!! NO SPOILERS for snezhnaya; written before it's release đ” after completing the snezhnayan archon quest, i faintly recalled that i wrote a short drabble for childe back in 2023 (woah). i went searching for it and realized it's a lot better than i remembered it to be, so i figured i might end up sharing it !!
ᯠw.c : 0.8k
ᯠwarnings: mentions of injuries, nothing graphic; implied relationship? first kiss? idk what was going through my mind when i wrote it three whole ass years ago (DAMN)
ᯠpairing: childe x gender-neutral reader
ᯠfinal note: i never posted on tumblr, i hope the formatting is right i'm going based off of memory LMAOO
Childe flinched as you dabbed the cut on his cheek with an alcohol-soaked rag. Your movements paused before he urged you to continue with a small, absent-minded hum and a minor nod of his head. With narrowed eyes and the precision of a nurse â or rather, someone who was not a stranger to such routine â you continued to clean his cut. The fireplace crackled, the grandfather clock ticked. The carpet was warm underneath you both, warm fur tickling at bare ankles as medical instruments lay scattered around you like flowers in a meadow.
Times like these were not unfamiliar to you nor the Harbinger, who came home bruised more often than youâd like. While he was more than capable of coming out of battle uninjured, the adrenaline rush from a weapon that came too close, a cut that was near fatal, was almost addictive to him. That's not to say he was careless, no. In battle, the 11th of the Fatui Harbingers always had an advantage; like a child playing with its food, like a predator taunting its prey, he let his opponent get a taste of short-lived victory with a single cut of skin like a temptation; a drop of honey on the tongue, a promise of success.
âIt makes them lower their guard.â He told you once, one of the very first times he came to you with his injuries, âMakes them confident, too confident.â He said, with a wave of his hand. You never understood â perhaps it was something you werenât meant to understand. Maybe it was something learnt from the abyss, where opponents werenât human enough to question what intentions lay behind a white flag.
You cup his left cheek, tilting his head to the side for a better view of the cut on the right. The steps that came to you like a second nature were once directed by Childe, passed down, first-hand experience from the one who once licked his own wounds until he could come out of hiding without a poorly-worn mask to disguise how the cuts and bruises burned on freckled skin.
âYou've been oddly quiet.â He mutters, hollow, blue eyes flicking down to look at you. His voice is soft and hushed, it couldâve been easily mistaken for the blowing wind against your window. His hand reaches to engulf yours, the one that cups his cheek, fingers intertwining as he moves his head to press a small kiss against your palm.
âI've been focusing on your wounds.â You tell him, almost scolding, watching as he leans in slightly. His chest is bare, aside from loosely wrapped bandages that preserve little dignity as they wrap around his midsection. You can feel the heat rising to your face, and you settle an unoccupied hand on his shoulder in an attempt to put some space between you both â preserving your dignity.
âFocus on me instead.â He says, huffing and puffing like an attention-seeking child (truly living up to his title), hand lowering to grab your wrist instead, ignoring the way the bandages on his arms and wrists begin to loosen and fall with every small movement.
âI am.â You reply, hand escaping his grasp and rising to push back the ginger hair that began to cover his eyes. You press a fleeting kiss to his cheek before pulling away and looking him over, assessing his wounds. âHow do you feel?â
âIâm fine now.â Childe replies with ease, almost enough to fool you into thinking heâs telling the truth. He lowers his head, like a dog wanting to be pet. Who are you to deny him? Your hands brush against the ginger mop of hair, letting Childe slowly sink into you until heâs practically using you as a pillow, with his head on your shoulder and his arms wrapped loosely around your waist.
âAren't you too comfortable?â You tease, your hands trailing to his bare back. Fingers running along his spine, the soft bumps of scars and minor burns underneath your fingertips. Childe shivers, humming into your shoulder and pressing a kiss there. He straightens slightly in his resting position, pressing a kiss to your neck before you come face to face with him.
He stays silent, eyes half-open and drowsy, sleep creeping into his movements.
Childe comes closer until your breaths become one, lips brushing against yours, a quick fleeting moment comes with a promise of more and â oh, perhaps you can understand, to an extent, the temptation that dooms his opponents. When his lips brush against yours, a promise of something that can happen, the taste of success â a want needing to be fulfilled, a victory to be achieved.
Your thoughts are given away as your face heats and eyes widen. His smirk is small, but it's annoyingly smug, even in his half-asleep state he seems to be enjoying this little game he created. Though unlike with his opponents, he won't give you the sweet taste of victory just to take it from you.
And so, he leans in closer once again. Your eyes close as his lips press against yours. His lips are dry, a bit cracked, but nothing that doesn't make him or the experience more enchanting. Your hands sneak around his neck, pulling him closer.
Besides the crackling fireplace and the ticking grandfather clock, on the warm carpet with medical supplies that surrounded you like flowers in a meadow, you let yourself get lost in Childe and the promise of more.
Youâve been invited to a party. Instead of agreeing outright, you ask if heâs coming. When you learn heâs not, you decline. Whatâs his reaction?
Lohen caught it instantly. He didnât care much for going to a gathering among the knights. He disliked drinking and even more disliked being around people drinking. Naturally, he declined. So when they moved on to ask you, the thing that didnât come out wasnât a yes or a no, but rather asking if he would be there. Learning he wasnât, you continued with âthen Iâm not interestedâ. Oh? Was his presence there really so influential on you? Would you have gone if he said yes? Inferring how much your decision relied on him and what those implications meant, he was smug. Way more smug than usual. The smuggest. Like he just won at life. He carried himself through the rest of the day with his chin held high and an arrogant grace in his walkâhe managed to win you, how could he not? Varka was not impressed with the behavior, though his subordinates appreciated it since his good mood had him easier on them. Confident, he makes plans with you for that same day. Plans that would just consist of the two of you. It wasnât established as a date⊠but he wasnât denying it as one either.
Tighnari
As a forest ranger, Tighnari was very busy, so no, he wasnât able to accept Cynoâs invitation. But heâs sure you and everyone else would have fun. And yet you said noâonly after asking if he would be there. It was hard to miss. He gave you a bit of a weird look, but didnât say anything. You spent the rest of the day helping him with his many duties. For the many days that followed, he replayed it over and over in his head, analyzing what it could all mean. He knew there was no reason for you to have said no, even with the consideration that apparently his presence mattered. You wanted him there. You wanted to spend time with him. You would rather spend you time doing work with him than hang out with your other friends. That could only mean⊠you liked him. More than a friend. Or you had an unhealthy attachment to him, if that was the case heâll be sure to talk to you about that. With many possibilities in mind, he observes you. Your behavior. And when it matches up, he comes to the conclusion that you like him. And luckily, he likes you too. So with the confidence that you reciprocate his feelings, he finally decides to ask you out for a date.
Illuga
Odd, was his first thought. Then a feeling of warmth. You were together when a ratnik invited you guys for some drinks in Nasha Town. Illuga declined, and before you answered, you asked if he was sure. After he confirmed it, you too declined. It was weird, but then he figured you were saying no to be considerate towards him. It was sweet, but he wouldnât want you to miss out on the fun because of him. He urges you to go, but again, you say no. Why? Simple. Because you wanted to spend time with him. Without him it wouldnât be fun at all. His presence really was so important to you. To that, Illuga had no words. Just stared at you, speechless as his cheeks heated to a deep shade of red. Eventually, he turned away and mumbled something before walking. âAh⊠I see.â You can choose to let him go or quietly follow, heâll appreciate either choice. From then on, heâll continue to be flustered around you. Giving out orders, heâll stumble over his words upon seeing you. Walking around Piramida, heâll freeze when youâre there. Conversations consisted of adamant avoidance of eye contact. And it was obvious to everyone, Flins teased him to no end. So after lots of urging and pushing from his squadmates, he finally gathered the courage to ask if you want to start dating.
Lyney
Lyney was the type of man to take any opportunity handed to him. It wasnât lost on him that your choice implied you had feelings for him. As if trying to test you or bring more attention to the fact, he suddenly changes his mind. Yes, he thinks he will go. And you? You also decide you wanted to go. Why so sudden? Just because he wanted to go? Oh, what a feeling! Because of course he liked you back. Underneath all the teasing and smugness, his heart was exploding and internally he was kicking his legs like a schoolgirl. You were like a puppy, following him around. Heâs satisfied about where your relationship stood. Reciprocated feelings for each other, but that didnât mean you guys had to make it official. Neither of you really had to say anything about it. You guys can continue how you were freely with the knowledge that what lies ahead was optimistic. He had already been flirty with you before, so expect his flirtiness to amp up x100 after this. Your reactions were a treat every time. Whether it was being flustered, annoyed, flattered, or ignored. And every once in a while, you might manage to catch him off guard as well.
Kinich
Notices it, but doesnât say anything while people are still around. He wasnât exactly sure why his being there would affect your choice and wanted to know why. Part of him had an inkling he chose not to dwell on. Immediately, Ajaw was making a big deal out of it. âWhat was that?!â And soon starts teasing Kinich about it, to which he ignores. With Ajaw in time out, he confronts you directly. Youâre surprised by the blunt confrontation, and his sharp gaze was hard to defy. Of course. He wanted to know why you wanted him there, so of course heâd ask. One way or another, heâd get the truth out of you. Whether through careful observation or from your lips, he gets it nonetheless. At first, he is quiet as the implications sit silently in the air. He feels awkward and his skin is warmer than before, but you wouldnât be able to tell. Even knowing you guys have mutual feelings for each other, his heart was beating out of his chest. Heâs had growing feelings for you a while and had been thinking of whether he wanted to ask you out. Now seemed as a good an answer as any. He nods, asking if you wanted to grab a bite, obviously a date. You did know that⊠right?
hello!! im not sure how to do this but is the prompt list from the linked post? if so, if like "embraced" + flins, romantic? and if im doing it wrong uhh pls correct me (ÂŽïŒĐŽïŒ`)
âKyryll. Chudomirovich. Flins.â
Oh dear.
Flins quietly placed his book to the side before facing his body towards you. Even though sunlight had never touched the soil of Final Night Cemetery, it still made its way into his home in the form of you. Cheeks puffed up in anger, hair still tousled from having just woken up, the comfortable sleepwear you chose to wear to accompany him into sleep last nightâ absolute perfection.
âWhat's wrong, my dear?" He asked in a gentle voice. "Is everything alright?â
Flins patted the empty space next to him on the couch, mourning how chilled the fabric felt to the touch even under his cold fingers in the absence of your presence. Despite his best efforts, you remained still as tree and chose to plant yourself firmly into the doorway by leaning against the doorframe, still huffing at him with anger that hadn't dispersed. Not one bit.
âAbsolutely not.â You hissed. âTell me. Aren't you forgetting something?â
Flins rubbed his chin thoughtfully, trying to recall anything he'd forgotten this week that might've wronged you in some way.
A forgotten anniversary present? No, that was still on its way.
His ring? He checked, it was still on his ring finger.
Your favourite snacks in the kitchen? A definite no, the full pantry at the corner of his eye spoke so. Flins was a fae, not a heartless being that would purposefully starve his most beloved. How foolish.
With so many possibilities on table yet so little time to shift through each of them one by one, Flins was running out of options. At his wit's end, he shook his head and stretched a wry smile across his dry lips, speaking up in the most sincerely guilty tone he had ever used.
âI beg for your forgiveness, my dear. I'm afraid that you'll have to clue me in more on what I've done that had upset you.â
Once more, he patted the empty space next to him once more, shifting slightly closer to the edge of the couch to give you more space. âCome, it's warmer here. Let me pour you a glass of water as well.â
You narrowed your eyes towards him. Thankfully, you didn't reject him this time, slowly walking across the floorboards and making your way to the couch⊠only to sit the other end of the couch, further than he had gestured.
The sight made Flins' perfect smile twitch barely. Just barely.
(âPerhaps I ought to sell this couch off and buying a smaller one,â he bemoaned. Not that he would ever tell you. After all, this was the couch you chose from the furniture shop after deciding to move in with him. Or was this one of your intentions for buying such a large sofa to begin with?)
âNo need, I'm not thirsty.â You grumbled under your breath. âThere's something else I want instead.â
Oh, a clue. Quite an important one too. It certainly helped narrow things down by quite a number. While Flins rarely remembered things pertaining to himself, he would never forget anything about you. Your likes, your wants, your needs; he knew them all like the back of his hand.
Something he had forgotten since yesterday that was enough to make you sulk to this degree in the morning, what could it beâŠ
⊠Oh.
Oh.
âMy dear, are you perhaps referring to our routinely morning kiss?â
ââŠ.â
âAnd how long did you wait in bed to receive that morning kiss after I left?â
â⊠An hour...â
Ah, Flins truly could not hold back a smile now. You were too cute, too adorable, too precious for him to even describe. Was this feeling bubbling in his chest what humans called cuteness aggression? How interesting.
Your gaze flickered towards him for a second, just long enough to catch him holding back a laugh. In an instant, your face burst into a bright red shade before your voice exclaimed out. âHey! You were the one who started it three years ago! Is, is it a crime for me to expect now!?â
Flins chuckled while shaking his head, unable to contain his happiness any longer. Carefully, he lifted you up from the couch and placed you onto his lap, ignoring your halfhearted protests while circling his arms around your waist.
âOf course not. The only one who has comitted an unpardonable sin is me.â
His mouth began to trace the lines of your collarbone, slowly making its way up the column of your neck. Every time his breath fanned across your skin, his lips left a light but possessive kiss right over the marked territory; all while his arms continued to circle tightly around your waist, refusing to let even a gap of air separate your body from his.
âTell me.â He whispered while leaning ever much closer to you. âWill my beloved, my dearest, my most precious jewel in the world allow me to make it up to them?â
He cupped your chin with one hand to pull your gaze towards him, like an observer to wished to reach the stars. His eyes looked at you with utter reverence and adoration, the gaze of a man waiting to bestow his most cherished jewel with a sign of affection after the long war brought upon by his wrongdoings.
How can a criminal ever make up for his crimes towards his beloved, other than for himâhis heart, his body, his soulâto embrace you so tightly that your flesh merged together with his, until your heart was filled to the brim with his affection instead of his transgressions; like love was capable of blinding the scales of justice that named each sinner?
â⊠Fine, you mayâŠâ
He thanked your heart for tilting the scales of justice in his favour by sealing your lips with another kiss, one that left no room for doubts about your standing in his heart.
And if tomorrow's kiss lasted well past morning? Well, surely you wouldn't mind. Right?
your lover cuddling you in bed by spooning you from behind wanting nothing more then a good nights rest & quickly dozing off meanwhile youre struggling to find sleep shifting around to find a comfortable position when his arms tighten around your waist pulling you close & grumbling about how you're keeping him up & warning you to 'stay put' lest he 'puts that restless energy to use elsewhere'
warnings : kinda obsessive behavior, Flins being freaky and mischievous bc I think that's just something he would do... maybe
mischievous!Flins who when he first saw you, in his eyes you were shining like one of those rare gems he has a hobby of collecting
mischievous!Flins who struck a conversation with you with practiced ease, wanting to know all there is to know about you, if you were so very kind to share with him of course
mischievous!Flins who grew to love you in the very little time he spent with you at first. And the more you hung out, the more his love grew
mischievous!Flins who, at one point, started asking way too many questions about your love life. And whenever you hesitated in your answers he had no trouble in using that oh so very silky voice of his to coax the answers out of you with the utmost gentleness
mischievous!Flins whose lantern always seemed to glow a little but brighter whatever you were around, but whatever you asked about it, he would brush it off with a perfect excuse, managing to disperse your worries as quickly as they came
obsessed!Flins who started using his powers on you. He didn't want to, truly, but his fondness of you was too strong to resist
obsessed!Flins who released an almost invisible beautifully colored wisteria mist whenever you were around, the mist sparkling in the moonlight if you looked at it from just the right angle
obsessed!Flins whose mist made you act on your deepest desires, pushing you forward into his embrace, his being intoxicating you whenever you were at his lighthouse, making no room for escape
obsessed!Flins who, finally, after too much time passed, cornered you in his room down the lighthouse, mist now stronger and thicker as you grew visibility more weak and dizzy from the sheer amount of power he was using, his eyes bearing an equally intoxicated look of pure desire and lust
âMy beautiful gem â he said, a hand stroking your hair â won't you let me court you? Won't you be mine? I know you love me just as much as I love you, from the first time I set my eyes on youâ
And oh how could someone ever refuse him? When he took your hand in his and intertwined your fingers together, kissing your knuckles gently as he gave you an expectant look, knowing fully well that you will not refuse
And when you nodded, he wasted no time placing his lips on yours, slotting perfectly against each other as one of his hands rested on your waist and the other in your hair, and your hands too, took their place gripping at his uniform tightly
Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins who couldn't help groaning in pure ecstasy as you opened your lips to allow his tongue to tangle with yours, knees growing weak as he pulled you closer by the waist, leaving no room for space between your bodies. You were completely at his mercy
âMy darling, you truly unmake me are you aware of that? Hm? I love you so much I'm afraid that I am as intoxicated of you as you are of me, like I put a spell on myself instead of you. Did you know? Fae hold onto their treasures quite tightly. No one dared to steal what's mine and I promise you they will not steal you either, you are safe right here in my arms my love
You belong to me nowâ
The ancient language of the fae easily slipped from his lips as he planted a gentle kiss on your lips, holding you more tightly than ever before. You giggled, dizzy as you were, and you allowed him to guide you up to his chambers
Later that night, he offered you tea, courtesy of the fact that he used so much of his power on you... not that you were aware of it anyway
obsessed!Flins who smiled in pure delight when your lips touched the cup, drinking the tea he made you, unaware the the fruit he squeezed in will seal you fate forever
⊠warnings: very kiss focused, not proof-read, a hint of suggestive?
