knows he will try to fix it. You know him. He will decide it's his problem to solve and whatever he does will be from guilt, from love for me as his friend, and I can't—" you stopped. "I can't be something he manages. I can't spend whatever time I have watching him—"

"Perform it," she said, quietly, finishing the sentence you hadn't been able to. Because she knew you as well as she knew him. "I know. I've heard the shape of that fear before — not from you, but I know it." Her hands tightened on yours. "I'm his mother. I know the difference between his guilt face and his actual face. I have been watching his actual face across my dinner table every time he comes home, every time you walk into my kitchen, for more years than I'm going to count for you right now." A pause. "You don't have flowers growing in your chest because this is one-sided. You have them because neither of you has been brave enough to find out whether it is."

"He doesn't—" you started.

"Don't," she said, and the word was firm, the word she used with her children when they were about to say something she wasn't going to allow. "Don't tell me what he does or doesn't feel. You have been deciding that for him for twenty-three years. You have been so certain you knew the answer that you never once asked the question." She looked at you steadily. "And I will not let you die of the answer you assumed when the real one is sitting on the porch every morning waiting for you to come outside."

The kitchen was very quiet. Outside the snow fell.

You sat with that for a long moment, turning it over, finding the places where it could be true and the places where it could be wishful, and being honest with yourself about which examination was which.

"Katya said it was possible," you said, finally. "That if the feeling were returned—"

"I know," Natalya said, and something in her voice told you that she had perhaps spoken to Katya, or to someone, that she had perhaps been doing her own research, her own accounting. "It's not guaranteed. But it is possible." She looked at you, and in her eyes was the thing you had needed since May, the thing you had been managing without — someone who loved you clearly, without agenda, simply telling you the truth. "You have been so afraid of changing what you have that you've been willing to die rather than risk it. I understand that. I do. But I need you to consider that what you have — what you've always had, both of you, in that house and on those roads and at this table — I need you to consider that it might already be the thing you're afraid to reach for. That you might already be inside it."

You looked down at the kitchen table. At the wood, worn smooth at the edges from decades of hands. At the grain of it, familiar as anything you owned.

"What if I'm wrong," you said.

"Then you'll have been wrong," she said, simply, not unkindly. "And you'll be alive, and we'll have tea, and we'll keep going. But right now you're not wrong and not right and you have snowdrops in your lungs." She stood up, released your hands, went to the window. "He leaves in six days."

"I know," you said.

She looked at the snow outside, at the field that had belonged to her family for thirty years. "He's up," she said, without turning around. "He gets up early when he's home. He usually goes out to the porch."

She went to check on the younger children. She left you at the kitchen table with your tea, and the kitchen was warm, and outside the snow was falling, and somewhere in the house Ajax was awake.

You sat with the tea for a long time.

Then you stood up, and put on your coat, and went out to the porch.

He was there, as she'd said. Sitting on the top step with his elbows on his knees, looking at the field the way he looked at it when he needed to think, with the particular focused patience he had developed sometime after the Abyss, the ability to be still that had not been part of his original personality and had been installed by something difficult.

He heard you come out and shifted slightly, making room on the step, and you sat down beside him without explanation, and neither of you said anything for a moment.

"Can't sleep?" he said.

"Something like that," you said.

The field was white and still, and the amber lights cast their reflection in the snow, doubling themselves in every flat surface, and the snow was falling with its quiet deliberate patience. You sat beside him and felt the flowers doing what they always did in his proximity — not painfully, just present, just insistently, persistently there, the pressure of them warm in your chest like something trying to say what you wouldn't.

You thought about Natalya's hands pressing yours. You thought about possible. You thought about the accounting you'd been running wrong, what you stood to lose versus what you were already losing, and then you stopped thinking about the accounting because the accounting was what you did when you were afraid and you were trying, tonight, to be something other than afraid.

"Ajax," you said.

"Mm," he said.

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

The field sat there, white and patient. The snow kept falling. Beside you he was warm and solid and entirely himself, and you had known him for twenty-three years and you could not find the beginning of the sentence. Every version of it dissolved before you could speak it. Every version required him to do something with what you said and you did not know what he would do, had never known, had spent twenty-three years specifically not knowing because not knowing was safer than finding out.

He waited. He was good at waiting, had learned it after the Abyss, the patience. He gave you a minute, maybe two, and then:

"You've been quiet all week." Still looking at the field. His voice even. Careful. "I've been waiting for you to get there on your own. You're not getting there."

