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Chapter Text

When the Tsaritsa learns of the last living child from the fallen nation, her eyes glimmer like the stars her kind capsized in fear of a revolution. She is a pretty little thing, with diamonds in her ears and on her throat, and her lilac hair spirals into ice-blue curls around her shoulders. Gripping the hands of her throne when she hears the news, she leans forward. 

"I want him." She announces. 

Her guards glance at each other, then at the remaining ten of the Harbingers. The messenger steps forward. "Your Highness, this child killed Sandrone and obstructed Dottore's plan to take Mondstadt's resources."

(There is a heavy sigh from Signora, who rolls her eyes. "At this point, just say children." 

She frowns coldly at Dottore, who gives her a mocking smile and childishly jabbers back at her in a poor mimic of her words. As the messenger continues, the Fair Lady steps on his foot.)

"It's too dangerous, Your Highness. The boy could have ulterior motives." The messenger finishes, his hand over his heart. 

Something crackles in the air, and the temperature in Zapolyarny Palace drops ten degrees, frost cracking on the glass chandelier. As the Tsaritsa gazes down on the poor idiot who dared to raise an opinion against her after hearing such a direct request, her face twitches. 

"Is there snow in your ears, you fool? I said I wanted him. It's as simple as that. Pantalone, make him go away." 

Pantalone touches the arm of her throne. "My dear, if we do that, we'd have to send another messenger to Mondstadt to tell them this one is dead and then have another one come here to tell us the situation and bring the child back. Overall, it's a bit of a hassle." 

A flicker of understanding passes the Tsaritsa's face. Clicking her tongue, she waves her hand in the vague direction of the door and banishes the messenger from her sight. As she sits back on her throne, a smile sharp as a knife glimmers on her face. Pantalone softens slightly, a grin settling on his own. 

"Tartaglia, step forward." The Tsaritsa says, and a gangly, scarred teenager stumbles forth, pushed by Scaramouche. He's a fine weapon, she thinks, but still a sword with no polish. "Do you know what Khaenri'ah is?" 

He shakes his head, much to her displeasure, and his mouth stays firmly shut. Signora mutters a curse under her breath, checking a golden pocket watch impatiently as the other Harbingers all show signs of chronic tedium. It's always the same with little Tartaglia. The Tsaritsa sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Use your words, Tartaglia." 

"N-No." He stutters, shuffling his feet like a kicked puppy. 

"Again!" She barks. 

Wincing up at her, the tawny-haired boy stops fidgeting. "No, Tsaritsa, I do not." 

(Pulcinella gives him a thumbs-up, and Tartaglia seems to take it in stride, puffing out his chest proudly.) 

"Well done, Tartaglia." She pauses, most likely for effect. The Tsaritsa is nothing if not extravagant. "Khaenri'ah was a nation felled by the gods after they tried to overthrow us. Those Ruin Guards that you love to demolish so much are their own creations, weapons of war that now roam freely without the command of their creators. The people of Khaenri'ah who failed to escape their eternal punishment now walk the earth as monsters. The rest of them are now banished somewhere beneath the ley lines of this world."

Nodding, Tartaglia blinks, cocking his head to the side in curiosity. "But the boy who killed Sandrone is not?" 

"That's right," She nods, leaning her chin on her hand. "Perhaps, if he incapacitated our poor, fallen comrade, he might stand a chance against you, my little Harbinger."  

When the messenger returns, only a pair of the Harbingers are present. Steadily tapping his foot, Pantalone rolls a golden coin over his knuckles and into the palm of his closed hand, and he repeats the gesture, much to Scaramouche's endless fury. The boy's red-rimmed eyes twitch around the room in agitation, and his fingers drum on his wrist, hands tucked behind his back. Both of them pretend not to see Tartaglia hiding behind a pillar, craning his neck to see the boy being escorted to the Tsaritsa. The Archon can't see him, he assumes, and so he is safe from where he is as the boy is thrown to his knees in a kneel. 

"State your name and house, boy." She orders, cold dripping from her voice. 

In silent protest, the kid stares directly up at her, his long, blue hair covering one side of his face. There are nasty burns on his hands, the skin raw and painful-looking as the cuffs on his wrists scuff against them. He looks to be about Tartaglia's age, with skin the color of fine mahogany and eyes like stars. 

The Tsaritsa frowns, her fingers tightening around her glittering throne. "Do not even dare to make me repeat myself. I know what you are, boy, and I will not hesitate to use it against you." 

"Very well, Your Majesty," He says, a voice like warm honey and spiced tea dripping from his tongue. "I am Kaeya, son of Crepus Ragnvindr." 

Kicking him in the stomach, a guard presses the toe of his boot into a tender spot above his hip, easing a groan of agony out of him. "Do not lie to the Tsaritsa! Who is your family?" 

Tartaglia watches the boy in awe as he grins up at the guard, even though pain is clearly written on his face. There isn't a single ounce of fear in his body, it seems. He watches on as Pantalone steps forward, raising a hand in interruption. 

"If I may, Your Majesty?" He asks, and begrudgingly, the Tsaritsa slumps back, drumming her fingers on the arm of her throne. 

Whispers float around the tall chamber of the throne room, the high ceiling and cold walls unable to catch anything understandable, but the Khaenri'an boy's eyes widen. He turns his head to the side, glancing up at Pantalone in a flurry of emotions that Tartaglia can't analyze. There is a pause, and Pantalone steps back into place next to Scaramouche by the stained glass windows. 

"I am Kaeya, Tsaritsa, and I am of House Alberich, only heir to the Star Sovereign dynasty." He admits through clenched teeth, and his hair falls away from his face to reveal an eye the color of an inky, starless sky. Tartaglia flinches from behind the pillar as Kaeya looks at him piercingly, his mouth set in a grim line. Although his breath freezes in his chest, the Khaenri'an boy doesn't say anything, his eyes sliding back to the Tsaritsa. 

The Archon grins, and she dismisses the guards immediately, calling on the two Harbingers at her side to get the boy to his feet, saying something about initiation and contracts. At this point, if Tartaglia keeps this up, he knows he's going to get caught. As he slips behind the pillar, his eyes meet Kaeya's once more, and the boy gives him a wink, the hint of a smile playing on his face.  

Chapter Text

Pantalone is a kind man, but he is not a good man. He spoils the Tsaritsa with gifts and lavishes fellow Harbingers with expensive trinkets, prized artworks, or foreign delicacies to gain their affections and loyalty. And he even treats his ward like a son. In his own words, "money buys you everything, even friends." 

Kaeya stays under his wing for the first ten months, turns seventeen in the snowy, harsh lands of Snezhnaya, and is treated kindly enough that he doesn't consider fleeing back to Mondstadt. As if they would take him back, anyway. Diluc made sure of that. Kaeya knows that there will never be any place for him to call home while he walks this earth, and therefore, he tries not to let his roots spread. 

Zapolyarny Palace is a place of grandeur, with towering spires that stretch into snow-filled clouds, interweaving passages from each pinnacle that all feed into the throne room like veins to a heart. He is free to go as he pleases within the innermost workings of the Fatui headquarters, even though he really only frequents the library and his own room, occasionally paying a visit to Pantalone for a game of cards. While he gets his ass kicked at poker, the Harbinger tells him stories of his childhood in Fontaine, where he says Kaeya would have flourished. 

"They like charmers like you," He says, flicking a chip up into the air and catching it, letting it walk over his fingers and into his waiting palm.

Kaeya watches intently, tapping the edge of his card absentmindedly. "I hardly think of myself as a 'charmer.' Slow down for a moment?" 

Blinking, Pantalone looks down at his hand, then repeats his trick more deliberately, glancing back to see Kaeya recreate it almost perfectly. A grin spreads across the Harbinger's face. "Well, well, well. Would you look at that? Quite the talent you have there, Kaeya." 

"I guess," Kaeya shrugs, flicking the poker chip up into the air repeatedly, then catching it before it hits the table. "You do it so often that I just picked it up." 

Kaeya writes letters to Diluc. He never sends them, but he writes them all the same, each in varying stages of grief, anger, sorrow, and satisfaction. In his most recent letter, he speaks of the training Pantalone tries to slip underneath his nose, even though both of them have figured out the game the other is playing. Pantalone chases him to join the Harbingers, Kaeya loops him in circles to stay off the field and out of the others' sights. He avoids the other Harbingers like the plague, knowing he'll piss one of them off somehow and get an ugly scar to show for it. The burns on Kaeya's arm have mostly faded, but in the places they were the worst, like the handprint around his wrist, the skin is silvery and raised. The nasty one that snakes around his waist won't ever heal properly. Kaeya knows that, so he's stuck with an unsightly memory of the time he betrayed the family he was never really a part of. 

Sealing the wax on the envelope and waiting for it to dry, Kaeya stares out of his window, watching the snow fall in flurries onto the spire of Zapolyarny. It coats the palace like fondant icing, thick and clean despite the stonework's best efforts to be too complicated to let snow stick to it. A knock on his door rouses him from his thoughts. For a moment, he thinks about ignoring it, making whoever was behind that cold slab of wood wait, and maybe they'll just go away. Because he's a coward, Kaeya calls for them to come in. As the doorknob turns, Kaeya stacks up the letters and returns them to the box that Pantalone brought him from Liyue. The box in question is inlaid with pearls, and the image depicts a crane flying over Liyue harbor, a golden sun on its back. The key is kept in the inside pocket of Kaeya's shirt. Scaramouche opens the door, standing in the threshold awkwardly, as if he doesn't really know what to do with his hands. Flashing him a charming smile, Kaeya leans back in his chair, screwing the lid of his ink bottle shut. 

"Good morning, Balladeer." 

Tipping his hat, Scaramouche looks around Kaeya's room with shameless curiosity. Having never been one for tact, the dark-haired boy has always been straightforward with Kaeya, much to the latter's liking. "Come walk with me." 

Adjusting the furs draped over his shoulders to block the wind, Kaeya roams the courtyard of Zapolyarny Palace, watching the snow settle on the fountain's frozen water, twisted into artworks by Signora. He's seen her, every night, toying with her art and creating masterpieces that are each more different than the last. Today, it's butterflies. (Out of fear of death, he avoids touching the sculpture, instead choosing to snap ice-locked flowers down from the trees hanging over the snow-covered garden as he waits for Scaramouche to say something.)

"The Tsaritsa wants you to be her Harbinger." The boy says, staring out at the peaceful garden with an excellent poker face. 

Kaeya doesn't bother to turn around. "Does she? Why would she want that?" 

"You killed Sandrone a year and a half ago, and work has been difficult without her. Liyue and Mondstadt aren't cooperating, and it's safe to say that we are severely understaffed." Scaramouche's breath clouds the air, and he stares out into the snow. "When she asks, can I count on you to say yes?"

"How confident in my loyalty to the Harbingers are you, Balladeer? How do you know if I'm not simply scheming to kill the Tsaritsa in vengeance for my fallen kingdom?" 

Scoffing, Scaramouche lets out a lazy grin. "If you wanted her majesty dead, you'd have found a way to kill her by now. You're not stupid, Kaeya, so don't pass up this chance."

The taller boy only hums noncommittally, examining a frozen blossom in the palm of his hand. 

The throne room is quite possibly Kaeya's least favorite place in the palace. The high ceilings and intricately carved archways are beautiful, but if you aren't careful, your whispers can be heard from anywhere in the hall. Secrecy and confidentiality aren't easy to maintain underneath the icy gaze of the Tsaritsa, even when she herself is lying to you. Perhaps that cold, indifferent stare is why Kaeya cracks, kneeling at the foot of her throne, presented with a gem that holds the power of a thousand winds, even if it doesn't stem from Barbatos himself. The Anemo Archon, whose land he infiltrated and nearly destroyed from the inside out, his power is recreated here, stored in that little sea-green gem. He looks up at her through his eyelashes, the irony of the Delusion unwasted on him. 

"Swear your loyalty to me, and it's yours." She says simply. "I will not bore you with the spiel that you're expecting." 

He glances at Pantalone, who nods slowly, the flash of a gold coin in the air while Scaramouche watches intently from his place beside Dottore, who narrows his scarlet eyes in incredulous suspicion as Kaeya gets to his feet. Tartaglia doesn't utter a sound, but his brow is furrowed in thought.

"Very well, then," Kaeya announces. 

Chapter Text

"Again!" Pulcinella barks, the feather of his turban bobbing in the cold winds of the Snezhnayan winter. 

Sighing, Tartaglia raises the bow, nocking an arrow and breathing in through his nose. He's cold, the slashes on his forearms from where the shaft has loosed too close to his wrist, drawing a raised red line along his pale skin, and he's hungry. All in all, if he had the chance to leave this hellish training session with his mentor, he would pour every single drop of effort into his escape. 

"If you want that mask and that Delusion, I want you proficient in any weapon under the sun, do you hear me?" Pulcinella howls again, twirling his mustache as he paces beside the range. 

Gritting his teeth, Tartaglia furrows his brow, focusing on the target. He exhales slowly, willing his arrow to sink through the middle of the target so he can go inside and get in that steaming bath Pulcinella had the maids prepare for him. The carrot and stick method always worked wonders, even if Tartaglia knew what his guardian was doing. "He's a simple boy with simple needs" is what Pulcinella says when Signora brings up the topic of spoiled children. 

It's insulting, really, being called a child. He is sixteen, two years out of the Abyss and a year out of the Snezhnayan Cavalry. Pulcinella promised him an honored place by the Tsaritsa's side as a Harbinger, but only if he speaks the language of violence in every accent and is more versatile than the water he commands. In simpler times, before he can truly become Tartaglia, he must learn how to use every weapon Pulcinella has in his collection. It's tedious, especially with the damned bow, but he is determined to become someone more than Ajax. Ajax, the stutterer, the fool, the weak. The arrow flies from his fingers, the bowstring snapping taut. 

When he opens his eyes, it's lodged a hand's width apart from the center of the target, which is an improvement. Sighing, Pulcinella shakes his head, the large plume attached to his turban following the movements of his forehead. 

"Oh, Archons, Tartaglia, go get in the bloody bath. You're not making any progress if you're shaking like a leaf." He mutters. "Where's your bloody coat? Your shirt? Don't tell me you're trying to look tough for the others, now." 

Indignant, Tartaglia turns his nose up into the air. "That's not true! Who cares what the new recruit thinks?" 

A small pat on his shoulder brings him out of his annoyed pout. "Well done. No stutter there."

Gleaming with pride, the ginger-haired boy grins. "I told you I was getting better! It's usually only when Tsaritsa talks to me, anyway. I never feel good enough when she looks at me." 

"Well, boy, no one does." Pulcinella admits, "But anyway, you're going to lose a finger if you're still practicing out here. Go back inside and warm up." 

Untying the Inazuman archery gear around his arms, Tartaglia meanders through the corridors, picking up snippets of information as he goes. Not only does he find out that Signora is under fire for using Pantalone's funds for her strict beauty regimen, but he also gains the knowledge of what the staff is whipping up in the kitchen for the feast tomorrow night. He grins as the thought of stuffed fowl and calamari dance around his head, nearly slamming into a pillar masquerading as a person. With a hard exhale, they fall, a stack of letters scattering over the marble floor. 

"Whoops," Tartaglia says, offering the person a hand up. "Sorry 'bout that." 

Staring up at him from the floor, the newest Harbinger-to-be leans back on his elbows, cobalt hair spilled loose around his shoulders. For a moment, Tartaglia almost wishes that it was Pantalone who took a shine to him, seeing as the clothes his ward is wearing are fit for a prince. What he would give to be spoiled like Kaeya, who glares up at him with a single, piercing silver eye. 

"Thanks." He says, taking the hand offered to him. "Nice arm-warmers." 

As the Khaenri'an boy sweeps the letters up, Tartaglia frowns, looking down at his arms in shock. Embarrassment creeps down the back of his neck in the form of a red flush, and he frowns.

"H-Hey!" He swallows the rest of his words before he can continue, but it doesn't really matter; Kaeya is off around another corner, Fontais clothes sweeping behind him. 

A small envelope on the floor catches Tartaglia's eye, and the ginger-haired boy picks it up gingerly, eyeing the seal with suspicion. If he's only allowed a limited amount of letters, why does Kaeya get so many? Jealousy burns in his chest like acid, and he wonders why Kaeya seems to get so many benefits even though he's only been here for a year. Tartaglia was offered a position before him. Tartaglia has a codename, even if he's waiting to earn his badge and mask, but even that came after two years after Pulcinella noticed him. This new kid was offered one a mere ten months after arriving in Zapolyarny Palace. Even worse, he knows which element his Delusion is. He's seen it. 

Tartaglia pockets the letter and heads to his quarters, his mind whirring like the innermost cogs of a well-oiled clock. 

The water sloshes against his back as he leans forward in the bathtub, the salts sprinkled into the foam now dissolved and fragrant in the steam. Tartaglia's fingers skim over the paper of the letter, wondering if he should open it. Judging from the number of letters he had, he doubts Kaeya would miss only one, and so the wax seal on this letter would have to perish in order for Tartaglia to learn its secrets. The wax comes off of the paper easily without a tear. 

Unsurprisingly, Kaeya's penmanship is impeccable. Devoid of any stray splatters of ink, it's the cleanest letter that Tartaglia has seen in a while. As he skims over it, a few words pop out to him. There's something about Kaeya's father, his homeland, that he's sorry, and a name. 

"Diluc," He tries it out on his tongue, and it echoes around the room like the ringing of a bell. (He's never really liked names from Mond. They're either too guttural or they sound like desserts.)

It's a Mondstadtian name, he notes again, repeating it dumbly in his head. For a brief moment, Tartaglia thinks that Kaeya has been a spy all along and is now delivering letters of Snezhnaya's plans to the enemy. It's when he sees the note above the letter's contents, underlined hurriedly. It reads, "do not send under any circumstances. You know what he'll do."

The feeling of shame washes over Tartaglia's mind like a waterfall, and he leans his chin on his knees, wrapping an arm around his shins. These letters are either to a close friend or a lover of Kaeya's, seeing how they're addressed to "My dear Diluc," and not a simple "Diluc." 

I'm a horrible person, Tartaglia decides, but I'm going to keep reading anyway. He can't get much worse than this, he supposes.

Chapter Text

The tea in Signora's teacup trembles as if some great beast is wandering the halls of Zapolyarny, and she tries to will it motionless again. Her attempts are in vain, of course, but the Fair Lady is nothing if not determined. Bringing it to her lips, she peers over the top of it at her companion, who slowly flicks through a book. As they lean their face on their hand, Capitano's emerald eyes flick upward to gaze at the chandelier, watching it shake as someone storms through the room over theirs. 

A muffled shout makes itself known, and the culprit for the spilled spot of tea on Signora's lap is revealed. "Tartaglia, you measly little shit! Turn and face me before I rip out your spinal cord and make you eat it!" 

"That's physically impossible!" Tartaglia squeaks, and the sound of a shelf falling slams against Capitano's ceiling. "Oh my Gods, no, hold on -" 

There is a shriek of terror and the sound of Kaeya presumably making good on his promise to force Tartaglia's spine down his throat. Perhaps not as successful as he hopes, though. Letting out an amused giggle, Capitano licks the pad of their thumb, turning the page.

"There is never a dull day in this palace when we have our dear little Tartaglia here to entertain us." They muse, suddenly deciding that their book is dull and tossing it over their shoulder. (There is a growing pile of items that Capitano has grown decidedly bored of, growing by the hour. Their attention span is short, and their brief obsessions are intense. Pantalone is desperate to find them a hobby that isn't recycling his expensive gifts.) 

Huffing with indignance, Signora sets her teacup down. "Children. Mere children, the both of them. Mezzetino is bearable when he wants to be, but Tartaglia is a toddler on mist pollen." 

"Is that his name, now?" Capitano examines the golden hooks strapped to their fingers, the slow sound of metal against metal as they drum the claws on their palm. "How cute." 

The Liyuean Harbinger glances quickly at their companion, not even bothering to hide their smirk as Signora nearly snaps her teacup in half. The blonde looks up at nothing in particular, staring off in fury as she grinds her teeth. "He's so infuriating! All of that fake charm, that sleaziness behind the smile, Gods, if only I had gotten to him first. Pantalone can take the most promising students and turn them into carbon copies of himself!" 

"You're just mad because Pantalone keeps buying the best gifts for his ward instead of you, now," Capitano says, getting up to sit on the brocade chaise lounge, placing a hand on Signora's forearm. "You're jealous, Signora. Admit it." 

Signora reaches over, toying with one of the two long strands of hair that isn't cropped close to Captiano's skull, then gives it a harsh yank, eliciting a yelp from their mouth. "Save it for someone else, Capitano. I am not in the mood for your little games." 

"Ophelia," They whine, rubbing their head. "How cold! No wonder the Tsaritsa likes you more than me." 

"Mezzetino, care to explain why you were trying to make Tartaglia eat a first-edition copy of the Fatui Recruit's Handbook?" Pantalone sits back in his chair, his fingers steepled together under his chin. 

A still-breathless and scratched-up Kaeya stares defiantly at his guardian. "I wasn't trying to make him eat it." 

"Do you know how much those are worth, Kaeya?" Pantalone sighs, getting up to look out the window with a troubled expression on his face. "If it were ruined, I'm not sure what I would do." 

"He read through my mail! That's literally illegal!" 

Making a noise of utter indignation, Tartaglia looks at both of them with the face of someone who has never been more insulted in his life. "Uh, if my teeth were ruined, I'm not sure what I would do, either!" 

As Kaeya flashes him a dazzling smile, he leans close to the ginger-haired boy. "Hush, now, dear Tartaglia. The adults are speaking." 

The door swings open, and in comes Dottore with a medical briefcase tucked under his arm and a sour expression underneath his mask. Not even bothering to look at either of them, he strides right up to Pantalone, dropping the case unceremoniously on the desk. A moment of silence passes in which Dottore stares daggers into the back of his head, arms crossed over his chest in seething fury. 

"The next time your twinky little ward," He hisses, provoking a hacking cough from Kaeya, "decides to attempt bloody murder during my working hours, I'm going to punt you into the sun. Do you hear me, Florentine?" 

Pinching his brow, Pantalone turns around, his hand running down his face to rub against his bearded jaw. Kaeya frowns, muttering under his breath.

"Tough talk coming from you, Doctor." 

"Doc, please, sew his mouth shut with medical stitches and call it a day." Tartaglia whines, giving the teenager beside him a look that could curdle milk.  

With a snap of his gloves, Dottore shoos Pantalone from his own office, opening up his briefcase with a malicious kind of glee, pulling out long, wicked-looking scissors and needles, bottles with ominously scribbled out labels, and numerous shades of scratchy gauze bandages. Tartaglia swallows. Dottore isn't known for his use of anesthetics. His attempts to pull out the shards of glass, china, and wood from both boys would likely be a painful process. The only comfort that the two have is that the other will be going through the same suffering. 

Before Dottore gets started, Tartaglia turns to Kaeya, a final weapon playing on his lips. "So, who's Diluc?"

Chapter Text

"Tell me about your family," Capitano demands, their claymore shattering the ground around Kaeya's feet. Rocks fly into the air, hovering there like they're suspended by invisible strings. The golden Vision on Capitano's stomach gleams with a healthy, honey-like glow.

The dark-haired boy leaps to the side, narrowly avoiding another ground-splitting strike from the older person's sword. "Don't have any." 

As he lunges forward, aiming for Capitano's chest as they slow down to heave their greatsword from the old banquet hall's marble floor, he slashes at their ribs with a sword lined with hoarfrost. A curse falls from their scarlet lips, and they stagger backward, clutching at the torn fabric of their jacket. 

"Damn, you lie pretty well, kid. What about that old guy, Ragin- Raving-"

Kaeya wipes his nose with the sleeve of his jacket, the cold permeating through the thick stone walls as the snow came down in heavy flurries outside. "Crepus Ragnvindr. Not my father." 

"Oh?" Capitano asks, spitting blood onto the spotless floor. It shines like a newly polished mirror. Signora will have their heads for using it for combat, but the both of them know that she'll forget when Pantalone comes back from Sumeru with a new mink scarf destined to be worn only once and admired for the rest of its existence. "Why did you claim to be his son, then?" 

Flicking ice from his blade, Kaeya widens his stance once more as Capitano charges him, stumbling to the side as the wide blade carves a wide gash into his shin. He hits the marble floor hard, unable to put weight on his right leg, and he flips himself over, groping blindly behind him for his sword. Alarms blaring loudly in his head, Kaeya's tongue is heavy in his mouth, and Capitano's grin is far too malicious to be friendly. They've already crossed the line that the two of them had agreed upon. This kind of fighting is too aggressive for training, and Kaeya feels his throat close up as Capitano's grip on their sword doesn't slacken. 

The wound below his knee cuts deep and long, the glistening of a bloodied bone staring up at him through the rip in his leather pants. Glancing upward, Capitano saunters over, the sound of their heeled boots echoing through the empty hall, and they laugh heartily. 

"See? Distracted." They jeer. "It was too easy. You'll never become a Harbinger, fool." 