⊠notes: i gave this my best shot, and i still had to cut out nearly all the characters i planned to write for orz otherwise this never would've been out. the style is a little different from the part 1 that i wrote two years ago, but i still hope you enjoy this.
i. part 1. ii. recent. iii. masterlist.
kaeya alberich.
he's both soft yet teasing, sincere yet mischievous. it all comes down to how he's feeling at that instant.
he's soft when the moments are quiet, when you've had a bad day, when all he wants is a bit of comfort in your warm embrace. then he holds you with all the affection in the world and kisses you like you're made of something delicate, almost reverent in his approach.
other times, he'd much rather annoy you by pulling you in close where you can see his all the colors in his star-like eye and then just. pulling away. when you look at him, disgruntled, he feigns ignorance like the menace he is, nonchalant even when he can see your eyes drop very obviously to his mouth.
when you've finally had enough and yank him close by his collar, you can feel his lips curve smugly against yours. this is right where he wants to be.
if you're of a shyer nature, though? he has a field day messing with you, delighting in the reactions he can draw, in the way your breaths turn shallow and in the way your eyes refuse to meet his gaze. he won't actually kiss you, but his lips travel across your cheekbones, ghosting over your skin, lingering over the curve of your ear until you shiver before he returns to your jaw.
either way, he'll make you ask for it, and he'll do it unapologetically. he's not a mind reader, you know.
if you want something, well, you'll just have to use your words, darling.
wriothesley.
before he pulls you in, he observes.
his hands rest gently at your waist, and he simply drinks the sight of you in, taking in the light in your eyes, the way your body rises and falls with your breaths beneath his palms, the way your lips part ever-so-slightly, waiting.
not because he has to, not because he needs to. time isn't always guaranteed, and he isn't one to put much stock in fortune, so he'd like to savor this moment. though, he'd always call himself lucky to be with you.
and when he finally does give in?
it starts off slow. slow, like a pot of water only just beginning to simmer, still heated, still restrained, one hand moving up to caress your face. the other stays at your waist, anchoring you right where you are.
though passionate, it is measured; he knows his strength, and he'd rather not lose control.
though, he is just a man. when you take matters into your own hands and loop your arms around his neck to leverage yourself closer to him, it is all he can do to hold back.
push a little more, and before long, he'll have you hoisted in his arms against a wall or sat on top of his desk so he can get to it, properly.
baizhu
the thing about baizhu is that he cannot exert himself too much.
he's always absorbing some ailment or the other, and he is an incredibly busy man, so as disappointing it may be, he physically can't spend his time kissing you to his heart's content.
but he's nothing if not accommodating for you. his favorite kisses are the ones he can steal quickly in the in between, whenever your guard is down and your eyes light up at the sight of him: when he sees you out in the city, when he catches a glimpse of you in the morning when you're still resting, when he catches you working away at whatever you've set your mind to.
he lives for the moments he can gently brush a featherlight kiss against your cheek, your forehead or your fingers when he takes your hand in his, he lives for the way your breath hitches when he does. he leans in, soft as can be, his verdant hair brushing against your skin, ecstatic for even the lightest of touches.
he lingers in more ways than one, for his lips leave an impression that haunts you long after he leaves.
and if eventually, you tip your face in his direction, leaning your cheek towards him subconciously when you see him next?
he'll be just as happy to oblige.
phainon.
oh, he's never been picky when it comes to lavishing you in affection. he gives out kisses generously, no matter the occasion; to comfort, to tease, or simply because he feels like it.
asking him to pick a favorite spot to kiss you would drive him up the wall. how can he decide, when every part of you is divine? and when it comes to the kisses he enjoys most? it is just as hard a competition.
but there is one scenario that he holds close to his heart.
he adores, with every fiber of his being, times when you are truly happy.
no matter the reason, momentous or insignificant, when your face is bright with joy, laughter echoing unfettered and unrestrained, that is when he picks you up and spins you around and around in his arms, basking in the light you give off, covering your face in kisses over and over and over.
he may be the deliverer, the sun of his world, radiant beyond all else, but what is the sun in the face of the one he loves the most? it is you he revolves around; and there is truly no sight in the world comparable to that of your face lit alive in exuberance. even if it is merely a passing moment, he has no burdens in the face of your smile.
and so, without fail, every single time you smile or laugh, expect a kiss from him. and then maybe another. and another one, for good measure, before he melts into you, his plush lips curving into the kiss with a content sigh.
and if that action was to spark more laughter from you? well, that's perfect, isn't it? he'd consider that another good thing in this world of his.
mydei.
oh, you think him stoic? you think him a warrior immovable? you think him made of stone? you'd be wrong, in all counts.
this man is a yearner.
he proves it in every single glance he sends your way, sharpness softening at the sight of you. his eyes follow you when you enter the room, almost transfixed by your presence.
he proves it in every single call of your name, tender and sweet. he says it both like a secret and like a caress, something he cherishes. what nickname could ever match the call of your name?
and he proves his yearning each and every time he pours his heart out onto your lips, laying himself bare to your touch.
he cradles your face like it is the most precious thing he's ever held in his palms. he always starts off slow, showing you just how much he treasures you. and when the kiss turns deeper, his brows furrow ever so slightly in concentration, as his grip tightens and he pulls you even closer. still. it isn't close enough.
he puts his all into each kiss, like with everything he does.
and he will not say it until you ask, but you keep a lot of his internal strife at bay. so if you ever find yourself needing to distract or comfort him, just pull him into a kiss.
because for him, when he's wrapped around you, your warmth melting into his, the world dissolves away; there is nothing else in his mind or his heart, just you, and only you.
⊠notes: thought i'd finally get around to doing this part 2 which i started in 2024, esp with characters i haven't witten for before. and i'll be real with you, i thought this would be easy, a nice light break. no, it was not. it was genuinely like pulling teeth (a slow and agonizing affair) head in hands.
i tried with love, i tried with spite, somehow this is out. HSJHJKSD i will do better next time i promiseâ
[kinich x fem!reader], pixelprincess!au
as a princess of natlan, you're rather interested experiencing snezhnayan customs during your visits.
snowball fights just happen to be at the top of your list.
The haunting glow of Snezhnaya's skies only accentuates the blanketing snow that falls quietly over the land, an endless sea of snowflakes that dot your hair and skin. Ever since stepping off the train, the terrain has been unfamiliar.
The ground no longer rocks beneath you, but it doesn't make traversing any easier. Snow gives easily under your shoes, you find, almost too easily. Kinich coughs behind his hand when you slip for the third time, quickly adjusting his expression in time for you to whip around with a sour glare.
"I fail to see what is so funny," you huff. You want to stomp through the snow, but you can'tâyour shoes aren't made for it, and it had been your idea to wander off the path in the first place. After all, a princess of Natlan is not born of ice, and this is a rare opportunity to experience it.
"Nothing is funny," Kinich replies smoothly as he walks past. Annoyingly enough, he hasn't slipped a single time, as much as you keep wishing that he would. "Though I will say, Princess, I can't imagine why wandering through the frozen forest would be something you consider thrilling."
It had been only recently that you'd been offered the opportunity to travel to Snezhnaya on a diplomatic trip. Much to Kinich's dismay, you'd leaped at the opportunity, danger and distance be damned.
Despite the unbelievably painful freezing temperatures, you find yourself enthralled by Snezhnaya's natural beauty and landscape. It's a different kind of picturesque, one that you could never find back home. As if to illustrate your point, you sink unsteadily to your knees, gathering snow in your mittens.
"To be surrounding by snow is something you can only experience in Snezhnaya," you say, though your guard does not grace you with a response.
He doesn't seem as interested in sight-seeing as you are. If anything, he seems on edge, eyes narrowed at every turn and a permanent hand resting on the hilt of his blade.
Even with your hands covered, the sensation of molded snow is unfamiliar and slow. Kinich is stopped ahead, inspecting one of the towering trees nearby as if calculating the quickest way to scale it. Before you can stop yourself, you wind up and throw with all your might.
A snowball fight, one of your textbooks had called it. A popular pastime amongst Snezhnayan children.
The ice soars smoothly through the air, sailing past the trees in a perfect arc towards the back of Kinich's head. That'll show him, you think mischievously. He thinks he can laugh at me and get away with it? Well, he has another thing comingâ
Kinich takes a single step to the left without so much as flinching, and the snowball explodes against the trunk of the tree in front of him.
You freeze.
You expect him to turn around. You expect him to scold you, or roll his eyes, or tell you to get back on the train so you can continue on toward Snezhnograd. But he doesn't do any of those thingsâhe simply hums, continuing to stare up at the foliage as if nothing had ever happened.
Grumbling, you gather another snowball. This time, Kinich ducks beneath it, whistling.
"Tall tree, this one," he calls over his shoulder. You can practically hear the smile in his voice.
"Kinich," you warn.
At the sound of his name, he finally turns, only to swiftly dodge the next snowball that you launch at him. He looks rather amused at your attempts, even as he walks back toward you.
"Kinich," you whine, the ice beginning to sting at your fingertips. "Let me hit you just once. Please?"
He brushes at the fur on his cloak, raising a brow. "Why should I do that?"
"This is what people do in Snezhnaya! When will I ever get this chance again?"
It's not often that you leave Natlan's bordersâin fact, it's almost frustratingly rare. This chance may not come again for another ten years, and that's if you're lucky. As if recognizing your plight, Kinich's expression softens.
You take his sigh of resignation as an invitation.
He doesn't dodge the next snowball that you throwâit hits him squarely in the chest, though it does nothing to hinder his advance toward you. The next one explodes against his shoulder, then the next against his knee. Though you're throwing with all your strength, you'd think that it was a mere breeze that was brushing against him based on his lack of reaction.
You manage to hit him three more times before you're standing face to face, half a snowball gathered between your shaking fingers. Kinich stares down at you, ice gathering at the ends of his dark hair.
"You're cold," he observes quietly.
You suck in a breath when he extends a hand, the heat of his fingers curling over your collarbone. He's fixing your cloak, you realizeâsomehow, in the heat of your endeavor, the clasp had come undone. Among the freezing wind, he's unnaturally warm, even warmer than the thick fur that he settles over your shoulders.
The snow scatters away from your open hand.
His touch has always been gentleâwhether he's tying a loose ribbon on your dress or removing the shoes from your aching feet after a long day, Kinich has never treated you roughly. However, in this moment, you almost wish it didn't feel so intimate.
"I'm not a child," you say with a scoff. It comes out sharper than intended, and you hesitate to correct yourself before Kinich repliesâ
"You're not, but you are the princess of my nation. And that means it's my responsibility to keep you safe and happy."
He says it so matter-of-factly that you're not quite sure how to react. He's sworn his commitment to protecting you a thousand times over, but it's different to hear him say it at this proximity.
"Happy?" you splutter, hoping to mask your embarrassment. "Since when?"
A smile tugs at Kinich's lip as he finishes adjusting your cloak. "I don't think I'd let just anyone toss ice at me for their personal amusement."
A snowflake lands daintily on his noseâyou watch it melt against his skin as your fingers curl white-knuckled into your skirt. Kinich steps past you, saying something about returning to the train, but you find yourself frozen in place for a moment longer.
You've always known you were special to him, but that role was simply decided by your birthrightânothing more, and nothing less. You'd be a fool to convince yourself otherwise.
"Don't tease me," you call out before hesitantly trudging after him.
"I wouldn't dream of it." Kinich pulls the hood of his cloak down, shaking the snow from his hair. He pauses midstep to stretch a hand toward you, then nods back toward the path. "Now come onânext time you fall, I might not wait around for you."
He's unbelievably irritating. And yet, your face blooms with heat when you feel his hand curl tighter against yours.
you can't help but stare at his lips. he can't help but get fed up.
wanderer ⥠gn!reader
warnings: kissing, wanderer may be ooc
notes: sigh. i miss my man.
"and where do you think you're looking?" wanderer asks, crossing his arms.
you blink, and your gaze quickly returns to the wanderer's, locking on his pupils and unraveling your soul. cornflower irises drink your reflection in greedily, even though puppets don't need to be satiated by such mortal desires. even though puppets aren't guided by thirst or hunger or love.
"what?" you reply, feigning ignorance to the shit-eating smirk on his face and the smug taps of his foot. wanderer steps towards you, the ornaments of his hat swaying with his gait.
"do you think i'm stupid? or are you stupid?" he asks, hardly containing his jeering laughs. "you've been staring at my lips."
he leans in towards you, but there are no breaths escaping his nose, no warmth emanating from his skin.
he leans in towards you, but you can hardly feel his presence, the only proof of his existence being vested within his eyes, which trace over your features wildly, trailing from the wisps of your lashes, to the bridge of your nose, and down to the curl of your lips.
when you look away, he smirks, sure, but his index finger comes up to the bottom of your chin, guiding your gaze back to him.
when wanderer approachesâno, when he perceives youâhe eyes you with the intensity of a madman, the hunger of an insatiated mortal. when wanderer perceives you, he does so like a phantom, an absence that drowns you in, the desperation that comes with the unknown.
you are all that is foreign to him.
you make wanderer unlike himself, dismembering his puppet limbs and his screwed-on joints. you piece him back together, tugging at his strings and reinventing them anew, the transparent strands dyed redâoh, the color of love, the color of life and the color of bloodâweaving and transfixed to your touch.
when wanderer perceives you, he perceives a heart, a rhythm, a tempo that echoes throughout the cavity of his empty chest, the sound of humanity and the timeless, estoric: thump-thump, thump-thump.
wanderer is not human. but his creator discarded him because she believed he was too human, too flawed, too selfish. but selfishness breeds love, and wanderer is not human, yes, but how can he explain the selfishnessâthe loveâwithin him otherwise?
wanderer is not human. but his creator discarded him because she believed he was full of humanity, because he was full of love. his creator abandoned him, but youâoh, youâkept him like a treasure.
you reassembled him and you are, undoubtedly, all that he knows.
"tch. and there you go again," wanderer mutters, flicking your forehead. "look at me."
"i am, though?" you retort, taking a step back. wanderer's brows furrow prominently, his arrogant smirk dropping into a frown as he narrows the distance between the two of you.
"liar. do you think i am a fool?"
"yeah," you reply, grinning. "i'm always looking at you."
wanderer conjures a few hexes and curses under his breath, gaze momentarily averting from yours before reaching for the rim of his hat, tugging it down in a futile attempt to conceal his expression.
"you're ridiculous."
"you must love ridiculous people."
"oh, now you're just asking for trouble."
wanderer says nothing once your eyes drift again, tracing the features of his face and settling on the curl of his lips. he huffs.
"you want to kiss me so bad," he remarks arrogantly, tone sounding irritated. "don't you know how stupid it makes you look?"
you don't miss the way his ears bloom a violent shade of red, the way his brows furrow while he tries to suppress the adoration flourishing within his irises.
you don't miss the way wanderer steps towards you, presence known only by the thunderous beat of your heart and the way his face is barely a centimeter away from yours.
much to your chagrin, your eyes flutter shut, and a mocking laugh escapes the wanderer's lips.
"did you think i'd make it easy for you? hah! the arrogance!"
when you open your eyes, lips barely parting in an attempt to protest, wanderer's hand comes to the back of your head, pressing you towards him, the coldness of his touch sending shivers down your spine.
the shade of his hat captures you, the darkness slipping in between your faces and falling everywhere but your lips.
despite his tongue spewing fierce insults regularly, wanderer's touch is tender, marred by love and the softness of a human, the softness of which his creator loathes.
he cradles you with his hands, his lips pressing against yours, chasing after you whenever you part ways.
he's desperate. he's hungry, constantly wanting more and more, like lovers doâoh, like humans do.
when you pull away, breathless, wanderer merely smirks.
"youâ" you start, but are quickly interrupted by another hungry, defiant kiss. when wanderer kisses you, his touch becomes both tender and mad, terribly desperate and terribly, terribly lovely.
"you talk too much," he mumbles, waiting for you to regain your breaths. his other palm comes up to the side of your face, the warmth from your skin beginning to permeate into his. "just..."
your gaze meets his, and wanderer falls silent, enamored by the sight.
"just what?" you ask, smiling. wanderer scoffs.
"don't make me say it." he kisses you again.
"wanderer, i wasâ" you manage to interrupt, only to be silenced by the narrow of his eyes and the thumb that brushes over your cheekbone.
"shut it." his words don't match his adoring tone.
wanderer thinks he could get used to this. just for good measure, however, he kisses you again.
when someone else flirts with you in front of them.
heizou, wanderer, neuvillette ⥠gn!reader
warnings: not proofread, neuvillette may be ooc, wanderer is a little crazy đ
notes: i played heizous hangout quest and he got me đđ
frankly, heizou is amused.
"you're beautiful," some random stranger states, "do you happen to be free this weekend?"
you blink in confusion, glancing back and forth between the detective and the strange person. does he not see the way heizou's hand is linked with yours?
"well, someone clearly isn't a detective," heizou states, not bothering to lower the volume of his voice. when the person still doesn't quite understand what heizou means, he lifts your laced hands up to eye-level, emphasizing the fact that he's not letting go anytime soon.
"please don't interrupt," the stranger states, suddenly feigning ignorance to heizou's presence.
"oh!" heizou exclaims, unbothered. "sorry about that!" you can tell by the look on his face and the tone of his voice that shikanoin heizou is, in fact, not sorry. he's not sorry at all.
heizou brings the back of your hand up to his lips, staring directly at the stranger whilst doing so. still, the random man does not budge.
"what's up with this guy?" heizou mumbles, loud enough for just you to hear. you laugh, and heizou can't seem to tear his eyes away from you, his gaze belonging wholly to your existence.
when the stranger glares at him, heizou merely shrugs, a smirk fixed onto his face. the oblivious person then turns to you, a gentle smile on his face.
"might i have the honor of knowing your name? i am kenzaburou kadenokouji, and seeing you has blessed me with the inspiration to write my greatest upcoming novel: 'i was reincarnated as the raiden shogun's plane of euthymia, where i did nothing for 500 years before finally meeting the love of my life in the middle of the city?!'"
your mouth hangs agape, flabbergasted at this surreal experience.
heizou, however, is not fazed in the slightest. "is this based off of true events?"
"do not interrupt an artist's craft," kadenokouji replies, before extending a hand towards your free one.
so he knows i'm holding their hand, is all heizou thinks. without another thought, the detective pushes the writer's palm away, tugging you towards him.
"you're going to need to find inspiration from someone else! my intuition tells me that this isn't going to work out," heizou declares, his thumb coming to rub the back of your hand, as if he's trying to reassure you.
(you think that it's more for him, though. because although heizou is a self-assured, confident man, he is sometimes shrouded deeply in fear, swayed by the same emotions that make him so human, so lovely.)
(it also doesn't help that you adore novels. a majority of heizou's worries are attributed to how you devour those absurd reincarnation stories.)
"no, no... together," kadenokouji trails off, dismissing heizou with the flick of his hand. "together, we will defy fate! and with you, beautiful stranger, i will publish the greatest novel known to inazuma!"
"he's delusional," heizou mutters, but it sounds as if he's more impressed than incredulous.
"i have a boyfriend," you reply, still recovering from shock. "he's right next to me."
kadenokouji takes it the wrong way. "wow, you move pretty fast! although we just met, and i still don't know your name, i am completely fine with this sudden turn of events!"
"wow," heizou mutters to himself, almost amazed, "this guy's pretty good."
"he's like the opposite of you," you whisper, leaning closer towards heizou, "completely oblivious."
that gives heizou an idea.
"sorry pal, but they only like detectives," he declares.
"that's okay! i've been meaning to write a detective novel, you know, i am always switching things up!" kadenokouji exclaims, not taking the hint (but it's not even a hint, it's a full blown answer).
"oh, really? have you ever heard of shikanoin heizou?"
you and heizou exchange not-so-discreet glances (it's not like kadenokouji notices, anyway). heizou winks at you, as if urging you to stay quiet so he can get the spotlight in a novel that he's always been dreaming of.
"yes, yes! i love doushin shikanoin's workâin fact, i've been meaning to ask him for some information regarding his famous intuition! i plan on basing the main character of that novel off of him, really!"
"that sounds great! you know, doushin shikanoin believes that he needs the publicity, so your novel would be the perfect match!"
"is that really so? that's incredible! i must reach out to him immediately!" kadenokouji says, his attention belonging wholly to this newfound idea.
"i can relay the message to him," heizou replies, "what would you like to ask?"
