synposis: thoma's really nervous ever since he spotted you: skating prodigy, at the local rink he's volunteering at as the zamboni driver.
a/n: this is part of a series called complementary figures, which is a figure skating au with the hyv characters!
"hi! sorry, this might be really weird, but can i get your autograph?"
you look up at the voice from your phone, and you see a cute blonde guy giving you an awkward smile. there would be nothing weird about it, except for the fact he was just climbing down from the zamboni that was making it's rounds around your local rink a few minutes ago.
"oh, hey," you give him your best dazzling smile, "no problem! you got anything i can write with?"
"seriously? um, here!" he manages to scramble and produce a sharpie and a printed out picture of you at one of your competitions, a gold medal slung around your neck.
"aw, this was from two seasons ago! when i won the world champion gold for the first time."
you make small talk as you uncap the sharpie, finishing your signature with a flourish.
"what's your name?" you smile at him again.
"uh, thoma - t. h. o. m. a.," you laugh at how bright red he is as you scribble down a quick TO: THOMA above your signature.
"oh my god, thank you so much," he says, almost breathlessly as you hand the sharpie and photo back to him, "my parents used to watch your parents on TV. we used to be from mondstadt as well."
"mom and dad? haha, that's so sweet. when did you move here?”
“a few years ago,” he scratches the back of his neck, “maybe when i was, like, twelve? anyways, i never managed to get the same ice time as you, but i’ve been watching you a lot. archons, that sounds weird, right? sorry.”
“oh, it’s okay. actually, thanks for the support,” you let out another laugh as he frantically apologises, “i’ve been skating here since forever, i think everyone in this town has seen me fall once or twice.”
"thoma! the ice!" the both of you wince as the rink manager yells at him, gesturing to the buckets of ice used to patch up the surface of the rink.
"right, that," he mumbles. you watch as he troops over to the buckets of ice, picking up one with a spatula. turning to survey the ice, you see the various divots and holes that dot the ice, thanks to you and the other skaters, no doubt.
“here, let me help,” you watch as he pulls on his rental skates and go to grab your own bucket, taking off your guards as you step onto ice. he awkwardly follows behind, legs scrambling to keep up.
“haven’t - haven’t skated in a long time,” he says, after straightening up.
“you don’t skate often?” you’re scared he’s going to splat straight onto his face with the way he’s moving, so you move in closer, just in case he falls.
he shakes his head, “winter sports and me? not a great match. more of a track runner, actually. just here to earn some extra cash during the holidays. my friend skates here, uh, ayaka?”
“ayaka kamisato? i know her, the one who skates with her brother, right? i see her sometimes.”
you blink and suddenly thoma’s feet nearly slide out from under him as he bends to patch up a spot. he wobbles before regaining his balance.
you breathe out a sigh of relief as you round up on him, “here, bend at the waist, not the knees.”
“like this?” you cringe as he does exactly the opposite as what you just said.
“not quite… actually, just grab onto me,” you take his hands in yours, at which he sputters at. you laugh as you take him into the middle of rink, letting go of his hands to scoop some ice to patch up the surface of the ice beneath you.
“like this,” you demonstrate, and when he finally nails the pose you turn around with a self-satisfied grin to focus on the far end of the rink.
thoma short-circuits, but as he watches you busy yourself with inspecting the ice, he turns and does the same thing, wishing that a hole could open up in the ground and swallow him whole. the extra cash thing was true, but he’s had a major crush on you for years - but he swears its not for that reason alone. ayaka and ayato are here, so he gets to hang out with them in his free time and not worry about being bored out of his mind all day; and he likes helping out the neighbourhood whenever he can, and when he heard the rink manager fretting about not getting enough volunteers this summer, he naturally signed up.
“hey.”
he nearly slips and falls when he hears your voice next to his ear, and you laugh - which sounds like wedding bells.
“i finished my end of the rink, you done with your’s?”
“uh, yeah,” he stares down at the nearly empty bucket in his hands, guess he works fast when spaced out and imagining things.
“great!” you take his hands again, and he has no choice but to allow himself to be pulled back and forth by you.
“thoma, do you wanna get dinner together? maybe my parents can meet your’s someday, and give them an autograph, too.”
he doesn’t reply, but you’re plenty amused by his ums and ahs and shaky okays.
read don't mess up, my lucky charm, my last chance. before this one.
wanderer when he meets your former partner.
you swear wanderer bristles like a cat when yae announces that your ex-partner will be skating with his new partner at your next event - it's a pretty small, insignificant challenger event that you're attending to hammer out the rest of your new programs for the new season, but wanderer seems to be putting in more effort than usual into the practices before the official competition.
you've caught him sneering at photos of your former partner when he ego searches the two of you on the internet, so you really can't say you're surprised when he turns his nose up when the pairs at lined up at the boards, the negative energy radiating off him. to be fair, your former partner doesn't help by stealing constant glances at you.
"i'm better than him, right?" he suddenly pops the question as he holds your hand, doing your usual laps around the rink.
"much better," you affirm, and you resist the urge to laugh when a self satisfied smirk creeps his way onto his face, an expression he tries to hide as he stares down at his laces.
when your former partner tries to corner you at the rink, wanderer nearly charges at you and whisks you away, a "we don't need to talk to scum like them" at his mouth as he marches you away.
he ends up telling your ex partner to keep 'their eyes to themselves' when you manage to cross each other on the rink, all while trying to out-perform them with your hardest lift.
wanderer nearly breaks out in ill-hearted laughter at the kiss and cry when your combined total shows that you've placed nearly ten points above them. you have to pinch his arm to remind him to stop grinning like a villain, even though you're smiling from ear to ear as well.
"sometimes you just need another chance, cause the first one didn't work out, right?"