"I'm fine," you said, habit.

He turned to look at you. "Don't do that."

"Ajax—"

"Don't say you're fine." Something in his voice had changed, the evenness fraying at the edges. "You've said it every time I've asked and I've let you say it because I thought you'd tell me when you were ready, and you're not telling me, and I've been watching you for eight days and something is wrong." He was looking at you fully now, the Abyss-changed eyes doing what they did, finding the thing you were trying to keep out of sight. "You're tired in a way that isn't sleep. You're being careful in a way you're only careful when there's something you don't want anyone to see. You left dinner early twice. You're—" his jaw tightened. "Talk to me."

"It's nothing," you replied, thoughts scrambling as you attempted to regain ground. "It's been a long autumn, I'm—"

"Stop." The word came out harder than he'd intended. He heard it too — you watched him hear it, watched him pull it back, recalibrate. When he spoke again his voice was quieter but with something underneath the quiet, something taut. "You have been my closest person for twenty-three years. I know what you look like when you're tired and I know what you look like when something is actually wrong and this is not tired." He looked at you with his large, Abyss-filled eyes cornering something more than concern. "Please. Just tell me. Whatever it is."

"It's fine," you said again, which was the wrong thing, which you knew was the wrong thing the moment it left your mouth.

Something changed in his face. The careful patience of it slipping.

"It's not fine." His voice had gone rough. "You won't look at me directly. You've barely eaten. You came outside at six in the morning and you're sitting here in the cold and you won't—" he stopped. Set his jaw. And then, quieter, in the voice that came when he had run out of approaches and was left with only the true thing: "I'm asking you. I'm asking you to tell me. I don't ask for things. You know I don't ask for things."

The amber lights were very warm. The snow was very white. The field lay there, patient and indifferent, the way fields were.

You opened your mouth.

"I—" you started.

The cough came before you could stop it.

You turned away on instinct, hand over your mouth, and managed it, barely, in three seconds that felt considerably longer, and sat very still afterward with your back half to him and your hand closed.

The porch was completely silent.

Very slowly, you opened your hand.

Two petals. White. Snowdrop-shaped, sitting in your palm in the amber light, utterly undramatic, the size of fingernails, the most devastating thing you had ever held.

You didn't look at him. You didn't have to. You heard the quality of his stillness change — heard it become a different kind of still entirely, the kind that was not patience but the absence of breath.

"No," he said. To the petals, to your palm, to the fact of it. Then, controlled and barely: "How long."

"I'm managing it," you said. "I have treatments, I've been—"

"How long." Not controlled anymore. The roughness fully in it now.

"Since May," you said.

The word landed the way words landed when they were also a season, also six months of letters, also every morning in Natalya's kitchen and every careful breath and every time you'd said I'm fine.

"May." He said it like he was pressing on something to find out if it hurt. It did. You could hear it. "May. That's — you've been—" he stopped. When he started again his voice had something in it you had never heard from him before, something that was not anger but lived right next to it. "Six months. You've been carrying this for six months and you didn't — not one letter, not one word, you just—"

"I didn't want it to be something you had to carry," you said.

"That's not your decision," he said, and his voice had an edge in it that was not quite anger and was not quite not anger, the voice of someone managing something very large from the inside. "That has never been your decision." He was looking at the petals in your palm with an expression you had no name for, something working through him that hadn't finished working. When he looked up at you his eyes were very direct. "Who."

Not who is it. Just who. Like he didn't have room for more words than that.

And here was the edge. The one you had been standing at for six months, the one you had been walking up to and retreating from in every letter, every dinner, every morning on Natalya's porch. The accounting finally run in the right direction — not what you stood to lose but what you were already losing. What had been losing, quietly, for longer than May. For longer than you'd been willing to look at.

You turned to look at him.

His face was the real one. Every version of Ajax you had ever known was in it simultaneously — the boy at the fence and the boy who came back from the Abyss and the man who had been sending you letters with the important things in the margins, all of them present, all of them looking at you, and in all of them was something you had been seeing for years without letting yourself see it, and your eyes filled.

Not gracefully. Not in the way of someone who had decided to cry. In the way of something that had been held at a particular pressure for too long and had found, suddenly, a crack — your vision blurred at the edges, your throat closed around something, and you felt your face do the thing you had been preventing it from doing for six months, the thing that was simply too much, all of it, all at once, and you could not stop it.