Gone is the friendly, devil-may-care Capitano, who playfully offered a short sparring session while the snowstorm ravaged the palace, and now, a cruel, malicious warrior stands above Kaeya. They flick the blood from their golden claws, then slam their sword into the floor by Kaeya's head, kneeling down to take his chin in their hand. 

"You see, my little princeling, I know who you are." They hiss, their lips glossy and blood-red. "Do you know how many people would kill to have even a strand of your fucking hair as a trophy? Gods, what I'd do for a pound of your flesh." 

They giggle, and a wide grin spreads across their face, their eyes gleaming chartreuse with a light that sends a chill down Kaeya's spine. At this moment, he realizes that perhaps he's made a mistake. The pain starts to kick in, and his movements are sluggish because this fucker has slit his leg down the middle, and, oh, Gods, he's going to die here. All of this, this stupid fucking game of cat and mouse, all of it was nothing but a mistake. He should never have killed that damned Sandrone. Diluc could have fended for himself, and it's clear that he doesn't need Kaeya the way Kaeya needs him. Without Diluc, Kaeya is a shadow in the dark. Useless. There is nothing special about him, even with his fancy Vision. 

Capitano gingerly severs the tie on his eyepatch with their claw, squealing in delight as Kaeya blinks, adjusting to the light shed upon his eye. "Oh, this is going to be such a gorgeous prize, little princeling. If you're good, I'll knock you out before I pull it out." 

Kaeya decides that no, he will not be "good." He bites Capitano with his remaining strength, relishing the sudden shock on their face. They yelp in pain, and the skin underneath the dark-haired boy's canines snaps under pressure, the taste of blood filling his mouth like gone-off wine. 

"You little shit!" They screech, grabbing a fistful of his hair. "Oh, I'm going to mess up your pretty little face so bad that your -" 

With a loud slam, the doors are thrown open, a sheet of ice shooting across the marble floor, and the air freezes. Ice creeps up the soles of Kaeya's boots and dances along his fingertips, but it doesn't sting with frostbite as it does with Capitano's hands. They hiss, drawing back their already wounded hand from the floor, whipping around to face the figure in the door. As all color drains from their face, the room drops yet another twenty degrees, and Kaeya's breath clouds in the air, his blood crystalizing into icicles before it hits the frosty floor. 

Decked out in pale whites and blues, the Tsaritsa stalks across the ice she created, her heels clicking against the floor as she walks. Soundlessly, she outstretches her hand, and Capitano flies into the air, then shoots towards her, hovering above the cold mirror below the Archon's feet. 

"What in all seven Hells," The Tsaritsa utters, "do you think you're doing?"

Capitano flails like a fish on a hook. "Highness, I meant nothing by it. This is the nature of Snezhnaya, no? I am simply doing what I must -"

"'What you must,' you say? Don't lie to me, Guiying, I made you what you are. I can just as easily snap you into a thousand fractals and wear you on my head like a crown made of your frozen entrails." 

Kaeya can only stare up at the two of them, his blood steadily freezing pink over the sheet of ice over the hall's marble floor. With a final, bloodless stare, the Tsaritsa releases Capitano from her icy hold, letting them crumple onto the floor in shame and fear. She beckons to Kaeya, only to realize that his leg has been cleaved into. 

"Oh, Capitano, you utter buffoon." She mutters, and with a flick of her wrist, Kaeya finds himself being dragged through the air, snowflakes crystalizing on his eyelashes. "I will let Pantalone deal with you." 

When Tartaglia asks about Diluc, the only person he would consider as someone he cared about, his eyes flare with rage. Dottore looks up from where he's sifting through many dubious-looking medical tools, his magic slowly working through the pair's veins, then rolls his carmine eyes with boredom. 

"If you try to make him eat a book again, I'm not even going to stop you, but when he gets a good grip on your neck, you're going to wish I did." The man groans and Kaeya scoffs. 

"Really?" He jabs a thumb at the ginger-haired boy. "This guy? I'm not even that muscly, but I could take him." 

Amidst Tartaglia's utterly offended stammering, Dottore sets down a wicked-looking syringe, leaning on the desk. "You obviously haven't seen him in battle. Our dear little Childe is a fucking menace, especially when he really gets into it. You wouldn't believe the number of new recruits he's sent crying to me." 

Realizing this is a battle he can't win, Kaeya leans back in his chair, adjusting his arms to keep the odd-looking device that Dottore referred to as an "IV_Drip_Prototype_125" from retracting from his wrist. A moment of silence passes through the room like a chill, and Kaeya looks to the window, drumming his fingers lightly on his arm. 

"Diluc's an old friend." He says quietly, and Tartaglia looks up at him, almost shocked. 

Leaning his elbows on his thighs, he inclines forward, a pensive expression on his face. "Did you care about him?

Kaeya's eye clouds over with nostalgia. "I used to." 

It's a lie, of course. Kaeya'd never admit how much he missed the boy he grew up with, who would move mountains to save his friends and family, but whose friends and family would hesitate to do the same. Crepus wasn't fast enough, and so he fell. Right up until the last minute, he promised that everything would be okay. The lie was the final word on his dying lips. That lie was enough to break Diluc. All he needed to descend further into that bitterness, that spiral of apathy and sharp sorrow, was ice in his wound. 

Kaeya grips his sleeve, chewing at his lip as he watches the snow fall outside the window. Telling the truth would only get him hurt; he knows that. After the brush with Capitano a year ago and the handprint of scar tissue on his wrist, he's learned his lesson. 

"What's he like?" Tartaglia asks quietly, and Kaeya decides that he's easier to deal with when he's being a little shit. 

"Dead." The dark-haired boy states matter-of-factly. Tartaglia blanches slightly, leaning back. From behind the desk, Dottore scoffs slightly. "To me, at least." 

It's another lie, but Kaeya's learned to stop caring at this point.

Chapter Text

"I don't pick favorites," Pantalone says, like a fucking liar, as he braids a silver thread into Kaeya's hair. 

Kaeya preens under the attention of the Second Harbinger, flipping through a book and taking a sip from a glass of wine. Next to the pair, Dottore sulks, his arms crossed over his chest.

"No? You don't?" He asks incredulously, "Then where is my fancy jewelry? Where's my vintage casket of wine? Where the fuck is my 'Oh, Dottore, I missed you, mon petit chou?'"

As he pats Kaeya's shoulder to signify he's finished, Pantalone laughs heartily, waggling his eyebrows at the doctor as Signora picks a delectable-looking chocolate truffle from the box he holds out to her. "We all know you'd sooner stab me than be called a little cabbage." 

"It is a term of endearment, and I would like to be endeared!" Dottore screeches, red eyes blazing with fury. 

Scaramouche pops the lid of a Fontais eye-paint, adjusting his makeup in his pocket mirror. "Careful, now, Doctor. Keep all that screeching up, and your dentures might slide down the back of your throat and choke you." 

Amidst the threats of a painful death, poisonings, and dissecting Scaramouche's corpse for science - in no particular order - Signora lets out a rare smile as she chews on the chocolate truffle. 

"Pantalone, you've really outdone yourself this time." She admits, shivering in delight as she pops another one in her mouth. 

Somehow, all eleven of the Harbingers (unofficial ones included) have gathered in one of the many salons of Pantalone's wing of the castle. Capitano marvels at a wicked-looking pair of brass knuckles, unclasping their claws to slip the weapons on with delight. Scaramouche grins at the fine silks and makeup that Pantalone somehow stashed in an average-looking wooden box the length of his forearm. Meanwhile, sitting on the chaise lounge with a glass of wine in his hand, Kaeya flips through a book with fancy leather bindings, gems dripping from his ears and neck like water droplets. Columbina twirls around the room, waltzing with Arlecchino, her skirts trailing rose petals around the room as the pink flowers rustle. Leading the waltz with a fidgeting hand at her waist, the shrewd Arlecchino flaunts a leather harness lined with silver knives strapped over her black suit, mismatched eyes gleaming with joy. 

"This is the best yet, Limitless!" She crows triumphantly, dipping Columbina onto the sofa and moving right along to drape herself over Capitano, who hauls her further into their lap. "You shouldn't have." 

Shrugging, Pantalone only gives her a winning smile. "I wouldn't have gone around the continent without bringing back gifts for my delightful coworkers, would I?" 

"Apparently, you would!" Dottore yells from behind him, where he's got Scaramouche by the hair. The younger Harbinger steps on his foot, elbowing him sharply in the ribs. 

Tartaglia sits silently, admiring the weapon in his hands like it's a holy artifact. The bow is made of deep, rich-colored wood, and it's smooth to the touch like polished stone. Running his hands over it, he marvels at the build and weight of it in his grip. The way he touches it is different from the way Kaeya has ever seen him hold another weapon. Gone is the usual, fierce determination, shown in white knuckles and a harsh grip, but instead, his hands flutter around it softly, like the wings of a sparrow. Kaeya peers at him over the top of his book, his index finger tracing the gold-dipped rim of the wine glass he set down beside him. 

Settling down beside him on the sofa, Columbina twirls a strand of golden hair around her finger, her eyes half-lidded but still sharp. "Quite the sweetheart, isn't he?" 

Kaeya flinches at her sudden arrival, frantically trying to pretend that the book wasn't resting above his lips, the pages touching the bridge of his nose. "Who? Tartaglia?" 

"No, dear." Columbina giggles, adjusting the vibrant flowers along the hem of her neckline. "Pantalone. Although, our little Tartaglia can be rather lovable when he wants to be." 

Across the room, Pedrolino accepts a small velvet bag, nodding quietly in thanks. 

Pantalone sips a glass of wine at the head of his table, gazing out the window as Signora twists the fountains into a different shape. As Kaeya flicks the ink from his fingers, washing it off in a small basin on the desk, he notes that this time, she's molding it into the shape of a person. He smirks as the rowdy Capitano grins down at the fair-haired woman, then, after she shakes her head, collapses into icicles that shatter around her in a circle. 

"She's at it again." He says, shaking water from his hands. 

Pantalone brings himself out of his reverie to look at his ward with an amiable fondness. "Stop spying, Kaeya." 

Dottore scrunches his nose up underneath his mask as he lets out a short bark of laughter. "That's like asking a shark to stop swimming. What's she making this time, idiot?"

"Capitano, bastard." Kaeya replies, his tone light and airy. "She's been pining for months now. It's almost a little sad." 

Pantalone scoffs into his wine. "Don't go mocking those who have power over you, Kaeya. Your pride is notoriously infamous for rearing its head just before you fall flat on your ass." 

Shrugging, the dark-haired boy turns back to the desk, folding up his letters and tucking them in the box. Dottore eyes the way his hands shake as he creases the paper, the slight tremor in his lip not going unnoticed. But he doesn't say anything. No good in kicking sleeping dogs, he thinks. Instead, he leans his chin on his hand, watching the boy leave Pantalone's room with the little box he got from his guardian. Once the door closes behind him, he lifts his mask from his face, running a hand through his hair. 

"He's trouble, Florentine." 

Florentine doesn't take his eyes off of the sobbing Signora in the courtyard, whose God-given ice cuts her palms like shards of glass. Dottore touches his arm lightly, hesitantly. "I don't - just don't let your guard down around him." 

Sighing, the older man runs a hand through his dark hair, the silver streaks gleaming in the low lamplight. "He's a child, Oskar. What can he do?" 

"He killed Sandrone," Oskar says, jutting his chin out stubbornly. 

With a hiss, Florentine slams his wine glass down on the table. "Amara was weak. I have him under control! Sooner or later, Mezzetino will be presented with his Delusion, and then you can fret needlessly about me for some other reason." 

The silence cuts like a taut cord through butter and Oskar swallows, his hands clenching the table. His mask looks toward the crystal chandelier, the candlelight from the salon turning green through the silkscreens Florentine had brought back from Inazuma. Sitting in silence, the two of them watch as the snow piles high like ash on the windowsills, muffling the cries of the Fair Lady. 

With a gentle sigh, Florentine comes to rest his forehead against Oskar's, his fingers tracing circles along the underside of his wrists, pushing the sleeves of his shirt back. "He trusts me. He'll be the tenth in no time." 

Slowly, Oskar stretches his hand out, clasping Florentine's with shaking tenderness. His voice comes out hoarse and strangled. "As the Tsaritsa wills it." 

The dark-haired man nods, the tip of his nose brushing against Oskar's. "As the Tsaritsa wills it." 

Chapter Text

"So you just... Hit it?" 

Kaeya taps his index finger on his forearm, a single eyebrow raised in confusion. Binding his knuckles with strips of scrap fabric, Tartaglia nods, then sweeps the hair from his face.

"That's right." He says, tapping the sack filled with powdery snow as it hangs from the exposed beam of the East Wing's cellar. "You just hit it." 

He takes a precise jab at it, then hits it again with a clean right hook. Kaeya's face remains the same, stone-still and cold as Tartaglia glances up at him over his knuckles. The dark-haired boy crosses his arms over his chest. 

"Don't you think it's kind of funny how none of you Harbingers have killed one of your own yet?" He asks suddenly, and Tartaglia lets out a sharp exhale as he lands a solid kick on the bag. 

He shrugs. "You have. Sandrone was weird, though. Didn't fight much. The thing about us is, once you're with the Tsaritsa, it's like you're stuck on the ice. Nothing around you for miles and miles, apart from these other people who are stuck on the same floe. You could push each other off, yeah, but then it'd just be you and the cold forever. Like, Scaramouche is a pain to be around, but I find things I like about him if I squint really hard and tune out his insults.

"Pantalone's weird about this stuff, too. You haven't seen Dottore and Signora at each other like I have, mostly 'cause you're always around him. He makes everyone different, especially Doc."

 
Realizing he's spoken too long without waiting for a response, Tartaglia's mouth snaps shut. Looking to the floor in shame, he brings the swaying bag to a stop. Instead of telling him off, Kaeya only stares, silver eye glinting like a coin.

"Is that what you think?" He asks, but there isn't any cruelty in his voice, just curiosity. "I can understand that. Still, it's a marvel some of you aren't maimed, at least." 

His spirits perking up, Tartaglia laughs. "Oh, we have been. Your little spat with Capitano was tame compared to the time Arlecchino and I went at each other."

Tartaglia pulls his shirt over his head, then turns around to show Kaeya the symbol carved in between his shoulder blades. It's jagged and surrounded by countless lines of uneven scars from where a toothed blade dug into his skin. The Tsaritsa's eye sigil stares back at Kaeya with sloppy, asymmetrical lines and poor penmanship. The Khaenri'an boy swallows, bringing his hand up to trace the scars in sickened awe.

His fingers are cold. "Holy shit." 

"She got on top of me, hands above my head, and just started hacking and slashing, all because I said I thought she was full of herself. I got a good few teeth out of her mouth before she got me in the snow, of course, but she really did a number on me." He reminisces, grinning like it's a happy childhood memory instead of a story of trauma. "The others are mostly from other fights." 

He's referencing the other ghosts of scars that have faded into pale shapes along his skin, glowing faintly like flowers in a rainstorm. Kaeya sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

"Shit, Tartaglia, what the fuck is wrong with you?" He asks, brow furrowed in confusion. 

Another short burst of laughter sends the scars shaking across his skin, but there's something else in his eyes as he looks over his shoulder at the other boy. "You know what." 

The silence that fills the gap between the reply spans out far too long to be comfortable. Kaeya does know. The Abyss does things to people, and most of the time, those people can't take the toll it calls for on their bodies, and they die. Tartaglia is a true conduit, seeing as the Abyss runs through him like a cold, rushing river. Although, he seems to let take control of his impulses, especially when it comes to battle. One doesn't gain scars from fighting often, but from fighting with the intent to entertain. Whether he wants to keep a smile on the icy face of his goddess or if he simply needs a way to stave off boredom, Kaeya will never know. 

Circling the odd contraption with the air of a displeased cat, Kaeya prods it lightly, stepping away from the warmth of Tartaglia's bare skin. The bag sways underneath his fingers, and he huffs out a sigh of intrigue. "Well, then. You'd better get to it." 

Scoffing, Tartaglia gives him a look of doubt. "You're not too much of a royal to get your hands dirty, are you? What exactly did they teach you in Khaenri'ah? How to sit still and look pretty?" 

Stopping before he reaches down to pick up his book again, Kaeya pauses, blinking. Then, turning on his heel to face Tartaglia, sliding his hands into his pockets. "You think I'm pretty?" 

The ginger-haired boy awkwardly taps the snow-packed bag with his bound fist. "W-Well, uh, y-you... You can't just ask me that, y-you know?"

Kaeya saunters over to him, his eye narrowing into a sharp half-moon. Slowly, he takes the rest of the scrap fabric from Tartaglia's hand, wrapping it around his knuckles as he cocks his head to the side. For a while, he doesn't say anything. He just smiles fondly as the Eleventh Harbinger flounders about with his words like a worm on a hook, his face a shade of brilliant red. Finally, deciding to put the poor boy out of his misery, Kaeya ties a knot in the center of his palm, tugging the fabric with his teeth. 

"Why can't I just ask you that? You brought it up, Childe." He lilts, the pads of his fingertips tracing along the burlap casing of the makeshift punching bag. "If you don't stop eating your words, you're going to spoil your appetite." 

Scowling, Tartaglia delivers a half-hearted punch to the swinging bag. "S-Shut up! You've trapped me, now. I liked it better when you were quietly judging me." 

A melodic laugh spills from Kaeya's lips, and, without warning, he squares his stance. He lands two quick jabs on the bag, then swirls around, using the momentum to slam his shin into it, sending the punching bag sailing into Tartaglia's stomach. The ginger-haired boy lands on his back with a dull thud, groaning in embarrassment and pain as the other boy leans over him, adjusting the bindings around his knuckles. 

"I'm good at being loud. But I'll be quiet if you want me to." He says, the double entendre sending Tartaglia's face into an even deeper shade of pink. "You wanted to know what Khaenri'ah taught me?" 

Tartaglia can only stare up at him, his blue eyes darkening with suspicion, even if his face doesn't move. With a pleased smirk, Kaeya gently leans down, tousling the other boy's hair. "The mighty fall, and they fall hard." 

Chapter Text

The day finally comes where Kaeya gives up. 

He's standing in one of the many ballrooms of Zapolyarny palace, a wine glass in hand and his shirt opened down to the fourth button, and quite frankly, he's had enough. Being the biggest fish in the small pond of recruits meant daily training, remedial courses that dulled his senses more than a bottle of Snezhnayan Fire Water, and if he kept up this stupid, harmless little prince act, he was going to fucking explode. He's accepted the title. He could be Mezzentino. But without the Delusion, he's still just an agent with rich benefits running around with a fancy nickname in the closed-off halls of Zapolyarny. Also, if he got his Delusion before Tartaglia did, that would be pretty sweet. 

So he downs his glass, promptly gets a refill, excuses himself from the ballroom, and marches immediately into one of the staff corridors, ignoring the scandalized cries from the maids. They'll probably ask him to pledge more loyalty to the Tsaritsa, which he can do, provided the benefits are good enough, and then show off some of his swordsmanship skills. That, he thinks, I can do. The only issue is finding something that will make him stand out. Pantalone has his way with money, Tartaglia can fight with any weapon on the face of the earth, and Pedrolino has the skills he's earned with his own sweat and blood, none of that Vision nonsense. The first thing that comes to mind, of course, is his heritage. The reason the Tsaritsa didn't kill him on the spot for murdering Sandrone was that she was intrigued by the noble blood in Kaeya's veins. (Could he really call it noble? Was there any other Khaenri'an blood to compare it to?)

There is one more thing he can do. It isn't something pretty, nor is it safe or sane, but when are the Fatui ever cautious about the little details? They have a teenager who can supposedly harness the Abyss and turn himself into a monster, for fuck's sake. Kaeya sighs, running a hand through his hair. His father would kill him for spreading the Order's secrets, but at this point, it's safe to assume that death got him first. Good riddance, honestly. 

There is an art, used by few, that has been slipped through many hands that it's branched into several different classes of so-called Abyss magic. For alchemists, it's Khemia. For the Heralds of the Abyss, it's known as matter bending. For the Abyss Mages, it's waving a stick around and calling it magic. In short, it's the creation of something from nothing. The bending of time and space and the pure, unbridled chaos of elemental magic without a God-given conduit - all those were factions of the art known as Abyss magic. Lucky for Kaeya, nobles' kids got free lessons from the age of two onwards. There's nothing quite like putting immense power in the chubby, sticky little hands of a toddler and expecting them to turn out fine. 

Abyss magic is something that Kaeya learned to interweave with daily life. During his training to join the Ordo Favonius, he would pinch the leyline pollen in the air, and suddenly, he is behind his opponent, and he's won their little duel, just like that. Diluc had always marveled at it, forever unconvinced that it was just the same "trick of the light" that Kaeya mentioned every time he brought it up. In all fairness, Diluc never really asked questions. Every time something turned out well for him, he would assume that it simply fell into his lap or that the cards of luck were in his favor. Little did he know, he had Kaeya looking out for him. 

All of the sleep he sacrificed, the rules he broke, every single person he had drinks with - all of those things were for him. He runs a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed in agitation and thought. The party's murmurs and giggles are faint now, and Kaeya can see an empty room up ahead, the door slightly ajar. If he can just make it there without being seen, he can finally take a fucking rest. His head feels as if it's been split down the middle, and there is an ache behind his eyes every time he blinks. 

Tartaglia learned to play the piano at the ripe age of four, seeing as there was literally nothing else worth doing in the confines of Morepesok, and he has never been someone to half-ass a task. Of course, his goal has stretched from becoming the piano-playing, dragon-slaying, sister-saving hero to fulfilling his role in the Tsaritsa's arsenal of human weapons. It suffices to say that the keys are far colder than he expects them to be when he first lifts the lid. He hasn't touched a piano, let alone played, in years, and he wonders if the guilt he feels as his fingertips trace over the ivory keys says something about his moral compass. Where he doesn't feel bad for claiming debts that have gone unpaid by forgetful merchants, the mere idea of disappointing an inanimate object that he hasn't used since he was ten sends a chill down his spine. 

Muscle memory applies to more than just combat, he realizes, and his hands automatically find their place along the row of piano keys, ghosting over the notes that he can see, printed in fine rows of sheet music, in his mind. He plays softly, as if the very air around him is offended by the break in the silence. With a contented sigh, he lets his shoulders relax and taps his foot on the piano pedal, increasing his volume just enough to hear his own playing properly. 

The piece isn't anything particularly virtuosic. A simple waltz, it glides around the room elegantly, barely whispering outside the threshold of the open door, dim candlelight from the odd candle scattered across the room flickering dimly. Tartaglia doesn't even notice his guest until he's perched on the bench beside him, face flushed with alcohol. For a moment, Kaeya says nothing, his finger tracing the rim of his whiskey glass. When the ginger-haired boy's playing falters slightly, his silver eye slides over to give him a hard stare, only relenting when he hears a particularly pleasing phrase, and he tilts his head back in satisfaction. 

With a final perfect cadence, the piece slows to a halt, the faint afterthought of the piano drifting through the air like smoke. Tartaglia stares at the keys, at his hands, almost embarrassed. Meanwhile, Kaeya downs the rest of his Fire Water. "You kind of suck at that." 

"H-Hey! Fuck you, that was the first time I've played since I was, like, ten!" The ginger-haired boy protests, but a sudden finger on his lips stuffs an imaginary cork in his vocal cords.

"Hush now, Tartaglia." Kaeya whispers, his words slurring slightly. The gravelly undertones of his voice are strangely pleasing to the ear, like the sound of a melodious cello in Tartaglia's ear as the older boy leans closer. "Let's not give away our little secret here, alright? A little peace and quiet is so hard to come by, and I rather like this little room." 

 Stupidly, Tartaglia shuts his mouth, allowing Kaeya's hand to remain over his mouth, tapping his lips with drunken absentmindedness. Perhaps he's finally cracked? Either way, it doesn't stop the older boy from tapping a key on the piano. 

"Play again. It was nice." 

Scowling, Tartaglia squints incredulously at the boy beside him. "I thought you said I sucked?" 

Kaeya sighs, his eye rolling upward with impeccable technique. He's really mastered the snark that goes into that kind of thing. "Just play the damn piano before I get bored and leave." 

Begrudgingly, Tartaglia starts to play once more, seeing if he still has an aria or two memorized from his days when he would steal sheet music from traveling performers, write it out by hand, and then return the stolen items by mail. Sighing contentedly, Kaeya leans his chin on his palm, gazing drunkenly at Tartaglia as he plays. 

"I'm going to do it." He announces softly. 

Unable to look up without screwing up the piece, Tartaglia nods, his blue eyes affixed to the ivory keys as his fingers trail up and down the length of the instrument. "Going to do what?" 

"Accept the Tsaritsa's Delusion. I assume I'll have to prove myself to her, but I want to be useful. I want to be powerful." 

As he laughs softly, Tartaglia's fingers gently press against two high notes at the end of the piano, his left hand quickly darting to play a long, descending scale. "We all want that, Kaeya." 

A sudden sniffle escapes the dark-haired boy's lips, and much to Tartaglia's surprise, Kaeya rests his head on his shoulder. "I want to be better than him." 

He doesn't say much after that. Neither of them does. Tartaglia just keeps playing the piano, an out-of-sorts Kaeya leaning against him in an intoxicated show of vulnerability. 