─── chapter 10 ! ~ a normal day at komore (until it wasn’t)
summary; when you, a waitress at the local coffee shop, are paired up with the new recruit scaramouche, you’re pretty sure both of you are going to get fired within a week. he’s just quit being a social media influencer and after being forced to work here to make ends meet, he’s ready to let everyone there know how much he hates it. the worst part? you can’t shake the feeling that you know him from somewhere. but as he slowly warms up to you, scaramouche realises that having a fresh start isn’t that bad after all, and perhaps the two of you meeting like this was pure serendipity.
a/n; new arc!! also i've been gone for a million years sorry 😭 life is just always on my ass for no reason, but hopefully i'll be able to finish this series soon hehehe, i wanna start a new one.
warning(s); none but i feel like the flow of the irl part is so abysmal it deserves its own warning LMFAO
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twitter #1 !
irl !
everything’s been going well today. the milkman delivered a couple extra bottles for free, a customer left an incredibly generous tip, and thoma perfected a new dessert. the day’s been going almost a little too well, but you don’t want to say it out loud for fear of jinxing it. it’s almost closing time, so thoma and yoimiya have already gone home too. maybe this could be the first time komore teahouse has an entirely uneventful day?! unfortunately for that dream, a second later you hear an easily recognisable shattering sound from where you’re cleaning out the storeroom – someone’s dropped a plate. sighing internally, you plaster on your best customer-service smile and grab the broom and dustpan before heading back out to sort out the mess.
the sight that greets you isn’t what you expected at all. scaramouche is standing opposite a tall, elegant woman dressed in a suit with neatly plaited purple hair, and the shards of the plate are scattered on the floor between them, almost like a line he’s daring her to cross. the woman’s eyes flicker with a myriad of emotions and she reaches out a hand, seemingly to cup his cheek, but scaramouche instantly slaps it away, fury evident in his gaze. hurt flashes across her face, and her voice trembles as she murmurs, “kuni-”. but before she can finish her sentence, scaramouche snarls, “fuck off.” “please, just hear me out,” she pleads, her indigo irises that look strangely familiar threatening to brim over with unshed tears. anger is practically radiating off of scaramouche, you’ve never seen him this upset – you’ve only seen his usual aloof facade. his fists are clenched, and his glare is so intense you swear it’s like he’s trying to strike lightning into the heart of the unknown woman as he spits, “you don’t get to just waltz back into my life after-”
a piece of ceramic from the broken plate cracks under your foot as you step backwards, the sound almost deafening amidst the tension, and scaramouche’s head snaps to face you. for a moment, he looks so devastated that a strange urge to rush forward and comfort him almost overwhelms you, but then he conceals it behind a cold stare as he turns back to the woman, “i can’t do this right now.” with that, he walks out of the cafe, ignoring the way she winces as the door slams shut. with scaramouche gone, tears start to stream down the woman’s cheeks, and she buries her face in her palms as her shoulders shake with quiet sobs. tentatively stepping forward, you pat her back, “ma’am, are you alright?” as soon as the words slip out of your mouth you’re scolding yourself for asking such a stupid question – she obviously isn’t fine! thankfully, she inhales deeply before sighing, “no. but that isn’t your burden to carry.” unsure of what to do next, you settle for giving her an awkward smile before starting to sweep up the pieces of the plate. “i’ll compensate you for the plate, of course,” she says, placing a wad of cash on the counter, “i hope that makes up for the scene i caused.” “thank you…” you murmur, staring at the money and wondering how much this lady thinks plates cost, “and don’t worry, it was half scara’s fault too.”
“scara?” her voice sounds strange when she utters his name, as if she’s testing how the name feels on her tongue, “is that what he goes by?” “yeah,” you look up at her as you finish sweeping, “he’s our newest barista.” “oh… good for him, then.” you can’t tell if she means it or not. “i’ll be taking my leave now, but i’ll be back soon. thank you for being so accommodating.” she continues, and you don’t dare look up until you hear the sound of the bell above the door signaling her exit. now what on earth was that about?
pairings. scaramouche / wanderer x gender neutral! reader.
warnings. vulgar language, dickhead ( affectionately ) scara bc he's mean but still very loving. he's also kinda soft + death threats (?) he called reader "my girl" once.
synopsis. a bunch of unhinged messages between you and your mean yet affectionate boyfriend scara.
note. gonna post this before going to swim lolol, ill post my pinned post & masterlist later! hope you enjoy this < 3
in which you are insecure about whether or not he truly likes you, and he comforts you in turn.
or, the first time he says ‘i love you’.
PAIRING: wanderer x gn!reader
WARNINGS: none
WORDCOUNT: 1.5K || CONTENT: hurt/comfort, you're a bit of an overthinker, you cry, wanderer is bad at Feelings™ but he's trying
NOTES: a lil different from my usual style but yes >:3
“do you even like me?”
wanderer turns to look at you, confused, brows drawn. he scoffs, as if you had just asked if the sky was blue. perhaps to him, you may as well have. “what kind of ridiculous question is that?”
it’s late, you think, and the sun has long since dipped beyond the horizon. the both of you are idling in bed, him with a book in his hands, and you with nothing but worries on your mind. you sigh. you hadn’t meant to blurt it out in that manner, but since it already happened, you may as well…
“i just — it’s so stupid, i know, but… it feels as if you only put up with me, y’know? and that you don’t really like like me. i’m sorry, i’m just —”
“you truly get the most foolish ideas.”
his tone is biting, his eyes an electrifying violet. the book in his hands creases in his grip, and you wince. you wonder if he’s angry at you.
then again, he always seems irritated at you, doesn’t he? a tiny little voice whispers in your mind. it sounds bitter and resigned, and you find yourself getting angry at that thought. something sour claws its way up your throat. “do you have to sound so snide all the time? is it so hard just — just speak nicely to me for once?”
his lips part, yet nothing comes out. he looks astounded, really, and it’s probably the first time you’ve seen him without a witty retort in response. it’s not satisfying at all. that realisation only serves to worsen your mood.
tears prick at the corners of your eyes. archons, it’s not like you to get this emotional, to blow up at him like this. you knew what you were getting into, falling in love with the wanderer. you knew he was guarded and prickly and cold and you chose to love him anyway.
perhaps he was right and you truly did have the stupidest ideas. you had been friends with wanderer before you had been lovers, and he had opened up to you so much in that span of time that you thought if you took things further, he’d only trust you more. but he hadn’t. in fact, ever since you began dating, it felt as if he had begun to pull away.
how foolish, that little voice says. did you think you could change him?
roughly, you bring the back of your palm to wipe the dampness from your eyes. you sniffle, throat tight. “sorry, just… ignore that. forget about it. it’s been a long day and i shouldn’t take it out on you. i’m g’na sleep now.”
you switch off your lamp, and the room plunges into the darkness. not even the moon is out tonight, the moonlight blocked by the thick, rolling clouds. you settle yourself into bed comfortably, facing the wall as you do.
usually, you’d be cuddling right up to him, despite all his grumbled protests. he always let you have your way in the end, anyway. you can’t help but smile a bit at that.
despite everything, you know he isn’t all bad. he can be kind and sweet and gentle and absolutely swoon-worthy — and even then, those moments are getting increasingly hard to come by in the recent weeks.