"yes, thank you! please ask him if he's willing to meet me outside the tenryou commission for an hour or two for me to ask questions! and if he's willing to tell me about his intuition and how it works! my novel's main character will also have something akin to his intuition, but not exactly because i am always original and meaningful with my workâ"
"alright, i will!" heizou declares proudly, "he'll hear of it by today!"
"thank you, kind sir! if i might be so bold to inquire, what is your name?" kadenokouji asks, suddenly becoming heizou's biggest fan whilst forgetting about your presence. how the tables have turned.
"shikanoin heizou," he states, the smile on his face never wavering. "my intuition tells me you're going to fall to the floor in utter shock!"
his intuition, as always, is correct. kadenokouji collapses to the floor as if he had just witnessed the most terrible thing, all the color draining from his face while his jaw hangs wide open.
"d-doushin shikanoin?!"
"that's me! also, could you include me in the novel's credits? you know, being a detective isn't always just about skill. in this day and age, we need publicity! we need a name for ourselves!"
kadenokouji faints.
"did you come from another world?" someone asks. "'cause you look otherworldly."
"that was ridiculous," wanderer mutters, "and redundant."
"is he bothering you, your highness?" the person queries, taking a step towards you. their hand reaches out for yours, as if they're trying to take you away, but wanderer is quick to intervene.
he blocks you with his figure, the vision on his chest beginning to glow vividly as a gust of wind rushes through the akademiya's library, sending papers and books flying. scholars panic as their research projects flutter all across the marble floor, and usually, that'd be enough to deter a sane man.
unfortunately for you, your admirer (the other one) is no sane man. you suppose that you attract a certain group of people.
"so you think you're a big shot 'cause you have a vision, huh?" the stranger asks, unimpressed.
"hah! you don't even know who you're talking to," wanderer replies, clenching his fists. he takes a step toward your admirer, the air around him becoming tense and unwelcoming as it begins to manifest into something grim, something violent.
you're not in the mood for a suspension right now.
"wanderer!" you exclaim, tugging at his sleeve. "let's go somewhere else. this guy's just weird."
"you go first. i have things to deal with," wanderer replies, irritated. but the way he looks at you doesn't quite match the tone in his voice, because when the wanderer's cornflower pupils fixate on you, they melt. you mold him into something quiet, something lovely, when you do so much as exist.
briefly, the wind brushes past your face, kissing you with its tender touch.
(all you have to do is exist, and that'll be more than enough for him.)
"he's not worth your time," you say, not releasing your hold on the puppet's wrist. even though wanderer could easily escape your grip, he chooses not toâinstead, he basks in your touch, inching closer towards you, letting you hold the strings of his artificial limbs to move him as you please.
wanderer relinquishes himself to you. wholly. and he trusts you with his fate, with his severed strings.
"whatever."
his severed string manifests anew, wrapping around his pinky and yours, turning redânot red from blood, but rather, from loveâand knotting.
you are bound to him.
and then he gives in.
(he does a lot of that when it comes to you.)
"surrendering already, huh?" the stranger asks, clearly not knowing his place. "i knew you were nothing but bark."
oh, you think, sighing, this guy's an idiot!
"does the akademiya accept anyone who applies?" wanderer asks, contemplating murder. still, he doesn't release himself from your hold.
"that's what i was thinking when i saw you. leave us alone!"
a category 5 hurricane begins to brew in the akademiya library at the word "us." scholars begin to evacuate the premises whilst the insane man stands amidst it all, still trying his best to court you despite getting blown away.
i tried my best, you tell yourself, glancing away.
you let go of wanderer's hand, and then you close your eyes.
"let me know when you're done," you mutter, voice drowned by the whistle of the winds and the screams of scholars whose projects are getting engulfed by the storm.
wanderer, of course, hears you. he can always hear you, picking out your voice from the cacophony, taking the sound and placing it deep within his empty chest, letting it resonate and replay there. instead of a heartbeat, wanderer has your voice echoing throughout his torso, fusing into his artificial ribs.
he is bound to you.
a breeze wisps past your nose. even with the whirling winds and the threat of suspension lingering around your figure, no harm ever comes your way.
you are in the eye of the hurricane.
the eye of the beholder. it melts.
neuvillette is flabbergasted.
back in fontaine, he had the luxury of comfort. everyone knew that the two of you were together, so he never had to deal with someone trying to court you, much less in front of him.
this is how he experiences culture shock. not by the customs of other nations, but rather, by the sheer audacity that some people have. especially when your hand is laced tightly with his.
"i think... i think..." the stranger trails off, his voice filled with an adoration that makes neuvillette's stomach churn. "... i'm getting lost in your eyes, beautiful."
the stranger reaches his hand out to give you a rose, a dashing grin on his face. you smile awkwardly.
"sorry, i'm taken."
"taken... by my good looks?" the stranger asks, putting a hand under his face to emphasize his features. neuvillette squeezes your hand.
"no, they are taken by me. we are partners," neuvillette explains, his tone remaining polite.
"partners in work?"
"yes, butâ" neuvillette starts, but is quickly interrupted. you spare him an endearing glance, charmed by his honesty.
the tips of his pointed ears begin to blossom red. again, he squeezes your hand.
"no, we are married," you state blandly, and the stranger's gaze flickers over to your hands, searching for a ring. neuvillette doesn't like the look on the stranger's face; it's evident in the way the iudex narrows his eyes, the way he steps forward a little even though he'd usually try to avoid confrontation.
"i could get you a ring," the stranger says, clearly not getting the hint, "and you wouldn't have to lie about being married."
"there is nothing we owe to you that requires us to prove our marriage. we are married, and that is all you need to know," neuvillette declares firmly, his tone becoming harsh.
"but words alone don't mean anything," the stranger replies with a shrug.
neuvillette furrows his brows, clearly stumped by the stranger's statement. he disagreesâwords don't mean everything, but they are definitely worth something.
"just back off," you suddenly chime in, tugging neuvillette closer to you. he lets you string him along to your whims, allowing his figure to inch towards yours, finding its place by your side.
"i'm not interested in you. i already have a lover."
the stranger rolls his eyes.
"ugh. i didn't even like you anyway."
neuvillette frowns. "now that is completely incorrect. just moments prior, you wereâ"
"just shut up!" the stranger yells, not even bothering to listen to neuvillette's explanation.
clouds begin to form.
"let's go, neuvillette," you say, rubbing the back of the iudex's hand with your thumb. "don't worry too much about that guy."
he looks at you, and the sun emerges.
"you're right. thank you, [name]."
a ring dangles from the silver chain on your neck; it's a vibrant shade of blue.
it glows.
"and you wanted to try this land's water, right?"
he lets you string him along, a gentle smile on his face.
"yes," he vows, "i do."
his hand slots perfectly into yours, and the world is engulfed by a radiant glow.
Do you know how hard it is to live with a cat that has the intelligence level of literally like a 3 year old but the pure chaos of a high ranking demon?
Heâs learned to open the lazy Susan and wonât stop clawing open the flour and rolling in it like a little chinchilla
read the kinich, neuvillette, wanderer, wriothesley ver. !!
warnings: not proofread (except for xiao's pt, THANK YOU @melodead & @perpetualcynicism !!), graphic depictions of violence & blood, use of "[name]", established relationship for diluc's (& living together with him), reader is an adeptus in xiao's pt.
notes: THIS WAS SUCH AN ADVENTURE I HAVENT WRITTEN XIAO OR KAZUHA IN GENUINE YEAAARRRSSSSS
Desire.
Xiao will not speak of desire; he likens this trait to the wishes that mortals have, the ones they hold close to their chest, never daring to utter its enormity lest it doesn't manifest as a result.
Thoughâhis gaze for, but a moment, flickers towards youâthere are some things that betray himself. Xiao will not speak of desire.
But he will look.
(They say that eyes are the window to the soul.
(Like flashes of the sun; the molten heat; the rupturing bursts; the stroke of the light.
(Xiao spares you a glance, once, twice, thrice. Andâthroughout all of the minute looks, the quick aversions when you return his attention, the wisps of the wind which seem to shift in accordance to his reddening earsâhe believes sight to be wanting.
(To see everything and to hold nothing. Truly, the eye is the most pitiful organ of all.
(You return his gaze with the slight tilt of your head, the widening of your lips as you smile, not-so sincerelyâhe can tell you're going to use this against him, somehow, sometimeâbut the gesture tugs at him. Like tendrils wrapping around his heart, contracting alongside the changes in your expression. The raise of a brow; the blink of an eye; the bareness of teeth.
(Your lips part to say, "Wanna fight? If I win, you have to take over all of my patrols for a month!"
("When have you ever patrolled?"
("Are we overlooking my good deeds during the Archon War?"
(Silence.
(Xiao stands, jade spear manifesting in his hand, the other remaining outstretched, allowing you to take it and rise yourself. You do. Gloved fingers tightening over your knuckles, he pulls you up, your smile unwavering, its mirth meeting your eyes. You glow.
(Like a wish unspoken; like a manifestation of all he's ever dreamt and all he's ever devoured; like an existence that his eyes cannot tire of.)
"I'll be back in three days!" you told him, holding up your fingers for emphasis. Your person was devoid of any supplies except for a performative lunchbag which swung across your figure. Xiao raised a brow at the sightâadepti do not rely on food for sustenance. What was the point of this act?
Still, he had nodded, arms crossed and all, seeing you off at the border to the sea as you had departed on a flimsy-looking boat for Inazuma. Even though your element is Hydro. Even though you can teleport. You insisted on taking a boat; Xiao believes such a compulsion can be attributed to the fact that you like pursuing random quests and experiences.
It has been five days.
Not a word of your return. Xiao finds himself loitering around the Wangshu Inn, most particularly, the front desk, where letters are delivered. Although he does not ask to see any himself, Verr Goldet has, ever so conveniently, splayed the envelopes out in such a way which allows him to see the names of each sender and their intended recipient. Your name is nowhere to be found; neither is his. He checks once, twice, thrice. Nothing again.
With nowhere to place his anxieties, Xiao finds himself toiling away at more monsters than before, clearing hilichurl camps and Ruin Guards at unprecedented rates, his pace constant, interludes arriving in the form of his return to Liyue's docks at night.
The moon's light splits the sea, and Xiao stares. Arms crossed, wind rustling through his clothes, sending shivers down the spines of passerby as they hurriedly rush home, the ocean wind and the night's chill posing an uncomfortable burden for most mortals. But Xiao remains as he is: waiting.
He has been waiting since the day you left. The first three days, he waited without any expectationsâhe had nowhere else to spend his time, and there was nothing wrong with surveying the sea.
(He wanted to be there in case you had decided to return early. You have always been a creature full of whims, after all.)
The fourth day, he waited a little longer than usual. Even after the moon began to settle across the opposite horizon, even when the sun's first light started to slice through the atmosphere, setting the obsidian sky ablaze, he waited. And no boat bore your presenceâthe glow, the radiance, the incomparableâand, he thought, maybe you had found something so interesting that made you stay in Inazuma a little longer.
Or maybe the return trip you had taken involved swimming instead of boating. Xiao wouldn't put such an outlandish idea above you, considering your adeptus status seems more like a suggestion than a fact.
And, if there were anything wrong, you would call him. You've always called him, whether it was for real danger, or to eradicate a handful of Hydro slimes.
The fifth day. He waits. Day breaks, and still, there is nothing. He looks around, noticing the many boats on the horizon, all departing but none returning, and he thinks that, really, you've always been cruel in this regard.
Time is not something that immortals are bound by. And to you, three days could mean anything: a couple minutes, a couple weeks. Xiao knows you to be particularly terrible at keeping him updated during your travels, and he knows you're the type of creature to get lost in your own endeavors, so enraptured you forget that the world beyond still exists.
Xiao is not fond of stillness. He values movement, whether it be the dance of his spear, or the press of his fingers over the pieces of a flute, and, truly, he cannot find it in himself to wait any longer. The bustle of the port has begun, and there is a duty he must uphold.
(But he manages a quick stop at the Inn. Verr Goldet, expecting him, has already laid out today's batch of delivered letters; again, your name and hisâa pairânowhere to be found.)
And so begins his routine. He makes quick work of the surrounding area, clearing camps and rogue slimes, ensuring that the trail for visitors remains untouched. Only when he sheds his mask does Xiao allow himself to look at the skyline. At birds, who fly in two; at the mountains, which tower above; at the dip of the hill, where the harbor remains, and where he was just a couple hours ago.
You will call him if anything happens.
With that thought, Xiao retires to the Inn's balcony, surveying the wide expanse of the land, the golden and orange hues, the blooming trees. He wonders what you're up to now, what matters are so pressing to have kept you for so long, what smile must be worn on your face as you mingle with humanity. Waiting; wonder; radiance. Xiao has learned to familiarize himself with these ideas when it comes to you.
Desire.
He supposes it must taste like a sweet dream. And it must look likeâ
You.
"Xiao!"
The warm air shifts, contorting into a swarm of turquoise and black, dissipating to give way for the pelting of rain, the slam of thunder, the burst of lightning as it ricochets throughout the air, the ground rumbling from the impact. Inazuma. Donning his mask, Xiao fights.
Everything appears as a blur to himâbefore he can even register what he's tearing into, the only thing that appears before him is a mangle of corpses, the iron sting of blood which wafts in the air, the elemental energy which emerges as a consequence of an adeptus's wound. He turns, ridding himself of his weapon, his mask, and he crouches down, the rain seeping through your clothes, your breaths coming out in gasps as your hand presses against the side of your neck.
"Hey," you manage to say, the slight tug of a smile contorting at your lips. Xiao reaches for your hand, peeling it from your neck, eyes narrowing at the gash which runs across your skin, just barely missing your vital points.
"You should've called me," he mutters, his words adorned with an indescribable heaviness, cradling your ruined body with both of his arms, bringing your head closer to his chest, the rampage of his heart threatening to burst through his ribs, desperate to reach you. It doesn't. But you grin and it nearly does.
"I did, though?" you reply, still as frustrating as ever.
"Earlier," he says. "You should've called me earlier."
You cough. Xiao brings you closer to himself, his hands coming to support your back while the other hooks under your knees. Tendrils of turquoise and black swarm around your figures, the thundering sky shifting to a grand blue. Liyue.
Verr Goldet says nothing about the sodden floors as a result of your appearance. She gestures towards a room, eyes wide at your state, and Xiao disappears behind the door, your figure still in his arms, your face pressed against the breaths of his skin, rising, then falling.
"That was so embarrassing," you remark, the shakiness of your voice not matching the tone of your words, your limbs limp as he rests you onto the bed. He thumbs at your face, wiping the rain, covering your eyes with his gloved palm. It's dark.
"Rest," he says.
It's dark. But even when sleep takes you, and when your labored breaths ease into normalcy, Xiao never once leaves your bedside. He remains, scrutinizing your every expression, the state of your wounds, its gradual healing over the night.
Desire.
His ribs curl inwards, his hands clasp around the hilt of his spear, his face wants to shrink into his mask. Desire. Xiao hopes it never takes this form again; the kind of form that exists in the midst of your absence, the kind of form that exists at the idea of your demise, the kind of form that makes him feel as though he must first die in order to live.
Desire.
It must taste like a sweet dream, it must feel like a warm body in his hands, it must look like you.
When you wake up, he's there, in the corner, arms crossed and leaning against the wall, eyes closed. You stir. He wakes. From his spot, he remains unmoving, head tilting slightly as he asks, "How do you feel?"
"Not good," you reply. Only when you try to sit up does Xiao meet you, his hands coming to your shoulder, opposite of the side your wound is on, and he presses you back into the mattress.
"Rest," he says, again. "You must heal."
Despite the steadiness of his voice, his expression betrays him. It's in the frantic movement of his eyes, tracing all over your skin, checking for wounds; the furrow of his brows, its vehemency forcing his lips downwards, the stir of his heart palpable.
Like flashes of light, flickering through crevices, dappling the ground, its radiance appearing as spots.
"I'm fine," you state.
His gaze tears from your neck to your own, wholly unconvinced.
"Have you no concern for your own wellbeing?"
"I know you're not the one telling me that right now."
Silence. It's broken by your laughter, your hand raised to wipe at forming tears as you congratulate yourself on being the funniest creature known to man. Xiao wonders if mankind lacks humor.
(But he would listen to you forever if he could.)
Desire; it must sound like this.
It's not often that Diluc returns to Dawn Winery at a reasonable hour.
"Has [Name] returned?" he asks Adelinde, lingering at the doorway, shrugging his coat off of his shoulders before hanging it on the rack. She looks up, lips drawn into a thin line as she shakes her head.
"Not yet, Master Diluc."
"Alright then. When they do arrive,"âhe speaks with utmost certainty, leaving no room for doubtâ"let them know that I will be in the library. Also, hold off on serving dinner until then."
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you, Adelinde."
And so he retires to the shelves, thumbing through the many books of which he must finish reading, its piling stature next to yours. There's a stark contrast between the media you two consumeâyour books are all light novels from Inazuma, with titles so long they adorn the entire spine, whereas his are blank and devoid of any covers or titles at all. Still, they take up a substantial space of the Winery's library. He hasn't moved them since you slotted them there.
Why would he?
The Winery has reinvented itself, the walls shifting in accordance to the duration of which your gaze sweeps over their wooden frame, the chandelier lights aflame, brightening when you pass under their embrace, your face aglow.
It was a cold place following the death of his father; it found warmth again when you arrived. It's in the light novels which line the shelves, the drawings from Klee which you've hung up in the halls ("She said it's us!" you exclaimed, pointing towards a paper with two figures, both looking like disturbing phantoms), the dinner table, its length larger than life, once set for three, then one, and now, two.
Two.
Two coats on the rack, two pairs of shoes by the door, two stacks of books, two chairs by the fireplace. Like how the break of dawn bids farewell to the moon, making place for the sunâlike how, as the first light pierces through the darkness, there is, most wonderfully, two. Two.
Diluc quite likes two.
What an odd title, he thinks, fingers dancing over the spine of one of your light novels, reading, "I Reincarnated as a Powerless F-Class Summoner, Until I Ate the Hair of the Number One Hero, and Became the King of Curses!"
... Huh?
Finding his seat, Diluc thumbs through the pages, finding where he last left his mark. Out slips a paperâa measly thing, reallyâwith an abhorrent drawing of what looks to be a man with red hair. Apparently, it's him.
You gave it to him following a contest with Klee, in which the two of you tried drawing with your non-dominant hand. Klee won, for reasons he thinks is glaringly obvious when he gazes upon whatever abomination exists amongst the pages of his book. Still, he peels the paper from its place, setting it down onto the table, carmine eyes lingering on its peculiar look for much longer than it probably took for you to create it.
He smiles a little. Truly, you should stick to your dominant hand.
Diluc only tears his attention from the words when he hears a hurried knock. He rises, slotting your gift back in between pages, running a hand through his hair as he opens the door, sleeves rolled towards the crease of his elbow.
"Master Diluc, forgive me for the interruption," Adelinde says, dipping her head. "But Master [Name] has yet to arrive."
He glances at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, a brow raised upon realizing that it's about to strike midnight; you're not one for late outings, often preferring to spend your weekends at home, toiling away at random quests, or hatching new schemes to terrorize Jean.