Chapter Text

For some odd reason, none of the other Harbingers are allowed to see Kaeya before his induction ceremony. He sits perfectly still on a cushioned chair, maids flitting around him like moths around a lamp, muttering about silks, colored brocade, matching earrings, and masks. Honestly, Kaeya's losing his patience. If he was allowed to dress and prepare himself, he would be out there already with that stupid Delusion pinned to his belt. But, instead, he's here, with constant outfit changes and swatches of fabric held against his skin as if he were some china doll. As a maid combs a brush through his hair, Kaeya grits his teeth, the buzz of movement starting to fray his nerves. 

The door opens, and a scandalized gasp comes from the maid with the hairbrush, and she drops it from her hands. Standing in the doorway with a fresh, red apple, Tartaglia watches the flurries of maids abruptly come to a stop with an expression of boredom on his face. 

"Master Tartaglia," One of them says, her voice low, "you know you're not allowed to be in here! Mezzetino must be prepared before the other Harbingers are permitted to see him." 

Cracking a sharp grin, he swallows the mouthful of apple, then gestures to his body and clothes. "Do you see a Delusion? A mask? I don't. Let me in, Anya. The poor guy's practically foaming at the mouth with silent rage." 

For the first time ever, Kaeya is actually grateful to see Tartaglia. As the servants scurry out, closing the door behind them, the silence that stretches between the two boys feels like a salve to a wound. Kaeya sumps back in his seat, freeing his hair from the gelled-back prison it was sealed in. 

"Thank the fucking gods you're here." He sighs. 

Tartaglia huffs out a laugh. "Never thought I'd hear you say that. C'mon, show me what you're wearing." 

Pouting, the dark-haired boy doesn't move an inch, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. "It's been, like, three seconds since you freed me from Hell, and now you're asking me to swan-dive back down there? I'll just wear something white. She likes white, doesn't she?"

Taking a bite out of his apple, Tartaglia perches on the end of the vanity table, crossing one ankle over the other. His stare is unyielding and full of such intent that Kaeya actually obeys him, producing a beautiful suit that Pantalone had gifted him for the very occasion. It's silver and periwinkle, the stitches glimmering like frost on blades of grass, and because he's incorrigible, Kaeya is looking at it with disgust. Expectantly, Tartaglia gestures for him to take it off the hanger. 

"I don't see why you're grimacing like that. It's a fine suit. My sisters would kill to get that kind of fabric." He says, chomping into his apple once more. 

When his eyes trail upward to meet the expanse of Kaeya's back, Tartaglia nearly chokes on the fruit, thumping himself on the chest as he gawks at the unblemished skin. Somehow, Kaeya has misinterpreted the ginger-haired boy's gesture in the (admittedly vague) general direction of the suit and is now stripping down to his underwear. He grimaces when he pulls the trousers up, looking over his shoulder to inspect them from behind. 

"Gods, these are the worst." 

Breathless from nearly dying, Tartaglia can only stare, watching Kaeya's hair slip over his shoulders like running water, shifting to reveal a clean, almost clinical scar that curves around his hip. It's broad, and the odd, frayed-looking edges of the mark look as if someone cauterized the wound as soon as its maker touched his skin. Slowly, Tartaglia brings the apple back to his mouth, running his tongue along the fruit's inside. Kaeya slides the shirt on, rousing the ginger-haired boy from his stupor. 

"If you're quite done, can you help me with the cuffs?" Kaeya asks, but his voice drips a cold kind of half-hearted amusement that just seems tired, like he's seen something happen for the hundredth time. 

Leaping from the table, Tartaglia drops the apple in the wastepaper basket by the door, then darts over to Kaeya, his head bowed low in anxious insecurity. He takes the cuff of the shirt into his hand, fiddling with the three buttons of ridiculous size, trying to keep himself from staring at Kaeya's chest. How someone has skin that smooth is a mystery to Tartaglia, but the dark-haired boy seems to have solved it for himself, seeing as he glows like polished crystals. 

"I heard you practicing last night." He says, not looking up from where his eyes are trained on the golden buttons. "Well, I felt you practicing. I've sensed that technique before. Didn't think they taught the spoiled rich kids how to use it." 

Kaeya scoffs, and Tartaglia knows that if he looked up, he'd meet the cold, indifferent stare of someone who thinks that he's better than him. It sets his teeth on edge. "And you're obviously the expert? I haven't seen you in action, but I'm sure that so-called 'Foul Legacy' of yours isn't the sort that they teach the Heralds in the Roost." 

Finally, Tartaglia glares hotly at the taller boy, finishing the buttons as he drops Kaeya's hand like a hot stone. How he can look so irritating and beautiful simultaneously is something that Tartaglia will never come to understand. Perhaps looking vexatious comes with looking that gorgeous, and looking that gorgeous comes with being that vexing. Twitching his lips up into a sneer, Kaeya snatches his hand away, turning his gaze to the full-length mirror built into the mahogany armoire. 

"Gods, this is deplorable. Stifling, even." He rapidly unbuttons the shirt, the tell-tale glint of his golden-clasped choker gleaming at Tartaglia like sharp teeth. "What do you think?" 

I think you rival Celestia itself, Tartaglia doesn't say. 

"You look like a twat," is what he does. 

Chapter Text

Tartaglia has had it up to here with the pampering of the newly-crowned ”Mezzetino." Not only has he had the fast-track inauguration into the Eleven, but he also doesn't even have to take a mission for his mask. 

But Tartaglia does. It sucks ass. 

Huddling underneath the awning of the stables, he waits in the snow as the staff prepare a carriage for him, the dawn only just beginning to stretch across the sky. There is some movement in the windows above him, but he doesn't see it. After all, Tartaglia is too busy grumbling to the fresh, white snow, hands tucked into his pockets as he toes the ground with impatience. All he wants is to get this damned thing over and done with. Much to his chagrin, a diplomatic mission to Fontaine had made itself a necessity, and Pulcinella was far too quick to offer his ward instead of letting Pantalone take the credit. So here Tartaglia is, fully packed for three days to win over a local business that supposedly is a front for illegal trade. Whatever they were trading, the Eleven wanted in on the profits and some dirt on the unusually clean Fontaine. 

A few of the horses snort, waking him from his very angry half-nap, half-inner monologue. As Tartaglia looks up, a figure approaches him in the snow, ducking underneath snow-heavy trees and icicle-hewn bushes. Squinting in the gloom, the ginger-haired boy cranes his neck out to look closer at the approaching character, cold fingers drawing his cloak further over his chest. A single, teardrop-shaped earring hangs from one of their ears, and a silver mask is poorly hidden at their belt, and Tartaglia feels his gut simultaneously leap and plunge into his boots when he sees their face. 

Sneaking across the courtyard, it appears that Kaeya is dashing under the stable awning, skidding to a halt against the post next to Tartaglia and snickering as he reads the look on the latter's face. 

"Morning, sunshine. You looked like you needed this." He gestures to two bottles of Fire Water, each tucked underneath his arms, and pulls out a flask of something that steams in the cold air. The rich scent of coffee and chocolate ripples through the air and Tartaglia feels his mouth water like the traitor it is. 

Hastily, his hand darts out to take the warm container in his hands, but his pace changes when he meets Kaeya's expectant gaze, tentatively raising the flask to his mouth. When the liquid reaches his tongue, it scalds him, and he draws back before it can do any further damage. Rolling his eyes and laughing softly, Kaeya takes it from him, lifting it to his own lips. 

"You big baby," He mutters, blowing on the liquid lightly. 

Then, tilting it back to press the flask to Tartaglia's lips, he tips a splash of the contents into the ginger-haired boy's mouth. As much as he hates to admit it, the drink is really fucking good. Tartaglia hums in satisfaction, his hand drifting to take the flask from Kaeya's hand, but it hovers just underneath the taller boy's wrist for a second too long, and he feels his gut wrench with sudden anxiety. Has he been weak? Is whatever this stupid condition he's been experiencing for half a year finally taking hold of his life and dragging him to the grave? Oh, Gods, does this technically count as an indirect kiss? If Kaeya blew on the flask, and the contents of said flask are now in Tartaglia's mouth...  

With an unusually jovial sigh for five o'clock in the bloody morning, Kaeya removes the flask from his companion's mouth, then takes a swig himself. A small, undignified squeak leaves Tartaglia's mouth, and he immediately fixes his eyes on the servants attaching the horses to the carriage. Well, no need to wonder now. He thinks about writing a letter home to tell them of this peculiar illness that has kept him distracted and unusually flustered for the past few months. But then, realizing that Tonia would eat him alive for it, he decides not to. Perhaps a resignation letter would be better. 

"So, Pantalone doesn't know you're here?" 

Kaeya shakes his head, staring out of the window with an odd look of excitement in his eye. "Nope. He obviously wouldn't allow me to go with you. He thinks you're an animal, and you belong in a cage."

Tartaglia frowns, leaning his chin on his hand. "You said that far too cheerfully. But, I digress, why wouldn't he let you leave?"

The trees that pass through the paneled windows grow less burdened with snow as the carriage trundles steadily across the twisting mountain roads of Snezhnaya, filtering into notably less coniferous plants as they continue across the map. Instead of the bored, cat-like nature that Kaeya displays when looking out of the windows of Zapolyarny, Tartaglia is presented with an almost childlike wonder glowing on the older boy's face, his silver eye lit up like fireflies. 

"Something about being 'inexperienced.' I find routes like these so captivating. Don't you?" The subject change is quick. Tartaglia glances out of the window, indulging the other boy for a moment. 

It is indeed beautiful, but nothing Tartaglia hasn't seen before. The ginger-haired boy has been all over the map, seeing as he was deployed in the strangest places when he was an agent and on many more diplomatic missions as a soon-to-be Harbinger. Then, it dawns on him. 

He examines Kaeya with wonder, an amused smile on his face as he lets out a short laugh. "Of course! You've never been out of Snezhnaya." 

Tartaglia is honestly surprised that Kaeya's smug, beautiful face even has the capacity to look sheepish, but here he is, his cheeks stained a lovely shade of red. Hiding his mouth behind his hand as he stares pointedly out of the window, the older boy has the audacity to pretend that he doesn't look like the child with his hand stuck in a cookie jar. 

"I lived in Mondstadt, too." He argues, his earring glinting like a drop of molten sky. "And... Well, I don't remember much of the outside of Khaenri'ah. Nevertheless, I'm not some sheltered prince, Tartaglia. I've seen... I've seen things." 

Snickering, the ginger-haired boy nods mockingly. "Ah, of course, the elusive 'things.' Spoken like a true adventurer, Kaeya." A pause stretches between them, and Tartaglia realizes that he's not joking with a wheeze of laughter. "Have you really never been to any other countries? Not even Liyue?" 

Kaeya seems to concede, slumping back against the cushioned seats of the carriage in defeat. "No, Tartaglia, I've never left Snezhnaya, and I've only seen a tiny part of Mondstadt. Happy now?" 

Something in his voice, the way that he says it - everything screams raw. Tartaglia has never been a master at navigating the treacherous rapids of social etiquette, or even tact, but he knows old wounds when he sees them. Briefly, he wonders what life in Mondstadt must have been like for Kaeya. Judging from his sharp glare, Tartaglia won't be getting any answers now, let alone a general idea of why he seems so hurt about it.

The urge to make Kaeya suffer doesn't rear its head, oddly enough. No matter how aggravating the boy is, Tartaglia doesn't want to make him explain his old scars in the fear that they might reopen. He's not sure why. Maybe the drink was spiked. 

Sitting back in his seat to look out of the window once again, Tartaglia nods ever so slightly, deciding that the drink was definitely spiked and that he dislikes Kaeya enough that learning more about him would only fuel his hatred. They're sharing a rather small carriage, so his anger would have to be suppressed in order to save himself from an untimely end. The last thing he wants is Pantalone on his ass for a broken carriage and a harmed ward. 

Chapter Text

As much as Tartaglia has had trouble sleeping, he's never had a nightmare quite like this one. 

It's a little-known fact that the Abyss does things to your mind, twists what you didn't think could be twisted in the most surreptitious of ways. It was almost funny, really. Skirk had described dreams where she was blind, poison dripping down the cavities of her hollowed-out eye sockets, or where she stumbled around tongueless among those who needed her words. At the time, Tartaglia was Ajax, and Ajax believed everything his wily master said, even if it was outlandish. The visions the Abyss gives you are nothing like the hellish, gory fantasies of a warmonger. The dreams that the Abyss gifts those who fall into its expanse are like an endless sea of quiet. 

Tartaglia drowns in it, unable to see, to touch, to scream, to think. It envelops him like the dark, creeping up his skin with the wriggling, writhing motions of a mass of maggots, burrowing deep beneath the flesh to feast on his wants and needs. He dreams that his memories are purged, and he is spat back out into the sun as a blank slate, devoid of the love he carries in his heart. Love for his family, love for battle, love for the Tsaritsa, love for Snezhnaya, love for -

Love for something else. 

Someone else. 

He can't remember it, and the very thought of not knowing terrifies him. Groping blindly out into the harshly clinical light of an unforgiving sun, he tries to grasp the intangible with his hands, screaming silently until his throat is bloody and raw, but even that doesn't stop him. 

All of a sudden, he's staring down at an empty grave, rain washing the mud and worms into the freshly dug hole. Arching across the sky like a cruel sickle, lightning flashes, thunder following soon after. Tartaglia knows that somewhere in this rain, the person he is waiting for is in trouble. Water slicks his skin, the first feeling he's had in what feels like forever, and the cold is unbearable. The sound he hears next is the clash of steel, hissing blades like fighting cats as the rain pelts down, and when Tartaglia stumbles into the clearing of an unknown forest, he sees two people. 

One of them is tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a demi-god of legends. Hair as red as wine is plastered to this boy's face and coat, weighted down by the rainwater that has soaked it through. It curls like wicked vines around the edges of his face as he snarls, crimson eyes flaming with fury. 

The other person is a willowy, much more lithe character, with cobalt hair tied back into a low ponytail. Watching him fight is like watching childhood memories play out in Tartaglia's mind, but with far more visceral connotations. He knows, deep in his bones, every move that his blue-haired stranger will make next, purely because he practiced that same footwork, that same waltz of blood and steel until his hands were bleeding and raw, and his legs trembled with fatigue. 

This boy, this Khaenri'an spy, is someone Tartaglia knows. 

Panting, Tartaglia bolts up, straight as a board in a king-sized bed that feels far too big, his palm outstretched to the ornate ceiling. The air is hot, thick with terror and sweat, and the bedsheets pool around his hips like seafoam. He drops his hand, bringing it to rest above his heart as it hammers away in his chest, the sensation of fear still ringing like the strike against a blacksmith's anvil and a red-hot sword. 

Tartaglia's tongue feels like it's coated in sawdust, rough-hewn at the back of his throat. He doesn't remember what he's dreamed of, but he knows it was harrowing, like pulling your insides out and shoving them carelessly back in with little attention to detail. He sighs, rubbing his face with the heel of his palm. Engulfed in silky, unfamiliar sheets, Tartaglia feels so terribly small in this stupid, fancy bed. Back in Morepesok, there wasn't space where one could lie down alone. Teucer was infamous for his stealthy sneaking into his older brother's bed, only to be shocked to find Anthon and Tonia there already. Here, in Fontaine, where the sheets smell like lilies and clean water, everything is somehow colder, emptier, and harsher. 

That's the reason why he is currently slinking into the salon of the hotel suite, dragging a duvet over the lacquered wooden floor. Tartaglia sinks down onto the couch, the duvet puffing up briefly from the rush of air. 

"You're up early." 

"T-Tsaritsa - fuck!" Tartaglia yelps, immediately jumping three feet in the air at the sound of Kaeya's voice. 

Glaring fiercely at him, the tawny-haired boy hovers around the empty fireplace for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the dark. Much to his surprise, Kaeya looks oddly disheveled. And yet, with his hair mussed up, eyepatch discarded, and dark circles underneath his eyes, he somehow manages to still look beautiful. Fucking beautiful. In a sort of tragic kind of way, Tartatglia knows immediately that the older boy would be a pretty crier. 

He sits back down on the couch, drawing the duvet around his shoulders. "Fuck you."

Kaeya nurses his steaming mug like a wound, perching on the end of the couch as he stares at the ashes in the fireplace. When he takes a sip, his eye doesn't move, trained on the grey stone. "Can't sleep?" 

There is a pause before Tartaglia shakes his head. With a half-hearted laugh, Kaeya finally looks at him, and a feeling of relief dawns over the ginger-haired boy's heart. He quells it instantly. 

"Neither can I. Something about these halls... It's far too hot. Far too busy. It's like it's haunted." The boy continues, his eye boring straight into Childe's. "I don't suppose it's the same for you, is it?" 

Another shake of the head. Kaeya laughs once more, but the bitterness is more potent, and the hurt look on his face is enough to send Tartaglia's stomach plummeting. In this light, he hardly looks real. 

"I wonder," Kaeya muses, running his fingertip along the rim of his mug, "what the Abyss has done to your dreams?" 

With a swallow, Tartaglia manages to find his voice. "I want to know what it's done to yours."

Lifting a finger to his lips, the cobalt-haired boy lets out a tired smile. "Didn't you know? The people of Khaenri'ah dream of dreaming."

Chapter Text

If Tartaglia had to choose between death and diplomatic meeting with stuffy Fontais officials, he would pick a swan dive into a frozen lake filled with leeches the size of his forearm and thicker than the tie he has knotted around his neck. There is literally nothing worse than a fucking trade meeting. Gods, he hates the stuffy uniform the recruits picked up for him, he hates the shiny leather chairs, and he hates the smell of strong ink. Fidgeting with his shirt, he plasters an insincere smile to his face as he sets the pen down. Anything with a collar this high should be burned and have its ashes dumped in the ocean. He's currently seated at the head of a table, in the process of signing a few documents that signified both parties' silences on the illegal trade going on. Honestly, all Tartaglia wants is to hit something. 

Hard. 

"Surely, you understand how important this is, Sir Harbinger?" A man with a goatee asks, a look of barely-hidden disdain on his face. 

Tartaglia smiles politely. "Oh, of course. I'm sure that Snezhnaya and Fontaine will explore a bountiful and amicable relationship in the future." 

There is a chorus of nods and exclamations of thanks as Tartaglia stands up, pushing his chair backward. He prays to every Archon that he gets to walk out of there without a second thought, and for some odd reason, the gods finally turn luck in his favor. As he descends the embassy's spiral staircase, he counts down the seconds until he's in the carriage. Nothing in the world could be more suffocating than this marble hall, and the second that the doors open and the fresh air spills across his face, Tartaglia takes a deep sigh. 

"Oh, precious Tsaritsa, that could not have ended soon enough." He mutters, loosening his tie and stepping into the carriage. 

He is instantly greeted by a rather smug-looking face. Kaeya crosses his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow in a silent question. With yet another world-weary sigh, Tartaglia fishes around his pocket for a handful of Mora. 

As he presses the coins into Kaeya's palm, the tawny-haired boy watches as he flips one into the air, catching it before it hits the floor. "Congrats. I was literally one minute underneath your stupid limit." 

"Ah, but one minute is one minute. I bet that you wouldn't be able to last more than half an hour in there, and would you look at that - it's now twenty-nine minutes past ten. Now, let's get you home." Kaeya replies with a shit-eating grin. 

It's odd, returning back to the hotel with Kaeya. They've only been there for two nights, but the feeling of slipping his shoes off, hanging his overcoat on the coat rack, and accepting the cold drink pressed into his hands is beginning to feel normal. While one part of him is screaming in want of bloodshed, the other is relishing this practiced dance of pretending that they are not weapons of mass destruction for a queen who has forgotten mercy and just two boys in a nice hotel suite in a foreign city. 

"I'm ordering a drink. Do you want one?" Kaeya calls, holding the device that somehow allows a speaker to transmit a message instantly through a receiver. A rough translation from Fontais would be a "candlestick telephone." 

He shakes his head. Alcohol at this hour would mean he wouldn't get to sleep until dawn, and the last thing he wants is a shitty hangover at eleven in the morning. "I'll be fine." 

As Kaeya mutters something into a handheld receiver, Tartaglia is hit with a wave of homesickness. After a year or two away from Morepesok, even if the town was dead boring as a younger teenager, Tartaglia misses the warmth of his childhood room or the sound of pattering footsteps in the morning. There, in an unfamiliar hotel room with a boy that he is so frustratingly comfortable with, he makes a promise to go home this year. It has been too long since he's felt his age. He turns on his heel, walking into his room before he can say something too personal in front of Kaeya. As they drift just above the handles, something stops his hands from pulling the doors shut behind him.

"We leave in the morning, Tartaglia," Kaeya says, oddly soft in tone. 

A sudden wave of bone-tiredness rushes over him, and Tartaglia is suddenly sick of his name. "Ajax." 

A pause. So much for refraining from "personal talk."

"Pardon?" 

"My name is Ajax." He repeats, looking over his shoulder at the older boy. "I just - I thought you should know. Tartaglia is more of a title." 

Almost as if he's preparing to be offended, Kaeya scrunches his nose up in reply. "I know that. The title thing, I mean. It's not like Mezzetino is my name, either." 

For a moment, they just stand there in silence, Kaeya hovering in his doorframe like a ghost, wordless and still. The feeling that came with his nightmare threatens to seep through the corners of the room like the tide creeping slowly up a riverbed, cold and isolating, and Ajax steps closer, opening his mouth as if he wants to say something, but when he looks at Kaeya's face, nothing comes out. He is left speechless. 

"I'll let you rest." Kaeya blurts, turning to leave. 

Before he can catch himself, Ajax reaches out, grabbing his sleeve like a needy child. "Sleep with me tonight. In my room. It's too..." 

The silence that swells between them is the longest three seconds of Ajax's life, and when they finally shatter, he feels his breath leave his lungs. 

"Okay."

Ajax is already in bed, lying on his side and staring at the wall when the mattress dips beside him. His heart freezes in his chest, but he doesn't feel the telltale heat of an approaching body. It's unfairly misleading.

"Archons, this is a large bed," Kaeya mutters, and the sound of glass clinking on the side table makes the ginger-haired boy turn around, a sheepish smile on his face. 

Ajax bites back a yawn. "Far too big, in my opinion." 

With a half-unbuttoned shirt and tousled hair, Kaeya looks like he's stepped out of a shitty romance novel, impossibly perfect in every way. Praying that his ears haven't turned red, Ajax lets his cheek meet the pillow, trying not to stare as Kaeya props up a cushion for him to lean against, a book in his hand. He smells, very faintly, of calla lilies and sweet wine. The scent of wine on someone's person isn't usually so comforting, but when he lies down, flicking the pages of his book with a lazy, half-smile on his face, he finds that he doesn’t mind it. How strange.

It's not... Unpleasant. Lying here like this, watching him read. Ajax lets himself smile softly too. "Thank you." 

"It's not a big deal. Your room is bigger than mine. 'S nice." Kaeya mutters nonchalantly, and Ajax misses the glance he throws his way, eyes curiously flickering over his face. What he doesn't miss is the hand that threads through his hair, nails dragging lightly over his scalp. "The Fontais water is somehow making your hair fluffier. It's very soft." 

Struggling to keep his eyes open as Kaeya runs his hands through his hair, Ajax can only nod, his eyelids fluttering with weariness. With a soft chuckle, Kaeya gives him a quick smile before he passes out, an odd, warm look in his usually icy eye. 

"Goodnight, Ajax." 

"G'night, Kaeya." He mumbles sleepily, settling further into the downy sheets. 

Chapter Text

Ajax wakes up with his face pressed against Kaeya's chest, an arm draped over his middle. For a moment, he thinks about flying off, pressing himself against the wall because this is Kaeya. Infuriating, cocky, beautiful (Gods fucking damn it) Kaeya. Since his brain hasn't really switched on yet, Ajax finds himself tucking his head further underneath the dark-haired boy's chin, forehead resting against his sternum. Not even three seconds and he's asleep again. 

A soft grunt vibrates in Kaeya's throat, and he shifts a little, adjusting to comfortably fit around where Ajax has starfished across the bed and his torso. 

Neither of them moves for a moment. Half-asleep and delirious, Kaeya can only wrinkle his nose when a rather perky strand of ginger hair pushes against his face. Its persistence rouses Kaeya with a soft sneeze, and he woozily goes to sit up, only to find that he has been literally pinned to the mattress by the dead weight of Ajax's arm. Momentarily, Kaeya thinks that he's been poisoned and killed due to the fact that he's so fucking heavy, and out of pure worry for his partner's health (obviously), he smacks him. 

"Mm... Motherfucker!" Groggily, Ajax lifts his head up, rubbing the back of his head. "What the hell?" 

With a scathing frown, Kaeya looks up at him from where he's weighted to the bed. "It appears you've taken me hostage and are now drooling on my chest. I know I'm irresistible, but still, have some decency." 

"You're a real piece of work, you know?" He grumbles, nodding towards the arm around his shoulder. "It's funny you say that I'm the one holding you hostage."

"You're lying on my arm, Ajax." 