“i wouldn’t be here, playing house with you, if i didn’t like you,” wanderer says suddenly, tentatively. his tone is softer than it had been before, and you know it is meant to be his way of comfort.
you know he favours you, cares for you. the evidence is in everything he does, in the way no one else would be able to act the way you do with him but you. except all his softness is buried under layers and layers of all the things he has yet to work through. and though you’ve always been the patient type, his callousness chipped away at your spirit little by little til you were a mess of anxiety and insecurity and —
white-hot anger stabs at you then, despite all your efforts to force it down. you laugh wetly, voice thick. “you have a funny way of showing your feelings, y’know that?”
“you never approach me first. and there was that week i decided to wait and see if you would, and it took you a whole week before you — and you’re always so guarded — and that’s not the problem but the problem is you act like you trust me less now than when we were just friends and —”
you’re rambling now, everything that you had been bottling up bubbling out of you in surges. you draw in a shallow, shuddery breath, and it’s only then you notice the dampness on your pillow. you rub at your eyes harshly, sighing.
“i know you hate being vulnerable, seeming weak — but if you can’t trust even me then what’s the point? i really… i don’t know how much more of this i can take.”
you go silent there, having run out of things to say. yet your tears can’t seem to stop, your body curled tight, your back facing him. you don’t know how you’d be able to look him in the eye again, after an outburst like that. gods, what if he broke things off with you? what if…
“i warned you about what you were getting yourself into,” he says softly, “loving someone like me. foolishly, you chose me anyway.”
how in teyvat was that supposed to make you feel any better? had he not been listening to you for the past ten minutes?
“and like an utter fool, i couldn’t have been happier.”
oh.
he shifts, the bedsheets rustling, and you’re tempted to turn and look. but you don’t. not yet. sighing, he continues, “you make me soft. weak. i couldn’t accept it.”
“so you started to distance yourself from me.”
it comes out flatly, a short, unimpressed realisation. you wonder why he agreed to date you if all he’d do is push you away. you have a feeling he doesn’t have an answer either. he falls quiet at your words, a silent acknowledgment.
“i’m sorry,” he says finally, stumbling over the words. “you deserve better than that. than me.”
the words, though spoken no louder than a whisper, echo within the silence of the room. you’re crying again, silently this time, and more out of relief than anger and hurt. you bite on your lip to swallow your sobs, but don’t bother about wiping your eyes. you didn’t expect you’d hear him apologise, let alone admit he should’ve treated you better. it lightens something in your heart, the tension in your chest dissipating a little.
still, you think, even if you deserved better, it is him that you loved, and you’d be truly foolish to give it all up because of problems that could be worked through.
“think of me however you want,” he tells you. there’s an undertone of earnestness in his voice now, hesitant but true. “i am far from a good person, much less a good lover. even so… never doubt the fact that it is you who i love.”
you falter. he… what?
“you — you love me?” you ask. it comes out in a dazed murmur. slowly, you turn to look at him, eyes swollen and all. you must look ridiculous now, you think, but you find you can’t quite care a bit. “you mean it?”
he lets out a low chuckle, as if he can’t quite believe it either. “i do.”
despite yourself, you can’t stifle the small smile that grows on your face. it’s the first time he’s ever said that to you, the first time he’s ever explicitly expressed his feelings toward you out loud in words.
“will you say it again?"
“i love you,” he says again, this time, without any hesitation. he huffs, and you’d like to think he sounds fond. his tone turns lofty. “you should be proud of yourself. to be the only person who can make a fool out of me.”
there’s a small smile tugging at his lips too, his eyes bright and soft and warmer than you’ve ever seen before. you laugh softly, rubbing the tear stains from your face. you feel unbelievably light, lighter than you have in days. it’s a nice feeling.
“will you try, at least? to be a good lover?” you ask hopefully. you don’t think you’re asking for much, really. “i think… then, we can work on being a good couple together.”
he agrees easily, almost breathing out the word. “yeah.”
you yawn. all that crying has you completely exhausted, and you suppose it’s time to call it a day. stretching, you reposition yourself comfortably, cocooning yourself in the blankets. he didn’t need them anyway.
“good night,” you whisper, eyes already fluttering shut.
your consciousness dips partway into slumber then, so you don’t get to hear his response. yet you feel a warm, gentle pressure on your cheek, and something light ghosting over your forehead. you smile.
tartaglia x gn! reader. when you take a hit for him.
he's referred to by his real name here.
you wouldn't really call yourself a fighter per say, more of an scholar or explorer. but like everyone else in the village, you knew some basic self defense - like how to hold a bow properly and the best way to wield a knife and cut through flesh. when you finally started dating ajax, he taught you how to throw a punch properly, with your fist as tight as possible and not with your thumb tucked into your palm, "because it'll break that way".
he's brought you on several trips already - fatui missions, you know, but he swears he has the time to lounge around and accompany you on your survey of various local offerings, and he makes well on his promises, despite the bruises and extra cuts he has to go through to clean up in time. you always scold him - don't go into a battle without a clear head! - but he laughs and says that it'll be a waste to come all the way here with his favourite person and not enjoy it.
you know he has his fair share of enemies - people who would do anything to take his head off. ajax jumps at any chance to fight - like a wolf that just learnt to bare it's teeth and fight tooth and nail with reckless abandonment. he comes home bloodied and bruised nine times out of ten, always with an apology hanging by his lips as you sit him down and wipe away the splash of blood on his cheek.
you've had your own close run-ins with his foes - even after ajax made an example out of the first group that dared to touch a hair of you, the fatui's enemies pinpointed you as the weakness of the eleventh harbinger - a surefire way of getting under his skin and catching him by surprise.
"i'll protect you," he murmurs every so often in your ear at night, arms tightening around your waist as he buried his head in the crook of your shoulder, "i'll be your knight."
"i know, ajax," you've always whispered back, smoothing back ginger curls and leaving a tender kiss on his forehead.
so that's why you didn't second guess yourself and threw yourself in the line of an arrow heading towards him in his blind spot. a sniper perched in a tree that quickly slinked off when the arrowhead pierced the flesh of your shoulder and you cried out in pain.
the overwhelming sensation of pain overtakes all your senses, you can barely hear ajax call out your name and you don't register him catching you in his arms and frantically patting you on your cheek. the taste of blood fills your mouth and your eyes water at the sensation - and smell of iron in the air.
your vision fades to black.
"i'll keep an eye on them. thanks for coming around, doctor."
ajax's voice finally makes it over the noise and his face finally makes it into focus in your vision. you vaguely register that you're on a bed and you can't feel the entirety of your left side.
"ajax?" you manage to croak out. you hear frantic feet against the floor and his face pops into view, brows drawn together in worry. the bed creaks under his weight as he sits on the bed beside you, leaning over your body.