His expression broke open when he saw it.

"Hey," he said, immediately, and his voice had lost everything except the thing underneath everything. "Hey—"

"It's you," you said, and it came out wrong, came out too fast, came out with none of the careful planning and all of the truth you'd been sitting on for six months. "It's been you and I don't know for how long because I can't find where it starts, I've looked, I've tried to find where it starts and I can't, it just — it was always there, I think, underneath everything, and I kept explaining it as something else, kept filing it as something else, and then there were petals in my hand in May and I couldn't—" your voice caught and you pushed through it, rough, "I couldn't think of it as something else anymore. And I know you can't — I know that's not — I'm not asking you for that, I'm not asking you for anything, I have the surgery, I know the surgery is the answer, I know that's what makes sense, I just—"

"Stop," he said.

"I'm sorry," you said, because it was spilling now, all of it, six months of careful management dissolving at once. "I couldn't let you leave again. I couldn't write you one more letter about Teucer and the weather and the garden and pretend that was the whole of it when it wasn't even close to the whole of it. I'm so tired of letters, Ajax, I'm so tired of the village news, I'm so tired of you being the main thing and you not knowing you're the main thing, I've been so—" you stopped, breathed, kept going because stopping felt like drowning, " I know this is — I know it's a lot to put on you before you leave, I know the timing is terrible, I know—"

He kissed you before you finished the sentence.

Not gently. Not as a question. The way he did everything — completely, with his whole self, no half-measures, the way he had been doing things since he was six years old deciding you were going to be friends before you'd agreed to it. His hands came up to your face, both of them, cold from the porch air, and the cold of them against your face was somehow the most real thing that had happened in six months — more real than the petals, more real than Katya's office, more real than every careful managed morning — just his hands and your face and the amber lights and the snow still falling around the porch like it had somewhere to be and wasn't hurrying.

You kissed him back.

You kissed him back with six months and seven years and twenty-three years and all of it — the fence and the field and his mother's kitchen and the road and every letter and every petal and every morning you had stood at the east post and looked at the snowdrop and thought possible and then put the thought away. You kissed him back with all of it and it didn't feel like relief exactly, or not only relief — it felt like something that had been moving toward this for a very long time finally arriving, finally resting, finally allowed to be exactly what it was.

The flowers, in your chest, did something.

Not gone. Not yet. But something — a loosening, a shift, the specific feeling of a thing that had been held under pressure finding, for the first time, that the pressure had changed. You felt it the way you felt the cold on the porch, the way you felt his hands against your face — simply and completely and all at once.

When he finally pulled back you were both breathing differently than you had been, and his forehead came to rest against yours, and his hands stayed where they were, cradling your face with a carefulness that was so entirely unlike the way he usually handled things that it did something separate and distinct to your chest, something that had nothing to do with the flowers.

Neither of you said anything for a moment. The snow fell. The amber lights held their small warm ground.

"Ajax," you said, finally, and his name sounded different in your mouth than it ever had, had a different weight, fit differently, the way familiar words sometimes shifted when you finally understood what they meant.

"I know," he said. His voice was rough in a way it almost never was, stripped of every register except the real one. His thumbs brushed your face, where the tears had been, unhurried. "I know you're the main thing." A pause, something working in his expression that he wasn't trying to manage. "I've known for a long time. I kept—" he stopped. Jaw tight. "I told myself things. For seven years I told myself things and none of them were true and you have been standing right there this whole time and I have been—" he exhaled, rough, something almost like anger in it except directed entirely inward, "I should have said it first. I should have been the one. Years ago."

"Ajax," you said again, softer.

"I'm going to be furious about the seven years for a very long time," he said, and something in his voice was fraying slightly at the edges, the specific quality of someone who had been holding something too large for too long and has just been allowed to set it down. "I need you to know that. I'm going to be very furious about it."

"I know," you said. "I'm also furious about it."

Something broke in his expression, briefly, into something that was almost the real laugh, the involuntary one, and then it settled back into the something else, the warmer version of serious. He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, his hands still at your face, in the amber light.

"Katya," he said. "Tell me exactly what she said. About what's possible."

"She said it's not guaranteed," you said. "The roots are deep. Even if the feeling is returned it doesn't always—"

"Tell me anyway," he said.