The tawny-haired boy stops, eyes flickering over Kaeya's face as he rubs the heel of his palm against his eye. Caught off-guard at the sudden, casual use of his given name, he finds himself pulled into an odd feeling that flutters in his chest like a trapped bird. It chokes him, like his heart is trying to hurl itself through his throat, and he's not sure whether or not he likes it. Lazily sweeping all of his hair into a ponytail, Kaeya stretches, and his gaze languidly sweeps over Ajax's face.

"You look like you've just eaten a Jueyun chili." He notes, completely oblivious. "Maybe you really were poisoned, but I slapped it out of you. D'you think if I slap you again, it'll work?"

Ajax averts his eyes, toying with the sheets as he fumbles for a witty reply, but his tongue is like a stone in his mouth. Kaeya falters, his smile falling from his face. With a short sigh, he runs a hand through his hair, revealing his right eye. It shimmers faintly in the late morning light, darker than anything Ajax has ever seen and twice as beautiful. It's his turn to sigh now, burying his face in his hands as he groans into them, faint traces of sleep bringing his guard down and leaving him defenseless. 

"Why are you so confusing?" He mutters, his fingers steepling over the bridge of his nose. 

Kaeya scrunches up his face in exasperation, eyes narrowing as he stares at Ajax. "What's so confusing about me? If anything, you're the weird one." 

He doesn't have it in him to tell Kaeya that the afflictions are getting worse. Last night, Ajax slept like the dead, and for someone who beckons ice at their fingertips, Kaeya was warm, solid, and comforting. Ajax doesn't remember what he dreamed of, and honestly, if he did, he'd be terrified of what his mind was conjuring. Everything about this is new to him, like a book in a foreign language or a dance he's leading where he doesn't know the steps. Suddenly, he remembers those hours he spent slaving away in front of the family piano, trying to pick out the notes to a song he'd heard before. Playing by ear was never his strong suit, and he'd always get frustrated and storm off before he could piece it back together. 

With Kaeya, it's a little similar. Nothing is as infuriating as not knowing how to act around him, focusing on the littlest things as if they were huge, cataclysmic disasters. The entire situation is a nightmare to unravel. He has many, many more thoughts on the matter, but Ajax realizes that he's been quiet for a little too long, and Kaeya is frowning. If he didn't know better, he'd think he's seen a hint of concern in those mismatched eyes. 

"Ajax?" Kaeya says, his lips twitching into a frown. "Didn't hit a nerve, did I?"

The ginger-haired boy shakes his head, rubbing the pad of his thumb across his nose in an attempt to hide the flush spreading across his cheeks. "No. I'll - I'm getting changed. We leave today, right?" 

The ride back to Snezhnaya is long, rain hurling itself against the carriage windows all through the grim afternoon. Kaeya stares at the floor, a hand positioned over his mouth in a show of deep thought. Every now and then, Ajax peers at him through his hair, studying the way his index finger taps against his lip. Close to the corner of his mouth, Kaeya has bitten a small, red cut into his bottom lip. Every now and then, he'll run his tongue over it, attempting to soothe the raw skin. As the skies darken and the rain becomes torrential, Ajax thinks about what it would taste like. To press his own lips to Kaeya's and bite down, pulling at the cut until the only taste in his mouth is iron and unmistakeably Kaeya. 

He shifts in his seat, crossing one leg over the other restlessly as the dark-haired boy does it again, but this time, his teeth worry the mark. Ajax watches intently as a small red bead of blood wells on Kaeya's lip. As he lets out a shaky breath, everything suddenly feels far too hot as the older boy licks the blood away, only for it to bloom like spring flowers once more. 

Gods, he needs to get out. The gloves on his hands are too hot, and his jacket constricts every single breath his lungs force out, and so Ajax does the first thing that comes to mind. 

He fixes the issue. 

"Tartaglia, what in the Sevens' names are you doing?" Kaeya barks, slamming the carriage door shut behind him and marching out into the rain. 

Staring back at him through the thick sheets of rain, the ginger-haired boy swallows. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his clothes are drenched, even though it's been a few moments since he jumped out of the moving carriage. Gods, what an idiot. Kaeya tosses his hair out of his face, droplets flying through the air. 

He says, "I think I'm dying." 

Chapter Text

"I think I'm dying," He says, and through the torrential rain, Ajax glows like a ghost, his hands clenched into fists. 

Kaeya swallows, the back of his shirt starting to stick to his back. He doesn't say anything. 

"I'm dying, Kaeya," Ajax repeats, his voice ragged, "and you're killing me." 

A gust of wind blows a sheet of water against his back, and Kaeya's hands fall to his sides. It feels familiar. Something in his gut twists, and for a moment, Ajax's hair is longer, redder, wilder, and there's a scar on his hand from where he cut himself when they were fourteen, fencing on the roof of the winery at dawn. Everything blends together, melting like a burning oil painting. A family portrait. Kaeya feels sick. 

The wind cuts through his shirt as Ajax takes a step closer, hands curling into shaking fists. "What did you do?" 

It's a question Kaeya's heard before, and he knows the answer doesn't matter. With a sharp inhale, he shuts his mouth into a grim line, hoping that Ajax can't see him trembling. Every nerve in his body braces for pain, for the familiar burn that comes with severing ties. Honestly, he should have known. Creatures from the Abyss never stay too long in the light, and it appears that Kaeya's brief delusion that he finally had a place where he belonged shatters. Just as ghosts can't walk amongst the living, he can never call anywhere home. 

"What did you do?" Ajax asks again, fervently shaking him by the collar. When Kaeya doesn't reply, he glares at him with fierce intensity. "Fucking talk to me, Kaeya!" 

The dark-haired boy opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Without warning, Ajax pushes away, pacing the forest through the curtains of rain, his eyes wild. Kaeya only catches the change in his demeanor when the water starts warping like aged wood; it's too late, and it curls around his ankles like agitated snakes. When he wrenches his gaze to the ginger-haired boy's face, he's met with a shimmering blade of water. It will always end this way, he thinks, but this time, Kaeya doesn't draw his sword. 

Standing there like he's seen a ghost, his silver eye dull, Kaeya stares down the blade of Ajax's sword. Light dances across his face like shimmering mist, and it's the kind of "beautiful" that one would think to describe an intricately carved hunting knife or the grace of a predator in the wild with. The tip of the sword doesn't shake, and Ajax feels a sense of pride, knowing that his hands are taking the lead over his heart.

"Draw your sword, Kaeya." He growls, shifting his stance. 

Mutely, the dark-haired boy simply looks up, his hair plastered to his face as the sky upheaves itself through the pine trees. Ajax feels his pulse quicken, leaping like a jackrabbit through his veins. 

"Fight me, Gods damn it!" 

With a roar, he feels himself slip, and something in his gut shifts, like a key's teeth twisting in a lock. Power thrums in Ajax's fingertips, and he finds that he's worked himself up into such hysterics that everything grows slightly smaller, and his movements suddenly shake the rain itself. Kaeya stares up at him, an expression of fear and wonder on his face as he reaches a hand up, pressing it to the edge of the blade. The weapon stains red immediately, blooming flowers that smell of bitter iron. 

Ajax is not himself. He hasn't been himself since the age of fourteen, when he fell through time and space and ended up alone in the dark - nothing has ever been the same. There wasn't any cold or any warmth to feel, just darkness. Skirk molded him into a warrior, bestowed upon him her blessing of destruction, and left him a monster. Ajax doesn't resent her for it. The bloodlust it gave him made him feel powerful for the first time in his life, even if it deemed him unrecognizable to his mother. He remembers how his own blood stained the snow, dragging himself back to the front door and immediately being shunned. Catching a reflection of what he was in the glass window, Ajax saw he was no longer Ajax. He was the Abyss. 

He told her he killed the beast once he calmed down enough to transform back. Brought back a ragged scrap of cloth from the cloak made of stars and everything. It wasn't the last time he would lie to his family about this kind of thing. 

The past tastes like blood in his mouth as he lunges for Kaeya, and he wants nothing more than to feel whole again - as if his heart isn't about to burst. When the older boy doesn't move, Ajax knows that the hit's impact will be painful. Half of him is glad to see Kaeya hurt as much as he does, while the other makes his armored skin crawl with discomfort. 

"I'm sorry," Kaeya rasps in his ear, wrapping his arms around Ajax's heavy-plated shoulders and pulling him closer. 

The tip of his blade presses against the space between the boy's shoulder blades, but from the way Kaeya leans into the curve of his body, Ajax gets the terrible, terrible feeling that he wants it. What does he want?

"You're killing me, Kaeya." He whispers once more, his voice ragged and rougher than he remembers it. "I want to hate you."

"Hate me, then." Says Kaeya, his voice soft and tender, sending a sweet shiver down Ajax's spine. "Whatever you want." 

He doesn't hate Kaeya. He can't hate Kaeya. Ajax shakes with fury, and he makes a move to plunge the sword into Kaeya's back. The arms around him tighten, but not in fear. With the knowing smile of a man about to be strung up from the gallows, Kaeya holds him tighter, like the sword at his back is a kiss and not a warning. 

"Whatever you want, Ajax," Kaeya repeats softly, and he's almost drowned out by the torrential rainfall. 

The sword trembles, rippling like a troubled pond. "I don't understand you."

"You don't have to," Is the reply, and a hand cards through his hair behind the horned mask. 

In his hand, the sword warps once more, his resolve fading. Perhaps it's because he's weak. Maybe it's just because he knows he's not. Ajax, who knows now, realizes that he has never been "weak," and Kaeya hasn't been the source of his corrosion, not even once. 

He whispers. "What if I want to?" 

The arms around him shake, and Ajax looks down to see that he is no longer a hulking mass of steel and muscle but a seventeen-year-old standing in the rain with an empty hand hovering behind Kaeya's back. Slowly, he brings it to rest at the nape of the dark-haired boy's neck, rubbing soothing circles against wet skin with the pad of his thumb. In his hold, Kaeya's shoulders shudder, and he claws at the back of Ajax's shirt, clinging to him desperately. He sees someone else when I shove a sword in his face, Ajax muses. Part of him is jealous, as if he only wants the quiet defiance he saw in Kaeya's eye, when he looked right back at the Tsaritsa, all to himself. 

"Why would you... Why would you want that?" Kaeya demands, his voice rasping. 

It's an excellent question, but after thinking about it for the better half of a year, Ajax supposes he knows the answer. 

"It comes with wanting you, I think." 

Chapter Text

Kaeya's cheek stings from the slap, and before he can lift his head, another one follows. 

"Do you know what we do with deserters, Mezzetino?" Pantalone says, his hands clasped behind his back. The Second Harbinger is standing by his desk, staring down at him with a look in his eyes that makes the hairs on the back of Kaeya's neck stand on end. 

In front of him, Arlecchino hovers around him like a mayfly, giggling as she grips Kaeya by the hair to look up at his guardian. The palm of her hand is rosy from where it connected with Kaeya's face, and there is a smear of blood on her middle finger, where one of her rings cut his lip. 

"I didn't do anything wrong," Kaeya argues, earning him a swift punch to the gut. 

As she narrows her eyes into mismatched slits, Arlecchino bends down, clicking her tongue in condescension. "Ah, ah, no speaking out of turn, kiddo."

Pantalone frowns, his brow furrowing harshly. "I gave you direct orders to stay put while Tartaglia earned his Delusion. Instead, you sneak away and put him in Dottore's care because he misused his power. I would say that's insubordination at best and treason at worst, Mezzetino."

Kaeya swallows, slouching in the seat he's bound to. The cocktail chair creaks as Arlecchino grips the back of it, leaning over his shoulder like a parrot of impending doom. For the Ninth Harbinger, she's awfully proud to lord over what little subordinates she has. Briefly, a flash of guilt flares in the pit of his stomach, and, very quietly, Kaeya lifts his head up to speak. 

"Can I see him?" He asks, his voice small. "Please?" 

The first time Kaeya was told he was wanted was when he was spying on a meeting Diluc was in, peering through the gaps of a bookshelf. The Ordo Favonius' library was never well-stocked or well-built, and a few of the walls were simply bookshelves for the Third Cavalry Captain's office, meaning it would have been a crime not to eavesdrop on the meetings that took place inside. Kaeya made it a habit to sit in the chair across from bookshelf that doubled as a wall, and when Diluc took conferences in there, he would listen in. 

It was only after a particularly harsh scolding from the First Captain that Kaeya heard it. Diluc had a nasty habit of putting him in situations that were perhaps a little too much for a Visionless knight, all because the idiot thought he could protect him no matter what. Of course, it slowed expeditions down, seeing as Kaeya was constantly in various states of distress as well as being rather prone to attack, and the First Captain was a woman of little patience and quick temper. She marched into Diluc's makeshift office, demanding to take Kaeya off Diluc's regiment roster and place him under the city watch instead. While it was insulting, Kaeya didn't mind. It was easier to network with the inner city guards than with the scouts and Outriders, and Crepus had his eyes set on Diluc getting as high up the ladder before Varka's grand expedition. 

Instead of complying, Diluc scowled like Kaeya had never seen him do before, snapping at his superior with such a snippy tone, the dark-haired boy was sure that he would get fired on the spot. 

"Kaeya is my responsibility," He had said, standing up so quickly that his chair slid backward. "I will do everything to protect him, and as his brother, to leave him behind is to turn my back on him. Thank you, and good day, Captain."

She had only scoffed, crossing gauntleted hands over her arms. "Kaeya is a setback." 

"I want him by my side, Captain, and if you cannot understand that, I must ask you to leave." 

Kaeya had simply sat there, speechless as the First Captain stormed out, grumbling on and on about efficiency and distractions. Perhaps Diluc hadn't said it to his face, and it wasn't the same as how Ajax had told him in the rain, but it was still his first time being told that he was wanted. Diluc went back on his word, of course. Humanity fools themselves into believing they want something, then as soon as it becomes too complicated, they simply forget that desire. As his brother forgot their oath, Ajax will forget Kaeya. It is inevitable. 

Staring at him from the doorway now, Kaeya watches Ajax gaze out of the window, leaning back against a mountain of plush cushions piled up on his bed. Dottore's medical briefcase sits on a dresser by the balcony, somehow looking even dodgier than the last time Kaeya saw it. 

"Hey," He breathes, tentatively entering the room. 

Patting the space beside him, Ajax gives him an oddly bright smile for someone whose face is ashen. "Hey yourself."

There is a long pause as Ajax tilts his head to the side, examining Kaeya's face. 

The second time that Kaeya was told he was wanted was by a boy who utterly confounded him. Ajax is an enigma. One moment, his sword is at Kaeya's throat, and the next, he's holding his hand. Kaeya understands that his love language is spoken in duels and blades, but this idiot needs to make up his mind. (He ignores how he clung to Ajax through the rain as if letting go would mean that the silvery handprint of scar tissue on his wrist would ignite into flames again. Some things are better left unspoken.)

"You're so difficult," Ajax murmurs, tilting his head to the side in scrutiny, his eyes scanning Kaeya's face. "And you're a pain in the ass. Judging from the marks on your face, no respect for authority, either." 

Scowling, Kaeya turns away, but the fondness of Ajax's tone makes his ears burn red. "Fuck you."

(It takes everything in the tawny-haired boy not to reply with a "Gods, I wish.") With a chuckle, Ajax reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of Kaeya's artery underneath the cuff of his shirt. "You're incorrigible. A true menace to society."

"And what are you going to do about it?" Comes the reply, and Kaeya swivels around, coming face to face with Ajax's smug grin. 

It's when their noses brush that Kaeya realizes this is the kind of mushy bullshit you see in terrible romance novels, with feisty heroes and sly love interests. It's ironic, really, seeing as he's neither. Ajax had once said something about how life with the Tsaritsa was as isolating as life on an ice floe, with no one else but other ego-inflated assholes with hero complexes to keep him company. Now, Kaeya is glad he's smart enough to see that he will never be a hero. No one in this stupid fucking castle will ever be, not a single one of them. Knowing this, Kaeya supposes that he didn't owe Diluc the fight. Perhaps he didn't deserve the burns, or the stab wound, or the exile, because, in the end, it simply is his nature. 

Perhaps that's why the kiss tastes so sweet. Unbound by being a martyr, it's so satisfying being selfish that Kaeya takes more and more, running his hands through Ajax's hair, gripping at his collar, and smiling against his mouth. Heroics will never taste as sweet as the flavor of Ajax's cough syrup. As hands dip low against his back, Kaeya slings a leg over the ginger-haired boy's waist, kissing him fervently again and again. 

"Ah, Kaeya," Ajax groans, "mind the bruises." 

He stops, panting. "Oh. Sorry."

Laughter bubbles from the younger boy's lips, and as he slides a hand around the nape of Kaeya's neck, he presses their foreheads together. 

"I think I like that about you," He says, his face flushed and glowing with heat. "The fact you behave so terribly."

Kaeya has the audacity to pretend to be insulted. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a fucking angel."

Ajax laughs, bright and airy, and Kaeya suddenly feels as if he's looking at the sun for the first time again. Warm and dazzling, he's filled with pride that he can get Ajax to laugh like this, just by saying a few words. 

"There you are." He says fondly, rubbing circles into the small of his back with the pad of his thumb. "There's my Kaeya."

His. He said, "my." Kaeya's stomach flips, buzzing with butterflies, and he grips the front of the ginger-haired boy's shirt tight, surging forward to kiss him again because words have failed him. How sweet, he thinks, it is to be wanted, and for entirely selfish reasons. 

Chapter Text

The boy from Khaenri'ah doesn't speak much. 

Tartaglia notes this down in the back of his mind as he watches this gorgeous boy comb the shelves of Dottore's library, no doubt having snatched the key from the constantly working scientist's clutches. After only seeing him bowing down in submission to Her Highness' glacial stare, watching him in such a comfortable space is oddly calming to Tartaglia. His hair hangs loosely over his shoulders, grazing the breast pocket of the Mondstadt-style waistcoat he wore to the palace. Briefly, Tartaglia wonders if he was prepared to travel here. Judging from the bloodstained rip in the side of his shirt that he has failed to hide in his vulnerable wonder of flicking through the pages of a Hilichurlian anatomy book, it appears not. 

Shifting from one foot to another in impatience, the ginger-haired boy leans his mouth against his hands, lips grazing his knuckles where they fold over the ledge of a bookshelf. Kaeya, he said his name was. Star Sovereign. A prince, perhaps, or a noble. Gods, he really is beautiful. Tartaglia stifles a sigh, but he can't stop staring, watching Kaeya's elegant hands drift over the shelves in search of more tomes to satiate his curiosity. He barely even knows him, but by the Tsaritsa's frozen fingers, he wants to. 

Strangers have always felt off to Tartaglia. That's why he either goes out of his way to avoid them or make sure they don't stay a stranger. For this boy, this captivating, intricately crafted boy - perhaps he can make an exception. 

Kaeya wanders aimlessly over to one of the windows, pressing the pads of his fingertips to the glass as he watches flurries of snow cascade through the pine trees, wonder on his face that gleams like jewels. Quietly, Tartaglia passes behind a pillar lined with polished skulls of varying sizes. He grimaces at an oddly realistic taxidermied crow, then, after deciding that Dottore is such a creepy old man, he peers back at Kaeya. A frown forms on his face. Somehow, the dark-haired boy is gone, vanished from the windowpane like a ghost. 

Tartaglia deflates, leaning back against the shelf as he sighs, placing the back of his eyes. For someone he only saw forty-eight hours ago, he really has got it bad. Can the Archons blame him, though? 

"What are you doing?"

Tartaglia jumps three feet in the air. "Oh, Tsaritsa on a boat -" 

Kaeya grins sharply, a little glimmer in his eyes that screams schadenfreude in a way the ginger-haired boy has never seen before. It's hot and kind of scary. "Pardon me if I scared you. I truly believed I was alone until I saw you doing... Whatever it is you were doing." 

"'S fine!" Tartaglia squeaks, kicking himself mentally as he watches the dark-haired boy's face shift in amusement. "I-I was just... Looking at the s-skulls. They're, uh, really... boney." 

"Well, I should hope so." 

There's a pause as Kaeya blinks. The amusement falls from his face as he takes in the sight of Tartaglia's uniform and the brooch on his lapel. As his brow knits, he seems to realize that his poker face has fallen, and he elegantly rearranges his countenance into something more palatable to an audience. Tartaglia decides then and there that he would never want to be "an audience" to Kaeya. 

"A-Are you really staying here?" Tartaglia blurts out, fidgeting with his hands. 

Almost as if he's watching a tiger circle him like prey, Kaeya suddenly gets very serious, raising his shoulders slightly as Tartaglia gulps. "Who did you say you were again?" 

"I didn't. Sorry, I - My name is Tartaglia, soon-to-be Tenth Harbinger of Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa." He straightens up, pride puffing out of his chest as he recites what Tartaglia's always wanted to in front of someone he would like to impress. Sadly, it does not have the effect that he desires. 

The sudden change in Kaeya's face hits him like a hammer. Instead of the shine of admiration and intrigue that Tartaglia wanted, the room drops in temperature as the Khaenri'an boy glares coldly at him, eyes narrowing into slits. 

"Tenth Harbinger? You're Sandrone's successor?" He lets out a cruel laugh. "You can't be much older than I, and you expect to be let so close to a god? For Celestia's sake, you wouldn't last a day in Sandrone's position." 

As he draws back in confusion and frustration, Tartaglia's mouth falls open in shock. "Excuse me?" 

"I killed Sandrone. I won't hesitate to kill you too." He states matter of factly, and Tartaglia feels his skin erupt into gooseflesh. "You should leave."

Anger flares up, rearing its head like an enraged snake. Tartaglia has fought tooth and nail to get to where he is now, and he'll be fucking damned if some spoiled prince tries to knock him down a peg with some empty words. He glares hotly at the boy, eyes narrowing into slits. 

"Excuse me?"

With a goading grin, the Khaenri'an boy shifts his weight from one foot to another. "So, you're the glorified footsoldier running around the halls of the palace. Balladeer told me about you."

Scaramouche was so dead when Tartaglia found him next. Slimy little shit dug his claws into the newbie before he could even meet everyone. Perhaps, Tartaglia thinks, it's best I didn't, seeing as Kaeya is so unpleasant. Oh, what he would give to knock this spoiled prince down a few pegs. He's mastered the polearm and the sword, and Pulcinella is talking about moving onto the bow next, so he's sure his combat skills are far more impressive than what they taught Kaeya back in his homeland. 

He frowns, brow knotting as he looks at the way Kaeya's eye gleams with smug satisfaction. "He did? It's best that you don't trust just anyone here in Zapolyarny."

"Should I trust you then?" Kaeya retorts, walking his fingers up the breast lapel of Tartaglia's jacket. "Take your word for it? Choose your 'truth' over his?"

With a light tap, Kaeya pats the tip of Tartaglia's nose with his index finger, tilting his head to the side in a not-so-subtle act of condescension. Infuriatingly, the ginger-haired boy's face immediately lights up bright red, and he can feel the heat emanating from his cheeks. He chuckles, watching Tartaglia flounder for a witty reply, before he brushes past him, the scent of calla lilies trailing behind him. 

Chapter Text

"Mikhail, where is Master Tartaglia?" Anya, head housemaid, asks the stableboy, her apron clutched in her hands. 

Mikhail, a mousy boy with pale eyes, chews at his lip. "I'm not sure, Anya. He hasn't registered the weapons room for private use yet, and I haven't seen him with Master Pulcinella since he left for Fontaine."

Cursing, Anya bustles off, pushing through a group of chatting stablehands. In all honesty, if you had told her that becoming head housemaid at Zapolyarny palace meant tracking down an unruly teenage boy on his induction day, she would have told you to suck on a lemon to busy your lying tongue. Master Tartaglia, while being a charming young lad (who often stuck his head in the door of the kitchen to ask the head cook, Galina, if she needed any help, mind you), was an utter terror to keep in one place. And to pick today, his induction day, to disappear off the face of the earth! Anya swears she'd lose her head if it wasn't screwed on to show humility, but in reality, she has never lost a damn thing in her life, soon-to-Harbingers be damned. If she has to drag him to the bath she's drawn for him by the ear, Tsaritsa's frozen fingers, she'll bloody do it. 

Ajax wakes up to sunlight spilling across his face. Blinking, he yawns, brushing his messy hair back from over his forehead as he sits up in bed. 

"Ajax, come back." A voice mutters from beside him, and the ginger-haired boy looks down to see a mildly pissed-off Kaeya pouting up at him. 

Grinning, he ruffles the older boy's hair. "Good morning, idiot."

"It's cold, you dimwit." He frowns, outstretching an arm to make room for Ajax to lay back down next to his chest. "I'm freezing my tits off here."

Chuckling, Ajax complies, pulling the bedsheets back over his shoulder and thumbing the line of Kaeya's collarbone through his nightshirt. "Oh, no, not the tits. Anything but the tits."

Seemingly satisfied, Kaeya's face relaxes into a pleased smile as he sighs, wrapping his arm tight around Ajax's shoulders. It's odd, really, seeing as this feeling that swells in his chest is so similar to the tightness he gets in battle, staring into his opponent's eyes, but this sensation doesn't leave him restless. Instead, the feeling is calming. It's like the sea's lull in the evenings where he would reel the boat in after a day out on the water as a child or the gleam of dying sunlight on the ice when his father would take him fishing. The way Kaeya makes him feel is comforting, in the same vein as nostalgia and fond memories. 

