a kiss in parting (platonic or romantic: idk surprise me. writer's choice.)
The harshness of the reprimand is lost to the gentle peeling laughter rushing in its wake. Slender hands fit to his chest, gripping the fabric to pull him down to her mismatched gaze, perfectly mimicking amusement and exasperation in one. “Where is the Morax who is said to be breathtaking in battle? Who can disarm an enemy with a look alone? Bring me that man, and not one of his many stone statues!”
Bold. Amber eyes flare in irritation and the featherlight grip at her waist tightens in response, the sharp trace of claws catching. For one who has not needed to endure battle. The accusation never leaves his tongue, for the Hydro Archon, Focalors bounces with excitement, returning to their previous position. “Yes! This expression is beautiful!” Her hands flutter, a sound of concession breathes a small sigh between them. “Perhaps not quite the lovestruck ideal for a waltz, but there’s passion! If you are going to stand in my court and learn my dance, it will be a grand performance. One more time.”
They make it only a few beats before she stops them again.
What starts as a friendly extension – Rex Lapis was known to appreciate the arts – and so the Opera Epiclese welcomes him with fanfare and extravagance in exchange for his willingness to take a piece of it home with him.
It is not supposed to last this long, enduring Focalors’ heavily negative critique with every fiber of patience he possesses. Patience that is steadily more difficult to hold, gripped in his claws and between fangs itching to snap as she ripped away with little warning. “Ah! You’re already doing it!”
“Clearly I fail to understand your meaning.” He grouses, crossing his arms as though he were the younger. “The steps are simple, the rhythm-“
“I don’t think you can understand. Knowing the steps is not enough, monsieur. Perhaps it is best that you return to Liyue.” They fight, too, over the meaning of the contract. Over Justice. In which the Geo Archon had made his best attempts but failed, ultimately. It satisfied the ruling in his favor, even if the contract allowed no such leeway. Unacceptable.
They practice. From Liyue, his adepti send letters to ascertain his health.
Outside of the opera epiclese, they toast. To Liyue. To Fontaine. To their people and the future in the wistful way that only other Archons seem to capture. Like her predecessor, Focalors displays an effortless presence, just and assured despite the challenges surfacing against her. When all is said and done, she smiles for him, and his answer is immediate, fondness cracking the edges of his expression, shattering the practiced motion and recreating it at a volume reserved for those that no longer walked free in Teyvat.
The shift is not a subtle one, he knows it.
“Bravo!” She gasps, pleased as they make it mid-way faster than ever before. Morax simply hums in response, holding a hand for her to take as the music begins anew, cradling her waist and turning in time to her twirling frame with his hair swaying to how he tips his head to catch her gaze as if the seconds between are agony. In the beginning, they are, where he understands how well he’s doing in every subtle shift of her expression.
Now, she just smiles, and he finds himself mirroring it, amber eyes gone soft as they float across the stage, more one being than two separate ones for he knows that each time she twists away she returns to his arms. Or is it he who steps so readily in her direction? Drowning in the chasm of space between them?
Every performance has a curtain call, though they are in wordless agreement as they elect an encore over a bow. At the end of it all, they breathe with their heads pressed close, exhilaration and adrenaline painting a lovely flush over pale skin. He reaches one hand to trace it, committing the way her eyes widen a fraction, red traveling further down her neck. “It’s a shame you have to go,” She laughs, a wild, unrestrained thing. “Just when we are performance ready. Like this, we could convince the whole of Fontaine of our love. Wouldn’t that be an incredible show?”
He doesn’t answer right away, rumbling soft and quiet and intimate as he contemplates it, waiting for embarrassment to cross her features, and what he knows will be a denial on her tongue. “An incredible show…yes.” When he gathers her closer, she doesn’t pull away. “That it is.”
His kisses her. Softly. Reverently. Content to memorize the slide of her lips and the way she tastes as sweet desserts she regularly craves. It’s novel, until her arms wrap around his neck to press herself against him. Then, it's devastating. “I hope you’ve got more for me than this.” It’s a taunt that he’s well used to now, though the impatience that lingered in the words as she instructed his form in dance has been pulled taught and glazed with desire.
He exhales, the softness of his tone now darker, breathless, “Do you intend to critique me?” Humor is lost in the intensity of it, amber eyes alight and focused as he walks her backwards until she collides with a marble pillar, lifting so that he does not have to bend so far to claim her lips again.
One more time, he thinks, not unlike how Focalors had been starting and stopping their practicing all these weeks. After all, they have their duties. Such is the burden of the divine, that each meeting should be treated as the last.