"That's odd," Diluc remarks, gaze returning to Adelinde. "I will search for them myself, then. Please prepare dinner while I am away."
She nods in responds. Diluc returns to the coat rack, occupied by one, before swinging the fabric over his shoulders, donning his gloves, peering past the window before realizing it's raining. He narrows his eyes at the sight; you loathe this type of weather.
They must be back at the city, then, he thinks. You'd rather take shelter than venture out in these sort of conditions. Regardless, in order to ease his own nerves, Diluc will meet you there. He brings an umbrella with him, just in case you'd like to return to the Winery tonight.
He does not bother using it for himself.
Or, maybeâhe unfurls its materialâhe should, considering all the times you've furrowed your brows upon seeing him soaked with rainwater, hurling profanities at him for letting his hair get all tangled. He doesn't care much about it; you do. For that reason alone, he raises the umbrella above his head, the sound of rain pelting against it as he walks outside.
The walk is peaceful. There are no hilichurl camps, no rogue abyss mages, no slimes to whack. With that, he allows his mind to wander adrift, to settle on a familiar subject, one that he often thinks towards whenever he finds interludes like this. You. Two.
He thinks of your incredulity when you see him again, pointing at him accusingly, cursing him for walking out in the rain and for getting his boots muddy. He thinks of your laugh when he tells you about that one peculiar light novel he saw on the shelf, how your words quicken when you explain its outlandish plot, how the title is actually important, how it's the pinnacle of literature. He'll purse his lips at your declaration, and you'll shoot him a glare. That'll fix him quiet.
And when you turn away, attention now belonging to one of your many hobbies, he'll continue to stare, long after the conversation has found its silence, long after your gaze departs from his. And it will be, most wonderfully, two.
The city in now in sight, Diluc's relaxed pace quickens a little, the familiar gates looming ahead, fingers tightening around the hilt of the umbrella. You'll be there, no doubt. You hate going out in the rain. Maybe you'll be in the Tavern, and the two of you can walk home from there. By the time you get back to the Winery, all will be prepared, and the two of you can eat together, and perhaps a little reading can be done by the fireplace, andâ
"Get the healers!" a voice yells. There's commotion on the bridge, a handful of knights swarming around an unknown figure, one of them parting from the group to run back inside the city, searching for a nurse. Diluc raises a brow, but approaches the group anyway, umbrella in hand, asking a knight what happened.
"Oh, Diluc! We were just about to send someone your way! Actually, we found [Name]â"
He shoves past the jostling bodies, eyes grown wide, umbrella forgotten to the floor as he makes his way towards the zenith, unable to contain the spasm of his chest as his stomach lurches at your mention. Though it is dark, Diluc can make out your figure, crumpled on the floor, blood seeping into the pebbles, the scent sickening.
Sometimes, life can change in an instant.
These words resound all throughout Diluc's mind as he crouches down, ripping his gloves off, checking for your pulse. It's there. He gathers your body into his arms, bringing you close to his chest, his movements quick yet steady as he carries you into the city, heading towards the cathedral.
Not again.
Diluc looks at you. In between your shaky breaths, you manage to peer through the rain, skin soaked, clothes even more so, and you return his haunted gaze with one full of wonder. He doesn't deserve such a look from you. He was late. You're bleeding out. He should've searched for you earlier, instead of wasting away at a book which will exist forever.
But what of you?
You exist within his arms in a manner unlike the one you take in his mind. You've always been a creature so full of light, the burn different from his ownâbut the heat which once emanated from your skin now exists as viscous blood, seeping through his fingers, the redness sickening. And it feels as though you may disappear at any moment, the colossal vitality of your soulâradiant, inextinguishable, wholeânow fragile, ephemeral, and so terribly mortal.
Sometimes, life can change in an instant.
But, Diluc thinks, remembering his father's words, pressing your figure closer to himself, racing up the stairs towards the cathedral, not like this.
Despite it being midnight, a healer is quick to reach your side, elemental energy seeping into your wounds as your labored breaths ease over, one of your hands encased by both of Diluc's as he remains by your figure, never to be parted, not even by death.
"They've made it through the worst of it," the healer says, the light emanating from their hand coming to a halt, their head craned towards him. "All they need now is rest."
"Thank you," Diluc breathes, unable to contain the tremble of his hands as they tighten around yours, the shakiness reaching his voice. "Thank you, so much."
"It's no problem," the healer replies, rising to their feet, bidding Diluc a kind farewell with the dip of their head before retreating into the general prayer area, leaving the two of you within private quarters. Hunched over, his hands never part from yours, carmine eyes blown wide as they frantically retrace over your figure, gazing upon your bandages, the rise and fall of your chest.
Not again.
Many hours pass, and eventually, the sun reaches your room. To think the person made of light is now submerged in it; Diluc considers the sight to be sublime, like a reminder that dawn will always break, that there will always be light after darkness. And the worst of it has come to pass. And Diluc holds your hands within his, and he utters his thanks, over and over, trembling, genuflecting, overwhelmed with the enormity of an emotion that has existed as so many flames before.
There will be two.
There will always, always be two.
Hazily, your eyes peer open, slicing through the abyss, the universe now beholding light. And Diluc leans even closer towards you, the distance impossible, his thumb reaching to brush your face, tracing over the bone of your cheek, the curl of your lips. He looks you once over again, and then, he whispers, "How do you feel?"
"Like shit," you manage to say. He hands you a glass of water, one that he kept by your bedside, lifting it up to your lips and allowing you to drink. Swallowing, you then add, "That was embarrassing."
He doesn't find mirth in that remark. "What happened?"
"I was leaving for the winery, but halfway through,"âyou cough, and Diluc's eyes grow wide, hand now rubbing circles into your shoulder, unable to contain the fear which claws at his faceâ"I got ambushed."
His expression darkens. "Who?"
You shake your head. "Don't know. But I'm fine, now!"
Tucking that knowledge away for later, Diluc finds it in himself to nod, to force a smile, though not reaching his lips, it comes easily to him whenever you're involved. And he grasps your hand within both of his once more, and he brings your knuckles to his mouth, and, across a thousand flames, across all the distance of which light must travel throughâa kiss.
Featherlight, yet his lips lingers there for longer than the action existed, serving as confirmation that the warmth he feels is yours. That the light remains inextinguishable, the colossal vitality whole, his soul complete.
Two.
There must always be two.
If it were up to him, Alhaitham would live a life of routine. The disruption of order results in the proliferation of problemsâconsequently, headaches for him to clean upâand, for the sake of his unbothered life, he'd prefer things to stay as they are.
This philosophy can also be applied to Alhaitham's perspective on socialization. With a life more comfortable than most, he has come to learn that being social is no necessity, and, in order to maintain his unbothered life, he would much rather keep the impression of him from others to be "unapproachable" and "difficult to get along with." Such titles work in his favor.
If it were up to him, Alhaitham would live a life of routine.
(The trick here is: "If it were up to him...")
With you on the loose, there is no such privilege as a routine. Alhaitham, your primary victim, feels this fact most tangibly in his frontal lobe, manifesting as a raging headache that he cannot get rid of. One day, you're dragging him along to check out some nonsensical weed you found, and the next, you're leaving stacks upon stacks of paperwork on his desk because you didn't follow protocol accordingly.
Still, he toils away at those papers (after downing a couple cups of coffee, and outsourcing half of the work to one of his assistants), and he makes no effort to swat your hand away whenever it encases his wrist. There is no use wondering why he lets you lead him astray; the answer is terribly obvious.
He likes you.
("So, why don't you tell them, then?!" Kaveh exclaimed, grabbing fistfuls of his own hair, damn near tearing it from his scalp as Alhaitham thumbs through the pages of his book, uncaring.
("They never asked."
("You're supposed to tell people that you like them! You can't be serious right now..."
("I think my actions are sufficient evidence," Alhaitham stated. Who else could keep him despite it not being working hours? Who else could drag him so carelessly, it feels as though he's some dog on a leash? Who else could talk his ears off, yet not once prompt him to reach for his soundproofing earpieces?
(Who else, if not you?
("Because they won't know unless you tell them!"
("Then, that's for them to discover later.")
Despite being renown for your novel discoveries, pioneering your field, leading lecture halls and developing new theoriesâyou have never once picked up on any of Alhaitham's favoritism towards you. While Alhaitham does acknowledge that book learning alone is not enough to cultivate intelligence, you're in a different category in itself. You're just oblivious. There's nothing he can do about that.
It's because of that fact that Alhaitham's turquoise eyes linger on the clock for longer than he usually doesâyou wouldn't know that he favors you over others, so you wouldn't know that he would wait for you despite being thirty minutes late to your appointment.
He doesn't rule out you forgetting that the two of you were supposed to meet; you've always had a bad habit of letting things slip your mind whenever you get lost in your own research. Your brightness serves as a double-edged sword in that regard. Still, Alhaitham thinks, tearing his gaze from the clock, opening his book, drifting across the lines. This is taking longer than usual.
Thirty more minutes, then.
The tavern is bustling with people, the cacophony unheard by his ears as he dons his earpieces. Every so often, Alhaitham glances up, attention fixated on the door, waiting for it to slide open and to reveal your figure. Nothing. He returns to his book. The cycle repeats a couple times over, but eventually, Alhaitham shuts his book, and he prepares to retire home for the day. You probably forgot.
Taking the last sip of his drink, Alhaitham rises from his seat, weaving in between the drunken bodies, the heads thrown back into laughter he cannot hear. Then, the door he's approaching swings open, a figure heaving for breath, hunched forward, as they loiter at the door. Alhaitham raises a brow at the sight.
"You're late," is all he says. You glance at him, still catching your breath, and your lips part to say something, but Alhaitham doesn't quite grasp at what you're talking about. The world is still silent, yet he observes you thoughtfully, eyeing you once, twice, thrice, before settling on your moving lips.
How troublesome. He shoves any thoughts he's having down his mind, and he lifts the soundproofing from his ears.
Still, your lips move, and he hears nothingâjust a quiet pop! from the action.
Why does he bother with you, again?
(Oh, that's right, he thinks. It's because he likes you, and you always slip in between the fingers of his philosophy, forcing through the order with chaos, prying him from solitude to listen to your rambles. You're troublesome. You're disorderly. This begs the next question: Why does he like you, again?)
You grin upon seeing his exasperated look, exclaiming, "I was saying nothing this whole time!"
(But then you grin that grin of yours, the curl meeting your eyes, head tilting, expression so utterly impressed with yourselfâand Alhaitham thinks that, really, there is no question at all. You've made a lover of him. Troublesome, disorderly, loud.
(And yet, he remains as he is. Yours.)
"How hilarious," he states, voice remaining completely neutral.
You laugh, and Alhaitham notices the way your brows furrow a little, the way your hand curls, raising slightly towards your abdomen before retracting. And you turn away from him, retreating into the tavern, trusting he'll follow without the need to look back for confirmation, and Alhaitham notices the awkward pace to your gait, the way you prefer one foot over the other, the way you wobble despite being sober.
He just blinks. There are no other tells in his expressionâa trait which he can attribute to your obliviousness regarding his favoritism towards youâbut, there is the way he matches your pace, the way his eyes linger over your form, tracing the familiar, settling on one spot upon much consideration, condensed into a couple seconds.
Your abdomen. Something happened.
Alhaitham is not one to flower his speech with rhetoric; speaking factually and simply has always been his preferred form of communication.
You sit down. He sits across from you. Before you can even order a drink, Alhaitham asks, "What happened?"
You spare him a guilty glance. "Nothing."
"You're hurt," he then states, leaving no room for argument. "Why?"
As if such an observation flipped a switch, your eyes begin to lose their focus, your fingers tightening around the edge of the table as if to stabilize yourself, head lolling forward slightly, stopped only by the quick jolt of your figure. You sit up straighter. You don't look him in the eye. You crack a nervous laugh. He is unfazed.
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"Are you saying I look ugly?"
"I'm saying that you're hurt."
Only you could ever make him repeat himself. But his patience can only run so far. Alhaitham damn near reaches for your shirt himself, ready to figure out whatever it is you're hiding, but before he can, your head lurches backwards completely, your hands parting from the table as you fall from your seat.
He stands, figure leaning over the table, arm outstretched to catch you, your eyes half-lidded as you stare at the hanging lights without any form of response to such a bright stimulus. With this, Alhaitham reaches your side, crouching to bring you closer to the ground, your back still supported by his arm as he peels your shirt from your abdomen.
Bandages. Blood. You've done a messy job at cleaning up, it seems, for the gauze is unraveling and the wound seems to pulsate underneath. Alhaitham does not wince at the sight, and his lips remain slotted into their line, but his eyes meet yours, darting to and fro, the movement quick and, laced in between the speed, is frenzy.
His mind is racing, possibly outpacing his heart, possibly affecting the curl of his fingers as they tighten around your arm. And he gathers your body into his arms and he leaves the tavern without a single moment of hesitation, rushing you to the hospital, forgetting all about the bill or the rumors which will spread unfavorably about him because of this. People may start saying that he's a kindhearted soul; people may say that he has a soft spot for you; people may consider him to be reliable.
He doesn't need these facts to be revealed to the public, to affect his prospects at a comfortable, unbothered life. But then again, Alhaitham wonders why he's even fathoming such an idea when it's you he loves. Troublesome, disorderly, loud.
The door to the hospital slams open upon his arrival, and he wastes no time getting you to the physicians, watching your body get carried behind doors he cannot enter. He remains standing for a while, before realizing that there are seats, and he finds his spot there. Waiting.
In order to deter people talking to him, he pulls out a book, and he puts on his earpieces. But he remains acutely aware of the door where he last saw you, waiting for it to slide open, to reveal your figure, whole, and that grin of yours which he believes to be akin to some sort of hypnosis spell.
Thirty minutes. An hour. Two hours. Alhaitham waits.
Then, the door slides open. He stands. The physician tells him the wound has been infected, and he just nods at that, thinking that, with the shabby bandages you had wrapped, it's no wonder why such an outcome would arrive. But that doesn't make him worry any less. No, if anything, it only makes him even more concerned.
"So, how are they?" he asks, wasting no time on pleasantries or answering the questions that the physicians have for himself.
"They're doing well now," a doctor explains, "but, we will be prescribing them some medication. It must be taken daily, for two weeks, before their first meal."
"I'll handle that," Alhaitham states, hand outstretched, receiving the pill bottle. He doesn't think you'll remember your own schedule. He also thinks that this sort of incident should be avoided from now on; and so, the only logical decision is for him to monitor your intake on your behalf.
A couple moments later, you're discharged, and Alhaitham walks you home. His pace is considerably slower, his earpieces unworn, his hand supporting your waist as you watch your steps.
"Why did you try to hide your wounds?" he asks. Though you don't point it out, Alhaitham notices the slight widen of your eyesâyou must've felt the way his fingers curled tighter around your side at the question. He doesn't make any effort to do anything else with that fact. You'll figure it out eventually.
"I was late to our appointment," you reply, scratching the side of your face. "I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer."
Alhaitham exhales a noticeable breath. He'd wait for you long past working hours, into the depths of the night, in loud and bustling environments which he finds no pleasure inâthere's no need for you to do such reckless things.
Don't you know that you've already garnered his favor?
(Oh, that's right, he thinks again. You don't.)
"Is it that, or were you just desperate for a drink to ward the pain away?" he queries. You swat him with your hand. He doesn't budge at the action.
"Why're you speaking like I'm some alcoholic?!"
"I never said that,"âhe eyes you over thoughtfully, noticing the way you don't clutch at your abdomen, the way you don't wince upon swatting him awayâ"and, if you said it, that must mean you've thought it many times before."
"What?! That's not how it works!"
"It's called a Sreudian Flip."
"Ugh, enough with your big words!"
"If you think that's a big word, then I have some bad news for you once you graduate from elementary education."
You swat him again, hexxing him under your breath. Alhaitham, terribly unmoved and terribly terrible (in your words), bears the subtlest of smiles, the usual line of his lips morphed into a shape that, really, feels as though it belongs to you.
He'll figure out what happened later; for now, just this is enough.
All that a samurai needs is wine, song, and a blade.
Kazuha considers his life to be quite full in that regard. With a disposition dependent on movement, Kazuha considers himself to be quite whole while he's wandering. Meeting new people, seeing new horizonsâhis already-full world somehow makes space to become even larger, fitting more memories, remembering more names.
All that a samurai needs is wine, song, and a blade.
ButâKazuha looks at you, your gaze casted downwards, eyebrows furrowed as you weave blades of grass together, the intricacies forming a checkered pattern, the shape making a basketâwhat a samurai wants is different.
("We'll be making a pit stop at Liyue," Beidou announced a day earlier, gesturing towards the many crates, full of deliveries from Inazuma. "Prepare for a two-night stay!"
(The sailors, a majority of which hailing from Liyue, rejoiced. They celebrated so vehemently during the stillness of the night, that their singing voices accompanied the lap of the waves, water kissing the boat, Kazuha's legs dangling overboard as he tried to tune their peculiar melodies out. He could not.
("Must they always be so loud?" he muttered, not really for anyone to respond. But someone laughed. He looked over, surprised despite knowing you were already thereâyour presence is unmistakable, after allâand you pat his back, head tilted to the side.
("You mean to tell me that this isn't music to your ears?"
(Kazuha returned your smile with his own, its meaning adorned with a different tinge.
("Not quite."
(Your smile has always existed as the inevitableâlike the promise that the sun will return, like the promise that the wind will passâbut to him, it is not so simple. There are lots of things to smile about in this world. When Kazuha looks at you, though, it feels as if all he needed was one.
(Joining him by the ledge, you leaned forward, gazing upon the sea. Kazuha admired the ocean through your irises, wondering what you sawâhe thought it to be quite poetic, seeing beauty admire beauty.
("You won't hear their voices anywhere else," you remarked, wind tousling your clothes. You never once tore your gaze from the water. Kazuha never once tore his gaze from you.
("Perhaps that is for the better?" he suggested. You laughed again. That sound stayed with him for much longer than it did in the air.)
"Do you have any plans in Liyue Harbor, Kazuha?" you ask, setting your grass basket down, sparing him a quick glance before your gaze settles itself onto your handiwork once more.
"Not much," he responds. "And you?"
You beam. "I'm so glad you asked. I'm going to go make some kites, and get some materials for some more grass baskets!"
Kazuha nods along, the image of you harvesting blades of grass tugging at his lips a little, the subtlest of smiles sweeping across his expression.
"Mind if I join you?"
"Not at all!"
Perhaps there'll be a nice, sunny rock for him to nap on after picking some grass. It's been a while since he last got an afternoon break in; traveling via ship has no lack of maintenance, after all.
Upon arriving at Liyue Harbor, and anchoring The Crux, deboarding various sailors and cargo as you and Kazuha slip in between the masses, escaping the dock swiftly, your gaze fixated towards the market.
In Liyue, Kazuha thinks you shine gold.
It's in the warm lights which illuminate your skin, the crinkle of your eyes when you recognize the kites you've been dreaming of, the slight curl of your fists as you weave through the crowds, chatting to the vendor as if you've known them your whole life.
Warm.