"the doctor said that most people usually take 3 hours to wake up," he mutters, and you manage to catch it as he scans over you with scrutiny.
"guess i'm not most people," you manage to raise your right arm to give him at quick tap on his hand, which immediately moves to grasps yours and give you squeeze.
"does it hurt?"
"not really. can't feel it at all, actually."
he lets out a satisfied hum, before his blue eyes turn steely again.
"what you did was stupid. why did you do that - for me?"
"hey," you muster enough strength to squeeze his hand back in response, "it goes both ways, ajax. if you were me, you would done the same."
he fumes, because he knows you're right. he would rather throw himself to the flames than to watch anyone hurt you, and he knows that if he starts scolding you all you would do is do the same thing back to him.
he settles for sighing, playing with your fingers.
"i only wish it didn't have to be that way. i'm sorry, it's all on me. i should've been better."
he places your hand on his cheek, feeling the warmth against his skin.
"ajax," you say softly as his eyes close, "i told you before - i chose to be with you. i knew what i was getting into. so don't say sorry, okay?"
you watch as he inhales, then exhales, again.
"you really are the best, you know?"
not my best work but i suddenly felt the urge. like or reblog if you enjoyed thank you~
tartaglia x gn! reader. when you take a hit for him.
he's referred to by his real name here.
you wouldn't really call yourself a fighter per say, more of an scholar or explorer. but like everyone else in the village, you knew some basic self defense - like how to hold a bow properly and the best way to wield a knife and cut through flesh. when you finally started dating ajax, he taught you how to throw a punch properly, with your fist as tight as possible and not with your thumb tucked into your palm, "because it'll break that way".
he's brought you on several trips already - fatui missions, you know, but he swears he has the time to lounge around and accompany you on your survey of various local offerings, and he makes well on his promises, despite the bruises and extra cuts he has to go through to clean up in time. you always scold him - don't go into a battle without a clear head! - but he laughs and says that it'll be a waste to come all the way here with his favourite person and not enjoy it.
you know he has his fair share of enemies - people who would do anything to take his head off. ajax jumps at any chance to fight - like a wolf that just learnt to bare it's teeth and fight tooth and nail with reckless abandonment. he comes home bloodied and bruised nine times out of ten, always with an apology hanging by his lips as you sit him down and wipe away the splash of blood on his cheek.
you've had your own close run-ins with his foes - even after ajax made an example out of the first group that dared to touch a hair of you, the fatui's enemies pinpointed you as the weakness of the eleventh harbinger - a surefire way of getting under his skin and catching him by surprise.
"i'll protect you," he murmurs every so often in your ear at night, arms tightening around your waist as he buried his head in the crook of your shoulder, "i'll be your knight."
"i know, ajax," you've always whispered back, smoothing back ginger curls and leaving a tender kiss on his forehead.
so that's why you didn't second guess yourself and threw yourself in the line of an arrow heading towards him in his blind spot. a sniper perched in a tree that quickly slinked off when the arrowhead pierced the flesh of your shoulder and you cried out in pain.
the overwhelming sensation of pain overtakes all your senses, you can barely hear ajax call out your name and you don't register him catching you in his arms and frantically patting you on your cheek. the taste of blood fills your mouth and your eyes water at the sensation - and smell of iron in the air.
your vision fades to black.
"i'll keep an eye on them. thanks for coming around, doctor."
ajax's voice finally makes it over the noise and his face finally makes it into focus in your vision. you vaguely register that you're on a bed and you can't feel the entirety of your left side.
"ajax?" you manage to croak out. you hear frantic feet against the floor and his face pops into view, brows drawn together in worry. the bed creaks under his weight as he sits on the bed beside you, leaning over your body.
"the doctor said that most people usually take 3 hours to wake up," he mutters, and you manage to catch it as he scans over you with scrutiny.
"guess i'm not most people," you manage to raise your right arm to give him at quick tap on his hand, which immediately moves to grasps yours and give you squeeze.
"does it hurt?"
"not really. can't feel it at all, actually."
he lets out a satisfied hum, before his blue eyes turn steely again.
"what you did was stupid. why did you do that - for me?"
"hey," you muster enough strength to squeeze his hand back in response, "it goes both ways, ajax. if you were me, you would done the same."
he fumes, because he knows you're right. he would rather throw himself to the flames than to watch anyone hurt you, and he knows that if he starts scolding you all you would do is do the same thing back to him.
he settles for sighing, playing with your fingers.
"i only wish it didn't have to be that way. i'm sorry, it's all on me. i should've been better."
he places your hand on his cheek, feeling the warmth against his skin.
"ajax," you say softly as his eyes close, "i told you before - i chose to be with you. i knew what i was getting into. so don't say sorry, okay?"
you watch as he inhales, then exhales, again.
"you really are the best, you know?"
not my best work but i suddenly felt the urge. like or reblog if you enjoyed thank you~
summary: your fate, from the moment you were born, was already decided: you would die at the ends of someone who you once loved, in another life.
notes: 5.5k words, author's notes, angst, discussions of parent death, mourning, mentions of reader death, mentions of violence, examining cultural diaspora (reader has xianzhou heritage), one-sided crush from dan heng, your former lover has to kill you in every life
Your breath clouds in the cold, crisp air of early morning as you stand overlooking the Xianzhou Luofu, a home you don’t remember.
It should be home, though no matter how you strain for the warm feelings of nostalgia, nothing but the chill of winter seeps into your skin.
When you were little, your mother spoke of it like one, longing for osmanthus and oleander, orchid and peach blossoms, found on a fleet of ships flying through the stars. You bought her packets of oleander seeds with your allowance, told her you could plant a garden all your own here in the Northern Star Space Station you called home.
She planted the seeds, more for your sake than hers, but it never slaked the naked yearning in her face, no matter how many Xianzhou plants you cultivated in her room. If anything, the yearning only grew with each new blossom.
You couldn’t understand, not then, not now. Flowers were flowers. What made the ones grown here any different from the ones found on those ships? Biologically speaking, they were the exact same species. Hell, you even sourced seeds from the Xianzhou Luofu itself.
But you couldn’t say anything. It was your fault, after all, that she lived in exile. All you could do was turn the dirt in their narrow pots, set the hydraulic systems, and adjust the artificial sunshine warming the plants. Trying, in vain, to grow a home for your mother.
Dan Heng nudges you with his elbow, breaking you out of your thoughts. “Are you ready?” he says quietly.
“I’ll never be,” you say. “But we’re already here, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” he acknowledges. “We are.”