So you told him. You told him everything Katya had said, every careful professional word of it, and he listened the way he listened to things that mattered — completely, without interrupting, his eyes on yours in the amber light, his hands still warm against your face in the cold. And when you finished he was quiet for a moment, running whatever calculation he ran, and then:

"Inside," he said. "You're freezing. My mother will have tea." He stood, drawing you up with him, and did not let go of your hands. "And then you're going to sleep and I'm going to sit there and be furious about seven years and in the morning we're going to go back to Katya together and I'm going to tell her that possible is not good enough."

"That's not how medicine works," you said.

"I'll make it work," he said, with the absolute certainty of a man who had decided something, and you looked at him in the amber light of his mother's porch and felt, in your chest, the flowers — quieter than they had been even ten minutes ago. Not gone, but — still. The way things got quiet when they had finally, after a very long time, been given exactly what they needed.

"Okay," you said.

"Okay," he said, and took you inside, out of the cold, toward the light and the warmth and his mother who was almost certainly already awake and already pretending she wasn't, toward the kitchen that had held you both for twenty-three years and that would hold you now in a different way, in the same way, in the way it had always been moving toward without either of you knowing to call it that.

The snow kept falling outside. Patient, continuous, indifferent.

The amber lights stayed on.

The flowers did not disappear overnight. Katya had warned you of this — she had been clear, careful, professionally realistic about it. The roots are deep, she had said, they don't simply stop. It will take time. But the conditions have changed, and that matters. She adjusted the treatments again, and you followed the schedule, and Ajax knew now, which changed everything about the managing of it — changed it from something carried alone into something carried between two people, which is a different weight entirely, which is almost not a weight at all.

He stayed longer than his leave technically permitted, which was a conversation with the Fatui you were not privy to and didn't ask about. He stayed through the deepest part of January, through the worst of the cold, through the weeks when it helped most to have someone whose voice through the wall was enough to settle something that didn't know it was unsettled.

Every morning, the two of you had breakfast in his mother's kitchen. This was not new. The new part was the way he looked at you across the table, and the way you looked back, with the names for it now, with no contract of not-saying between you. Natalya moved around her kitchen with the expression of a woman who had been waiting for something for a long time and had decided not to say I told you so because she was too relieved to bother.

Teucer noticed and was delighted. Tonia noticed and was quietly, intensely smug about it. Anthon pretended not to notice, which was its own form of noticing.

You went back to Katya in late January, in the pale thin light that meant the season was thinking about changing, and she examined you and reviewed the treatments and said, in her careful professional voice, that the progression had slowed significantly.

"Slowed," you said.

"Significantly," she said. "I want to continue monitoring. But the growth has — the conditions are different. It's responding." She paused. "I'm cautiously optimistic. I want you to continue the treatments and I want to see you again in six weeks, but I am cautiously optimistic."

You sat in her office in Zapolyarny with the pale winter light coming through the window and held that word carefully. Optimistic. The same family as possible, but further along, further toward the thing you hadn't let yourself want too specifically.

You wrote it in a letter to Ajax, who had finally had to return to his commission, who had left with considerably more difficulty than usual, who had stood on the road in a way that suggested the Fatui's timeline was the only thing moving his feet. You wrote: Katya says cautiously optimistic. I thought you should know. You wrote: the kitchen is quieter without you. your mother agrees but won't say so. You wrote, because you were practicing saying things directly: I look at the fence every morning. it seems like an inadequate object for something that changed everything.

His letter came back in two weeks, which was fast, which meant he'd written immediately.

He wrote about the commission in his careful vague terms. He wrote that he'd told Teucer, who had apparently cried for reasons that were unclear, whether from happiness or from the emotional weight of the information. He wrote: I've been thinking about the fence. I've been thinking about climbing back over it for seven years. I should have done it sooner. I'm going to spend a long time being annoyed at myself about the seven years. He wrote: tell Katya cautiously optimistic is not good enough. I want better than cautiously optimistic. Tell her I said so.

You laughed, alone in your kitchen, with his letter in your hands. You laughed until your eyes went warm, and it didn't hurt when you laughed, which was new, which was something, which was a small daily proof that the conditions had changed and the change was real.

He came home in spring.