You tell Kazuha you'll be here for a while, and he nods, letting you know that he'll do a round of the marketplace before returning to you. Without giving him a chance to wave goodbye, you return to haggling with the vendor, pointing at various fabrics, asking about their material and their advantages.
Warm.
Kazuha spares one last glance at you before turning away, glancing to and fro, observing the lanterns above and the reinvention of Liyue Harbor in preparation for a festival. It's quite pretty, he thinks. It's nice being here with you.
While admiring some jades, he notices a faint ripple in the wind, its gentle breeze more akin to a gust as it wisps past his face, the ferocity unusual. Head tilted towards the sky, Kazuha mulls over his thoughts, departing from the ore vendor and returning to where he last saw you, with all the kites, face adorned by that grin of yours, eyes blown wide as if set ablaze.
He emerges from the crowd. Nothing. The kite vendor is gone, and so are you. His brows furrow a little, but the pace of his gait remains steady, sifting through the many people as he searches for a trace of your light, existence tangible in bursts of radiance.
The wind races past him again; if he wasn't nervous before, Kazuha feels it beginning to creep on him now. It's in the chill which follows the breeze, the goosebumps which ripple throughout his skin following the wind's kiss across the length of his arm. He feels the familiar hilt of his blade under his hand despite not holding anything at all.
Where are you?
Kazuha's senses are keenly attuned to this world. He can hear the giggles of children, the rustle of the trees, the shouts of vendors as they advertise their goods. He can hear the quickened footsteps, the hushed murmurs, the frantic gasps followed by a pulsating light. He follows it, the brilliance, and it takes him out of the Harbor, where rolling fields of grass overlook the sea and where the indents of footsteps can be discerned from the dirt.
It's getting warmer.
Then, the clash of blades. Kazuha draws his sword and he runs. The wind channeling into his feet, giving him a burst of speed, he follows the line of light until he can make out a familiar figure, weapon in hand, cornered and in front of two civilians as they cower from a Stonehide Lawachurl, its enormity unfathomable, forcing him to crane his head upwards as it hurls its arm back.
Kazuha knows you to be a formidable fighter; the two of you have crossed blades a handful of times, your prowess unmistakable whenever the duel draws to its zenith. But he also knows you to be terribly selfless. It's a trait that he finds serves your radiance well, drawing moths to a flameâbut, there will always be a burn.
Always.
The warmth is no different from heat, after all.
He's too late. The wind can only get him so far; the swing of the Lawachurl's hand slams forth, and you shoulder the impact with your Vision, channeling energy into your weapon, your body a shield in front of the two civilians, sight devoured by the Lawachurl's body.
He can't make out your face, but he can hear your breaths, the rhythmic tempo of the wind, channeling your heartbeat to his own. You're alive. You survived the worst of it.
He rushes forth, wind drawn into his blade, and he pierces the monster's back, taking its attention for himself. In between the roars and the emergence of rocks from the ground, Kazuha's eyes find yours, those minute seconds serving as enough for him to continue onwards. You're alive. He's late, but he made it. You're alive.
Warm.
The feeling eats away at him while he's fighting, dulling his senses as his mind is preoccupied with that haunting image of your face, brows furrowed, jaw clenched, free hand clutching onto your side as you hunch forwardâhe should've left earlier. If he had been a couple seconds faster, if he had listened to the wind just moments before, if he had kept an eye on you and not lost himself in the beauties which only pale in comparison to your own, this could've all been avoided.
But Kazuha no longer wants to be the type who dwells on what's already done; journeying with The Crux has taught him to keep moving forward, to wear his experiences but not to let them weigh him down. And so, he fights.
The scent of your blood, the sound of your voice as you usher the civilizans away, the uneven rhythm to your stepsâKazuha recognizes it all. With the final pierce of his blade through the Lawachurl's heart, its Geo shield long gone, it dissipates, leaving nothing but a couple of masks and bones, his breaths haggard as he glances in the direction of the light.
You're there. The civilians are gone, but you're not.
He withdraws his blade, racing towards you, crossing the expanse of the field, the distance of what feels like a thousand years shortened to but a few seconds. His hand reaches for your face, as if to confirm your existence. Then, he glances towards your abdomen, brows furrowed, eyes narrowing as he examines the wound, the iron sting in the air, the crimson which seeps through your clothes.
"We need to get you to a doctor," he mutters, removing his scarf, tying it around your side. "Can you walk? How do you feel?"
The wind shifts, as if to convey the extent of his worry. Kazuha has often been described to be rather mellow in terms of whatever life throws his wayâbut when it threw you, a star, what else can he do but to wish upon it? To catch it, to grasp at the light which emanates from his palm? To feel its warmth, the colossal heat, the reminder of vitality which extends far beyond himself, beyond the world!
"I'm fine. We need to get the others back to the hospital, first." you respond. He blinks, almost in disbelief that you'd lie so blatantly, but also, acceptance. Frankly, he expected that sort of response from you.
"Why don't we all go together?" he suggests.
You nod. "What a genius idea."
He finds it in himself to laugh a little, the sound relieved, settling over the ferocious rampage of his heart as it threatens to burst from its cage of ribs. The image haunts him still; he scent of blood is so terribly potent. But you're here. He dips his head, swinging your arm over his shoulders, his hand wrapping around your waist as he ushers you towards the Harbor, the sound of your breaths overshadowing the beat of his own life.
Warm. His gloved fingers curl, letting the heat seep into his gloves, the vitality aflame.
(The sun has set, the bustling Harbor quieting into a gentle lull.
("Kazuha?" Beidou calls, a hand on her hip as she observes him thoughtfully, patting him aggressively on the back after her examination is complete. "What're you doing here?"
(Kazuha wrinkles his nose a little, the scent of alcohol overpowering his senses. Just how much did she have to drink?
("I'm waiting for [Name]," he replies, his back leaning against the walls of the hospital, arms crossed as he stands guard over the entrance. Beidou likens him to a bouncer. He doesn't deny the comparison.
("Did something happen to them?" Beidou asks, eye growing wide. She doesn't miss the slight curl of his fingers at the thought. Still, his voice remains steady as he speaks.
("They were attacked on the outskirts of the Harbor," he explains, quietly, as though speaking loudly would accrue bad luck. "They're fine now, though. The physicians are tending to their wounds."
("Must be rough, huh," Beidou remarks, her contorted expression dissipating upon hearing that you're doing fine now. "I hope you're not taking it too badly though, Kazuha. I know you have a habit of bearing burdens. Let it go, yeah?"
(Kazuha nods, but the sentiment is easier said than done. The thought nags at him, the wretched idea of being just a second earlier, the decision he made to survey the marketplace instead of staying by your sideâlots of things could've turned out differently. But he did what he did; he can't go back. All he can do is look forward.
("It must be rougher though, knowing that it involves [Name]," Beidou says, chuckling a little. "Young love, huh?"
(Kazuha's gaze parts from the captain to stare upon the sea. Its rolling waves, the glow of the moon, the scent of salt, the absence of seagulls. He smiles a little, the haunting now replaced with that of irrevocable radiance.
(He doesn't respond, but nature speaks on his behalf. The tide ebbs and flows, the lanterns flicker on, and warmth returns to the Harbor with the slide of the hospital door, your figure stumbling through. Kazuha turns to you, Beidou too, and you smile, the mirth anew.
("Sorry, did you wait long?" you ask. Beidou laughs, saying she just got here, but that she'll give you two some space. Kazuha shakes his head.
("You're just in time," he replies, hand outstretched, receiving yours, interlacing, the crevices in between your fingers just large enough to fit hisânature's thoughtful intention, he surmises.)
warnings: reader is an elemental being & immortal in neuvillette's, not proofread (except for wanderer's pt, THANK YOU @melodead !!!), graphic depictions of violence & blood, use of "[name]", established relationship in wriothesley's pt. & physical touch (kissing)
notes: I may have went a little crazy on kinichs part
You've always liked being niche. Keeping yourself on the down-low, making moves in silence, things of that natureâand, not to stroke your own ego, but you've always considered yourself to be the best at that sort of thing. You're kind of a big deal.
(You'd have monopolized the whole freelancer market if it weren't for Kinich being such a sick freak, and actually being competent at his jobâwhat gives? Because of him, you can't rely on the bare minimum anymore!)
That's why, after completing a crazy commission (which was, for the record, way above the threshold of whatever your client said it'd be!), you find yourself skipping the idea of treatment and heading straight home.
You need a nap more than some bandages, anyway.
"It's just some treasure hoarders, they said," you mutter under your breath, hexxing your client. "Clear them, and retrieve some goods, they said..."
Why is it that you encountered every single creature known to Celestia, if that were the case? Why did you run into Fatui, rogue Saurians, and abyssal manifestations, then?! Your client needs to get blacklisted from ever making a request ever again!
On the way home, you pass by various street vendors, hand raised to wave instinctively despite not really knowing who exactly it is you're talking to. All of their faces coalesce into one big mesh, and you can't make out anything except the shape of your own hand, raisedâbut did you always have twenty fingers? And were people always so loud when greeting you? You know you're a hit, but you really don't remember being the subject of screams upon arriving in your hometown, andâ
Your head hurts like shit.
Oh, you then think to yourself, staring at the sky, all twenty of your fingers no longer in view. I think I fell.
You've always liked testing your limits. Throwing yourself into situations without much assessment, accepting clients without realizing the weight of their words until you feel it burdening your shouldersâKinich has always thought you to be careless in that regard.
"WOAH! Is that... Your pal-who's-not-actually-your-pal?!" Ajaw exclaims, dancing around, a little too overjoyed at the sight he's seeing. Kinich ignores him with the swat of his hand, too focused on examining the jeweller's stock, gold and silver dangling from his fingertips, woven in between the crevices of his hand.
Jewelry is a luxury which neither fills his stomach nor satiates his thirst. With that, Kinich has never once paid such adornments any attention, opting to spend most of his time bargaining for necessities such as clothing or shoes.
But, in order to obtain what he wants, Kinich is willing to pay any price.
("Those anklets are so pretty!" you exclaim, tugging Kinich in the direction of the jeweller, pointing at some measly looking chains.
("Those are bracelets," he says.
("They are anklets," you retort.
("These are bracelets," the jeweller chimes in, unable to condone you spreading misinformation any longer. You clench your fist, scrunching your eyes as if to force a tear from its ducts, ignoring the incredulous look of the vendor and the neutral expression which settles onto Kinich's face, completely unmoved by your performance.
("I was going to buy them if they were anklets," you mutter, "but, with the way things are looking..."
("They're actually anklets!" the jeweller interrupts, pointing towards the selection with newfound vigor, a smile contorting at their lips. You beam. Preparing your wallet, you begin counting your change, merrily thumbing through the coins as the jeweller watches the sight in utter delight.
(Before you can cough up all your worth, however, a gloved hand curls around your wrist, firm yet loose, dragging you in the opposite direction. The jeweller damn near falls to their knees. You make no effort to fight your fate.
("You know what," you say, "I didn't even want those anklets anyway!"
(Kinich doesn't respond. But his hand maneuvers from your wrist to your fingers, fabric clasping over the knuckles, bringing you closer towards him with the slight tug of his arm.
("And you know what," you add, "I bet you're just jealous, 'cause they really were anklets!"
("Those were bracelets," he states.
("The jeweller said they were anklets."
("They only said that after you mentioned buying them."
("Okay, and?"
(No response. Seems like it's your perfect victory, then!)
"Good, good, very good!" Ajaw laughs maniacally. "If they die, then you'll have no reason to live, Kinich! And your body will become MINE! Hahahaha!"
Kinich doesn't even bother responding. Placing the strands of gold and silver back onto the vendor's table, he turns around, groceries and hunting gear in his other hand, ready to begin the trek home. But then he's met with the sight of a forming crowd, a cacophony of yells and murmurs, a familiar name dancing throughout the air.
(For what he wantsâ)
Kinich knows fear.
He has felt its jaws, the hinge of its throat, the flesh of its esophagus. Kinich knows fear. Heart swelling, muscles too tight to handle all the blood, constrictingâlike the curl of a hand, like the feeling of interlaced fingers with a squeezeâand, he knows the scent of blood, he knows the lidded eyes of a dead body, he knows the limp of a corpse, the feeling of dragging it through dirt.
Kinich knows fear. When it came to his own life or the lives of others, fear is something that Natlan witnessed, that he has worn a mask towards, scrunching his face, closing his eyes, skewing his expressionsâwarding away tears are easy. Warding away hauntings are not.
(Of the thousand words that leave Ajaw's wretched mouth, only a handful are of substance, and even less are actually correct in totality. Of the thousand words that leave Ajaw's wretched mouth, only a handful are able to strike Kinichâit's in the slight furrow of his brows, the forceful exhale of air through his nose, the curl and uncurl of a hand.
("How embarrassing! To see my lowly servant struggle in the face of someone less powerful than the Almighty Dragonlord K'uhul Ajaw himself! You should be ashamed. Ashamed, I say!"
(These moments of low-tolerance are often dealt with as simply as trapping Ajaw in a wooden crate. But the words remain with him still; oftentimes, for longer than they deserve to be.
(It's not so simple as having a single reason for livingâKinich has many reasons for that, you see. He must live so Ajaw cannot run rampant with his body, he must live because the nature of life is to march forward, he must live because the Turnfire has taught him that the past's fuel serves to fuel the present's flameâand, most of all, he must live because this is a world with you in it.
(There are many reasons to live. There are many things he wants.)
He opens his eyes. Pushing past the barrage of people, weaving through the many frantic hands and the disgruntled yells, he emerges. And his all-too wide eyes meet a figure, splayed on the ground, blood pooling from their head, its direction craned towards the side.
Kinich drops his bags and he runs.
Fear. Chest heaving; hands becoming clammy in his gloves; chartreuse eyes darting to and fro; arm trembling. Fear. Kinich feels its teeth thumb at his heart as he crouches down at your figure, ripping his glove off with the grit of his teeth, bare hand reaching to check your pulse.
Th-thump. It's there. But fear doesn't escape him just yetânot like this. Kinich's movements are frantic, free hand applying pressure to the back of your head, chartreuse eyes browning as a result of all the red, seeping past the cloth, dripping down his pale fingers.
"Call a doctor," he manages to say to a nearby bystander, his voice uncharacteristically hurried, expression betraying the enormity of fear's fangs, biting into his heart, seizing its contractions. He then looks down at you, the blood nauseating, its volume larger than life.
"[Name]," he calls, free hand reaching to wipe at your sweat, to ease the furrow of your brows as he feels the blood stain the length of his arm, forcing him to swap out the cloth.
"[Name]." He says your name just to say it, to feel the sensation on his tongue, to hear it resounding throughout the air, to put more of your existence into this world. "[Name]." He follows after your form as you're moved to a stretcher, rushed to the nearest infirmary, disappearing behind the doors of the operating room.
"Kinich," someone calls. "Kinich, don't you want to wash off all the blood?"
He looks down for a moment, surveying the crimson expanse of his fingers, the way the stains trickle down his arm.
"Later," he mutters, uncaring as hushed murmurs begin to swam around him, the screeching cries of Ajaw from his nearby box prison.
And so he remained.
You wake up in a sterile room. Your head hurts like shit, and you feel an ache all throughout your limbs. A doctor hovers over your face, waving their fingers at you, lips parting as voices seem to coalesce into one big noise. You squint. The doctor shakes their head, before disappearing from your view, seemingly converging with other physicians.
Then, another figure emerges. Green. It's Kinich. He looks at you with an expression you haven't seen him wear in a whileâhis brows are furrowed to the point of wrinkling the bridge of his nose, his lips pursed, his eyes narrowed. He stares at you, gaze tracing all over your figure, spending most of their time on the top of your head, where the pain reverbrates the most.
Your lips part to speak, but the only thing that manages to escape is a hoarse cough. Kinich's eyes grow wide, and, though his words are incomprehensible still, you can tell that the pace of his tone is quick, rushed, stumbling over itself. You've never seen him so frantic before. You wish you had a Kamera on you so you could capture this moment and use it as blackmail in case he takes a mission you like in the future.
He disappears from your view, returning with a glass of water. Gently, his hand guides you to sit up against a fluffed pillow, tilting the glass to your lips, allowing you to drink.
Swallowing, you then say, "You look rough."
Kinich places the glass down, his head tilted as he crosses his arms, clearly not in the mood for your extravagant humor.
"Youâ" he starts, tone clipped, silence with his own interruption as he looks away, expression conflicted. "I was worried."
You manage a grin. "Just worried?"
He looks at you with neither incredulity nor exasperation, just acceptance, as if he had anticipated your response long before he had even uttered any words.
"I was terrified," he states simply. But, ever the rational thinker, he pivots into a line of questioning, desperate to seek answers. "What caused your injury?"
"While I was out on this highly confidential mission, I noticed a young kid who needed my help. But, as I was about to reach them, a ginormous creature appeaered, and I shoved them out of the way so I could save them, but ended upâ"
"[Name]," Kinich says, the tone adorning the words much softer than when fear had overtaken his thoughts. "[Name], I'm not joking."
You look away.
"I, uh, ran into some trouble."
He raises a brow. "Trouble?"
"My client told me that it'd only be treasure hoarders, so I just went in with that thought," you explain, shrinking under Kinich's piercing gaze, the enormity of his presence as you feel yourself losing aura with every word escaping your lips. "And, well, there were more than just treasure hoarders."
He approaches your bedside, entering your eyes with the crouch of his figure, the upward crane of his head as he chases after your line of vision, settling himself by raising a hand to crane your gaze towards him, palm against your jaw.
"Then, what was there?"
"A couple scallywags?"
"[Name]."
"Fatui, and rogue Saurians, andâ"
Kinich stands up, expression returning to utter neutralityâbut it's disingeuine. Lips drawn into a thin line, Kinich's voice comes out as clipped as he says, so simply, yet so icily, "What was their name?"
You suppose it's time to kiss that client's life goodbye.
Upon learning their name, Kinich sets off with the shift of his figure, the curl of his fists, gloved fingers digging into his palm as he tells you, "Sleep early tonight. Don't worry about that commission."
"Are you going to reap my earnings?!" you exclaim, pointing at him accusingly despite his back being turned towards you. All-knowing, however, Kinich looks over his shoulder, the hints of a smile tugging at his lips.
"Yeah," he states. "You could say that."
"Kinich! You, youâcheater!"
"Don't stay up too late," he says again, the door closing behind him with a gentle thud!, his gaze fixated ahead as fear reinvents itself into fury. Kinich, ever levelheaded, often finds himself forcing rationality down the throat of impulsitivity. It's better to be methodical than to mess up; but there are exceptions to every rule.
Everything comes at a price.
And for your client, there will be a lot to collect.
("Are you seriously going to make your own jewelry?! UGH, why don't you go throw yourself into a camp of hilichurls so I can take over your body faster! This is so lame! So inexcusable!" Ajaw yells, flipping back and forth, head a ferocious shade of red.
(Kinich, ever the unfazed host, continues molding the chains of silver and gold, clasping them together by the latches, the shape revealing a circle large enough to fit an ankle; or a wrist. Whatever it is you decide, it will be just that.)