“Two war criminals returning to the scene of the crime,” you say teasingly. “We’ll see just how much of a bad idea this ends up being. Maybe if we’re lucky we’ll get matching cells in the Shackling Prison.”
“I don’t want to be cellmates with you,” he says, and you whack him in the back of the knee with your foot. He barely moves outside of rolling his eyes.
“Do you feel anything?” you say.
“From your kick? No. I recommend taking more sparring lessons.”
“I meant here,” you say impatiently, gesturing at the Xianzhou scenery. There’s a frosty quality to the architecture, something about the way the shadows wreathe everything in a quiet blue like the promise of future snowfall.
“No,” Dan Heng says. His voice is solemn now, the way it usually is, low, contemplative, and serious. “But I’m not supposed to remember anything. Do you?”
You press your hand to your chest, where a plain, white-clothed pouch rests under your clothing. You feel the shape of it against your heart, the ashy contents shifting without a complaint. “Not at all. But that’s how it is for all short-lived species, right? How are we supposed to remember our past lives?”
“Do you want to remember?”
“Do you?” you return.
“No.”
“Then you understand. We only have the here and now,” you say. “Let’s go. The sooner we finish, the sooner we leave.”
In the distance, the Luofu curves out of the sunlight like a dream, distant and strange. Hopefully, once you complete your mission, you’ll get to wake up from this place for good.
The streets of Central Starskiff Haven hum with life, each footstep and stray voice another note in its song. You and Dan Heng move discreetly down the streets. Even with your heavy clothing and fake identification, bought in some seedy online backroom for a steep price, there’s still the persistent fear that you’ll be recognized.
But some part of you can’t stop drinking in the sights around you. Students stopping by for afterschool snacks at street stalls, clutching egg waffles and toasted buns. Cycranes zipping through the air, packages clutched in their feet. Books with ink so fresh it’s still wet glittering enticingly in the open, full of characters you can’t make out.
After a lifetime of living in a different world, it’s alien to see so many people with features like yours, to hear people speak with your mother’s tongue, a language you have the most rudimentary grasp of. In another life, this would have been your home, and you’ve never felt more alone.
Dan Heng taps your shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” you say, tearing your eyes from the scenery. “It’s just not what I expected. I feel like a tourist.”
“Is that a bad thing to be? Neither of us really grew up here.”
“I don’t know. I just thought… I would feel a connection. This is where my mother was from. A past version of me was once born here. But there’s nothing. This is just another world, same as all the others we’ve gone to.”
“That’s surprisingly sentimental coming from you,” Dan Heng says. “Do you need to feel a connection to this place?”
“Yes? No? Maybe.” Your hand drifts to the pouch under your clothing again. The nervous habit makes you feel like a child, chasing after the trail of your mother’s skirt. “I thought it would make sense if I felt something. It was always such a big deal to other people that my family was from here, even if I technically wasn’t. And now I’m here, and it’s… no big deal at all.”
“Your relationship to this place is yours, and yours alone. No one else gets to decide what you should feel.” Dan Heng raps his knuckles along your cheek, a gentle, chiding gesture.
“Sorry for rambling.” You shake your head. “I know you don’t have the best memories here.”
You can’t call it a smile, but there’s a softness to the planes of his face, like the swaying leaves of a tree protecting someone from harsh sunshine. Everyone thinks Dan Heng is stoic, but that’s only because they haven’t taken the time to observe the miniscule changes in his expression, like you have.
He doesn’t comment on your staring, though it probably doesn’t go unnoticed. “It’s fine. Truth to be told, I’m having a hard time feeling anything, either. I always wanted to leave the Luofu, and once I did, I wanted to stay as far away as possible.”
“If it’s hard for you to be here, you can head back early,” you begin. “I’m not going to force you to come with me for my own selfish–”
“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t want to be here with you.”
“Now who’s the sentimental one?” You nudge him with your shoulder. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you’re fond of me.”
“A grave mistake on my part,” he says.
“Too bad. We’re in this together.”
“I know.” The back of his hand brushes against yours, knuckles grazing over your skin. You’re familiar with the shape of it; you’ve sparred with him so many times to the point you could map out the constellation of calluses and bruises on his hand.
It wasn’t in your plans to have a traveling companion when you first ran into him. But maybe it was fate, or a miracle, or some twisted joke that the two of you, of all people, ran into each other.
It was several years ago that you happened to land on a dusty planet at the same time, and while waiting for your next transport, you whiled the hours away with comfortable conversation, and then a quick spar once you noticed his weapon.
Whatever tension you might have felt melted away once you realized Dan Hen didn’t grow up in the Xianzhou Alliance. He might have been born there, but he didn’t consider himself as someone who belonged there. He was like you, so you didn’t have to explain yourself nearly as much as you would with a stranger with a connection to the place.
When you did inevitably run into someone from Xianzhou, they would start excitedly talking to you in the native language, before you had to stop them and tell them you hadn’t been raised there and had the language skills equivalent to a child, so you didn’t understand half the things they just said.
It was either the language, or their inevitable comments on your sword form, how they wondered where you learned it from, because it was just so different from any styles found in the Alliance. Then you would have to explain you were taught in a distant galaxy, so it wasn’t real Xianzhou swordplay at all.
Still. It wasn’t your plan to have anyone in your life at all, even if you got along with Dan Heng, not with your mother’s warnings always in the back of your mind. Anyone dragged into your fate would only end up unhappy.
Which is why, as cruel as it was, a part of you was relieved Dan Heng’s fate was just as unhappy as yours once he shared it with you. It means you couldn’t drag him down because he was already crawling in the mud with you, which meant it was safe to be around him. It was true then, and it’s still true now.
His hand brushes against yours again. You could take it, if you wanted. It would be so easy, too. To just lace your fingers together, like any of the happy lovers you see around you.
But you pull your hand aside as casually as you can, and he doesn’t try again.
“We can reach the Divination Commission from there,” Dan Heng murmurs, tilting his chin in what looks, to you, like a random direction.
“How did you know that? I thought you said you never got to explore the Luofu when you were here.”
“I didn’t. I just happen to be able to read the signs,” he says dryly.
You pout. You’re also a little envious of him in that regard; your mother had never taught you the language, and all you could recognize are a few miscellaneous words and your own name. “Then lead the way.”
Despite Dan Heng’s teasing, you wouldn’t consider yourself a sentimental person. So maybe it’s the atmosphere of the Luofu, or the pouch of ashes resting so close to your heart, but when you look at the landscape, all you can think about is your mother.