Not the thin uncertain spring of early thaw, but proper spring, the kind that arrived in Morepesok like a slow decision, the snow pulling back from the road first and then the field, the fence posts emerging one by one, the world recovering itself by degrees. He came through the door with Teucer hanging off one arm before he'd set his bag down, and Natalya held him in the doorway with her eyes closed, and the kitchen smelled like something warm.

You were already there, at the table, with your tea, in the kitchen that had held you for twenty-three years, and when he came in and found you he stopped in the doorway for a moment, just stopped, and looked at you across the kitchen with his whole face, nothing managed, nothing modulated, just the full unguarded version, the one underneath everything.

"You look better," he said.

"I feel better," you said. "Katya's latest word is 'encouraging.' She said she'd graduate to fully optimistic once she stops being cautious."

"I'll take encouraging," he said, and crossed the kitchen, and pulled you out of the chair and held on the way he'd held on all those years without the name for it, except now with the name, now with all the twenty-three years of it present and accounted for, and you put your face against his shoulder and breathed him in and felt, in your chest, the flowers — quieter than they'd been. Not gone. But quieter, the way things got quieter when they were being gentled, being given what they needed, becoming slowly something other than what they had been.

"I missed Morepesok," he said, into your hair.

"Morepesok missed you," you said. "Your mother missed you. Teucer missed you very loudly."

"What about you," he said.

"I wrote you a letter every week," you said.

"That's not what I asked," he said.

You pulled back enough to look at him. He was looking at you with the expression that was still new enough to make your chest do something distinct from the flowers, something straightforwardly its own — the expression that knew you, all of you, twenty-three years of you, and was choosing you specifically, was choosing the specific person rather than the long habit of proximity.

"Yes," you said. "I missed you."

He smiled — not the grin, the real one, the one underneath — and it was directed at you the way it had always been directed at you, the way you had finally learned to read it correctly.

Outside, the snow was gone from the road. The field was beginning to show the brown-green of things that had been waiting under the white for months, patient, knowing the season would change, knowing the ground was still warm beneath them. The amber lights were on the porch, as they always were, Natalya's constant small provision of warmth against the dark.

Teucer was already demanding to know if someone was going to make lunch. Natalya was already moving to the stove. The kitchen was doing what it had always done, holding everyone inside it with the particular warmth of a place that had been loved in for a long time, that had absorbed years of mornings and meals and difficult conversations and simple ones and all the ordinary extraordinary accumulation of a life shared between people.

You sat back down at the table. Ajax sat beside you, not across — beside, in the chair he pulled close, like someone who had decided that the twenty-three years of sitting across from each other had gone on long enough.

Natalya set tea in front of both of you without being asked. She did not say I told you so. She did not say anything at all, just pressed your shoulder briefly as she passed, the same gesture as always, and went back to the stove.

You wrapped both hands around the cup. The kitchen was loud with Teucer, and warm from the stove, and outside the field was slowly recovering itself from the long winter, and Ajax's shoulder was against yours, and the tea was exactly as it always was — strong and too hot and perfect in the way of things you had been drinking so long they had become part of the taste of home.

The flowers, in your chest, were quiet.

Not gone — Katya had said it would be gradual, had said to be patient, had said the roots were deep and deep things didn't change overnight. But quiet, the way things got quiet when they stopped being desperate, when they found the thing they had been reaching toward and could finally, having found it, simply rest.

You thought: this is what it costs.

This is what it was always going to cost, the telling of it, the saying it out loud, the climbing back over the fence.

And really, you mulled, it cost almost nothing, in the end. Only the fear of it. Only the twenty-three years of the fear of it, which was its own kind of cost, which you were going to spend some time being quietly annoyed about, which was something to discuss later, on the porch, in the amber light, with the field white and still.

For now there was tea. For now there was the kitchen, and Teucer's voice, and Natalya at the stove, and Ajax's shoulder against yours in the chair pulled close, and the long ordinary extraordinary morning continuing in the way mornings did — without ceremony, without announcement, simply by being the next thing after all the things that came before.

It was, you thought, exactly enough.

It was, it turned out, exactly what it had always been — just finally called by its right name.

sad ending &. childe's pov &.

#I normally don't repost fanfics but GUYYYSSSSSSSSSSSS #so good #so so good #and the sad ending one made me cry a little bit #I'm a sap what can I say #im so childe pulled lately and this was so #gah it's so good #read it if you're interested in childe x reader. or x readers in general #very good stuff right here

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