It is undeniable that Neuvillette takes much pride in his work, and, by extension, the endeavors of Fontaine's people.
To be able to witness humanity, with all of their joy and sorrow, all of their dreams and achievementsâNeuvillette believes these to be the most fulfilling aspects of his duty, the growth, the cascading water, the unshakeable spirit. Neuvillette, ever content with his position, thus finds work more as a fruitful pursuit than an arduous task. That is what allows him to carry forth as Chief Justice, and, most recently, a ruler.
But it would be dishonest to say that his mind doesn't find itself adrift, tunneling through the rivers of time, returning to the ocean, where it all began. Before there was a court of law, before there was a duty, before there was a decision to protect this land, there was you. And there was him. And there was, ever so peacefully, two.
Two was nice. Neuvillette looks back on that time fondly; back when the two of you, at the time, new creatures on this earth, explored its depths together. Though he could never afford to travel as far as you (for crossing the desert was damn near a death sentence for someone like him), he caught up with you whenever he could, boundless.
And when he did, you would turn to him, smiling that smile of yours. It was the kind of smile that made Neuvillette liken you to a wondrous thing, possibly beyond him, beyond this atmosphere, beyond this world as he knew it. He did not know much at the time, for he had no memories, nor meaningâbut he knew one thing, and it was the simple fact that you were ethereal.
And you, ever the effervescent, ethereal spirit, could not be contained by a single land. Upon his advancement to Fontaine's Chief Justice, he saw you off at the land's border, where the water met the sand, and he stared.
You smiled at him with that smile of yours, and, as quickly as you came into his life, astonishing it with all that radiant fervor, you left. Though your visits to Fontaine were sparse, you always found your way back to the ocean, from whichever stream or channel you were in.
And Neuvillette, ever the loyal, anticipatory spirit, waited. He waited for reunion, to see that smile enrapture your face, its enormity enough to part clouds, to make even the radiance of a still lake pale in comparison. You would notify him of your visit by a simple letter, often enscribed with nothing more than a, "See you soon!" and a stamp for good luck.
But that was enough for him. The Melusines, long familiar with your presence, would deliver your letters the moment they arrived, expediting them to his office, ensuring he'd see them as quickly as possible. Neuvillette appreciated this fact; he also learned that, whenever your letters did show up, the Melusines would prepare for sunny days ahead.
This time, however, it's different.
Fontaine has been experiencing torrential downpour for the past week.
"Is Monsieur Neuvillette alright...?" Trow asks, her eyes turned downwards, her expression distressed.
"Mx. [Name]'s letter arrived last week," Sedene explains, "but they haven't showed up."
Neuvillette, ever the loyal, anticipatory spirit, waited. He waited for a week after your letter arrived, making space in his office, staring at the clock, your favorite pastries lining his desk. But they remained uneaten. And he remained as he was: waiting.
Although your letters are sparse, you've never been the type to disappear without reasonable explanation, or a notice in advance. Oftentimes, if you were unable to make it to Fontaine, you'd send a follow-up letter, detailing a new return date, or a new destination which caught your eye. More than that, however, was the fact that Neuvillette could not find you, with all the water which governs this world. Your presence, your emotions, your ethereal spiritâit was nowhere to be found.
And so began the rain.
But then, there are voices, and a striking ruckus, and a barrage of footsteps, from Melusines and humans alikeâand the door to his office is knocked on frantically, and Neuvillette rises to meet the handle, to peel the hinge apart, facing Trow, whose breaths are ragged as she huffs and puffs for a moment before straightening up.
"Monsieur Neuvillette, we found Mx. [Name]!"
"Found?" Neuvillette echoes, unable to contain the way his thistle eyes grow wide, the way his gloved hand tightens around the door's handle, the way the rain outside seems to still, the stir contorting into fear. "Please, Miss Trow, what do you mean by that?"
"They were at the border, on Sumeru's side, and one of the boats had caught a glimpse of a figure, collapsed on the desert, and so we investigated, and it was Mx. [Name]!"
The desert.
Neuvillette considers that wretched place to be the equivalent of an assassination. But you, the ever wandering spirit, cannot be contained by the barrage of the elements, the limitations of where he's unable to bear. And so, he's seen you off there, time and time again, with no regard nor doubt for your wellbeing as you have always returned. As you always continue to return. As you, are, after all, not bound by anyone or anythingâyou exist unanchored, unabashed, unshackled.
"I see," he mutters, his voice steady. But there's a certain tinge to his words, the quietness of his volume, the cascade of rain as it slams against the Court's walls, weighed by fear. "Miss Trow, if it isn't too much trouble, are you aware of their condition? Is it critical? I will have the physicians summoned immediately, alongsidâ"
"Neuvillette!"
His head whips in the direction of the sound, his eyes wide as he's greeted with the sight of the traveler and her floating companion. On her back, is a familiar figureâeffervescent, ethereal, sublime. You.
He steps forward with as much composure as a creature so ardently in love can be expected to muster. And he reaches a hand out, almost instinctively, before retracting, never once forfeiting decorum, clearing his throat as he says, terribly restrained, "Miss Lumine, Miss Paimon. Forgive me for my impudence, and for showing you such an unsightly reunion. Thank you for coming all the way here, and for bringing Mx. [Name]. Although I cannot explain everything at the moment, please believe me when I say you have my utmost gratitude."
"It's no problem!" Paimon exclaims, waving her hands frantically. "But, uh, Paimon doesn't think that's the issue right now. We found [Name] while we were at the harbor, and their condition is unlike anything Paimon has ever seen before! Right, Traveler?"
Lumine nods. Neuvillette is quick to beckon her towards the couch, her movements under a watchful eye as she rests you onto the cushion, your breaths labored as your body is marred with scars that look as though they're formed from fragments of wind. The rain seems to grow even heavier at the sight.
"Do you know what could've caused this, Neuvillette?" Paimon asks, tilting her head slightly, eyes growing wide as Neuvillette kneels forward, hand outstretched to thumb at the side of your face, a breath seeming to escape him when you wince at the touch.
As elemental beings, Neuvillette understands you in ways that those far-removed from the bygone era of dragons couldn't.
"It seems as though they were wounded by pure elemental energy," Neuvillette explains, his movements lithe as he surveys the extent of your injuries, noticing the most significant gash of wind by your abdomen, seeping through the slice of your clothes, dripping with what looks to be faint breezes, coming out as gusts.
"Miss Trow, Miss Paimon, Miss Lumine," Neuvillette addresses each of the witnesses in his office with utmost sincerity, as calmly as he can afford, "if you'll allow us a moment of privacy, that would be much appreciated. I apologize for my lack of explanation, however, I believe that I must make haste. Though, please rest assured, I will answer any questions you have after the worst of this storm comes to pass."
"Of course, Monsieur Neuvillette!" Trow exclaims, rushing out of his office, dragging Lumine and Paimon alongside her. Appreciative, Neuvillette dips his head towards the closing door, returning to his spot by your side, the side of your face digging into the cushions, your expression contorted.
Neuvillette removes the gloves from his hands, fingers tracing over each of your wounds, the life of water bursting forth as its purity sweeps over the gusts of wind, sealing your wounds with the kiss of the sea.
And, for your furrowed brow, he reaches his thumb, bare, over the ridge of the bone, smoothing it over, watching as your countenance shifts, your fingers uncurling, your breaths steadying.
Neuvillette is not bound by this world's idea of fate. Still, there is a place for him in the stars of this sky, its reflection bearing his face, and, alongside it, the spirit of the wind. Boundless; unabashed; reckless. You.
Neuvillette is not bound by this world's idea of fate.
But, he wouldn't mind if subscribing to such an idea entailed that, by association, he would also be bound to you, a creature of similar origins to himself. An elemental. An anomaly in the eyes of this present ruler's idea of life.
"[Name]," Neuvillette says, voice barely above a whisper, hand raising to cover your eyes as you blink awake, shielding you from the brightness of his office lights, hovering just far enough above your face so you can turn and see him, the beholder, and yourself, the beheld.
You smile, albeit weakly, that smile of yours. And your lips part, and the sun manages to slip through the thunderous downpour, the weep of the sky, as, for the first time in what feels like a millennium, he hears the sound of his first name, returned to him. For all the rivers, the streams, the channels in this worldâthey must reunite with the sea.
"I made it here," you remark, staring at him still, your eyes wide, smile morphing into that of a toothy grin, daring. "I didn't think I'd manage."
"You must refrain from saying things like that," Neuvillette mutters, hand thumbing at the side of your face, tracing over the bone of your cheek, the flesh of your skin. Reunion.
"Still a scaredy cat?" you ask. "I'd have thought that your new appointment as Fontaine's ruler would've allowed you to overcome a few fears. The desert, for example."
Neuvillette smiles. "You speak lightly of what would be considered substantial grounds for an assassination attempt."
"Oh, no," you say, completely monotone. "The horror! Please, put me on trial then. You're good at that, right?"
He leans forward, hand dipping to cover your eyes completely, shielding your gaze from his own as he mutters, "You know very well I am unable to do that myself. I would have to appoint someone else to oversee the trial, andâ"
"Oh my Hydro Dragon," you interrupt, hand raised to peel his own palm from your face, staring at him with an incredulous look. "I was joking! Joking!"
Neuvillette blinks, ignoring how you've just used his title so loosely. "And I was not?"
You stare at him, dumbfounded.
"Woah, woah, woah. There can only be one funny person in this Court. And that's me."
"Such a title is all yours."
"Good. Know your place, young man! And also, where are my macarons?!"
"They are here."
"Nice!"
Reunion.
"What's up, Hat Guy!"
"Don't call me that," Wanderer snaps, swatting your hand away. You laugh. He grimaces. That ridiculous nameâyou ought to stop saying it with your damned lips.
"Want to see my new invention?" you exclaim, ignoring his remark, wiggling your fingers in a peculiar way, weight shifting from one foot to another as you practically parade around his desk, making a mess of his studies and disrupting the stillness of the library. He wrinkles his nose, brows furrowing as he watches you make a fool out of yourself. You need to leave.
"No."
"As if I care about your answer! Onwards, Hat Guy!"
You grab him by the wrist, tugging him from his seat, oblivious to the frayed threads of his soul, entangled with yours, its knot manifesting red, tied from your pinky to his. You drag him along, his existence reinvented anew, the strings which his creator once contorted now belonging to you. Red; pinkies; hands.
A clenched fist is the same size as a heart.
To think you puppet each of his artificial limbs, to think the squeeze of your fist acts as a contraction for his heartless chestâto think that, despite it all, you are unaware of this very truth: the fact that you shake up his entire world with the curl of your fingers, not once realizing that it was in your grasp to begin with.
How very foolish.
"Prepare to be blown away!" you exclaim. "It's called the Ultra-Mega-Zap-Boominator! With this, I'll be able to stake claim as one of the most influential graduates in the Akademiya, ever!"
"What a pretentious name," he spits, making no effort to break from your grasp.
(Wanderer, ever the prisoner to this world's sickening idea of fate, has long threatened to burst from its seams, to free himself from the chains, to forfeit all notions of a destiny that has never sought his own salvation. He loathes containment; he'd rather erase himself a couple times over than to bear the disgusting brand of divinity again; butâ
(But he looks at youâoh, he looks at youâand, he thinks that, most laughably, this is enough.
(And, if he had to be assigned meaning, if fate truly gazed upon this world with its all-encompassing cruelty, giving reason to all unfortunate creatures it saw, Wanderer thinks it might be this. It might be you. It might be this ludicrous school and this hand, curled around his. Your skin radiates heat, permeating into his artificial fibers, bestowing upon him the touch of humanity, the wretched idea that there is more for him in this world.
(Red; pinkies; hands. A clenched fist, chaining his own.
(The size of a heart.)
"Pretentious?" you echo, glancing over your shoulder, brows furrowed as you wear the face of offense. "I'll have you know that this title does only a part of it justice. This is my magnum opus, Hat Guy!"
Wanderer scoffs.
"Don't call me that."
How very you.
You take him to a suspicious, rundown place, far removed from the Akademiya. And, amidst the rubble, is a machine, creaking and jingling, its noises particularly disturbing as it runs on what looks to be some oil and a dream. Wanderer grimaces at the sight; you flash him a toothy grin, your hand parting from his to rest on your waist.
"So? Amazed?"
"This thing looks terrible."
"It's called the Ultra-Mega-Zap-Boominator."
"I'm leaving." Wanderer turns around, no longer bound by a fist nor a heart. He can't believe you strung him all the way out here just to show him a piece of garbage. You surely do have a lot of free time on your hands, considering that you're designing a whole lot of bullshit with the budget that the Kshahrewar Darshan gave you.
You should be ashamed of yourself. The whole school should be ashamed of itself, considering it let you in. As a matter of fact, the entirety of Sumeru should be ashamed that, with all its emphasis on wisdom, it let someone like you get a hold of a substantial sum of Mora. How embarrassing.
"Wait, you haven't even seen it in action! Check it out!"
Wanderer doesn't dare to look back. He's going to see a whole lot of nothing, he bets. And he doesn't have time to entertain your stupid machineâreally, after his brief stint a while back, he's had quite enough of machinesâbut, he supposes it's farcical for him to believe that he has a choice.
Fate has its way with things like that: giving prisoners the delusion that they are in control, that these choices are theirs, that life, really, is just full of coincidences that add up over time. Across a hundred years, across millennia. He looks back.
The mouth of the Ultra-Mega-Zap-Boominator hinges open like a door, its jaws made of metal as it looms over your figure, the screeching sound of grinding steel pelting at his ears as you tilt your head, laughing maniacally.
"Aren't I a genius?!"
"Move, you imbecile!" Wind channeling his movements, Wanderer rushes forward, hand outstretched, flying into the collage of metal and bullshit as it slams shut behind him, your figure encased in his arms, warmth emanating from your skin into his. He can feel your breaths against his neck, he can feel the frantic dart of your head as you look around, submerged in darkness, unaware of anything except for the fact that he's here.
Your hand wanders, reaching his hair, patting the top of his head as you seem to feel the need to confirm whether it's really him or not. Wanderer swats your fingers away, but it's too late. You turn towards him, unsure of where you're looking, except for the fact that you're facing his general vicinity.
"Are you just Guy now? Where's your hat?"
Wanderer should've let that stupid fucking machine devour you whole.
"You sure have a lot to say for someone whose invention sucks," he spits. But your figure is still pressed against his; and his arms are still curled around your existence, as if afraid it'll escape him; and, while he does not breathe, Wanderer feels the irrevocable crawl up his throat, forcing him to swallow it down, its magnitude colossal. Like the weight of a star, a collection of gases which alone weigh nothing, but together, are worth the world.
You.
"You would've been a goner if it weren't for me," he states, "and you still have the audacity to call me that ridiculous name. Have you no shame?"
You don't respond. Wanderer half-entertains the thought of him finally winning an argument against youâit's impossible to a battle of idiocy when faced with an idiot, after allâbut then, he feels something seep across his fingers, its heat even more palpable, blooming from the clothes on your back. He breathes in. Iron.
You're bleeding.
"Why didn't you say anything!?" he asks, his tone acerbic, his expression contorting violently in accordance to the redness which blossoms through his hands, staining the clear strings, knotted red, tied by pinkies. He gathers your body into his arms, the wind howling violently around your figures, light seeping in through the crevices of steel as he spears through the panels of your pathetic machine with a shear.
"Say what?" you mutter, voice muffled by the storming gusts. "Am Iâoh, shit, I'm bleeding! Hat Guy, make sure nobody plagiarizes my studies, and nobody takes ahold of the Ultra-Megaâ"
"Shut your mouth," Wanderer snaps, hands tightening around your form, hair dancing violently in the wind as he flies the two of you back to the Akademiya. "You're not going to die, and nobody in their right mind would want your studies."
"What about my Ultra-Mega-Zapâ"
"That thing should rot."
"How dare you say that about the Ultraâ"
He glares at you, cornflower eyes narrowed, brows furrowed as his lips draw into a thin line. He's in no mood to entertain your stupid jokes right nowâyour blood trails down the length of his arm, its warmth so utterly obscene, it makes him feel as though he wants to retch.
And your grinâyour idiotic, presumptuous grinâit doesn't meet your eyes. Half-lidded and dazed, he can feel your head loll back in his arms, your limbs going limp, your lips slightly parted.
"Don't you dare close your eyes," he spits. "Stay awake."
"Don't tell me what to do," you manage to reply, in between breaths, grasping onto your mortality with the flicker of your eyes, finding his.
Humans are terribly fragile. They perish in flames, they're so easily reduced to ashes, they're so easily wounded by metal, they bleed red. Wanderer has always loathed the bits of his humanityâit haunted him, like clothes against skin, like the inevitable return of sight after a blink, like the thought that, no matter where he goes or what he does, he shall always be reminded of fate.
He is too human to become an Archon and too artificial to become human. His heartless chest was carved just large enough to fit a Gnosis, its size too small to fit a fist.
And yet, crimson surges throughout his puppeteer strings. Red; pinkies; fists.
You will be fine. Wanderer will make sure of that.
He doesn't leave your side. Even when the doctors try to usher him away, and when you're wheeled to a separate facility, he follows. His rope leads to you, after all. And when you wake, he's there, arms crossed, head craned slightly downwards as he rests his eyes, back leaning stiffly as he sits.
The inevitable return of sight after a blink.
Wanderer hears you shift, the bed creaking, and his cornflower eyes widen, bearing into your soul, allowing you to return the gesture and peer into his own.
"You need to resign," is all he says.
"What?! How dare you talk to a patient like that! Why, I oughtaâ"
"Now that you're awake, I'm leaving," Wanderer interrupts. Without much regard for anything else, he turns around, the door slamming behind him as he saunters away, not even bothering to spare you any last glance.
"You...!"
He can hear your yells from the waiting room. How embarrassing.
"Oh, Hat Guy!" the receptionist exclaims. "Glad to see you're finally taking a break!"
(From the moment you were admitted into the hospital, not once has Wanderer left your side. He does not need sleep nor food for sustenance, after allâall of his time was spent sitting at your bedside, examining your pulse, checking once, twice, thrice, for whether or not it was still there.
(And it was.
(And that was enough.)
Wriothesley only has one major line of advice: Don't break the law.
It's a simple thing, really. Saves the people at Palais Mermonia the trouble of being in the same vicinity as a criminal, saves him some additional paperwork to look over, saves the offender the trouble of, well, committing the offense. There are lots of perks to remaining a law-abiding citizen.
Though, not everybody heeds his advice. If they did, there would be nobody working at the Fortress, after all.
"What will you do now, Your Grace!?" the offender says sardonically, unable to contain the laughter which slips past their lips, knife raised to your throat as they lock you within the crease of their elbow.
Wriothesley grimaces. It's difficult to remain neutral when his icy gaze capture the way your mouth hangs slightly agape, your eyes blown wide as your hands curl around the length of the offender's arm, the rise of your chest quickened, pupils darting to and fro as you struggle to contain your trembling limbs.