Growing up, your mother couldn’t help but try to make stories out of everything. You always chalked it up as a symptom of her age. She had lived centuries, could have raised dozens of children with lives as brief as yours and watched them die, all while without aging a single day.
Or maybe her proclivity for stories was because she had once been a respected diviner. She tracked the future, mapped it out with equations and charts, and could never take her eyes off the stars.
“People think the future is untameable, that fate will always have its way,” she lectured, steel in her eyes. “But it’s not.”
She said that often, but there was always a desperation to her tone. As if she would fall apart if she couldn’t believe it. It was your fault she lived that way, you knew that, even if she tried to pretend otherwise.
Your mother didn’t bother to hide the truth from you and told you about your fate and your past lives as matter-of-factly as if she was discussing the weather once you were old enough (which, on a space station, the weather was always unchanging).
This was not her first time calling you her child, even if it was, to you, the first time calling her mother. She had raised you so many times already, in all of your past lives, to try to change your fate. Hiding the truth. Running away. Begging for mercy. Anything to keep you alive. But it always ended the same way.
“Do you ever get tired of doing this?” You’d asked her, once, when you were still too young to know any subtlety.
There was a distant expression on her face, as if she was looking not at you, but all the versions of you she had ever raised, every past life superimposing on this one. She remembered it all while you remembered nothing, and there would always be that gulf between you, vast and deep and unnavigable.
“All long-life species get tired,” she said.
You had seen the photographs, too, disintegrating papers and old lightcones of children just like you, from centuries ago. Your mother kept them hidden, but not well enough to keep her memories out of the prying hands of a curious child.
It was strange to look at yourself, existing in lives you could not remember. Though, there were never any pictures of you past your early adulthood. The oldest version of you only managed to reach a respectable thirty some years.
And the photographs were all old. You remembered that. There were no pictures of you from the past century or so. At some point, your mother had stopped keeping track of your lives. That was why the only reason you could recognize your own face was by looking in the mirror, touching the glass lightly as if you could unravel all your past lives and memories.
But you weren’t the only one who forgot things. You had pointed at some advanced astronomical equipment in your mother’s lab a long time ago, where she tracked planetary rotations and the movement of stars, and asked what she would have called it in Xianzhou.
It was a simple game you played with her, one where her face would soften in a way it never did otherwise, and she would speak in a language as musical as river water pouring over stones. It’s a language she never bothered to teach you outside of the most basic words, so you delighted in hearing it from her. Pieces of your culture, that you always had to snuggle away in scraps.
“So you want to know what that’s called?” she said, a laugh already forming in her voice. “It’s…” Her face blanked, and the laughter died from her words. “It’s called...”
And your mother slowly turned her head to stare at the giant, black contraption, all smooth metal and clear glass plates, and watched it for a long moment.
“It’s been a long time,” she murmured. “So long.”
And she wasn’t speaking to you, not really. So you snuck out the door without her noticing. It was early signs of mara, perhaps, her age catching up to her. Or maybe it was the long exile from her home, causing her language to disintegrate because there was no one she could speak it with anymore.
She could have spoken it with you. You’re certain she taught it to some of your past lives. But in this life, all she wanted was to keep you away from Xianzhou, even if it was just from the culture.
No matter the reason, it was your fault. Your fault she couldn’t have an easy life, not even in her twilight years.
This is why this is all you can do for her as her child.
You and Dan Heng stand on a bridge, red guard rails stark against the pure blue sky, stretching into infinity.
You untie the pouch around your neck, soft cloth and warm leather, so much so like another heart. It has absorbed your body heat, because you haven’t taken it off for a second since you received it.
“Is this how Xianzhou funerals are supposed to go?” you say jokingly, slowly pulling the pouch open. Gray ash shifts inside, centuries of one life distilled into a simple pile. “My mother might be disappointed.”
“I don’t think so,” Dan Heng says. “But does it matter? It’s how you’re going to honor her.”
You could have read up on funerary rites and follow the customs written within, but it felt wrong. You have no personal attachment to those rites outside of a distant, clinical interest. Those aren’t really your customs, and neither did you want to repeat the rites from the space station where you grew up, because those weren’t your mother’s.
So this is the best compromise, something solely your own.
You fling the pouch so the ash arcs in a silver crescent as it falls, drifting away on the wind.
Again, and again, and again, until there’s nothing left of your mother, and every piece of her is finally back home.
“Hey! What are the two of you doing?” The voice is clear and loud, and even with your limited knowledge of Xianzhou language, you can make out exactly what it’s saying.
You and Dan Heng glance at each other as several Cloud Knights saunter up to you, weapons clutched tightly in their hands. There’s a child leading them, a frown on his face, but knowing how long the people live here, he’s probably older than you. Shit.
Dan Heng pulls the hood lower over his face as you stand in front of him, trying to casually shield him from view. He’s the most recognizable figure of the two of you, and damn it all if you get him in trouble.
The boy leading the Cloud Knights, with his long, blonde ponytail swinging, starts talking rapid-fire in your mother’s tongue so fast you can only make out a few of the words. When you only stare at him, he glances at the Cloud Knight next to him uncertainly.
“They’re foreigners,” the Cloud Knight says bluntly. “Not natives of Xianzhou.” He says this in a language common across space that you can understand. For your benefit, perhaps, but it still makes your cheeks flare with embarrassed warmth.
“Oh. I thought… they looked like…” The boy shakes his head. “Never mind. Foreigner or native, no one is allowed to litter here! What did you even throw?”
“Ashes,” you say. You can feel the stare of everyone on you, even Dan Heng’s. “It was a funerary rite for a family member who lived here a long time ago.”
“Be that as it may, you didn’t get authorization to–” one of the Cloud Knights begins, but the boy holds up a hand. He’s observing you, a little furrow to his eyebrows as he tilts his head.
He must come to some sort of conclusion, because he nods his head, and then gestures for the Cloud Knights to stand back with a flick of his wrist. “I know who these people are. I’ll take care of this.”
Your stomach drops at his confident tone. You’ve never seen this child before, but if he blows your cover, then you have no qualms about drawing your weapon on him.
“You may know who we are, but we don’t know you. Are you sure you aren’t mistaken?” Dan Heng says quietly. He’s shoulder to shoulder with you now, and the familiar tension of his shoulders lets you know that he’s ready to draw his weapon at any time.
“I’m Yanqing, and, to be fair, I only really know that one.” He points at you. “The general told me to be on the lookout if any guests looking like them came to the Luofu. He wants to talk with them personally.”