"Master Tartaglia? It's Anya." A voice calls from behind the door, accompanied by the sharp rapping of someone's knuckles against the paneled wood. 

Ajax bolts up, shooting out of bed and rummaging around for his clothes. "Shit! I forgot that was today!" 

"What?" Kaeya asks groggily, propping himself up on his elbows as he cranes his neck to watch the tawny-haired boy stumble across the floor to wrench open his wardrobe. "What's going on?"

 With a shriek, Ajax flings himself behind the door, gripping the edge. "No, don't look! It's against the rules!" 

Confused, Kaeya can only squint through the bright morning sun, his nightshirt slipping off one shoulder. Ajax scoops up an armful of clothes, muttering something about impending death by wooden spoon, and he leaps behind the painted screen next to his dresser. Another sharp knock comes from the door, and Anya cracks it open, looking the other direction for his privacy. 

"Master Tartaglia, I will not ask again!" She barks, and Kaeya dives underneath the covers as she leans through the doorway. "Are you decent? I'm coming in."

Following a muttered curse, Ajax knocks something over behind his screen. "Just a minute, Anya!" 

As soon as the door closes behind her, the maid drops her professional act, dropping the basket of freshly washed and pressed clothes on the floor, her arms akimbo. Kaeya watches from the mountain of blankets and pillows he's accumulated, suppressing a snicker as Ajax squeaks. 

She frowns, her eyes flaming with anger. "If you 'just a minute' me one more time, I'm going to gut you and use your stomach for tomorrow night's tripe. We are behind schedule, Master Tartaglia, and I have neither the time nor patience to deal with your buffoonery."

"Yes, Miss Anya. I'm behind the screen."

Kaeya nearly has a fit. Rather than the fearsome warrior who sends recruits running for the hills, Ajax sounds like a scolded child. Anya clicks her tongue disapprovingly, laying out the fancy clothes on an ottoman as Ajax fidgets behind the screen, occasionally peeking his head out over the top to scan the room for wherever Kaeya's been hiding. Unfortunately for Ajax, there is no sign of him, which leads him to believe that he's either jumped from the balcony to the roof or hidden somewhere else in the room. Both are rather terrible options, seeing as Kaeya is without pants and the snow outside reaches up to the knee of a six-foot man; and that the tradition of no other Harbingers seeing their soon-to-be comrades on the day of their induction applies to the both of them. 

Anya bustles to and from the jointed suites, opening the shutters in the bathroom and picking up discarded clothes from the corridor that connects to his bedroom. "Master Tartaglia, this place is a pigsty! How did your shirt get up here?" 

Ajax gulps. Perhaps Anya isn't ready to hear that story yet. Kaeya does have a terrible aim, after all. "Sorry, Miss Anya. I'll be more mindful next time. Say, do I smell the Sumeri bath salts?"

He hears footsteps behind the screen, and he peers around the left side, frowning in confusion as he sees Anya's brown ponytail trail through the door as it closes, muttering something about missing clothes. Ajax turns back, only to find a warm body at his back, a hand grasping his wrists. 

"Don't worry," Kaeya whispers, "I'm not looking."

Sighing, Ajax laughs softly, intertwining his fingers with the other boy's. "Close your eyes and turn around, dumbass."

Obediently doing as he's told, Kaeya grins as he turns around, eyes shut. Leaning close, the ginger-haired boy watches his eyelashes flutter against his cheek, an amused smile hinting at his lips. He places a hand to Kaeya's face, running his thumb over the smooth skin. How a single person could hold so much beauty is beyond him, and he wonders if all the nobles from Khaenri'ah were as pretty as Kaeya. Most likely not. Some creations are too intricate to be made twice. 

Gently, Ajax presses a kiss to Kaeya's forehead, then to the bridge of his nose, and finally brings his lips to his mouth, bringing his other hand to rest over Kaeya's collarbone. When his eyelids flutter, Ajax claps his hand over Kaeya's eyes, laughing softly again. 

"Stop that! You're not allowed to see me like this before the ceremony." Ajax reminds him, but a smile dances on his face like bright candlelight. 

Raising his hands in defeat, Kaeya turns around, and when he's far enough on the other side that he can't see the ginger-haired boy, he scoops up a pair of trousers from the floor, dashing over to the window as footsteps sound from outside. 

"I'll see you later," Kaeya calls, and there is a sharp inhale as he hops into the thick snow. "Archons, this is bloody freezing!" 

"Go!" Ajax urges him through quiet laughter, glancing quickly as the doorknob turns. 

When he looks back at the window, Kaeya is gone, the curtains fluttering like birds' wings in the faint wind. 

Chapter Text

There is a box that sits on the mantlepiece of Kaeya's room. Ajax looks at it in the dark, unable to tell if it's real or not, seeing as he's running on an ungodly small amount of sleep. The moon is barely visible through the translucent drapes, drowning in thick snowflakes that nearly suffocate the window sill with a good few inches of snow. Soundlessly, Kaeya sleeps at his chest, arm draped around his middle and long, elegant fingers barely brushing the hem of his pants. The earring he forgot to take off is cold against Ajax's chest like a shard of ice above his heart. 

The box is glowing, or it's gilded with gold - either way, it's calling him. Ajax can feel it. Slowly unwinding Kaeya's arm from around his waist, he creeps out of bed, the floor icy underneath his feet. And, indeed, the box in question is gilded with gold in the shape of misty clouds; and a single eye of a crane captured in mid-flight. Pearly clouds surround it like a picture frame, iridescent in pallid moonlight. His fingers twitch around the lid as he lifts it, unsure why the single eye of the bird compels him to do so. Ajax is a little underwhelmed by what lies inside, but he knows that treasures don't always have to drip jewels to have value, even if they look like folded envelopes sealed with dark red wax. 

Curious, he takes one out, prising open the seal to reveal Kaeya's gorgeous handwriting. A familiar note is scrawled at the top. 

"'Do not send.'' Ajax reads aloud. "'You know what he'll do.'"

Just below that is a name that he remembers, addressed with the esteemed label of "My dear Diluc," and a small flame of jealousy licks at his heart. 

My dear Diluc, 

It's been a while, hasn't it? I haven't written to you in so long, so bear with me if I'm a little much. 

I met someone. He's a little like you, in a sense. Strong-willed, a little stubborn - a penchant for starting fights. You'd hate him, Diluc; you'd hate him so much. He's actually quite like myself in a few ways, too. 

He fell into the Abyss as a child, which sounds a lot like that saying your father used to say - how so-and-so was "dropped on their head as a child," but it's a lot less funny now that I've thought about it. He's covered in scars, you know. They're like marble across his skin sometimes, and others, they're like cracks in an old wall. When I look at him, I often see the darkness again, swimming in him like fish. 

I told you a lot about my childhood when we were younger, Diluc. I told you about the prince whose mother was a wise, tactical advisor and whose father was a tyrant. You loved those stories. Ate them up out of the palm of my hand. 

Your hand is still wrapped around my wrist. It hasn't healed. I look at it every now and then, and I can still smell the scent of burning flesh. I'm sure that the doctor at Zapolyarny can get rid of it for me, but I almost like it. It reminds me of how badly you want me to stay gone, and I want to stay here in Snezhnaya for as long as possible. 

But I know I'll come back to you. We made an oath, Diluc, and no matter what, I'll always be in your shadow, whether it is to help you or to hunt you. 

Yours,

Kaeya. 

Ajax's mouth is dry. He's not sure why he feels so hurt since he knows that Kaeya will never send these letters to this Diluc, but the very idea of having someone call Kaeya theirs feels like a lightning strike to the spine, pain arcing through each of his ribs. The unseeing eye of his Delusion, nestled neatly next to Kaeya's on the dresser, leers at him like a dull reminder of a promise he made. A vow to his Tsaritsa. 

Ajax never breaks promises. That is a principle of his, and he will never go back on it. Kaeya, on the other hand, uses words like he uses his sword, and nothing is ever genuine (Unless it's directed to him, of course. At least, that's what he thought.) Ajax looks back at Kaeya's sleeping form, the way the moonlight dances on his skin, and he wonders how cold he is. How icy must he be on the inside that he wouldn't dare tell his only companion within the walls of Zapolyarny that he was harboring thoughts of going back to Mondstadt with this stranger? A stranger, mind you, who burned him so intensely that Kaeya can still feel it. 

Ajax feels weak knowing that he hasn't inflicted such a mark on him that every time Kaeya looks at it, he thinks of rushing waters and vicious snow.

Kaeya wakes up to an empty bed and a box lying on the pillow next to him. Oddly, it is unlocked, and the cobalt-haired boy remembers a drunken stupor where he forgot to turn it in the lock and seal this weakness of his away. There is no dread that pulls at his heart, and neither are there any tears that prick his eyes because deep down, he knows that this would have happened earlier if he wasn't so damn lucky. No matter. If Ajax read the letters, it is simply another thing to dodge, deflect like a blade, and move on into an elegant riposte. That is what Kaeya knows how to do. Taking a blow leaves him open, bleeding all over, and things sink inside you easier when there is a gaping hole in your chest. 

The silvery handprint around his wrist sends a vine of phantom pain shooting up his arm, curling at the bone when he looks down at it and feels his skin simmer. 

A parting gift. Kaeya laughs humorlessly, sets the box down on the dresser, and lies down on his back, even if the bed is a lot colder than it was before. As he closes his eyes once again, Kaeya thinks of a stormy sea and a blizzard, whirling around his mind like a frantic waltz, and he goes to sleep thinking of a sword at his back.  

Chapter Text

"Have you heard the news, Limitless?" Columbina chimes from underneath her parasol, Arlecchino perched on her arm like a mildly deranged parrot. 

Wiping sweat from his brow before it freezes, Pantalone dodges an arrow shot from Pedrolino's bow. The head nicks his arm, but he doesn't relent. On the backs of his hands, his Vision and Delusion glimmer with pent-up energy. 

"No," He calls out through gritted teeth. "Can it wait?"

Sharpening his pale eyes, Pedrolino frowns, watching the courtyard's stonework ripple from below. He leaps to the side, narrowly avoiding the tendrils of thorny roses that burst out from underneath him. They glow from the inside, but before the white-haired man can move, the petals turn into bright, blood-red flames. They lick at the hem of Pedrolino's high-collared jacket, but with a swift kick, they are snuffed out, icicles hanging from the trimming. 

With a languid smile, Columbina shares a look of wry amusement with Arlecchino, who taps her foot rapidly as if itching to join the fight. "Depends. How much do you care for little Mezzetino?"

At this, Pantalone glances at the two women sitting by the fountain. This costs him a shaft made of ice to the thigh. It spreads and swirls in intricate patterns, and the older man winces, but as he goes to pull the arrow out, it melts in his hands. Pedrolino smiles thinly. 

"Dove, I have no time for your little word games while I'm in the middle of a match," Pantalone barks, his patience wearing thin. 

With a slight incline of her head, the blonde woman shrugs. "Just thought you might want to know that Tartaglia's set his sights on him."

Scoffing, the dark-haired man turns his attention back to the battlefield, slicing through an arrow of pure ice with his blade. "The Prince can handle himself in a fight. And I doubt that Tartaglia's water blades will be much use when it comes to his ice."

Pedrolino, after sidestepping a burst of roses that bloom beneath his feet, watches with the face of a passive doll as Arlecchino leaps up from her seat.

"Not like that, Pantalone!" She crows. "Dove means that Tartaglia's got the hots for your ward!"

Pantalone has always known that Kaeya is a young man of great charm and wit. He understands that there must have been a string of broken hearts that he left behind in Mondstadt, hell, even in Fontaine, where he smuggled away into a carriage with that foolhardy Tartaglia. After watching Kaeya's bruised face contort into an expression of concern when the now Eleventh Harbinger was mentioned, Pantalone knew that some hearts were heavily guarded to all things except the façade of trust and admiration. Kaeya had fallen for the oldest trick in the book. 

Zapolyarny palace is no place for love - or in this case, infatuation - and the court of the Tsaritsa is a place where one must keep each card close to their chest and rely on no one but themself. 

(He breaks this rule daily when he removes Oskar's mask to place a gentle kiss on his temple. They believe that their relationship, in a way, is a testament to their Archon's old values. They are simply making excuses, of course, but no one needs to know that.)

With an expression of simmering fury on his face, Pantalone sheathes his sword and marches into the palace corridors, footsteps thundering all the way to Pulcinella's study. 

Pulcinella savors the little things in life. He's a perfectionist, really, and anything that piques his interest is always of the finest quality. In this case, he is invested in this wheel of cheese he imported from Mond. It's pungent. It's grotesquely huge with these gaping cavities that ooze fermented dairy. It smells like a corpse left in the Mare Jivari to cook for days. Pulcinella believes that he'll ascend the second he places a slice of it on a cracker. 

The walls of his study are lined with weapons of all types, each glimmering with polish. Upon his floor, spread out in front of his bureau, is a tiger skin - a fair warning to any recruits to try to enter without knocking. There is a spot of blood on one of its teeth where his little project tripped and fell with a claymore hefted into his little arms. Back then, Tartaglia was a twig of a thing, and the only thing he had going for him was the raw speed at which he threw himself relentlessly at anything in his way. That and, of course, the fact that he could transform into a ten-foot-tall monster who could crush a man's skull with his hands. 

Yes, Pulcinella enjoys fine foods and exquisite weaponry, but nothing pleases him more than watching a monster rip into a crowd of recruits like a hot knife through butter. In the past, he's watched dog fights, even lost money on them, but with Tartaglia, it's like having a demon on a leash. It transcends a betting ring. It's a shot of pure power sent straight to his pride, knowing that he's got a beast of the Abyss at his beck and call. 

Pulcinella takes a bite of the cheese. It is exquisite. 

"Usman!" 

Tsaritsa's bitter tongue, he can never catch a break. Rolling his eyes, he turns away from the wheel of cheese to see Pantalone storm into his office, shirtless and sweaty. The cheese turns sour in his mouth. 

"What do you want?" He scoffs, swallowing his mouthful. 

In such a state of frustration, the other man slams his hands on the desk, his palms scorching the wood. "I want you to get your Abyss-tainted, half-rabid salopard out of my way, Usman. Do not make me use force against him."

"Florentine," Usman says, frowning in distaste. Oh, he misses that cheese. "What on earth are you talking about? I haven't assigned Tartaglia to any of your missions. If you're talking about the Mezzetino incident, I want you to know that I had absolutely no part in that. It was all your little Princeling's fault."

Florentine pushes the desk to one side, the legs screeching against the stone floor gratingly. "Putain de bordel de merde, Usman! I mean the incident where your little connard has been tempting my ward into disobedience. Did you put him up to it?"

Two figures crowd the door where Florentine came pushing through, obviously on guard from the sound of the desk screeching across the floor and all the yelling coming from Usman's study. Signora, a cold expression of feigned indifference painted on her face, stands just in front of Dottore, who chews his lip from underneath his mask. Both of them watch as Florentine pushes Usman back after the latter stands up, crowding in the taller man's face. With a sigh of exasperation, Signora leans her head through the doorframe. However, any addition she might have had to the conversation is drowned out by even more yelling. 

"Don't talk to me about 'putting him up to it!'" Usman screeches, shoving Florentine firmly in the shoulder. 

Scowling, the dark-haired man knits his brow. "What are you implying? That I use children for my own gain? Use them as pawns in my little military playdates?"

"Well, your little Doctor certainly does!" Retorts the Fifth, seething spite and anger like a geyser. "And don't talk to me about manipulation, not when you buy affection with trinkets and shining Mora. Did you have to pay Oskar to share his bed with you?"

Signora snorts at that one. Oskar pales as Florentine goes quiet, too engrossed in the reaction to pay any mind to Signora's cruel laughter. Rearing back like a wild stallion, Florentine looks down at Usman with the kind of thunder in his eyes that could strike someone down dead in the middle of a field without any warning. As he raises his hand, most likely to hit him, the double doors - the ones that lead to the courtyard - open. As if a great wave of ice has come over them, the adults watch, frozen, as Tartaglia strolls through the doorframe with a stack of paper packages in hand, a cheerful look on his face. 

Pallidly, Dottore swallows. "Tartaglia. What are you doing here?"

Readjusting themselves, so it doesn't look as if they were caught redhanded arguing about the ginger-haired boy, Pantalone and Pulcinella straighten out, clearing their throats and averting their eyes. With a slight smirk, Signora motions for him to hurry up and speak. 

Tartaglia smiles. "I just have some mail to deliver. Don't mind me."

Chapter Text

Kaeya's not sure why he wakes up shivering until he sees the open window. 

He's been, admittedly, sulking for the past few days, and the gust of frigidly fresh air hit him in the face like a sucker punch. He hasn't seen Ajax. Ajax doesn't want to see him. Simple as that. This doesn't mean that it's painless, though. Kaeya sits up, leaning back on his elbows as he blearily looks around the room. Pale moonlight spills through the wafting silk curtains, pooling on the knees of a figure slumped in the armchair, whose hands dig into the armrest like a cat's claws. Perhaps, Kaeya thinks, this is an assassin sent to kill me. He doesn't mind. Assassination is always an intriguing way to go, and the thought of never being fooled again is tempting. 

"D'you mind closing that?" The Harbinger calls out, running a hand through his mussed hair. "It's a bit chilly."

The stranger gets to their feet, and then, with the conviction of a man scorned, they shoot their left hand out. Black chains wrap around the window, slamming it down with such force, a spidery crack leaps up the glass. Without any further warning, they surge forward, the chains now grappling the posters of Kaeya's bed. The stranger lands with a thump on at the foot of it, perching like a terrible bird. 

They say, "Seventy-two."

After a pause, Kaeya's brow furrows. "Seventy-two what?"

"Seventy-two letters," The stranger continues, and suddenly, he's not a stranger anymore. "Kaeya, why are you here?"

With dawning dread, the Tenth Harbinger looks Diluc Ragnvindr, of Mondstadt, former 2nd Captain of the Ordo Favonius, dead in the eye and wishes for divine smiting. In the moonlight, Kaeya can see the expression of pained confusion, and oddly enough, sympathy on his face. It makes his gut wrench with guilt. 

Diluc unwraps the chains with a flick of his wrist. "What did they do to you? How did you finally send those letters?"

Speechless, Kaeya does all he can to grapple for coherence, but the right words to say tumble from his grasp. Without hesitation, Diluc offers him his right hand. The action makes the cobalt-haired boy flinch, shying away from him as if it's doused in flames. Pain flickers across Diluc's face. 

"I'm -"

Shooting his hands out in front of him, Kaeya stares up at him in sorrow. "Please, Diluc, you have to leave. Those letters were never -"

"No, Kae, you have to understand!" The redhead protests, and he falls forward onto the bed, kneeling there like they did when they were kids when Kaeya would read to him aloud. "I came to rescue you. I - I wanted to tell you I was sorry. That I shouldn't have done what I did. Your letters told me everything. Whatever the Fatui have over your head - that Harbinger boy - you don't have to be afraid of them anymore."

Wordlessly, Kaeya doesn't have the strength to argue as his once-sworn brother pulls him to his feet, up and out of bed. Diluc urges him to get changed, glancing at the bedroom door every now and then, and in this light, he looks so much older. In a sense, he is. Kaeya was taken when he was, what, sixteen? It's been two years, and now he's eighteen, and Diluc is seventeen. There are hints of a baby face, a slight crackle in his voice every now and then, but other than those things, it's clear that Diluc has grown up. Perhaps a little too quickly. 

The faintest hints of dawn break on the horizon, coating the snow in a coral sheen, glowing like the embers of a fire. Kaeya swallows thickly. "Diluc, those letters weren't meant to be sent."

"I know, Kae. We're going to get out of here, I promise. After that, we can talk more." The redhead answers absently, checking the hallway for any guards as he leans out of the doorframe. 

Tartaglia can be patient. He can lay traps, he can smoke out enemy vermin, and he can wait for the target to raise their head from their hiding place. It's not in his nature, but he can do it. 

The Eleventh Harbinger waits with bated breath in the throne room, his neck prickling with anticipation as he hears the pattering of footsteps from the hallway, his blades of water shimmering in and out of existence. It is exciting to watch a trap fall into place, but not as thrilling as the best part - confrontation. In the shadows, he sees Kaeya's silhouette being tugged out of the darkness and into the moonlight by an imposing, broad-shouldered boy of Kaeya's own stature. A head of scarlet red hair and a gleaming jewel on his left hand - it's clear that this boy is the famed Diluc Ragnvindr, whose stolen Delusion has been used to wreak havoc amongst the outer camps that Capitano posted by the borders of the country. 

It's almost funny how Kaeya's secret boyfriend is the key to getting Tartaglia the fame and fortune that he's always craved. The very undoing of a carefully constructed web, and here Tartaglia is, falling into another one, but this time, he's not the one who's trapped. With a slow grin, Tartaglia walks forward, rolling his shoulders as he comes face to face with the pair of them, and he beckons them closer with one hand. Diluc visibly tenses, stepping in front of Kaeya and shaking his left wrist out in preparation. Dottore constructed that prototype himself, back before he could emulate the elements into his craft. This thing, the Evil Eye, is flimsy at best. Only those with a strong constitution and a resolve of steel can use it and not succumb to the corrosive poison it leaks into the wielder's mind. 

"Step aside, Fatui scum." Diluc hisses, glowering at him with eyes like two embers ready to leap into a blaze. 

Electricity crackles at Tartaglia's fingertips, itching to be let out. "Show me what you're made of, and maybe I'll consider it."

Beside the redhead, Kaeya inches forward, placing a hesitant hand on his arm. "Diluc, it's a lie. Just let it go."

"I'm not leaving here without you, Kae," Diluc replies through gritted teeth. "Father wouldn't allow it."

Without warning, the Eleventh Harbinger surges forward, drawing his water blades with practiced ease. Diluc ducks, rolling to the side, but not without gaining a thin, wicked-looking gash on his right arm. His cloak drips water onto the marble floor. 

"He's dead, Diluc!" Kaeya cries out, and the emerald gem laid into his choker glows with light.

From his palm, a strong gust of wind pushes Diluc out of the way as Tartaglia melds his blades into a battleaxe and arcs it over his head. The weapon hits the floor with a splash, dousing all three of them in water, and the ginger-haired boy looks around, scanning the darkness for where Diluc has vanished to. The faint rustle of chains is the only indication that he's still in the room, and Tartaglia whirls around, narrowing his eyes. From beyond his sight, a single, black chain shoots out of the darkness, and the tawny-haired boy barely manages to dodge in time, watching the cable wrap around a pillar like a constricting snake. He sidesteps the attack, moving instead to circle Kaeya. 

"He's quite the feisty one, isn't he?" He hisses, leaning close to the older boy's face with barely contained animosity hidden behind his smile. 

Setting his mouth in a grim line, Kaeya stares back at him silently, mismatched eyes glowing in the pale moonlight. With a sour, humorless laugh, Tartaglia turns on his heel, ducking down just in time to see a chain hurtle past where his head was a moment ago. Another one shoots past his legs, and the Harbinger dives into a roll, narrowly avoiding losing a limb. Sprawled out across the floor, Tartaglia's line of sight follows the sound of rustling metal, and he looks up, a gasp bubbling out of his throat as Diluc descends on him from the air, cloak flying behind him like wings. He stares, wide-eyed, as something moves in front of him, blocking the oncoming assault with a wall of thick ice. 

"Diluc," Kaeya hisses, frost crystallizing in his hair, "go home."

Staring at him as if he's been stabbed in the back, Diluc cracks the chains like a whip, sending spidery fractures through the marble of the Tsaritsa's throne room floor. The ice shoots out further, swirling around Tartaglia's fingertips like blossoming flowers. 

Glaring sharply at the Harbinger and then at Kaeya, Diluc shakes his head in confusion. "I don't understand, Kae. Why him?"

"Because he accepted me, godsdammit!" Kaeya roars in reply, and the ice shoots out into the air, hanging in the air like frigid chandeliers. "He hasn't left me shaking at the sight of a fireplace, Diluc! You - you hurt me. You burned me so deeply, the bone blistered. Why can't you understand that you will never be the hero of the story if you keep reducing the rest of the world to ashes?"

Shocked into silence, the redhead can only stare, dumbfounded, as the ice crystals hang in the air, suspended by some invisible force. Tartaglia's breath mists in the air, shimmering with frost as it condenses into a thin sheen of snowflakes. 

Finally, as if words have finally thawed on his tongue, Diluc swallows. "I'm not trying to be the hero, Kaeya. I'm just trying to be what I promised I would be - your brother."

"Blood is blood, Diluc," Kaeya says bitterly. "I was never a part of your family, and you made that very, very clear. Just go home."

Meanwhile, sitting on the floor and feeling rather stupid, Tartaglia splutters. "Wait, shit, your brother?"

The cobalt-haired boy glances down at him from over his shoulder. "No, not really. Wait, who did you think he was?"

Diluc frowns as Tartaglia goes very, very pale, staring rather pointedly at the floor. When he speaks, his voice comes out strained. "Well, uh, I thought he was your boyfriend."