He doesn't don his gloves. Not yet. Your figure attached to the offender almost makes Wriothesley want to forfeit all notions of negotiationâbut violence exists as a countermeasure, a last resort when talks go south. He forces his gaze away from your own, feeling his heart crawl up his throat, the curl and forcible uncurl of his fists as he regards the perpetrator with as much neutrality as a man so devotedly in love and so devotedly adorned by fear can be expected to have.
"What is it that you want?" Wriothesley asks, tilting his head, his steps measured as he approaches the perpetrator.
At this, the offender moves backwards, blade pressing closer to your skin, spitting as they reply, "Get away!"
Wriothesley spares a quick glance at the metal, not wanting to draw attention to the subject of his worry. No blood. He looks back at the offender's eyes, thinking, with the most subtle of sighs, Good.
"A reduced sentence, then?" Wriothesley questions.
"As if! I want you to release my friend! They'reâ" While speaking, the knife draws into your skin, blood beginning to seep onto the blade, your expression contorting as you bite your lip, trying to conceal the pain while your knuckles pale around the offender's arm. Wriothesley grits his teeth at the sight, unable to contain the vehemency which flourishes all throughout his veins, fists curling with no restraint, nails digging into his palm.
All of his cards are revealed: the violent furrow of his brows, the downward curl of his lips, the wrinkle of the bridge of his nose as he scowls.
There is no negotiating now.
Wriothesley lurches forward, gloves manifesting instantaneously, fisted hand meeting the perpetrator's face and launching them back, their grip around you loosening. With his free arm, Wriothesley catches you, pulling you closer towards himself, attention turning towards your neck as he thumbs at the skin around the site, brows furrowed as he examines the depth of the wound.
You look at him, and his expression reinvents anew. Whole. He manages a smile, the gesture more for yourself than it is for him.
"Are you alright?" he asks, feigning ignorance to the roars of the criminal as they are apprehended by the Gardes.
"Yeah," you manage to say, in between the slight wince of your gaze as he brushes over the spot, his frown evident as your hands tremble involuntarily. Wriothesley clasps one of them with his own, interlacing his fingers, raising your knuckles up to his lips. A kiss. He smiles a little when you try to swat him away, embarrassed that he's being affectionate in public.
"Let's head over to Sigewinne," he remarks, not once letting you go. "And get you patched up, hm?"
You laugh. "What other option is there?"
Wriothesley grins. "Heading straight to the theater while bleeding out?"
The jester's quarters is usually shrouded in a heavy, suffocating silence, reserved for the grim reality of planning a war against the divine. The maps spread across his enormous oak desk are stained with the ink of fallen nations, and the air always carries the faint, ancient scent of ash and dried parchment.
But then there is you. And the soft, mechanical click of a kamera lens shifting into focus.
When you first asked him to buy you a kamera, he didn't think much of it; you always had a habit of staring at scenery for far too long, or of saying out loud how beautiful something in your line of sight was, so naturally he assumed a kamera request was to capture such sights. Pierro never thought that the real reason behind the request was simply to capture him.
Of course, you always took pictures of beautiful sights, but more often than not, when Pierro was around, the first thing he could hear was the soft click of your kamera towards him.
At first, it caught him off guard.
Click.
He was reading reports.
Click.
He was overlooking troop deployments across Snezhnaya.
Click.
He was quietly watching the snow fall beyond the palace windows.
Every time he heard that familiar shutter, he expected you to be photographing something behind him.
Instead...
The lens was always pointed directly at him.
...click
Pierro doesnât move immediately. He keeps his gaze fixed on a pile of documents, his gloved hand hovering inches over a document. A deep sigh comes out before he even looks up.Â
"Again...?" He asks before another sound invades the room.
...click
"...Is there something amusing about my paperwork?" Pierro's tone deceptively flat.Â
"Nope." you reply easily. Â
"...Then?". Â
"You look pretty... even when you're so focused like this."Â
"..."
Silence.
Not uncomfortable.
Merely thoughtful.
There was something in the way you said 'pretty' that awoke an amused feeling in Pierro; he never thought someone would use such word about him so matter-of-factly.
Maybe it was that amusement that made him allow you to take pictures of him in the first place. Although Pierro had set a rule about taking pictures while he was working, just in case your clumsy hands might lose the camera and it may fall into the wrong hands, but besides that, he truly never minded how many photos you took of him. How could he deny your happiness?
Having someone look at him through a lens just to find something beautiful to preserve is the only warmth he has left.
CAPITANO
The first time it happened, Capitano assumed it was an accident.
The quiet click echoed through the camp. He turned his helmet slightly toward you, waiting for an explanation.
You simply lowered the kamera with a smile.
"...Apologies," you said, though your expression suggested you were not sorry in the slightest. "The light looked nice."
He gave a single nod.
"I see."
That was all.
Or at least, that was what he thought.
Capitano is not a vain man.
Praise means little to him.
Admiration even less.
His entire life has been devoted to duty, to honor, to protecting others before himself. He neither seeks attention nor enjoys standing at its center. If anything, he prefers remaining unnoticed, his face forever hidden behind cold steel.
Which is exactly why your fascination confuses him.
One evening, after hearing the familiar click for what must have been the seventh time in the span of an hour, he finally speaks.
"...May I ask something?"
"Of course."
"You possess hundreds of photographs."
You nod.
"I do."
"...Then why continue taking more?"
You blink as though the answer is obvious.
"Because they're all different."
"...Different."
"You're never doing the exact same thing."
You begin scrolling through the kamera.
"Look."
You move beside him, showing him the tiny photographs.
"This one's when you were talking to Ororon."
"..."
"This one's after Sandrone's tea party."
"..."
Capitano studies the images in silence.
None of them are grand.
None are carefully posed.
They are simply... moments.
Small things.
Things he himself would never notice.
"I still don't get why I am the solemn center of each photo..."
"Because i love you." You simply said. "Isn't normal to take pictures of one's true love because they're the most important thing in someone's life?"
You made a small pause.
"Besides i like the idea of preserving your memory with photos... just in case."
Capitano's shoulders become strangely still.
"I see."
From then on, he never asks you to stop.
Sometimes, while you're fumbling with your Kamera, he'll patiently wait before walking away.
"...Finished?"
"Almost."
"...Take your time."
DOTTORE
He notices long before you realize he has.
"You've photographed me forty-three times this week." His voice suddenly interrupted.
You nearly drop the kamera.
"...You counted?"
"I remember." He quickly answered, his gaze hovering over you for a moment.
"...Curious."
"What is?"
"You never photograph my laboratory."
"You never photograph my work."
"You photograph..."
"...Me."
He gestures toward himself.
You simply shrug.
"I like you."
He pauses.
Not dramatically. Not visibly. But something in his focus sharpens.
"Can you repeat that?"
"I like you, is it a crime to photograph something i like?"
He studies your face with unmistakable curiosity.
"...Fascinating."
Rather than discouraging you, he begins doing small things in return, he'll deliberately lean against his desk while reading, knowing the angle of light will change, knowing it will alter how he appears in your frame.
He'll remove his gloves before writing notes, slower than necessary, as if testing whether you notice the difference.
He'll pause in the middle of speaking, just long enough for you to react, as if waiting for the exact moment your finger tightens on the shutter.
Click.
"...As expected."
"You did that on purpose."
"I wished to confirm a hypothesis."
"...You posed."
"...If that is your preferred terminology."
It even surprises him how much he enjoys it.
Not the attention itself, but the fact that its you giving it. That distinction becomes important to him in a way he doesnât fully articulate, though it lingers in the way he allows himself to be seen a little more often than before, he's is not someone who cares for vanity, nor for how he appears in a frame. And yet, the knowledge that you choose to capture him out of everything in your world truly fascinates him.
He's even looking forward to seeing the results.
"May I see today's collection?"
COLUMBINA
You never really hid the fact that you took pictures of her, in fact you were quite obvious, despite that, she never really said anything, sometimes you wondered if Columbina was even aware that the subjects of the pictures you took was her despite how obvious it was. Of course, Columbina wasn't dumb.
...click
Today she slowly turned her head, as if the light itself has gently called her attention, not startled but curious, her movements are soft, unhurried, almost dreamlike.
"Are you taking a picture of me again?"
"Mhm."
"May I see?"
You hand her the kamera without hesitation.
She looks through every photo with quiet curiosity, her expression unreadable but not unkind. She lingers on some longer than others, tilting her head slightly as if listening to something only she can hear within the images themselves.
"..."
"...You always photograph me when I'm singing."
"I think you look happiest then."
She tilts her head further, almost childlike in her curiosity.
"...Do I?"
"You do."
A gentle smile appeared on her, soft and distant like moonlight on still water, beautiful, at least you saw it that way. Very dramatic that is true but, Columbina's beauty was truly the best thing you could've captured.
At least that's what you tell everyone.
"...Then keep taking them."
"Even if I take a lot?"
"Especially then."
Sometimes she'll quietly wander over while you're reviewing the pictures, footsteps almost silent, as if sheâs afraid to disturb the moment even though sheâs already part of it.
Without asking, she'll lean her head against your shoulder, watching the screen as if sharing the same memory, breathing in the same quiet.
"...I like seeing myself through your eyes." She said suddenly.
You blinked.
"You say that like it's strange."
"Is it?"
She blinks slowly.
"I think it's nice."
She never thinks your habit is strange.
If anything...
She finds it sweet that someone would treasure even the smallest, quietest fragments of her existence.
"You know..." Columbina suddenly whispered.
"hm?"
"I think i would like it if you were in the photos with me too, we can't let your beauty go to waste."
Your shoulder stiffened slightly, your gaze flicked away as your cheeks burned slightly.
"Don't say things like that so suddenly youăŒ"
click
"huh-"
"hehe now i have a picture of you too, all flustered (â  â ââ âżâ ââ  â )â âĄ"
ARLECCHINO
You never hid the fact that you took pictures of Arlecchino either, and it wasn't like you could hide anything from her regardless. It had never bothered her this small habit of yours, however she did set a clear rule.
"The House is off limits."
You nod immediately.
"No operations."
"No confidential meetings."
"No children unless they're not doing something important and have clearly stated properly that they're comfortable with pictures being taken."
"I understand."
Her rules are absolute, and you respect them without hesitation, its not like they don't make sense.
Outside of work...
She has no objections.
She's reading in the lounge.
Click.
"..."
She doesnât look up.
Making coffee in the early morning light.
Click.
"...Youâre persistent."
Fixing a loose button on her coat before stepping out.
Click.
"...I can hear you, you know."
"I know."
One evening she catches you scrolling through thousands of photos, her presence silent behind you. You donât even notice her until she speaks.
"...You kept this one?"
She points toward an image taken after a long mission.
Her hair is slightly messy.
She looks exhausted.
Human, in a way few ever see her.
"You look very handsome when you're exhausted." You reply honestly.
Silence stretches between you for a few seconds.
A very faint, incredibly rare smile tugs at the corner of her strict lips. She lets out a quiet, fond sigh, shaking her head.
She leans slightly closer, just enough to see the screen better.
"You document everything."
A pause.
"Even moments I would consider... unnecessary."
Her eyes narrow slightly, but not in displeasure. More like sheâs trying to understand the logic behind it.
"I like seeing you even in your most unflattering moments."
"As romantic as that is, I don't think anyone appreciates a bad photo."
She straightens, but she doesnât move away. Instead, she reaches out and gently tilts your kamera down, not stopping you, just adjusting your angle with precise, practiced care.
"If you insist on doing this..."
Her thumb brushes the edge of the device.
"...then at least do it properly."
SCARAMOUCHE
Scaramouche at first finds the whole thing annoying, as much as he loves you it is truly persistent how you keep trying to capture every single moment of him.
"Put that useless piece of junk away before I shatter it into a million pieces. I am not joking."
"No."
"..."
He walks toward you.
You instinctively hug the kamera closer. He just stops close enough that it feels like he could take it if he wanted to... and he did.
He snatches it with effortless speed.
"Heyâ!"
You expect him to delete the pictures immediately.
Instead...
He stares at it.
"..."
The silence stretches longer than it should, his eyes narrow slightly, his thumb hovers over the device, not quite pressing anything. For a moment, he looks almost irritated at the idea that something so small has managed to capture him so easily.
He tilts the kamera slightly, and the screen reflects faintly in his eyes.
"You really think this is worth keeping?"
"Yeah." You reply quickly.
That single word makes him pause.
Not visibly.
Not dramatically.
He scrolls slowly and reluctantly
And then stops.
Itâs a picture of him when he thought no one was lookingâstanding alone, wind brushing through his hair. Just... quiet.
"..."
He clicks to the next image.
Another.
Then another.
Each one makes his expression shift in the smallest, barely there, but still there way.
And yet he keeps going.
"...Why do you even take so many?"
He looks at you.
Really looks.
Then he immediately hands the kamera back.
He turns his head away as if that ends the conversation, but the tension in his shoulders doesnât fully leave. He clicks his tongue once, like heâs trying to erase the entire interaction from memory.
He complains every single time.
He rolls his eyes, clicks his tongue, calls you ridiculous, insufferable, and worse, but never actually stops you. He just stands there enduring it like itâs a personal inconvenience he refuses to admit he tolerates, like your presence has become an irritation heâs quietly accustomed to.
Yet...
After complaining so much, now whenever an entire day passes without hearing the shutterâ
"...You've been quiet."
"Hm?"
"...No pictures today?"
You smiled mockingly.
"Aww do you miss the attention?"
"...Don't misunderstand."
He crosses his arms, looking away, voice sharpening as if to cover something else.
"...It's simply strange."
A pause.
"...Annoying, even."
But he doesn't leave the room right away.
SANDRONE
When you first asked Sandrone for a kamera she expected for you to document the tea parties she hosts, after all it's probably one of the only beautiful and peaceful moments that she has and she takes good care of making everything nice and sets a beautiful table presentation.
So when she finished setting everything every time she didn't expect for the kamera to always point at her.
At first, she assumes it is a mistake.
"...You are not photographing the table?"
Her voice is flat, but there is a faint pause at the endâlike she is genuinely trying to understand.
You lower the kamera just a little, still smiling at her.
"I am. But youâre part of it."
She blinks once.
She thought it was just a one-time thing.
But then it happens again.
And again.
Every tea party, every carefully arranged afternoon, every moment she designs for âpeaceâ ends up with your attention drifting away from the porcelain or mechanics and toward her instead.
"...You are doing it again."
"I know."
A pause.
"...I wanted to."
"...Why."
"Because you look cute."
There is a pause.
A long one.
Her fingers tighten slightly around her teacup.
"...That is not a sufficient reason."
But her voice is quieter than before.
And she still doesnât tell you to stop.
The next time, she prepares more carefully.
The table is even more precise than usual. The lighting is adjusted. Everything is arranged like a display meant to be observed from a distance.
She sits down.
"...This time, focus on the table."
"Mm-hm."
You say it too easily.
Suspiciously easily.
She narrows her eyes slightly.
And thenâ
Click.
"..."
She doesnât look up.
She just lets a long sigh out.
It was her again.
Of course it was.
"You are not listening."
"I am."
"You are not."
"I am listening and taking pictures."
"You should be listening and then taking the pictures."
"It works for me this way."
click
She knows she can't change your mind about the pictures you take, and deep inside she probably would be sad if she ever managed for you to actually stop taking pictures of her.
But she won't ever say that out loud of course.
SIGNORA
There are very few things Signora considers worth preserving.
Power fades. Beauty withers. Nations rise only to collapse beneath time's heel. Even people are fleeting; she learned that lesson five hundred years ago when Rostam died and Rosalyne died alongside him, leaving only the Crimson Witch... and later, the Eighth Harbinger. Every attachment she has ever treasured has ended in ashes.
So when she realizes that you are trying to preserve her...
She doesn't understand it.
At first, she assumes it's infatuation, the kind that fades.
She has seen nobles obsess over appearances. Diplomats flatter beautiful women. Admirers become bored after a season.
She expects the same from you.
After all there's no denying that she's a beauty, even she knows that. She expects admiration.
The familiar click of the kamera echoes through the hallway of the Zapolyarny Palace.
She doesn't even bother turning around.
"You've photographed me three times since breakfast."
Click.
"...Four." You grin shamelessly. "You looked pretty."
"..."
A faint sigh leaves her lips.
"You have remarkably low standards."
"You are my standards."
"..."
For a second, only a second, you catch the slightest pause in her stride before she continues walking as if nothing happened.
You photograph her while she's reading, while she's silently drinking tea, while she's staring through palace windows during snowfall, while she's half-asleep on the couch after returning from an exhausting mission, the glamorous moments, the ordinary moments.
The moments no one else is ever allowed to witness.
That confuses her more than any compliment ever could.
"...Why?"
You lower the kamera.
"What do you mean?"
"Why preserve... these moments?"
She gestures vaguely toward herself.
"I am not attending a banquet." She says."I'm hardly dressed for court, there's nothing impressive happening."
"...Because it's you."
"..."
"I don't need a special occasion."
"..."
"...I wanted to remember how peaceful you looked."
She looks away before you can notice the tiny crack in her carefully maintained composure.
People think Signora is vain.
She certainly enjoys elegance.
She carries herself with impossible grace, expects refinement, and refuses to tolerate sloppiness.
But beneath that polished surface is someone who once loved so deeply that grief transformed her into living flame. Someone whose memories of happiness became buried beneath centuries of pain and duty.
Your photographs begin reminding her of something she thought impossible.
Being remembered.
Not as "The Fair Lady."
Not as "The Eighth Harbinger."
Not as the Crimson Witch.
Just... Rosalyne.
Even if neither of you says the name aloud.
PANTALONE
To the Regrator, everything in existence has a price tag, a net worth, and a calculated return on investment. Relationships are usually no different. But when it comes to you and your constant photography, he becomes endlessly amused by your habit.
Whenever he catches you aiming the Kamera.
"Would this side be better?"
"...You're posing."
"I'm investing in quality." He smiles. "Am I providing adequate material for your collection today, my dear?"
He enjoys teasing you far too much, adjusting his posture just slightly every time you hesitate, as if the entire world is simply another negotiation to be refined into something more profitable, more perfect, more you-approved
If you gasp because he looked particularly handsome in one picture...
"Oh?"
"That expression."
"You liked that one."
"Iâ"
"You did."
He never lets you finish your denial, smiling likes thereâs something quietly satisfied in the way he watches you react.
Eventually your old kamera starts struggling under the weight of constant use, worn down by how often itâs used to capture him in every possible light, every angle, every expression.
"A muse of my stature deserves only the finest tools for their craft. The resolution on that standard-issue Snezhnayan model is quite tragic."
You blink, lowering the kamera.
"It works just fine, Pantalone, is just a bit worn down."
He simply chuckles. "Nonsense. Only the best for the one documenting my legacy."
And without a word, it disappears.
The following morning, a beautiful new one rests on your desk, polished and far more advanced than anything you owned before.
"...You bought me this?"
"It captures finer details."
"You didn't have to."
"I know." Pantalone spoke with a pause. "...I wanted to."
he becomes your most cooperative model. He will literally pause high-stakes financial meetings with foreign dignitaries the moment you walk into the room, raising a hand to silence a trembling merchant just so you can get a clear photo of him looking imposing.