“The general?” you say faintly. Dan Heng places a steadying hand on the small of your back. You can’t look at anyone but Yanqing right now. “Who’s the general?”
“You don’t know? I’m talking about General Jing Yuan,” Yanqing says proudly.
Jing Yuan. You aren’t sure if you should scream, or cry, or laugh, so all you do is stand there blankly. You’ve heard that name so many times in your nightmares, in your mother’s pained voice as she clutched your shoulders like claws, that it sounds just like an old fairytale monster now.
“Don’t ever get near that man,” she said. “If you see him, you have to run. Survive, no matter what, do you understand?”
But no matter how you struggle, no matter what your mother did, there’s only one ending for you. Haven’t your past selves tried endlessly to escape? Haven’t you seen their failures etched into your mother’s face?
Because this man, Jing Yuan, will kill you. Like he has in every life before, and he will in every life after.
“Are you ready?” Yanqing says cheerfully.
You muster up a faint smile. The only thing keeping you from falling is Dan Heng’s touch, anchoring you with a solid reassurance. “I think so. Why don’t you show us the way?”
It won’t be a lie to say that you’ve spent almost all of your life waiting to see Jing Yuan in person. Each step you take towards the Seat of Divine Foresight feels like it lasts both an eternity and a moment.
“We could try to run,” Dan Heng says quietly. “If you don’t want to do this.”
You let out a short laugh. “There’s no point in running.”
Because unlike your mother, who lied to herself everyday, you refuse to cling to false hopes. Every road would lead to this, so even if you end up running, you would eventually make your way back here eventually.
You can barely focus on your surroundings when Yanqing ushers you into the building. All you can think about is him, that man. Where is he? Will he draw his weapon immediately? What sort of person is he, to make your mother curse him so?
Then you see him.
He’s standing by his desk, and his eyes are like a shot of golden sunlight, piercing through you, illuminating everything you are. It feels like he belongs here, waiting for you. Like he’s been waiting for you for a thousand years, and could wait a thousand more.
Jing Yuan. You don’t recognize him at all.
“General, I’ve brought the guest you said might show up,” Yanqing announces.
“Thank you, Yanqing,” Jing Yuan says. He keeps his gaze focused on Yanqing, but despite that, you can still feel the full weight of his attention.
Yanqing glances at you, and then back at the general. It’s obvious he feels some sort of tension in the air, but can’t place what it is. “If that’s all you need, then…”
“It is,” Jing Yuan says. It’s only when the patter of Yanqing’s reluctant footsteps fade that he finally acknowledges you. “Hello. This is the first time you’re meeting me, isn’t it?”
“It’s not your first time, though,” you return.
“No,” he agrees, “it’s not. How is your mother?”
“Dead. Your knights caught me dumping her ashes over the bridge.”
“I see.” He closes his eyes briefly. “Another old friend, gone. Was it the mara?”
“Yes,” you say. “I was the one who had to kill her.”
“That’s unfortunate. But she loved you very much; I’m sure she would have preferred it was you over anyone else.”
“She’s dead all the same.”
“How was she?”
“She was…” You bring a hand to your chest, but the pouch is no longer there. “She was tired.”
“It’s been a long few centuries. And your companion…” Jing Yuan turns his gaze to Dan Heng, who ducks his head awkwardly. Surprise flickers across his face; it’s the first emotion you’ve seen him express. “Ah. How surprising. I wonder if it’s fate that brings the two of you together.”
“Are you going to turn us in?” Dan Heng says. His voice is steady, but his hands are balled up into fists, his knuckles turning white. You place a gentle hand over one of his, and you feel him relax, just a bit.
Jing Yuan watches both of your hands with a distant sadness. “No. I don’t think it would do any good. Though it was rather risky for both of you to sneak here together.”
“There was no other way,” Dan Heng says.
“Maybe so.” Jing Yuan turns to his desk, running his hands over the stacks of papers. “Would you like some tea? I’ve been an inhospitable host, asking you questions without offering any refreshments.”
“No need. We’ll be leaving soon enough,” you say. You still feel nothing looking at this man. He’s beautiful, in the same way a broken piece of stained glass is beautiful, fragile and sharp and something you can never touch without hurting yourself. You understand how, in another life, you fell in love with him.
But in this life, he’s just a stranger.
“I understand,” Jing Yuan says.
“Are you going to get it over with?” you say bluntly. Dan Heng shoots you a warning look, but you take a step forward. Closer to Jing Yuan. Closer to your fate.
“Do you want it to be over so soon?” he says quietly.
“No. But you can’t fight fate, and you’ll be the one to end my life, eventually.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to cut you down so soon and so callously.”
“I don’t think either of us have a choice in the matter.”
“No,” he says, “we don’t.”
“And do you think it’s fair?” you say, the words tumbling from you before you even know what you’re saying. It’s all impersonal knowledge to you, your past lives, only made real by the heat of your resentment and nightmares. “That I have to be punished for something another version of me did, so long ago? I might have broken the rules by attempting to seek immortality, but that wasn’t me. It was a past life, which has nothing to do with who I am now.”
“The Ten-Lords Commission thought it was fair. For you to suffer the full consequences of your actions. A long life species would be punished for centuries. And this is how you could serve that same sentence.”
“But what about you?” you demand. “Do you care that I have to die by your hand when you’re nothing but a stranger to me?”
“What answer do you want?” he says mildly. “From me, as a general, or from me, as your former lover?”
There’s silence again. Jing Yuan is staring at you with that distant sadness again, but you don’t know if it’s you he’s looking at, or the countless versions of you that he’s known. It’s the same look your mother had when she looked at you. Though she tried to love you as best as she could, sometimes it felt like she was just going through the motions of a routine she had settled into.
Did Jing Yuan have the same look on his face when he killed you in all your previous lives? His hands are so clean. You can’t imagine your blood staining them.
Again, and again, and again. You, and Jing Yuan, and your mother, repeating this play without end.
“What if I killed you?” you ask.
“Do you want to?”
“Would it end this?”
“I’m not sure,” he says.
You look down at your shoes. “Why is it you? Were you chosen just to hurt me?” Or was it chosen to hurt him?
“No. It was…” He sighed. “There was no reason for it other than pragmatism. I’m sorry if that disappoints you. Your betrayal came shortly after Dan Feng’s actions, and I was assigned the task simply because I was close to both of you. So it was a way to ensure the trust of the rest of the Alliance, to prove I was fit for being Arbiter-General.”
You slowly wrap your arms around yourself. “Oh.”