Making an undignified squeak, Diluc pulls a face that looks as if he's just sat on a box of needles. Kaeya, on the other hand, tilts his head towards the heavens and groans, shuddering in disgust. 

Well, Tartaglia thinks, I feel rather stupid, now.

Chapter Text

The ice starts to drip, melting underneath Kaeya's fingertips. A glimmering trail of water disappears down one of his sleeves, and he stares at Tartaglia in disbelief. 

"Get up." He orders, and the lightness in his voice makes the ginger-haired boy's chest feel hollow. 

It's airy, but the same wind that blows gently can also cut, and Kaeya's eye looks like razor blades in the moonlight. Behind him, Diluc adjusts his wrist, pulling the glove up. 

"You were jealous," Kaeya starts, "because you found the letters I wrote to him. The letters that were clearly labeled 'Do not send,' and yet you still sent them."

Sheepishly, Tartaglia nods. Diluc frowns, moving to step between the two of them, but is stopped by a sharp thrust of the taller boy's arm. Kaeya whips his head around, glaring sharply at the redhead. 

He says, voice biting, "Move another inch, and I'll kill you."

The sudden iciness of his voice shocks the other two, and a sudden ripple of fear flashes across Diluc's face, his left hand twitching in reflexive defense. As he scans the cobalt-haired boy's face for a hint of something he can understand - that Diluc wants to understand - he chews at his bottom lip in thought. Tartaglia swallows, chest heaving from the exertion of fighting and the pressure of Kaeya's glacial stare. At this moment, he is suddenly brought aware of how similar he looks to the Tsaritsa. That gaze that commands obedience and reverence, voice ringing with authority - Kaeya holds power in his hands that crackles with raw energy. For the first time ever, Tartaglia is seeing him angry. 

He adjusts his hand, and joints crack as he curls his fingers into a fist. "You know, you have the arrogance of entitled nobility, Tartaglia. Rash, headstrong, and proud. Testing the vulnerability I had given you as if it was one of your training sessions with Pulcinella." 

There is nothing the tawny-haired boy can do but nod, eyes fixed on how Kaeya's head inclines to the side, like a hooded snake ready to lunge. 

"Childe. Young lord. That's what you are." Kaeya muses, his eyes lighting up when the nickname dawns on him, feigning nonchalance. "Well, sire, it seems you've bitten off more than you could chew. Diluc is far more powerful than you are, especially with that Delusion. I suppose it comes with having your Vision for seven years."

Diluc seems to glow with pride. Tartaglia wishes he could choke him to death with those chains. He doesn't have to, apparently, because all it takes to wipe that smile off of his face is to have Kaeya redirect his seething glare at him instead. 

Kaeya turns on him now, stalking towards him with a sudden, cold wind picking up around him. Naturally, Diluc takes a step back. "Kaeya, I don't understand."

The dark-haired boy shrugs. "Go home, Diluc. They'll kill you the next time you try to infiltrate the palace."

There is the sound of footsteps in the corridor, and Tartaglia glances over his shoulder to see the short silhouette of Balladeer bathed in moonlight. Seemingly understanding just how long he's overstayed his welcome, Diluc turns and flees, sliding a golden mask onto his face. Kaeya's own glints from where he's concealed it poorly behind his hip, sharp and wicked as a hidden blade. With a cough, Balladeer strides forward, watching a flash of black and red leap out of the window. 

"I trust you dealt with the intruder?" He asks, red-rimmed eyes cold and calculating as he scans the two of them with medical precision. 

With an easy smile, Kaeya wipes a few shreds of not yet melted ice off his shoulder and - much to Tartaglia's surprise - loops an arm around the ginger-haired boy's waist.

He inclines his head to the side, the perfect image of faux innocence. "Of course. Nothing but an eager spy. I sent him away with a little gift."

Confused, Tartaglia looks down, and there, glowing in Kaeya's hands, is a four-pointed star. It spins gently, twitching every second. It is, he realizes, a bomb. With dawning shock on his face, he stares Kaeya dead in the eye as if to ask him, "Are you sure?"

There is no reply from Kaeya. It's as if everything that emotes, everything that laughs, cries, smiles, and sighs, has been wiped from his face, replaced with a shining mask of glittering ice. For a moment, Tartaglia is scared. After another, he decides it is painfully attractive and painfully sad, and he wants nothing more than to thaw it with his own lips. Tartaglia leans in closer to Kaeya's arm, watching as Scaramouche's lip curls up into a sneer. With a final scoff, he turns on his heel, waving the two of them away as he retreats back to whatever lair a creature like him belongs in. 

"So long, lovebirds. Don't keep the palace up all night."

As soon as he's gone, Kaeya shoves Tartaglia up against a pillar, gripping him by the collar. The mask of ice is still there, beautiful and cruel, as he presses the tawny-haired boy against the stone. 

"What were you thinking, Ajax?" He hisses, and something in the mask melts, dripping down into Kaeya's misty eyes. "He could have killed you!"

Ajax blinks. "You're worried about me? I thought you were angry."

Shaking him, Kaeya tilts his head up to the ceiling as if he were asking Celestia to smite him. "Of course, I'm 'angry,' you stupid idiot! I'm 'angry' that you mailed those letters, I'm 'angry' that I wrote them, and I'm incandescent with rage that Diluc read them! 'Angry' doesn't even begin to sum up the sheer fury that I'm going through right now!

"But I'm also fucking terrified that I'm going to lose you, too. You - I've never had anyone like you, and I'll be damned if I let you slip through my fingers." Kaeya finishes, letting go of Ajax's collar. 

Stupefied, he can only stare at the dark-haired boy with wide eyes, his heart hammering in his chest. Before his brain can process, he lunges forward, kissing Kaeya with such fervor that it rips an unexpected noise from the back of his throat, rumbling against Ajax's tongue. A hand weaves its way into his hair, and Kaeya leans forward, bringing his other hand up to grab a fistful of the other's shirt. 

When he breaks away, he has to push the hair out of his face and catch his breath. "If you ever do that again," he says, "I'll kill you."

Ajax grins. "I'm counting on it."

Chapter Text

The letters came in a large crate with snow packed tight into the crevices between the wooden planks. Diluc, in his confusion, had missed the Fatui sigil on the bottom of the box and ushered it in. Elzer had complied, if not hesitantly, with bringing in a large crate that may or may not have been filled with explosives into the front hall, and Adelinde had signed off the package collection form that the young girl with the pigtails had given her. 

"What's in it?" Elzer asked. 

Diluc shrugged. "Absolutely no clue."

And so they took a crowbar to it, and the letters slid out like a rumbling avalanche down Dragonspine, spotted with moss-green wax seals. Gaping in awe at the sheer number of envelopes, Adelinde had stopped still, then stared at Diluc with the wonder of a child at their first Ludi Harpastum. She was always worried about him. It was comforting. 

"Who on earth would send that many?" She marveled. "You didn't make too many enemies out there, I hope."

Grimacing slightly, Diluc had shrugged and given no further comment. He bent down to pick one up, carefully prising the seal from the envelope, and he began to read. 

My dear Diluc,

It's been a year, you know. The box is getting fuller by the day, and each time I think to send a letter, I have to stop myself. Perhaps I should label them. Put a little note in the corner reminding me of all the different ways you would kill me if these ever reached you. 

I always thought it would be fine if you were the one who killed me. I'd trust you enough to make it hurt just enough that I would truly understand the amount of pain you must have felt when your father died, and I turned out to be a spy. I mean, a miscommunicated spy, but a spy nonetheless. 

Ah, what am I saying? You're far too just for that. Instead, you branded me a traitor and melted your hand into my skin. Forgive me if I sound like I'm beating a dead horse about that, but you understand that's the thing about scars, right? They always stay if the intent is strong enough. Yours certainly was. 

I knocked a candlestick over at dinner because it briefly flickered blue like your flames did that night. Set an entire dessert on fire. Scaramouche thought it was fucking hilarious, and in a sense, it was. I laughed for a moment, and then I went into my room, locked the door, and I froze the entire thing. Everything - and I mean everything - glimmered with ice. 

I didn't know I could do that. Did you? I didn't think so, either. 

It's been a year, after all.

Yours, 

Kaeya.

Diluc dropped the letter like a hot stone. It fluttered to the floor like a crystalfly hit by a sword, but it didn't disappear. Why didn't it disappear? Running his hands through his hair, Diluc turned, aware of how his heart was hammering with panic and anger and hurt and the sheer thrill of knowing that Kaeya was alive. He was alive, he was writing him letters, and he was having dinners with some fucking weirdo called Scaramouche. The name rang a faint bell in the back of his mind, but Diluc was far too busy prising the seal off another letter to wrack his brain for where he had heard it before. 

My dear Diluc,

I hate it here. Everything is so cold, and it's empty - nothing like the winery. The Tsaritsa, she's everything and nothing like the stories we heard as kids. She's tiny, for starters. Twelve-year-old tiny, I mean. Of course, if I leave, I'm as good as dead. If the snow of Snezhnayan winter doesn't get me, I'm sure the agents will, and if I evade their capture, then I have the Harbingers to worry about. 

All that is also assuming you're not looking to put my head on a stick, too. 

There are ten others. Nine, really. Each of them is just as sick in the head as the last. I haven't told anyone else this yet, but one of them, Arlecchino, fought with me the other day. The second her hands burst into flames, I thought of you, and I couldn't move. She had laughed, and because she was considerate, she switched to Hydro. Each of the Harbingers is equipped with a Delusion, just like the one your father had. Sometimes they're elements, and sometimes they're special. 

I'm sure they'll kill me when they find these letters. Perhaps I'll hide them. 

Until next time, Not-Brother.

Yours, 

Kaeya.

His hands were shaking. Diluc raised his palm to his mouth, brow furrowing, and he started picking the letters up, scooping them into his arms and clenching them between his fingers. Adeline and Elzer watched in shock as he staggered up the stairs, trailing white envelopes behind him, and they winced when the door shut. The crate was tipped onto its side, revealing the singed mark of the Fatui scorched into the wood. When Elzer started up the stairs, Adelinde held him back, her own eyes fixed on Kaeya's signature in dark blue ink. 

"Perhaps it's best that we leave him," She had said, wrenching her gaze from the letter to look Elzer in the eye and gently bring him back down the stairs. 

Shakily, Elzer ran a hand over his face, nodding slowly. "Yes, perhaps we should."

When Diluc had ransacked those camps down in the south of Snezhnaya, he had heard whispers of the newest Harbingers. The only one he had met in the flesh had been killed - justified, of course - by Kaeya in self-defense, so imagine the shock he must have felt when it was announced there were two freshly introduced attack dogs on the Fatui's leash. Like a hydra, when you killed one, more sprouted from the violence. 

Mezzetino, apparently, was a diplomat. Armed with wind and frost, he was rarely out of the palace, save for the occasional visit to another country under the Fatui's thumb. Contrastingly, Tartaglia was a bloodlusty beast. Where Mezzetino was the elegant Prince, he was the Vanguard of the Tsaritsa. 

Diluc had razed that camp to the ground, so that was all he heard amid the chatter before the entire thing was torn to pieces by blackened chains. 

At that moment, he sat at the foot of his bed, his head in his hands, surrounded by the snow-white letters filled to the brim with inked guilt. 

Chapter Text

Really, Kaeya doesn't get why war is such a big deal. The Harbingers are certainly pressed about it. Honestly, why can't they just establish trade deals and keep calm about the boring stuff?

Gathered around a circular table, they are all masked and at the ready, putting aside personal differences to listen to Pulcinella discuss how to retaliate with the assumed attack on one of the Eleven. So, today, Kaeya is not Kaeya. He is Mezzetino, and he will follow the Tsaritsa's will, even if it means war. Behind the mask, he hopes it won't come to that, but he knows he will have to do what is asked of him for the good of Snezhnaya. 

He glances to his right, where Tartaglia is sitting up straight, watching the strategies unfold like a child watching a gift be unwrapped. He will do what the Tsaritsa asks of him for the good of Ajax - the good of Childe. 

"We cannot keep bending to the will of the surrounding countries!" Pulcinella accentuates his point by slamming his fist on the table, a vein popping in his neck. It's almost comical. 

Wrinkling her nose in distaste, Columbina shakes her head. "We have come so far in our agreements with Mond. They still believe we are their saviors for killing that nasty overgrown lizard of theirs."

(Dottore preens at that, earning a few irritated nods of forced gratitude. Mezzetino gives him a thin-lipped smile.)

With a sigh, Scaramouche looks up from where he was picking at his hangnail. "Look - we're obviously already pressuring them due to that one incident with the Church and the children Dottore took for his experiment. If we keep pushing, they're going to retaliate."

"Good!" Capitano interrupts. "That'll make them look like the aggressors!"

"Yeah, sure, at first glance. Once other nations start to take a closer look at their motives, they'll realize that pushing back against us along with other countries will overpower us by sheer number, genius." Scaramouche replies shortly, glaring at the military leader with contempt. Mezzetino nods and Scaramouche inclines his head just so, preening with pride. 

There is an uneasy quiet as the Harbingers start to mutter, but as soon as Columbina raises a delicate hand, the chatter stops. How she can command a room with gentle movements and soft words is an art in itself. One day, Kaeya would quite like to learn her secrets, but now is not that time, and he is not Kaeya. 

"Surely you must understand that once there is war, there is never a true allyship afterward." Her earrings glint in the candlelight. "Scaramouche is correct. If we really are willing to sacrifice all bonds we've established with the rest of Teyvat, then we must set the odds in our favor."

Signora snorts. "How in the bloody fuck are we going to do that? We've pressured basically every diplomatic force in Teyvat. Each scandal practically has 'Fatui' written on it in obnoxious cursive!"

And then, something hits Mezzetino like an ice pick to a frozen lake. It's a brilliant idea that will give the Fatui the upper hand over Mond, but it's also something he's not sure that Kaeya will be able to get over. It's a betrayal. 

He's been known to show mercy before. After all, he couldn't bring himself to detonate the mine he left Diluc with, letting it thaw in the warmth of his homeland. However, every single time he has shown mercy, his opponent takes it as a sign to move in for the kill. So perhaps that's why he raises his hand. 

Why the entire table goes silent. 

Why he says, "I may have to disagree with you, Fair Lady. There is one thing we have."

Tartaglia watches Mezzetino rise, his fingers lightly tracing the grain of the wooden table as he does so. There is something cold in his eye behind the mask, but it's hidden so masterfully that not even he could decipher it. Something curls in the pit of his stomach. 

"We were recently attacked by an envoy of the Ordo Favonius." He says. "There were attempts on Tartaglia's life and a failed hostage situation involving yours truly."

Pantalone's posture goes rigid, straightening out like he's had a ruler shoved up his rear end. "What?"

His eyes travel to Tartaglia with the intent to kill. The boy gulps, fiddling with his hands underneath the table as he looks pointedly at the desk. He still feels Pantalone's stare as Mezzetino continues. 

"If we go to another country with a powerful military, say, Natlan, sew the seeds of doubt between their fragile friendship with Mondstadt and pit them against each other, we won't have to lift a finger. No matter what, in this situation, it looks as if we are the victims of an attempted assassination."

The entire room is silent as the ten remaining Harbingers mull it over. Capitano nods slowly, leaning back in their chair as they bring their hand to rest underneath their chin. Next to them, Columbina makes a noise of agreement, tossing a golden curl over her shoulder. It's rare to see the two of them in agreement, so this is definitely something worth listening to. 

"Excellent idea, Mezzetino. That way, we preserve the social bonds we've created, and that triangle of trade routes Pantalone is so proud of stays stable."

Pantalone begrudgingly nods. "The value of Mora will decrease with the manufacturing of weapons, though. The last thing we need is a depression."

Tartaglia thinks. He thinks hard, and he prays he won't trip over his words, and when Mezzetino glances back at him, he hopes that somewhere behind that silver mask, Kaeya is proud. Clearing his throat, Tartaglia gets to his feet, tapping the table with the pads of his fingertips. 

"Let's use the plan with Liyue, then. Last year's Rite of Descension detailed a strict budget on weapons that led to the Qixing making an advance on them before Morax's deadline. They're practically a pretty basket of explosives, meaning we would have more time until the depression hit to start saving." He says, praying that his tongue doesn't trip him up. 

A cool hand touches his, and he glances down to see Mezzetino running his thumb over his knuckles, smiling gently behind the mask. Tartaglia squeezes his hand, taking a seat once again. As he does so, Scaramouche nods. 

"There." He states. "Not all of you are idiots."

Puffing his chest out, Pulcinella grins. "Well done, my boy. We've run out of time today, but I'm sure that there will be many lively discussions in my office where you all think it's perfectly acceptable to disturb me. Now get out, all of you."

The words of praise ease a smile onto Tartaglia's face, and Mezzetino's hand squeezes again, this time lingering longer than the last. Sighs and groans of aggravation echo through the high-ceilinged hallways as the Harbingers file out, leaving Pulcinella behind to write a transcript of the meeting for the Tsaritsa. Outside the door, Pantalone waits, grabbing Tartaglia by the arm when he passes.

Storming through corridors muttering something rather ominous in Fontais, he drags the ginger-haired boy to his office, shutting the door behind him.

"You need to be given leave."

Stuttering and floundering in shock, Tartaglia frowns, sliding his mask off of his face. "W-What? Why?"

It's quite the statement to spring on him, especially without the Tsaritsa present. Assigning leave and the like was never the duty of another Harbinger, and just overhearing this conversation could get anyone involved charged with treason and executed. Needless to say, Tartaglia would prefer to keep his head, thank you very much. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, hiking his shoulders up to his ears defensively. 

Pantalone crosses his arms over his chest. "You and Mezzetino were targeted by a Mond agent. We need you out of the palace until the Liyue plan is given the stamp of approval by Her Majesty."

The silence that follows is terse and wracked with tension. Tartaglia frowns, bringing a hand to rest just above his mouth. This is either an elaborate ploy to keep Kaeya away from him, and there is no way in hell he'll allow that, or it's a safety precaution. One can never quite tell with Pantalone. He'll have your pockets lined with gold and a knife at your back at any chance you'll give him. 

Tartaglia mulls it over. "What about Kaeya?" 

"What about Kaeya?" Pantalone repeats. "Don't try to deflect this onto him, boy."

Shaking his head and raising his hands in the air, palms facing outward to show pacifism. "No, no. I mean, wasn't he the one who was attacked? Surely keeping him here while you exile me to gods know where is a bit of a backpedal, no?"

There is another pause. Pantalone goes a little red in the face. "You are correct. You'll take Kaeya with you."

As Tartaglia turns to leave, he gives the older man a weak, mocking salute, shooting him a look of pure, patronizing smugness. In retaliation, Pantalone grabs him by the arm. "If you let any harm come to him," he growls, "I will have you diced into pieces and thrown to the dogs. Understood?"

Tartaglia swallows. "Yes, sir."

Chapter Text

Kaeya waits outside Ajax's room, watching the snow blanket the stone in a thick sheet of pure white. Outside, frost has coated everything like sugar, weighing branches down and creating swirls in the fountain water. In the silence, one would think it could either be terrifying or comforting. Kaeya believes it's a mix of both. He never knew winter could be this beautiful. All he was told as a child was that snow only came from harsh, unforgiving storm clouds gathered at the top of a jagged mountain on the horizon. 

Dragonspine is nothing like Snezhnaya. Snezhnayan snow is powdery during the last few months of winter, and even if it piles up so high that it's seen as oppressive, it is as soft as down feathers. 

Something in the wind changes and the snow starts to fall quicker, fat flakes drifting down to disappear into a bed of spun sugar, and the fountain's sheet of ice cracks, splinters of cold creeping from the center like frigid fingers. Kaeya lifts his head, the sound of heels clicking on marble echoing through the empty hallway. Uncrossing his arms from over his chest, he leans out towards the source of the noise. Nothing is there. 

With a sigh, he turns back around and then promptly jumps out of his skin. With two delicate hands pressed on the window frame, the Tsaritsa gazes out at the pale landscape, and even though she is a mere inch away from the glass, her breath does not cloud the pane. Kaeya bows his head. 

"Your Majesty." He greets her, and she glances back at him in reply. 

After a pause, she taps a black nail on the window. "Do you like it?"

The bluntness of her question catches him off-guard, and Kaeya has to remember a lie will likely result in a penalty. So he clears his throat and answers honestly."It's daunting. I had never seen snow like this until I came here."

She nods slightly, dragging her finger along the glass. A swirling trail of frost follows it. "I thought you might say so. You have never quite understood the impact of the gift I gave you."

Frowning, Kaeya inclines his head to the side. "Forgive me, but I'm not sure what you mean, Majesty."

A dark brown eye slides over to him, dragging up and down his uniform. It settles on the Vision attached to his belt. Slowly, as if she herself is wracked with cold and a sudden movement would crack the ice of her skin, she stretches a finger towards the blue orb, tapping it softly. 

"That one, my little princeling." She says, and there is an odd fondness to her tone that Kaeya feels he doesn't quite deserve. "Not many of my Harbingers are lucky enough to have two gifts of mine bestowed upon them. My Vision is not easily won."

Outside, a gust shakes clumps of heavy snow from the pine tree branches, and it falls with a soft thump into a snowbank. Kaeya unclips the Vision from his belt and holds it in the palm of his hand. It is cold to the touch and feels smooth and light. 

He smiles bittersweetly. "Your criteria for gifting them out, Majesty, may I guess what it is?"

She blinks slowly, and then there is a nod. 

Kaeya continues. "I do believe it is heartbreak."

When the Tsaritsa smiles next, it is sad and fragile and makes her look like a young girl in a fur mantle, not a queen of ice and snow. Frail and thin, she gazes out of the window to stare at her snow-covered palace. 

"Almost," she breaks the cold silence, "but not quite. Heartbreak comes from wanting something you can't have and yet never giving up on wanting it. You lost something that night, Kaeya, and you still miss it. That's why I was surprised to hear of your plan of attack on the Seven nations."

Swallowing, Kaeya looks out of the window too, afraid to let the eye contact turn him transparent. "I know what you want from them. Celestia, I mean."

The Tsaritsa glances up at him with narrowed eyes. "I'm sure you do. It is best that you are prepared to aid me once I give the word, my little princeling."

The Tsaritsa turns on her heel and stalks down the hallway, a train of white fabric trailing behind her. Before she can turn the corner, Kaeya calls out to her. 

"Your Majesty!" 

With her hand on the doorframe, she stops, her lilac curls glimmering with jewels or frost. 

"Why did you choose me?" Kaeya asks, and his voice comes out slightly strangled, his brow furrowed. 

The Tsaritsa smiles cryptically and does not give him an answer. 

Kaeya knows that the Tsaritsa is correct when she tells him why he received his Vision. And she's also right when she tells him that he's desperately looking for a hole to fill. He has. He's found someone to make him feel whole again, but the real question is, will it ever be enough? With Ajax, he feels fuller, more human again, but why does he still want more? 

Kaeya wants a family. Not in the sense of being a father, perhaps, but in the way of being taken care of. Someone to tell them they're proud of him, or someone to guide him through things. He sighs, leaning his head back against the wall as he waits for Ajax to return. 

Pantalone could, in a way, be considered a father figure. Not a very good one, perhaps, but it's still something. Most father figures don't threaten their wards by accusing them of treason, but in his defense, desperate times call for desperate measures. He cares, though. Kaeya knows that much. 

"Kaeya!" Someone calls his name, and Kaeya startles out of his thoughts, blinking. In front of him, Ajax peers into his eyes, a confused smile on his face. "I've been calling you for a while now. Everything alright?"

Nodding, Kaeya runs a hand through his hair. "Of course. Just thinking about the meeting. Took you long enough, by the way."

Ajax laughs, slipping his hand into the dark-haired boy's as he opens the door, shutting it behind them gently. "Not my fault. I come bearing news, though."

"Good or bad?"

"Depends on how you take it." He replies. "We've been given compulsory leave until the Tsaritsa approves the move on Liyue."

Kaeya blinks in shock. "Oh."

Knotting his fingers at the nape of Kaeya's neck, Ajax leans closer, his nose brushing against the other's. Something in Kaeya's chest stirs with warmth as he remembers how he has this lovable idiot to himself, and he lets a smile relax onto his face. 

"Would you be alright," Ajax starts, choosing his words carefully, "staying with me and my family for a little while?" 

Oh, would he? Kaeya's smile stretches wider, and he presses a kiss to the corner of Ajax's mouth. "Certainly."

Chapter Text

Traveling by steam train across the country was never something Ajax could afford as a kid. Now, as the mountains and trees fly past the window, he sits in a first-class carriage, a tray of confectionery laid out on a table. Oh, the irony. Next to him, Kaeya stirs in his sleep, his forehead slotted against the curve of the other's neck comfortably. Their masks are gone, and their Delusions are hidden. Right now, as they shuttle across the white snowscape of the Snezhnayan countryside, they are simply two teenagers headed home for the spring. 

In the distance, Zapolyarny looks like a shining speck of diamond dust, surrounded by tall buildings and misty shapes of the bustling metropolis that surrounds it. The factories and mines lie further pressed against the horizon, smoke rising from the sharp towers like shadowy fingers trying to grasp the sky. 