"One moment," Pantalone will tell the terrified merchant, completely ignoring the man's panic as he turns his most charming, radiant smile toward your lens. "My partner requires a portrait from my good side. Pray ensure you don't catch the glare on my rings, darling."
CHILDE
Taking pictures of Childe was the worst habit you could have possibly developed. Not because he hated it, the exact opposite.
He enjoyed it far, far too much.
The first few times, it was innocent enough. You'd catch him laughing after a fight, completely focused while cleaning one of his weapons, doing anything really. You'd quietly pull out your kamera, snap a photo, and he'd only glance over with that familiar fox-like grin.
"You taking pictures of me?"
"...Maybe."
"At least get my good side, baby."
That should've been your warning.
Because the moment Childe realized you genuinely loved taking pictures of him...of him, not because he was the Eleventh Harbinger, not because he was famous, but because you simply liked watching him exist...
he made it everybody's problem.
"Look at this picture my baby took of me!"
"So fucking stubborn aren't ya? haa, i guess once my baby sees me they'll have to take a bloody picture of me."
"Oh, this? My partner took this, aren't they talented?"
Every time he notices the kamera...
"Wait!"
He strikes an exaggerated pose mid-step, almost too fast for you to react.
"No, no, this angle!"
He shifts dramatically, turning his chin like heâs on a stage, eyes bright with anticipation as if the world itself is an audience.
"Oh! Get one while I'm sparring!"
Heâs already halfway into a stance, energy coiling through him like a spring.
"Now! Before I move!"
Click.
His grin widens immediately.
"Oh! One more!"
And then another.
And another.
You end up with hundreds of dramatic photos of him mid-action, mid-laugh, mid-everything he possibly can turn into a performance. He treats your camera like an audience he never wants to disappoint, always trying to outdo the last version of himself you captured, as if each picture is a challenge he intends to win.
And somehow, he never runs out of energy for it. Even when heâs clearly been training for hours, even when sweat clings to his hair and his breathing is just slightly heavier than usual, even when he's bloody and on high, he still finds a way to turn it into something theatrical
"Alright, We're taking a double portrait," he declares, snatching the kamera right out of your hands and holding it up at arm's length.
"Smile!"
He spends the next ten minutes dragging you into a dozen messy, laughing selfies, some blurry, some with him kissing your cheek, and others where he's making a ridiculous face.
"We're sending the best one to Teucer," he says proudly, carefully slipping the kamera back into your coat pocket before planting a soft kiss on your forehead. "Gotta show the kids back home that their big brother found the best photographer in Teyvat."
masterlist | previous chapter | current chapter | next chapter
pirate!tartaglia x gn!reader
words: 3.2k
warnings: mentions of nausea/vomit, suggestive themes, mild dirty talk, implied masturbation, mentions of blood, cursing
general summary: somewhere out there is a dragon that thinks you stole its treasure. who better to help you return it than a pirate captain with an addiction to adrenaline?
a/n: soooooo I was half way thru writing what I THOUGHT was going to be chapter 5, but after reviewing everything I realized the first half of "chapter 5" I wrote reeeeeaaaallllllyyyy should've been in chapter 4. so im gonna put it here for now and prob reformat stuff later
on ANOTHER NOTE I did some more thinking on the rest of the storyline and I think I figured out how to end it đ I THINK I COOKED GUYS I CANT WAIT TO SHARE IT W UUUUUU
i still have like another week until school starts back up for me so my goal is to get the next chapter up before then!! tysm to everyone who's been reading, ur all part of my pirate crew now đ đ âšïž đ
âThat's it, you're doing so good.â
You shook your head vehemently. âI can't.â
âYes, you can, c'mon,â he assured, voice low from how close you were to him.
Inhale, exhale. You set your hands in place again. Felt the nausea creep up your throat. And whipped around to double over.
âOh god, I might throw up.â
He just snickered at you. Tartaglia knew you weren't super squeamish about bloodâ even if you were, there was no way you could be by the end of this journey. But you weren't quite on the same page with bones sticking out or limbs facing the wrong way. Tartaglia probably figured the perfect payback for breaking his nose was to make you fix it himself. Though his teaching methods were⊠questionable.
âThis is your mess. Come clean it up.â
âPlease stop saying shit like that,â you begged, head hung low as you returned to face him.
âWhat? I'm just talking you through it.â Bastard. He chuckled. âC'mon, there's not a doctor around. My swellingâs gone down enough, nowâs the time to do it. Hands on the bridge like I showed you.â
Inhale. You repositioned your hands, fingers gingerly resting on his cheeks. His skin was warm and slick with sweat. If you stared long enough, maybe you could convince yourself that his freckles were paint splatters on a vibrant, purple canvas. At the top of your field of vision, his lashes blurred orange with every flutter. Exhale. You knew he was staring, waiting for you to get out of your own head.
He took shaky breaths through his mouth, which ghosted against the base of your palms. A shiver threatened to tickle your spine and your fingers twitched out of reflex. The sudden pressure made him wince, hissing through his teeth.
âSorry, sorry,â you muttered, but your focus remained fixed on his nose. Inhale.
Crack! Tartaglia stumbled back, hands flying up to his face with a strained curse.
âOh my god, Iâm soâ bleaghâ sorry, did I just make it worse? Bleugh, Fuckââ you rushed while forcing back a dry-heave.
âNo, no!â he reassured through a laugh, but he stuck a hand out to keep you at a distance. Turning to the side, he plugged one nostril at a time and huffed, clearing his airways of leftover blood and phlegm.
You cringed and stuck your tongue out in disgust. âGross. Are you even supposed to do that?â
He waved it off, still leaning over. âTrust me, not my first broken nose.â Well, that you didnât doubt.Â
âAlright,â He straightened back up, clearing his throat and rubbing the no-longer-dislocated bridge. âMuch better. Why donât you go ahead and get a fire started, comrade? This isnât a bad place to camp for the night. I'll be back.â
Before you could veto the idea, Tartaglia marched off past the treeline, leaving you to fend for yourself.
Whatever. It wasnât like you wanted to watch him take a piss anyway. Heâd probably be back before you were even finished gathering wood.
The longer he was gone, though, the more it seemed like he wasnât just taking a piss. You tore at your already-ruined cuticles and looked at the treeline where he had vanished. The meager fire you built crackled in front of the rock you sat on, a little ways off from the main path you took from Port Oromos. Maybe his stomach was bothering him? Youâd much rather he have diarrhea than be dead.
You didnât want to think about him being dead. But there was no way he was dead. No. He was a renowned pirate captainâ he could handle going off into the woods by himself.
You sighed and reached for the treasure compass, eager for a distraction. If he was going to be gone for a while, you may as well do something useful with your time.Â
The compass was small, fitting nicely in the palm of your hand. The case was a pleasant green enamel, gilded with gold embellishments and metalwork. For a knockoff, the craftsmanship was beautiful. You flipped open the cover to reveal the glass cover over the needle. Unlike a regular compass, there were no markings of the cardinal directions etched into the plate underneath; only a gold tree: the crest of the Dendro Goddess. The needle itself was a striking red, and hovered steadily south in the direction of Port Oromos.Â
You frowned. Turned it on its backâ no instructions. You stood from your rock and turned slightly.Â
The needle stayed trained on the port.
You closed the compass and opened it again. Closed your eyes and opened them. Nothing.
Huffing, you left your campsite and walked back in the direction of the port. Every now and then, youâd stop to swat at the mosquitoes buzzing your ankles. You couldnât decide if you were comforted by the idea that mosquitoes would follow you no matter which nation you were in. Five minutes later, a flicker caught your eye.Â
Behind a shrub you had ignored on your run out of the city, was a small wooden chest, the moonlight reflecting off of the metal bracing. Your eyebrows raised.Â
You stepped off the path to open the chest, finding a small pouch of mora, an unimpressive short sword, and a few other knick knacks insideâ probably from another traveler that had forgotten where they hid their stuff. You hoped they didnât live nearby; the mora and blade would be coming with you. Wherever they were, they werenât here now.Â
A giddy feeling erupted in your chest, almost forcing a giggle out of you. Luck seemed to be on your side, for once. You couldnât wait to tell Tartaglia the good news. Now you just needed to set the course to the Geo Lord.
You stared at the compass. How you did that, you didnât know. Were you supposed to wish upon a star or something?
At this point, it couldnât hurt to try. You closed your eyes and thought of Liyue. Actuallyâ you set down your sword to reach into your pocket and pull out the gnosis. It hummed with assurance in your hand, dispelling any feelings of insecurity about how stupid you probably looked right now.
You closed your eyes again. Flashes of images youâd seen in your visions along with new ones came to your mind now: the golden mountains of mora, towering pillars displaying artifacts, stalactites supporting intricate chandeliers. It seemed the Father of Wealth knew a thing or two about interior decorating.Â
In your right hand, the compass buzzed softly. Your eyes flew open to see the needle spinning rapidly on its axis. You waited with bated breath for it to stop.
It spun.
And spun.Â
And spunâŠ
You didnât think it was going to stop spinning.
You glared at the compass, irritation building the longer it prolonged its decision. In a last ditch attempt to make any sort of progress towards your goal, you put the gnosis back in your pocket, snatched the sword back from the grass, and relied on your thoughts alone to power it.Â
The needle slowed, but not by much. Finally, you cleared your mind of Liyue altogether:
South.
The goddamn compass didn't work.Â
Here you were, post-morality crisis after robbing someone for the first time, and you had just managed to convince yourself that if anything, the crime produced a working solution to your problem. Only for it to not be a working solution.Â
With every stomp you took back towards camp, the forest seemed to hush. The locusts knew they were no match for your sour mood.
As you neared, the calls of your name grew louder. Tartaglia had returned from his excursion, his silhouette dancing around the fire. Good. You needed to let off some steam.
He heard you approaching, but you werenât trying to be quiet. The relief on his face was obvious when he saw you, barely paying any attention to the new weapon in your hand.Â
âHey,â he breathed. âWhereâd you go? I didnâtââ
âYou said you would train me, right?â you interrupted.Â
He paused, but answered steadily. âI did.â
âGreat,â you shoved the sword in his arms, trying to force positivity into your cadence, âletâs start now.â
He quirked a brow and gave you a once over. âOh? Everything⊠alright?âÂ
âYup. Weights on or off?â
The dubious crease between Tartagliaâs eyebrows told you, as he cleared a patch of grass of twigs and large pebbles for your sparring, that he did not believe you. But he mentioned nothing, lining the miniature arena with rocks, setting aside your sword, and picking two sturdier sticks from your pile of unused kindling.
âNo weights for now. Hereâs your weapon,â he ordered, handing you a stick.Â
You took the stick, albeit a little disappointed. You were kind of looking forward to testing out your new sword, but you werenât stupid. You knew how that would end.Â
âOkay.â You looked up from your stick. Tartaglia was positioned in the small area heâd carved, looking at you expectantly. âTry to hit me. And try not to get hit,â he instructed.Â
The second part concerned you a bit. âTry not toâ?â
Bark smacked into the bare skin of your arm before you could finish. You yelped, clutching the stinging area with your opposite hand. âWaitâ!â
âNope!â Smack! On your other arm. The next blow landed on the back of your neck as you scuttled away, curled in of yourself. You desperately waved your stick at him, half-hoping it would land, half-hoping it would be enough to keep him away.Â
âThis isnâtâ!â you ducked again, narrowly avoiding a swing that wouldâve taken off your head were it a real bladeâ âtraining, this is aââ a strike at your shoulderâ âabuse!â
He cackled. Of course, the bastard was having fun. âI need to see where you are, comrade! Everyone knows you have to start by meeting your students at their level.âÂ
You donât even know what he did or when he did it, but you felt his foot hook under your ankle and suddenly, you were on your ass. Tartaglia crouched to meet your stupefied gaze, his own alight with arrogance and mirth. âAnd now I know where to start.âÂ
As if to provoke you further, he tapped your nose with his stick. You swatted it away, but took the hand he offered to get back to your feet. âYou couldâve at least given me a heads up,â you grumbled. The whole reason you suggested starting training was because you wanted to hit something, not because you wanted to get hit. You werenât even angry anymore; you were just embarrassed.
Tartagliaâs hands on your face snapped you out of your sulking. His thumbs tugged at the corners of your lips, forcing them into a crude imitation of a smile. Your eyes darted up to meet his before smacking his hands away, flustered by the sudden attention.Â
âCheer up, comrade. Weâre not done yet,â he said, pulling the training stick from your grip and tossing it back into the arms of nature. The red jewel in his earring glittered in the firelight, complementing the flush of his cheeks from the exertion of your spar.Â
Spar. Youâre sparring. Letâs focus on that.
Tartaglia shuffled back into a relaxed stance opposite you. âSo, your instinct is to run away still. Let's work on standing your ground instead. Iâll turn you into a master of defense in no time!â he proclaimed.
At least he had faith in you.
âYou stay there,â he ordered, pointing a finger at you, âAnd donât move. But alsoââ he held up his stick once againâ âdonât get hit,â he ended with a knowing smile.
You bit back your complaint this time.
Tartaglia took your silence as acceptance. âMake it five minutes unscathed and weâll move on. If I hit you, the time resets. You take a step, time resets. Got it?â
You nodded. âReady,â you said.
Somehow, Tartaglia seemed a lot faster when you werenât allowed to move. After the first few iterations of the exercise, you knew you were going to wake up with red scratches all over you. You ducked, bobbed, weaved, but you could only do so much without shuffling your feet. And with every âAgainâ that he barked out, you felt yourself getting slower with exhaustion. It had been a long day, and an even longer week from staying up avoiding your nightly terrors.Â
âBetter. Again.â
Sweat freely rolled down your chest and dripped into your eyes. The jungle was already hot enough, but with the fire and added movement, you were nearly burning up.Â
You could tell Tartaglia was, too. Sweat had plastered bits of his fringe to his forehead, and if his shirt wasnât linen, you were sure the red would be more of a maroon by now.
His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his chest rising with every pant. You had never seen him more focused than when he was in a fight, his blue eyes locked onto every twitch of your muscles. He lunged forward, extending an arm to plant the stick into your side.
Sparring! Youâre sparring! You just barely managed to twist away from the attack. Leaned over to your left, you were able to clearly see the leg he had swinging upwards, ready to land a blow to your chest and knock you off your feet. Your hands moved without thinking; they latched onto his knee and pulled.
Your gamble kind of paid off. Tartaglia lurched backward, but sank his weight into his remaining leg which left you merely standing, cradling his calf in your arms.Â
You locked eyes. He smirked. And pulled the leg you held back to him.Â
You stumbled forward, head bouldering directly into his torso from the force he used. A hand immediately settled on the center of your back, steadying you and pulling you into him at the same time. You almost wouldâve rather faceplanted and ate dirt.
But you were learning. You recovered your wits before they could stray away from you as they had been too often within the past hour, and wriggled out of his grasp. Brushing imaginary debris from your clothes, you chanced a look.
He stood, hands laced behind his back innocently, and assessed you. The playful smile he wore seemed to be his default expressionâ it was hard to tell what he was thinking behind it. What he saw in you.
You watched as he lightly scanned over your form. Neither of you spoke. You were afraid if you did your voice would come out as a croak instead of something intelligible, and you werenât sure what to make of whatever charge that was in the air.
He broke the silence first. âThat was offense. Not the point of the exercise.â
Aaaand there it was. âOh, come on. I almost got you!â you retaliated.
âWell, turn that âalmostâ into an âactuallyâ next time and maybe Iâll actually count it,â he quipped. You were starting to think he just enjoyed getting a rise out of you now.
âBut good job,â he added, swinging his arms to link together in front of him now. The tension in your body melted a little, your defensive attitude receding. âYou learn fast. I told you you were resourceful.â
âOkay, okay, thank you,â you rushed, unsure what to do with the sudden praise.Â
Tartaglia laughed and reached up to scratch the back of his neck. He jutted a thumb in the direction of the treeline once again. âWell, Iâm gonna go⊠relieve myself. Weâll do some training with the weights in the morning.â
You felt your eyebrows knit together. âAre you okay?â
He paused. âYeah?â
âWell, it's justâŠâ you didnât know why you were bringing this up, âYou were gone for a while earlier. I thought you had ârelieved yourselfâ then. Unless, I meanââ Tartagliaâs eyes were wide with panic, face half a shade paler than usualâ âspicy food doesnât⊠agree with you?â
The panic melted away, replaced by what you could only describe as resignation. â... Yes,â he answered a beat later. He wouldnât meet your eyes.
You grimaced in sympathy. âHave fun,â you joked weakly.
It was dark, yes, but you couldâve sworn his face was now half a shade redder than usual. He nodded stiffly. âUh, you should get some sleep,â he replied instead.
You wished it was that easy. Falling asleep was the easy partâ several nights of three hour naps was enough to knock you out fast this time. It was what met you when you fell asleep that made it difficult.Â
You woke up for the third time to a hand on your shoulder. The fire had sputtered out while you fitfully rested, nothing more now than a pile of twigs and ash, old embers fighting to stay alive under all the rubble. If you had to guess, the sun would begin rising in an hour. You could practically feel the beginnings of dawn inching its way over the horizon, but it was the stillness of the forest that gave it away. Even locusts had to sleep at some point.
Tartaglia knelt next to you. Your mind relaxed a bit knowing he was there, but the erratic beating of your heart still pumping with adrenaline from your vision kept you from fully calming down. You felt tainted and unclean, and the grime plastered onto your clothes, tendrils of smoke woven into your hair, and ever-persistent voyeur werenât helping. Suddenly, a bit of bile crept up your throat. You bolted up, frantically swallowing down your sick. Tartagliaâs hand moved to your back, rubbing over your shirt in comforting circles.
Not a sound was there to be heard, save for your heaving breath and the faint rustling of leaves. You stayed like that for a bit, focusing on the motions of his hand. Soon, your heart rate lowered, and you felt stable enough to lie back down. He followed your lead, resting his head on his pack. You hadnât noticed it earlier, but he must have dragged it over from his previous spot on the opposite side of the fire before you woke up.Â
Tartaglia didnât look at you. Just closed his eyes and drifted back off to whatever dreams someone like him had. But you looked.Â
Under the dim lighting of the cloud-filtered moon, you noticed the sleep crusted in the corner of his eyes, the dirt that masqueraded as freckles on his forehead. The bruise on his nose had darkened, too, making it look worse than it probably was. You would have to find a doctor in the next village to properly dress it. His eyelids fluttered occasionally, reacting to whatever dream his mind was occupying him with. Were dreams even interesting to someone who had experienced as much adventure and danger as much as he had?
Studying him proved to be a powerful sedative; your eyes grew heavier with every new piece of information you catalogued.Â
âTartaglia,â you whispered, voice dropping out on the second syllable.
âMmf.â There was a good chance he wasnât actually conscious, but you soldiered on before you could forget your thought.
âThe compass doesnât work.â
âShhhhhhh,â the arm closest to you lazily swung over you, finger unceremoniously poking your chin, then clumsily repositioning over your mouth.Â
A small laugh puffed through your nose. You gingerly grabbed a hold of his wrist and moved his arm back into his territory.Â
The compass didnât work, no. But you werenât worried about it anymore. Tartaglia promised he would get you to where you needed to go, and you believed him.
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