Jing Yuan speaks again, and doesn’t look away from you. You would have hated him a little more if he did. “I’ve tried a lot of things over the centuries to try to spare you. Could I grant you a few more decades? But even if it’s indirectly, you would always die by my hand. If not by my guandao, then as collateral damage to my orders, or to my knights. Our fates are too entwined for a different path.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“It’s something I think you should know.”
“So you’re not going to try to find another way this time? You’ve given up?”
“It would not be right to close my eyes and let something else kill you,” he says. You might have been touched by his sense of honor if not for the fact it’s your death he speaks of like it’s unstoppable.
“Do you regret it, then?” you say.
It takes a long while for him to respond. When he does, all he says is, softly, “Regret? I’m unsure. All I know is that it has been a long, long time, and that I’m tired.”
It’s the same thing your mother might have said. “That’s all I have to say to you, then. If you hunt me down in this life, I hope you know I’ll fight back,” you say. “Because I am going to survive. No matter what.”
“I would expect no less. Good-bye for now, then.” Jing Yuan tilts his head at Dan Heng. “Good-bye to you as well, old friend. Do you not have any questions for me?”
“I do not, because I’m not the person you knew,” Dan Heng says curtly. “I’m only here to support them.”
“Of course,” Jing Yuan says. “I understand.”
For a brief moment, you wonder if you should spit out the words murderer, like you thought for so many sleepless nights when you thought about him. Curse his name. Take your sword out and run him through, here and now, before he can hurt you.
You catch his eye, and Jing Yuan smiles at you, like he knows your thoughts and welcomes you to do what you must. Would he still smile even if your blade is stained with his blood? Some part of you tells you that he will, just like your mother did.
You turn your head away, and the moment passes.
There’s still a few more hours left before your scheduled ride out of the Luofu, but neither you nor Dan Heng are in the mood to talk. You wander the streets aimlessly until it’s time to board, and retire to your own separate cabins.
Jing Yuan. You don’t know what to think. Your meeting is more anticlimactic than you could expect. There are no tears, no rage, nothing. Nothing but a distant, cool politeness. He is a stranger, after all. And he’s met you countless times; perhaps he’s even had the exact same conversation with another version of yourself.
What else could you say? The next time you see him, it would be at the end of his guandao.
It’s when the Xianzhou Alliance is only a speck behind you that you knock on the door to Dan Heng’s cabin, and enter when he says, “It’s open.”
“Are you okay?” you say immediately. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against his bed.
“I’m okay. Are you?”
You look at Dan Heng, and you burst into tears. All you can do is shake and hiccup as he hastily stands and gathers you into his arms, stroking your back with a hesitant, awkward hand. He doesn’t say anything, and you’re glad. Because you don’t know what it is you’re feeling, what it is that you want, what it is that’s happening.
You can understand why, in another life, some version of you had loved Jing Yuan so much you had willingly risked everything to be with him. Why your mother, who had adopted a short-lived species, went into exile with you, and divined your location in every life to find you, raise you, and try to save you. You can even understand why Jing Yuan might choose to be the one to end your life himself out of some sense of lingering love and honor.
But this is a tragedy, hundreds of years old, made for the entertainment of no one and the pain of everyone involved. How much longer? How much longer do you have to live on the run? How much longer do you have to be punished for the unpardonable sin of some past life? You’ve lost your home, your culture, your mother. In the next life, there will be no one to raise you and to teach you about your fate, so you’ll face Jing Yuan’s guandao in ignorant terror.
Again, and again, and again. The same pain, the same agony, the same death.
You don’t know if Jing Yuan or your mother loves you– loved you– or if they’re just chasing ghosts.
You couldn’t do anything to repay your mother, except to kill her and scatter her ashes in a home she never got to see, for hundreds of years, because of you. What life is that?
And you’re taking advantage of Dan Heng’s affections, too, because you’re afraid, because you’re weak, because you’re going to die.
The gentle way he holds you and comforts you wordlessly makes you cry all the more as you bury your face into his shirt, soaking the fabric.
“Dan Heng.”
“Yes?”
He looks at you with a tender dedication, and you know he’d run across the galaxy to the one place he never wanted to return to again for you, even if you don’t deserve it at all. So all you can do is tell him the very simple and quiet truth, your voice ragged by your tears. “I think I’m tired.”
various genshin (diluc, wanderer, kazuha, xiao) x gn! reader. various things that happens after moving in together.
diluc: the space is filled
despite all the servants, diluc used to coming home to an empty and eerie mansion after his nights as the darknight hero. but now you're always greeting him at the door (no matter how late it is - you seem to have a sixth sense when it comes to when he's coming back) and he feels like he can actually relax as you guide him through his night routine. even in the mornings, when it is usually quiet as he flips through the delivered newspapers and stack of papers, he can hear you humming the latest song you heard from one of the traveling bards or your laughter as you chat to the housemaids about new gossip. the cracks in the walls get filled with chatter and noise thanks to you, and it makes him feel warm.
wanderer: taking up space
you gotta cram two people's stuff into his flat now, and that means taking over stuff and space that was always just his. he finds it a bit inconvenient at first - he reaches for his coffee mug only to find your's there, and his mug has been re-situated into another cabinet because "it's a different shape!". he can't find his moisturiser because YOUR skincare products have invaded his counter space and he just sighs. morning routines are ruined and the way things are placed that made sense to him are completely irrelevant to you. eventually he gets used to the reminders of you everywhere, like it was always there. he even starts reminding you where you placed something, like when you can't find your keys and he tells you its on the counter next to his.
kazuha: picking furniture together
he adds anything he finds 'aesthetic' and that calls out to him into the cart, and ends up with a eclectic mix of fabrics, textures, and woods that would send any self-respecting interior designer into a coma. even he admits he might've been a little too overboard, and eventually he settles with picking a few of his favourites and letting you handle the rest while he hovers behind you like a busy bee. grows giddy at the thought of creating a space that just feels like the both of you - his mind constantly running with thoughts of domestic bliss like cooking together and relaxing in the sun, the smell of freshly brewed tea in the air and the wind in your hair.
xiao: two of everything
xiao is used to being alone, and has been for a really long time, and old habits die hard. he struggles to adjust initially when you finally move in with him. keeps forgetting to make two cups of tea in the morning instead of just one, and grumbles and angrily scrubs at the plates about doing twice as much washing up but snaps at you when you offer to do it. but he gets used to it and thinks that being able to curl up next to you at the end of the day far outweighs any extra trouble he has to go through. he grows soft and starts thinking of you whenever he's out - bringing back flowers that brighten up your living room and ornaments that reminded him of you.
if you finished & liked it, please consider liking and reblogging ~ thank youuu