Ajax takes a sip of his hot chocolate, his hands warmed by the fingerless gloves his sister knitted for him, staring out of the window as he silently bids the palace goodbye. Gone is the uniform, replaced with a practical coat and dark breeches, and he's traded his impractically-buttoned grey shirt with a tan turtleneck. Kaeya had smoothed down his lapels and mourned the fact he couldn't kiss the nape of his neck as they were getting ready that morning. 

Kaeya, being himself, has not buttoned his shirt all the way, tucking it into the rather tight trousers he has on and layering it with a sweater that looks really quite familiar to Ajax. Oh, well. It looks better on him, anyway.

With a quiet murmur, Kaeya lifts his head from Ajax's shoulder, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "How long was I out?"

"An hour and a half." He replies, playing with a strand of hair that sticks into the air at a ninety-degree angle off of Kaeya's head. "I fear I bored you to death with talk of ice fishing."

Shaking his head, Kaeya sits up, straightening out his sweater. "Gods, no. Your voice is just so nice to listen to that I drifted off. Please, tell me more."

Ajax reaches for a pastry covered in powdered sugar, taking a large bite out of it. When he finishes it, Kaeya leans forward, darting to catch a small stripe of sugar from the corner of his mouth with his tongue. They laugh, and the lights switch on above them. Outside, the sun has set, a blanket of darkness falling over the mountains. 

"Actually, you really must tell me about your siblings." Kaeya amends, taking a sip of his coffee. 

Nodding, Ajax sets his napkin down, settling back comfortably into the bench. "I'll take you through each of them, alright?"

"Alright."

"Firstly, the eldest is Milena. She's an architect who works in the northernmost part of the country. Milena's been working on expanding the train lines, but her personal project has been building a new clocktower in the city." Ajax explains. "And then there's Anjelika. She's Babushka's favorite granddaughter, mainly because she's the only one who's married, but also because she cooks a good batch of pelmeni. Her husband, Yuri, works in the military."

Kaeya nods. "They're your only older siblings?" 

"That's right. The rest, like the twins, and Anthon, Tonia, and Teucer, are all younger. You'll like Nikita and Agnieszka, even if they're full of the devil. I'm sure they'll love you, too. Anthon will ask you a lot of questions, and Tonia will demand each and every drop of attention you'll give her, but they're good kids."

Kaeya smiles this time, placing a hand over Ajax's. "I'm sure. With a brother like you, how could they fuck up?"

The ginger-haired boy bashfully spreads a grin onto his face, looking down at Kaeya with a wry look in his eye. "You're flattering me. What do you want?"

Stretching his arms out so that his shoulders give a satisfying pop, the dark-haired boy tilts his head from side to side. With a final arch of his back, Kaeya soon leans heavily against him, wrapping his arms around Ajax's to pull him closer. The smell of his cologne is sweet and rich, flooding Ajax's senses like a rushing river. 

"I want," Kaeya starts, whispering in his ear, "to be the type of boy that you bring home to meet your parents."

Smiling, Ajax gestures to the landscape that passes them by through the window. "You are. I'm sure that they'll love you."

Morepesok's train station is small, paved with carefully placed stones, and even steps down from the platform that lead into town. Seagulls roost in the rafters, intimidating the pigeons into giving up their nesting spaces. The sun has set, and the moon is a fat, round disk that shivers in the cold ocean waves of the port, ducking underneath ships at certain angles. Tucking his scarf around his neck once more, Ajax lifts his trunk down the stone stairs, his breath clouding in the air. Kaeya does the same, but when he hauls his suitcase onto the ground after the final step, he locks arms with the ginger-haired boy, shivering. 

"You know, if you buttoned up your shirt, you wouldn't be as cold." He says.

Kaeya frowns. "Shut up. You love my chest."

"I do. I like it better when it's not frostbitten."

As the two of them round the corner, Ajax looks up to see two figures in the snow, loitering by a street lamp, seemingly waiting for something. A grin breaks across his face, and he dashes forward, dragging Kaeya by the hand as he bounds across the snow-covered cobblestones. One of the silhouettes runs into the lamplight, revealing a young woman with long, curly, strawberry blonde hair and dark green eyes. There is a mole just below her left eye, and she is dressed elegantly in a pleasant shade of lilac.

"Ajax!" She calls, throwing her arms out to embrace him. The trunk falls to the ground, sending chunks of snow and ice flying. 

The tawny-haired boy grins, lifting her up and spinning her around. "Anjelika, my favorite older sister!"

She grins, rubbing his arms to warm him up. "Are you just saying that because I sent you pastila for your induction ceremony?"

Kaeya swallows, feeling terribly small all of a sudden. He thinks back to the last gift he gave the person closest to a brother that he has. Thinks about how he could have detonated it and sent that very same almost-brother to kingdom come. His throat is dry. 

The second figure is a tall, broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair. A pair of gold-rimmed glasses perch on his nose, and he has a full beard streaked with gray highlights. He wears a long coat and has the same green eyes as Anjelika. Ajax pauses, staring up at him with a misty gaze before he tackles the man with a fierce hug, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. 

The man mutters something in Snezhnayan, stroking Ajax's head gently. Then, after making slightly awkward eye contact, he stops, placing a hand on the ginger-haired boy's back and nodding politely at Kaeya. "Ah, you must be a friend of my son's. It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Konstantin Avdeyev."

Anjelika sweeps him into her arms, kissing him on each cheek with a bright smile on her face. Taking him by the shoulders, she examines him in the lamplight. "Oh, you're a pretty one, you are! I'm Anjelika, Ajax's older sister. It's such a delight to have our sweet rabbit home."

As the tips of Ajax's ears turn red, he turns to her with an indignant expression on his face. Kaeya laughs as he yells at her for calling him such an endearing nickname, and then, almost reluctantly, he stops to tell them his name. 

"I'm Kaeya Alberich. It is a joy and a pleasure to meet you all."

Anjelika smiles brightly, nudging her father. "He's charming!"

Almost wearily, Konstantin hugs each of his children tightly to his sides, rubbing his hands up and down their arms to keep them warm. With a nod, he walks them all a few steps in the direction of a lamplit path, waiting patiently for Ajax to fetch his trunk. 

"Come, let's get you home. Your mother has your old room prepared for you, Ajax. And for you, Kaeya, the guest room is fully prepared." He says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

The two boys share a look, and Kaeya presses up against him in the cold, shoulder to shoulder as they walk through the snow. Giggling as she looks them up and down with dawning understanding, Anjelika winks at the two of them, arm in arm with her father. The cold encroaches on their heels, kept barely at bay by the warm lamplight that guides them through the dark town, and if Kaeya tilted his head up, he would see that the stars were gleaming gently, watching them all wind through the cobblestone path.

Chapter Text

Kaeya does his best to assign names to faces as Ajax's family all crowd around him in the hallway, mussing his hair or tugging his clothes. 

The youngest, Teucer, is how Kaeya imagines Ajax looked when he was younger. A spray of freckles across the nose, tufts of ginger hair sticking out in all directions, and a tendency to pout when not given his way. 

"Hey!" He shouts, indignant. "Big Brother looked at me first, so I get to hug him first!"

"Did not!" 

Tonia, the second youngest, is a sweet-faced little girl with long, golden hair. While she, too, has blue eyes, they are much darker than her oldest brother's, and there is a sharpness to her smile. She contains a certain kind of deviousness that Kaeya finds very familiar. 

She elbows Teucer sharply, then he retaliates by stepping on her foot, and the whole thing descends to chaos. Next to them, Anthon stares blankly on as his siblings attempt to recreate the Archon war, his arms wrapped around a heavy tome. When he shifts his gaze to Kaeya, the lenses of his glasses flare. Kaeya swallows. He's a little intense, that one. Although a tiny bit morbid and easily misled, there is a sense of earnestness to Athon. 

"They are usually like this," he tells Kaeya very solemnly. "I can't say I'm surprised."

Unsure of how to reply to an incredibly somber ten-year-old, Kaeya just smiles awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Ah."

Agnieszka, one half of the twins, dances around Ajax, crowing loudly. "Aha! I knew it!"

"Knew what?" Nikita, the other half, asks her sardonically. The ginger-haired boy's arms are crossed over his chest, and he hasn't so much as spared a glance at Kaeya standing in the doorway. 

His sister is nearly identical, with long, curly hair that falls down her back in messy waves. If Tonia was mischievous, these two were practically demonic. Running laps around their older brother, the two teens fish through his pockets in search of something. Ajax looks rather sheepish as Agnieszka withdraws. 

"You forgot to bring presents with you." She declares. 

Clicking his tongue and shaking his head, Nikita wags a finger at his brother with an air of playfulness. "Oh, dear brother, how could you? You know what this means, don't you?"

As the two bicker over which punishment they want to inflict on their older brother, something in Kaeya's chest curls, hooking on each of his ribs painfully. At one point, before he chose to betray them all, Kaeya had a semblance of what one could call a family. It was already quite broken with grief, to begin with, and he supposes that after he wormed his way in, it only continued to crack. First, Diluc's mother, gone to an illness - Kaeya never met Agatha, seeing as she succumbed to a terrible condition when Diluc was only four. And then, secondly, Master Crepus. Practically everyone in Mondstadt knows what happened there. No need to reopen wounds that should have closed a long time ago. And now, where Kaeya is selling out the secrets of the second country he swore allegiance to for the third one he came across. All for the promise of a life outside of the past. 

"You must be Kaeya." 

A soft voice permeates the fog of his mind, so he looks up, making unsteady eye contact with a frail woman in a gauzy dressing gown. Dressed all in white lace, she is almost ghost-like. The woman is a pale, fragile-looking thing who seems about fifty, with greying streaks in her strawberry-blonde hair. The corners of her mouth are lined prominently, likely from smiling, and even if she looks like the wind could bowl her over, she stands elegantly. She has the same blue eyes as Ajax, but there is a spirit in hers that her son doesn't have. 

She takes his hand in her own gently, tracing her fingertips over his palm. "I have heard much about you from Ajax's letters."

Oh, dear. Kaeya coughs lightly, smiling as sweetly as possible. "It's a pleasure, madam. I see where he gets all of his good looks from."

When she laughs, it sounds like rainfall. Soft, light, and clean, it is a laugh that Kaeya knows he will never get tired of hearing. Just listening to it eases the crookedness of his natural smile onto his face, ticking the left corner of his mouth up. 

"He told me you were a sweet-talker," she says. "My name is Veronika Emilevna Avdeyeva."

Earnestly, Kaeya brings his second hand up to fold over the one Veronika has offered him. "It truly is wonderful to meet you, Miss Veronika."

And then, in the golden light of the hallway, Ajax turns back to look at Kaeya with such a bright, full smile that rivals the sun itself, his siblings tugging on every piece of clothing he's wearing. It's enough to make something bloom in his chest, sending little rivulets of pure gold through his veins. They lock eyes, and the smile grows softer around the edges, and, gods, Ajax even inclines his head to the side ever so slightly. 

Anjelika's heart-shaped mouth makes a perfect circle, and she paws at her mother's arm (who she is almost exactly identical to, sweet Archons, the genes run strong in this family!) in excitement. Giggling softly, Veronika raises her shoulders in quiet delight as well. 

Agnieszka is not as subtle. She turns, and when she locks gazes with Kaeya - or rather, his chest first, and then his face - her eyes widen as round as saucers. "Oh. Oh my Archons. Ajax, you did bring a gift."

The ginger-haired boy blinks, looking down at his sister as if woken from his reverie, and the smile lingers the slightest second before dropping. "No. Agniya, no."

She ignores him, folding her hands behind her and striding up to Kaeya with a rather serious look on her face. "I'm Agnieszka Konstantinovna Avdeyeva. I also have a large dowry, and I cook. And clean. And anything you want, because, like, holy sh-"

Then - oh Archons, then - Nikita is circling him like a vulture, examining every inch of Kaeya's form with such intense scrutiny, it feels more flaying than an industrial paint stripper. "You, sir, are a statue." He straightens up, offering his hand out to the dark-haired boy, shaking it firmly. "Nikita Konstantinovich Avdeyev, at your service. Tsaritsa save my soul, you must be the loveliest man I have ever -"

The speed at which Ajax grabs the two of them by their collars is, quite honestly, record-breaking. In a mere matter of seconds, both Nikita and Agnieszka are found to be sitting on the lowest step of the house's staircase, both rubbing at the spot where they were hoisted away. Looming over them with a face like thunder, Ajax sternly wags a finger at each of them, eyes blazing. 

"Kaeya is off-limits." He iterates slowly, looking to each of them in turn. "Do you understand?"

Konstantin laughs, but there is sweat beading his brow, and his hands are nervously fiddling with his glasses. Poor man. Kaeya had seen that stare before on Crepus, but it never was directed at him. Always Diluc and his escapades in the Ordo. Kaeya has some excellent stories about the youngest-ever Cavalry Captain, but that is for another time and place, and probably another state of mind that isn't wracked with guilt.

Tonia skips over to Konstantin, taking the glasses from his hands and making him lean down far enough for her to prop them on the top of his head, then pressing a kiss to his nose. 

Kaeya suddenly feels very warm in a way he hasn't in quite a few years. The worry he felt earlier melts like snow in the springtime, and all thoughts of betrayal, mistrust, and ill-chosen "family" simply evaporate. The warmth only blooms when Ajax strides over to him, muttering something along the lines of "damn twins," and takes his hand and suitcase, exhaling forcefully in frustration. 

"I'll take these upstairs for you." 

Raising an eyebrow and tilting his head to the side, eye flicking up and down Ajax's face, Kaeya relishes the blush that follows. "You do that. I'll be up in a minute to help unpack."

There is a certain kind of charm to ducking through the doorframe of Ajax's old bedroom and watching it continue to sit still as if Kaeya had never set foot in it. Everything is silent, unmoving, and in pristine cleanliness, save for the few lines of dust in the corners of the window pane. Kaeya doesn't want to move. It is almost a dark room, but the square pool of golden light from the lamp hanging from the ceiling in the landing spills across the floor, giving it some semblance of visibility. 

Snow melts in Kaeya's hair as his eyes trail over the powder-blue wallpaper, the stuffed narwhal that rests tiredly on the shelf next to a conch half its size, the soft grey curtains, and the navy-blue bedspread. All of them are reminiscent of an Ajax that Kaeya is so desperately close to knowing well. 

Below him, the sounds of chatter and laughter ring true from the living room, but closer, the soft thump of socks on wood gets gradually louder as Ajax turns the corner, trailing a hand across the stair's railing. Turning to face him, Kaeya smiles. 

"Hey." The ginger-haired boy greets him, sliding his hand into Kaeya's. "You alright?"

Kaeya gestures towards the room. "This was yours?"

Laughing softly, Ajax nods, bashfully smiling as he pokes his head through the door. Unlike Kaeya, he has the thought to turn the light on, and suddenly it isn't as still anymore. It looks small, cozy, and lived-in. Kaeya follows him inside, hovering by the end of the bed as the ginger-haired boy sits in the middle, leaning back on his hands to survey how small everything must look now. Then, he reaches out, guiding Kaeya to stand between his legs by gently tugging his hips and intertwines his fingers at the other's waist.

"Can you do me a favor?" He asks quietly. 

Blinking, Kaeya nods. "Anything."

"Do you think you could keep our work a secret?" Ajax whispers. "I don't want my youngest siblings to find out about what we do."

Leaning down, Kaeya presses a kiss to Ajax's forehead. "Of course."

Before he can pull away, the tawny-haired boy catches his lips with his own, tugging him closer by the belt loops. Kaeya's breath catches in his throat when he slides a hand between the fabric of his shirt and his skin, trailing up his sides like a hungry tide. But Ajax has no mercy, nipping at Kaeya's bottom lip with the intent to entice, the corners of his mouth ticking up when the latter lets out a quiet whine. 

Slowly, the two of them crawl back onto the navy-blue bedspread, doing their best to accommodate themselves according to the limited space. Ajax rolls his hips upward, eliciting a stifled gasp from his lover, whose back arches like a cat's with satisfaction. A wandering hand reaches for the button of Ajax's pants, lips pressed against the base of his throat, but the ginger-haired boy makes eye contact with the narwhal plush and suddenly feels quite ashamed. 

"Kaeya," he says, biting his lip to keep himself from laughing. "Kaeya, wait."

Instantly, the other shoots up, brow furrowed. "Is everything alright?"

His attempts to hold in his snickers fail as he points to the stuffed animal, his face the same shade as a ripe valberry. "The - Kaeya, the narwhal... I can't let you have sex with me in front of the narwhal."

"Oh my Gods." Kaeya sighs, but he's laughing too, still tangled up in Ajax's limbs as the two of them crane their necks to observe the simple plush stare back at them with innocent, black button eyes. 

Chapter Text

Kaeya wakes up to sunlight filtering through the fir trees outside the window, the cotton blanket that Ajax smuggled out of his old room draped over the duvet. The bed is empty, but it still smells of him, and shamelessly, Kaeya turns over, burying his face in the pillows. Downstairs, there is clattering and a peal of laughter, then the rapid footsteps up the stairs follows, rousing Kaeya from his half-awake, dozy state. Teucer sprints down the hallway, giggling as he goes. Heavier, slower footsteps follow, and before long, the door handle is turning. 

"Good morning," Ajax says, crawling onto the bed smelling of sugar and butter. "Can I interest you in some breakfast?"

Stretching, Kaeya smirks, sighing contentedly. "What kind of breakfast are we talking about?"

Propping his head up on his hand, the ginger-haired boy scoffs. "Mondstadt-style pancakes, you degenerate."

"Oh, but when you call me names like that, I start to think about the other kind of breakfast, darling." Kaeya drawls, walking his fingers up the sliver of skin uncovered by Ajax's maroon button-up. Running his tongue over his bottom lip, he captures the words that the other tries to say before they leave, sliding a hand into his hair. 

Humming contentedly, Ajax relaxes onto the mattress, sinking further into the folds of the duvet. He tastes like powdered sugar and cinnamon, and when Kaeya opens his eyes, he realizes that there is a smattering of flour in his hair. 

"You've made quite the mess." He states amusedly, patting the powder out of Ajax's hair. "If this is the state that baking has left you in, I mourn the kitchen. Should I come down in protective gear?"

Ajax snorts. "Smartass." 

"You love it." 

And then, because the world is intent on tripping Kaeya up and wrapping him in golden threads, Ajax smiles, his fingertips brushing the former's bottom lip, and he says, "I do."

The questions pops up through a mouthful of buttercream pancakes. It's Ajax's youngest sister, Tonia, who raises her fork to her mouth, furrows her brow, and then points the utensil at her brother with questioning intent. The table is laden with fruits, pastries, custard, jams, and two butter dishes, all on plates of lightly glazed china, all in bright pastels, like candy. (Two butter dishes! What a luxury! Kaeya's lucky to get toast in the mornings after Arlecchino makes her way terrifyingly fast through the breakfast table in Zapolyarny Palace.) Everyone sits at the table, save for Veronika, who Kaeya saw through the crack in her door from the hallway, hidden away in drapes of darkness and bedsheets. If Kaeya listens closely, the faint sound of coughing lingers between the long pauses, so everyone at the table does their best to keep talking. 

"So, does Kaeya work with you at the toy factory?" Tonia inquires, and Kaeya's fork misses the plate.

Across the table, sitting next to his youngest daughter with his glasses perched on his head, Konstantin pales, and his hand, bringing a mug of coffee to his mouth, freezes in midair as Anjelika blinks. Ajax coughs, pretending not to see the looks of dismay on the twins' faces as their sister looks innocently up at him. 

"Yes, Tonia." He confirms, nodding as he steeples his hands underneath his chin. "Kaeya works in designing those toys. In fact, he helped Doctor D make the Mr. Cyclops toys that Teucer loves so much."

It's not technically a lie. Kaeya, who - after his years of gazing up at the Field Tillers that sat in the enclosed meadows of opaline flowers outside of the palace grounds - thought of himself as quite the expert on Khaenri'an technology, helped Dottore fashion the firearms equipped by some of the agents with parts of the machinery. It was a pain in the ass, working with the man convinced you're out to tear his almost-but-not-quite husband away from his job and into childcare, but he soldiered through it. Better that than teaching Scaramouche how to decipher the runes written on Abyss Mages' scrolls. His patience wore thin, and he had a tendency to explode into sparks when angered. 

Rousing himself from his thoughts of dead languages and ancient technology, Kaeya dips a bite of his pancake in whipped cream. "Ajax is right. I did design your Mr. Cyclops toys. They had a different name, back when I first came up with them, though."

Teucer, immediately interested in the conversation now that his preferred topic is that of the discussion, leaps up in his seat, eating utensils clutched in his little hands. "You're so clever, Mister Kaeya!"

"I love a man who knows how to get his hands dirty." Nikita purrs. Then, with a rattling of the table, he suddenly sits up very straight, clenching his jaw as he leans to the side, rubbing his palm against his shin. Ah, Ajax must have kicked him. (Siblings - nothing quite like them.) "Ow. How rude."

Over the top of his newspaper, Konstantin looks to the ceiling, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he lets loose a terribly heavy sigh. Ignoring him, Nikita tosses his hair out of his face, straightening his shoulders to regain his composure. 

Ajax smiles with increasingly hostile intent as Agnieszka sits up, tucking her hair behind her ear. Kaeya turns to face her. "So, you must have some experience in engineering, then?"

There is a general feeling of ease that falls back over the table now that the topic of toy selling and giant robots piled up behind the house is gone. Konstantin proudly tells Kaeya how clever his little Agniya is for landing an apprenticeship with the local mechanic to work on the steam engines nearby. At this, the redheaded girl blushes bashfully into her cup of tea. Anjelika, too, sings Anthon's praises for being accepted into the newspaper's roster of fiction for the morning column. 

As he pushes his glasses further up his nose, the dark-haired boy sniffs, suddenly feeling the need to speak after a long period of silence. "It's rather abstract. I'm sure a smart man like Mister Kaeya could understand it." He peers over the rim of his circular lenses down at Nikita, who is currently dotting dollops of whipped cream on his pancakes to make it look like a rather dismal giraffe. "I'm not sure about others, contrarywise."

Come to think of it, Kaeya hasn't heard of any of Nikita's accomplishments. With his twin sister being an upcoming engineer, his little brother a seasoned writer, Tonia studying medicine at the ripe age of twelve, and Teucer crowed as the darling of the family - well, it certainly can't be easy. As he leans across the table to grab a piece of buttered toast, Nikita catches Kaeya's gaze, smiling as he does so.  

"Nikita, what is it that you do?" The older boy asks, bringing his hand up underneath his chin. 

Sitting back in his chair, Nikita ponders the question by slathering his toast in a thick layer of jam. "As in, what are my goals? Why, it's quite simple, dear."

Konstantin coughs, flicking the corners of his newspaper down to give his son a disapproving frown. "Nikita, we've been over this -"

"I'm going to marry the richest, prettiest person I find, and I'm going to live a life of luxury." He crows proudly, earning a snort from Anjelika as she puffs out her cheeks, attempting to keep the mouthful of tea she just consumed inside her mouth. 

Raising his eyebrows, Kaeya nods slowly, folding both hands underneath his chin. "That's quite a goal."

"Oh, and Mister Kaeya?"

"Yes, Nikita?" 

Nikita flashes him a charming smile, his dimples deepening in his freckled cheeks as he tosses his hair out of his face. "You wouldn't happen to have gold lining your pockets, would you?"

Underneath the table, a hand places itself on the dark-haired boy's thigh, the thumb brushing against the seam of his trousers. Sucking in a breath through his teeth, Kaeya turns to see Ajax glowering at his brother with eyes that could kill a dragon right on the spot. It sparks something in Kaeya's gut - something that makes him break out into warm shivers and shift his leg higher to press against the palm of Ajax's hand. 

"Nikita," Ajax warns his brother, inflecting his tone higher on the last syllable of his name. 

"Ajax," Nikita replies mockingly, narrowing his eyes and baring his teeth in a poor imitation of a smile. 

With a sudden bang, Tonia slams her mug of milk down on the table, licking away the white mustache it left above her lip. She clambers up to stand on her chair, looming over the rest of them with a pose that commands authority. Konstantin slinks down his chair, hiding his face behind his newspaper.

"Will the two of you please shut up?" Tonia yells, her arms akimbo. "You're making it out like Kaeya's only allowed to be friends with one of you!"

Anjelika snorts into her tea, trying in vain to suppress her laughter. Sweet Archons, this is really too much. Underneath the table, Ajax's hand twitches, and Kaeya can feel him frustratedly trying not to dig his fingers into his thigh. As surreptitiously as possible, the dark-haired boy leans over, placing a hand on Ajax's shoulder. 

"Perhaps it's best if you just tell them," Kaeya suggests, wincing a little as he smiles. 

The ginger-haired boy wastes no time in standing up, a look of grim conviction on his face that he usually saves for the battlefield. Something in Kaeya's chest flutters as Ajax takes his hand, steepling his fingers over Kaeya's on the table. Anthon peers at them over the rim of his glasses, sniffing, but when his eyes reach Kaeya's, they soften, and he supposes that this is as close to a smile from Anthon that he's ever going to get. 

"I am in love with Kaeya," Ajax announces.

"Noooo..." Nikita says, leaning his head on his hand. His elbow slides across the table, bunching up the white cloth as it goes. Next to him, Agnieszka mournfully butters her toast, taking a deep sigh as she bites into the bread.

"And he is in love with me." Ajax finishes, but he turns his head back to Kaeya with a face that seems hopeful. 

It's almost as if he's tentative in saying the most blatant truth. Kaeya smiles. "Yes. Yes, I am."

Chapter Text

Ajax wakes up to the door ajar, a panel of silver light falling across the bedspread split into quarters. The moon is bright, and Kaeya is gone. In the other room, a library stocked with paper and ink that his father never uses, the faint scribbling of a pen can be heard, and as Ajax slips out of bed to pad into the study, the noise stops, almost sheepishly. Slumped over the desk in his nightclothes, Kaeya has his head in his hand, ink pen tapping against the desk as he stares up at Ajax. Deep circles are lined underneath his eyes, and his eyepatch is long gone. 

"What are you doing up?" Ajax asks quietly, leaning against the doorframe. 

Kaeya smiles. "You should go back to bed."

Something is tensing behind Kaeya's smile. Something that doesn't sit right in Ajax's gut. Tentatively, he takes a step forward, and Kaeya tiredly lets his instincts slip loose, and he darts forward to collect the sheets of paper he's piled up on the desk. With a quiet applause of parchment against parchment, they fall, scattering across the rug like snow. Ajax swoops down to gather them up, eyeing the way Kaeya snatches them away, his brow knotted. It's only then that Ajax realizes he's holding a letter in his hands. 

Addressed to Kaeya, it's written in Columbina's spidery cursive, detailing further plans on their move against the six nations. He swallows. A few words stand out to him. It's almost funny how a scant number of words can set his skin aflame with terror and confusion. It would be funnier if it were nothing more than speculation. 

"Kaeya?" Ajax asks, but it's not so much of a question as it is an accusation. "Why are they asking you about your 'readiness to relocate?'"

Kaeya's face grows cold. "Ajax, you should go back to bed. I'll be there in a moment, I just need -"

"Not before you tell me!"

His whispers are harsh, trespassing onto the grounds of a hushed yell. The dark-haired boy pinches the bridge of his nose, slamming the paper messily onto the desk. A few sheets drift down, but Kaeya doesn't stoop to gather them again. He just stands there. Why is he just standing there?

Ajax moves forward, his footsteps easing creaks out of the floorboards. When his hands find Kaeya's, he pulls him closer, examining the look in his lover's eyes as he asks the question again. "Why are you leaving?"

"They changed their mind. The Tsaritsa thinks I have firsthand experiences with taking Gnoses from Archons." Kaeya admits, and his voice is winded, as if he's been punched in the ribs. 

Shaking his head, Ajax inclines his head to the side, blinking owlishly. "Well, tell her she's wrong! You don't know how to do that."

A pause. 

"Don't you?"

Kaeya shifts back into his seat - somehow smaller and more fragile than ever before - crossing his arms underneath his chest and leaning his forearms on the desk. Gritty determination is stark on his face as he looks away, chewing his lower lip. "I can learn."

"Kaeya!" Ajax pleads, darting around to kneel beside his lover's chair. Sullenly, Kaeya turns away. It's like a slap to the face. 

After that, Ajax had turned away and gone to bed angry, thinking of the many ways how Kaeya's resolve to leave was such a betrayal. Wasn't he happy here? Didn't Kaeya want to stay? Didn't he love Ajax the same way that Ajax loved him? He didn't sleep last night. Neither did Kaeya. 

They meet each other in the garden in the early morning, the sunlight breaking over the snow like crushed diamonds, cold and unforgiving in its harsh glow. Wrapped in a crimson knitted scarf, Ajax can barely see any of the honestly and earnestness that Kaeya has shown him in these past few days. It's like staring at an opponent on the battlefield, unsure of what move they're choosing to make next. Perhaps a strike, a parry, or a dodge? Whatever it is, it is nothing to brush off as morning grumpiness or irritation from the cold. Ajax swallows. 

"Are you leaving?" He finally chokes back the ice that has frozen in his throat.

Kaeya neither shakes his head nor nods. 

"Answer me!"

In one hand, from where he had retrieved it from the carrier falcon just a moment ago, a pale white letter trembles. The wax seal on the front is as black as tar. Silently, he unfolds it, reading through its contents with the mask of a trained performer. The quiet that lies dormant between the words he speaks next is oppressive, stifling, even if the air is frigid and fresh. Then, like a coin being tossed in the air in a bright arc, Kaeya's eye flicks upward, meeting Ajax's with an odd sort of fierceness. It is not a look of anger, and neither is it one of fear, but instead, one of thrill and eagerness. Like a hunter watching an iron trap coil up before a rabbit unsuspectingly leaps into its metal jaws. 

"Childe," he says, "we're going to conquer the world."

Young lord. Noble boy. In any other context, it would be a teasing taunt, a mocking jibe thrown at him in a childish argument. But the brightness and intensity in Kaeya's eyes renders the name stone-cold and gives it gravity, like testing out the weight of an unfamiliar knife before throwing it into a target. The four-pointed star, the blade of Kaeya's pupil, is sharp and shines like sharp teeth. Ajax swallows. This is an invitation. It is a tease, a single finger beckoning a lover into bed, a nod to an opponent to bring their best riposte, a black space on a chessboard opening up for the next move. The best move. 

Kaeya smiles, but it is devoid of any warmth. It is a smile that promises power. A smile that promises power together. It is beautiful.

Childe. Young lord. Noble boy. It is but a part to play. A mask to wear. 

"We'll do it together. Crush the gods beneath our feet. You and I."

Tartaglia dons a mask. 

Chapter Text

My dear Diluc,

It has been a while since we last saw each other. Honestly, I must apologize for how my companion acted. You should see him on his best behavior and then make of his character what you will. I am sure you would detest him even more, and, in all honesty, I would be lying if I said that didn't inspire satisfaction and pride in me. Ajax is a boy you would hate. I love him more than I thought I could. 

I had promised myself never to write to you again. You are but a thorn in my side - a burn on my wrist, if you will. After all, your attempt at kidnapping me from Zapolyarny Palace was ill-thought-out and rather indelicate, don't you think? In all honesty, I'm disappointed. I'm sure I'd be even more disappointed if I had detonated the explosive I had gifted to you at your departure. Even after it all, I gave you mercy that you never spared for me. 
I gave you a lot of things that you never bothered to return to me. Perhaps that is why I find myself haunted with the will to take. 

I have been given an opportunity for greatness. Legendary greatness. I can hardly sleep thinking about it. Have you ever wondered where my homeland disappeared to? I do as well. What do you suppose happens after the gods strike you down? As a child, I accepted my place as a sinner, let the gods mock me from their golden thrones on high, stayed in the shadows of saints like you, Diluc. With Ajax, I realized that the gods' favor doesn't make anyone a sinner or a saint, not in the slightest. It simply makes them stronger. 

I am as strong as you. Perhaps stronger. If there is a single thing I have to thank you for, it is simply that revelation. 

Ah. I seem to have spiraled off on a tangent. What was my question? Oh, of course - what happens to those sinners who are struck down by Celestia? Death. Ashes. Destruction. Genocide. All because those virtuous gods were threatened. 

I care not to forgive. The Tsaritsa has given me an opportunity. At first, I was too much of a coward to realize that it was possible. But with Tartaglia at my side and the Tsaritsa guiding my hand, I believe vengeance is possible. 
I shall simply need to take the hearts of our beloved Archons. An easy task with the Eleven Harbingers at the ready. 

Dear Diluc, I do so apologize for rambling on about my recent epiphanies. I am sure the most polite letter that I should be sending you would be one where I tell you I am glad that you are safe, that I miss Mondstadt, and that I am not in love with a boy who carries the Abyss around with him in his shadow. As you can see, that is not the letter I am sending you.

This letter is a warning. Do not get in my way. 

Yours, 

Mezzetino, Tenth Harbinger to Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa

Chapter Text

The moon hangs low in the sky, sickly pale and tallow like old bone. Above it, the night is ravaged with streaks of grey, clawing at the stars until only a few of them are visible. Veronika lies back against her mountain of pillows, hair spread across her shoulders like dead vines, limp and lacking in luster. With gaunt cheekbones and pale skin, she is a ghost against her white bed linens, skeletal hands slowly petting a head of strawberry-blond hair that lies on her shoulder. Ajax has an arm draped over her stomach, quietly listening to her wheezing breath as he lies on his side, still dressed in his clothes from earlier in the day. 

"Has the tonic I sent home done anything?" He asks quietly, his voice rasping from disuse. 

Veronika smiles, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "It has. I'm not in much pain, rybka."

Ajax pauses, lifting his head up to look her in the eyes. "But you're still sick."

His tone is flat, almost frustrated, but he finds it difficult to be irritated in front of his mother, who wraps her arm around his shoulders, hugging him tightly as she draws in a ragged breath. With a sigh, his shoulders relax, and he presses his cheek to the soft cotton of her nightgown. 

Veronika tucks an errant strand of hair from his face. "Snezhnaya did not freeze in a day, Ajax."

Outside, a strong wind blows snow from the pine trees, sending powder across the pane of Veronika's window, but her fireplace is crackling with dry laughter, warm and bright compared to the endless darkness. Downstairs, Ajax can hear the front door open, the sound of laughter painting the house in a warmer tint, and Anjelika calls up the stairs that she's home. Shifting underneath her duvet and quilt, Veronika presses another kiss to the crown of Ajax's forehead. 

"Come on, rybka. Let's help the others with dinner." She says, sweeping her hair into a bun. 

Without any prompt, Ajax opens her chest of drawers, placing a thick sweater, a collared blouse, and a dark green skirt at the foot of her bed. Veronika tuts at him playfully, waving him away from her sock drawer. 

"Now, now, I can pick my own clothes, can't I?" She says, ruffling his hair. 

Without warning, a coughing fit rips through her, and she crumples, leaning heavily against her chest of drawers, hands and shoulders trembling as she hacks. Footsteps rush up the stairs, and Anjelika all but sprints into the bedroom, pulling out a handkerchief from her dress pocket. Struck with panic, Ajax can only stare as his mother's face grows pale. She looks past him, breathless, and her eyes widen. Hastily, Veronika turns away, hiding behind Anjelika as the ginger-haired boy turns. 

Teucer looks up at his mother with wide, round eyes, little brow knitted in concern and fear. In his hands, he holds a small, stuffed lion, but it falls from his grip as Anjelika soothes her mother, running her hand up and down her back as the coughing fit continues to ravage her breathing. Ajax blinks, immediately swooping down to pick up Teucer's lion and fold his hands around it. 

"Hey, Teucer," he says softly, knowing that if he spoke any louder, the trembling sound of tears would choke him. "Let's go back downstairs. I can make dinner for you, yeah? You can help me make pirozhki. Fold the dough for me - you know I'm terrible at it."

Veronika gets some semblance of her voice back, just enough for her to look back at her youngest son and smile, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Go and get started without me, l'venok. Mama's feeling a little under the weather."

Teucer's bottom lip starts to tremble, and he can't take his eyes off of his mother's pale face. Anjelika gasps and quickly folds up her handkerchief, pressing it to Veronika's nose. The white fabric soon stains red, and Ajax swallows hard, sweeping his little brother into his arms and shutting the door behind him as he hurries onto the landing. 

Standing at the foot of the stairs, Kaeya locks eyes with the ginger-haired boy, concern apparent on his face. Plastering a smile on his own, Ajax takes Teucer down the stairs, thankful for the hand that reaches out to squeeze his own. 

"Who's this little fellow?" Kaeya asks, patting Teucer's lion on the head. 

Teucer sniffs, on the verge of tears. "This is my - I call him Mr. Kitty."

(Teucer is many things - friendly, outgoing, and bright - but alas, creative is not one of them.)

Like the angel he is, Kaeya shakes Mr. Kitty's paw, smiling brightly. "Well, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir."

Teucer wriggles enough to free his arm from where it was pinned to his side. With a shy smile, he wiggles Mr. Kitty's arm in reply. Ajax feels his chest bloom with warmth when Kaeya tilts his head to the side, listening patiently to Mr. Kitty's life story, beaming so genuinely it makes the tawny-haired boy ache. With the tears gone from where they were brimming his eyes, Teucer stretches Mr. Kitty's arms out to pat Kaeya's face, giggling brightly. 

"He likes you!" 

"And I like him, too!"

By the time the first batch of pirozhki are a golden brown, Veronika glides into the kitchen, elegant as ever, and places her hand on Kaeya's back as he slices the mushrooms that Agnieszka is frying. He looks over his shoulder with a smile as she leans over him, taking a mushroom slice and popping it in her mouth. 

Nikita, glazing a slightly lumpy ball of dough with an egg and milk mixture, sneaks a glance at the mushrooms. "Wow, Kaeya, you have really nice hands." 

Agnieszka hums in agreement, her eyebrows raised as Ajax's face grows dark, whipping his head over his shoulder to glower at her. Nikita, unperturbed, takes one of Kaeya's hands and lines it up with his own. 

"Ah, it's so much bigger than mine! Your skin is so soft."

The statement earns him a smack on the head with a wooden spoon from Ajax, who sends Nikita a glare that could knock a bird out of the sky out of sheer power of malice. Kaeya raises an eyebrow at the younger boy, amused by his antics, and promptly sets his knife down, leaning over to line his own hand up with Ajax's. The ginger-haired boy takes in the difference between his own scarred skin and Kaeya's untouched. His younger brother is right - Kaeya has really nice hands. 

Kaeya glances up at him through his eyelashes. "Seems as though your hands are bigger than mine, love."

He intertwines their fingers, running his thumb over Ajax's knuckle. The latter peers over the dark-haired boy's shoulder, giving him a smug grin. "Sorry, Nikita, looks like I'm still winning. You'll have to find a different boyfriend of your older siblings' to pine over."

Sighing, Nikita turns back to his cutting board, muttering something about Kaeya being out of Ajax's league, and taking the next ball of dough from Anthon with a dismal expression on his face. Anthon hums in disapproval, placing a spoonful of filling into a small circle of dough, grimacing as his older brother giggles when Kaeya smiles at him. 

"Kaeya, if you would be so kind as to refrain from putting cheese in a small selection of the pirozhki, I would much appreciate it," Anthon says, adjusting his glasses. 

Kaeya sets aside a few of the ingredients for Agnieszka to mix but doesn't slide the bowl of shredded cheese over to her. With a tiny nod, Anthon shakes his hand before turning back to his dough cutouts. As Veronika surveys her children in the kitchen, the front door opens and closes once more. This time, Tonia and Konstantin poke their heads through the entryway to the kitchen, their noses pinched pink with cold.

"We're back from the market!" Tonia cheers, holding up a wicker basket with a kerchief spread across the top. 

Konstantin wipes his boots on the doormat, and just as he's about to join his family in the kitchen, he stops, making eye contact with Anjelika at the top of the stairs. His face falls, and he turns to his wife with resigned eyes. Veronika can only smile weakly. 

Ajax turns down the heat on the stove, removing the pan of frying pirozhki from the hob. "Kaeya, do you think you could help me get some more firewood from outside?"

Kaeya nods. The look on Ajax's face twists his stomach, and he swallows, following him through the house. 

Outside, the evening has only grown darker. Nights fall much quicker in the North. In Mondstadt, the sun dawdles each night, turning pink, then red, then orange, until it decides on a deep blue after much deliberation - very much unlike the decisive Snezhnayan sunset. Snow drifts down onto Kaeya's face as Ajax paces the woodshed, arms crossed over his chest. 

Reluctantly, he places a hand on his shoulder, averting his eye. "We need to leave soon, Ajax."

"I can't." 

Kaeya smiles. "Yes, you can. Your mother is well taken care of. We can visit her after a week in Liyue - the plan will take a long time to properly start moving. As long as we arrive and plan it out thoroughly, there will be time for you and for them."

(Perhaps for us, he doesn't say.)

Restlessly, Ajax pivots, pushing Kaeya's hand off of his shoulder. "It's easy for you to say!"

Ah. The second the words leave the ginger-haired boy's mouth, he regrets it. But he can't cram what's already been said back in his mouth. As he stills, Kaeya's face neutralizes, a perfect mask of ice. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks, and Ajax nearly answers him, almost duped into believing it was a genuine, innocent question. 

"I'm sorry. It's just - you're not exactly -"

A pause. 

"I'm sorry," Ajax offers again, his palm outstretched and upturned

Kaeya sighs, pushing his hair out of his face and casting his gaze to the darkness that looms just out of reach of the light glowing from behind them, spilling out of the doorway like liquid gold. Raising a hand to his mouth, he's silent for a moment, perfectly still, as the snow falls. 

"I understand." He says, finally, and Ajax releases the instinctual breath he was holding. "But I cannot hold off the others for much longer. We have to leave tomorrow, or we'll have missed our opportunity." 

Chewing his lip, Ajax mulls the statement over for a while, running a hand through his hair. When he looks back up, his gaze meets Kaeya's eye, brimming with determination and expectance. 

All he wants to do is earn that admiration - that softness that gleams from the four-pointed star in his pupil - but he knows Kaeya wants the same. This is a mutual exchange that will reward them both later. In Ajax's case, it's a chance to get more medicine for Veronika. For Kaeya, it's a chance to prove to himself that he's in his own light now, not rotting in someone's shadow. With purpose, Kaeya takes his hand. 

So Ajax finds himself pressing a kiss to his mother's forehead as she reads in bed, the bloody handkerchief still resting at her bedside table. She looks up, warmly smiling even though she looks wraith-like in the gloom. 

"Mama," he says softly, "I'm afraid I'm being called back to Zapolyarny Palace."

Her face does not change. Pride brims in her eyes, tinged with fear, but she grabs his hand tight. "Alright, rybka. Stay safe. I love you with all of my heart."

Nodding, Ajax squeezes her hand back, turning to leave. Before he can close her bedroom door behind him, she calls his name. Setting her book down, Veronika folds her hands in her lap, pausing for a moment to think about what she'll say next. Her son waits patiently. 

"I'm very happy for you," she whispers, "but I want it to stay that way. I hope you treat Kaeya well." 

Ajax smiles back at her. "I will."

"And if he ever hurts you," she trails off, laughing softly, but there is a hardness in her eyes. "You can always come home."

Ajax wonders if she knew what he was really like, she'd say the same. Offering kindness to a beast and expecting it to leave a gentleman - he smiles. 

"Goodnight, Mama."

Chapter Text

Nine Harbingers watch their youngest return to the palace late into the afternoon, all standing in the window that looks over Zapolyarny's courtyard. Signora drums her fingers on her wrist behind her back, a mink shawl draped over her shoulders, with a faraway look in her steely eye. Next to her, Arlecchino spins a kunai around her index finger, a single eyebrow raised as Mezzetino intertwines his hand with Tartaglia's. 

She hums disapprovingly. "Oi, Fair Lady."

Signora snaps to attention, tearing her gaze away from the pair of them. "What?"

"Those two," Arlecchino points the blade at the boys as they ascend the steps, "how long do you think they'll be able to keep this up until Daddy dearest throws a tantrum?"

From where he's fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt, Pantalone sends the Harlequin a seething glare, saying nothing. Instead, Scaramouche pipes up. 

"I think Mezzetino'll get bored. Tartaglia's easy to read. A puppy, you know? Loyal, excitable, but rather tame when it comes down to it."

With a deep, rumbling laugh, Pulcinella shakes his head. With a flash of his eyes, the Balladeer frowns, his eye twitching in irritation as the laughing continues. "No. You're incorrect, boy. Tartaglia is far more complex than any of you know. If it were up to me, I'd say Mezzetino should be careful handling such a fickle weapon like him."

The doors slam open with an icy wind, and the Harbingers instinctually shrink away from the source, frozen in place. None of them dare turn to see their Tsaritsa's angered face. She trails across the hall, veils fluttering weakly as the warmth of the room slowly drops, frost creeping across the glass windows. Stabbing her heels into the lacquered wood as she walks, the Tsaritsa stalks towards her most loyal subjects, her breath unclouding in the air. Her eyes are blown wide, misty with a kind of glow that shines like a flame behind a sheet of thin linen. Hazy, waxy, and moon-like, she is crackling with frost at every move.

"Do indulge me in your conversation." She says, brittle voice cracking slightly at her peak in volume. 

No one says a word. With a gasp, Arlecchino draws her hands to her chest, her fingers frostbitten and raw.

Scowling, the Tsaritsa draws her hands into fists, the sound of her knuckles cracking like icicles being broken echoing in the large hall. "Will no one converse with me? Has the cold frozen your tongues, or are you all inefficient, treasonous  fools ?" 

She is near hoarse, her volume shaking the crystal of the chandelier. Scaramouche shivers, his lips turning blue. 

"All of you - untrustworthy and conniving! What an imbecile was I to entrust you with my heart, only to have it shattered into a million pieces! I should kill you all! Each and every one of you!" They cannot see it, but she is shaking with rage, her dark irises shuddering within their sockets as she screams her throat raw. "You are worthless to me! Pathetic, sniveling mortals who would pour  poison  in my ear. I should kill you. I should kill -"

"Your highness?" The doorway is darkened with another shadow, standing tall in the dim light. All of the candles have been extinguished, the wax frozen into thick pillars of hard white bone. Kaeya frowns, one eyebrow raised in innocent curiosity. 

The Tsaritsa stops, her head turning towards him, and with an oddly human sob, she staggers towards him in the body of a child, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her cheek to the soft fur of his coat. Confounded, Kaeya looks down at the god in his arms, then back at Tartaglia, who glances between his lover and the rest of the Harbingers with increasing trepidation. 

Slowly, Kaeya wraps his arms around the Tsaritsa. 

Signora's chambers are decadent, filled with flowers and jewels from around the world, and in the middle sits a coffee table with a tea set. The tea set's trays are lined with pastries and sweets of any and all kinds, sugar glinting like diamonds in the candlelight that bounces off of the crystal chandelier hanging from her ceiling. A hooded armchair houses a visitor, dressed in a gift that the eighth saved for him, ever since he arrived. 

She stands at the window, holding her teacup and saucer with steady hands as the snow falls, cold light spilling onto her face. "I am glad you came, Mezzetino."

Mezzetino tilts the teacup slightly downward, checking for any residue that might betray any hidden poison. He finds none, looking back up at his hostess. "The pleasure is all mine, Fair Lady."

She turns. "Ophelia."

With a raise of his eyebrows, Kaeya smiles. "The pleasure is all mine, Ophelia."

"You remind me of someone, boy. I do wish I got to you before that damned Fontais snake did." She muses, flicking a strand of blonde hair from her face. 

There is a pause before Signora - Ophelia - continues to speak. Kaeya takes a tentative sip of his tea, the traditional Mondstadt Ludi Harpastum clothing somehow perfectly tailored to his measurements. Turning her head to gaze at him, Signora's eye clouds over with melancholy reminiscence. 

She says, her brow slightly furrowed and her lips ticked up into a burgundy smile, "Kaeya, have you ever heard of the tale of Arundolyn and Rostam?"

He has. "I have not." He used to run around the lake with Diluc playing make-believe that they were the same legendary heroes. "Do enlighten me?"

"Arundolyn was the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius. Rostam, his best friend, was his right-hand man. While Arundolyn soaked in the glory, Rostam was left to pull some measly strings in the shadows. One day, when Khaenri'ah fell, they went on an expedition to investigate the curse it placed on its people. Rostam died."

Kaeya knows this story. He knows it off by heart. The teacup trembles in his hand, but he gathers his thoughts, steadying it. 

"Arundolyn was inconsolable, of course. But it was far worse for a young girl, deeply in love with him. She turned the magic she learned from Khaenri'ah's Irminsul roots and made it into her own, burning herself from the inside out. She went on a rampage, destroying the outbursts of where the curse poisoned the land until she came across a man dressed all in white, with blank eyes and a mask." 

Kaeya doesn't know this story. Instinctively, he leans closer, like a child having a bedtime story read aloud to them. He doesn't care. Something about Signora's warm, crackling voice is hypnotizing, like a fire eating away at a log in the hearth. 

"He offered her salvation in the name of the Tsaritsa. He calmed her flames and put out her suffering, giving her ice to soothe her burns. And so the girl left Mondstadt, left the burning flames behind, and told her story to a young boy in her chambers as he listens so intently, one could hear the little cogs ticking in his head." Signora finishes, a wry, bittersweet smile on her face. 

Blinking, Kaeya rouses himself from his stupor. A dribble of hot tea spills down his fingers from where he's tipped his teacup a little too far, pooling in the indent of the saucer. With a sigh, Signora sets her own teacup down, taking a seat in the hooded armchair adjacent to Kaeya's, crossing one leg over the other. 

"The Tsaritsa is a delicate little thing. This isn't the first time a little outburst has happened." She says, very plainly, as if she hasn't unearthed a staggering fact about her origin. "Each time the winter grows stronger, her control over herself and her Gnosis grows weaker. Celestia sees to it that the midwinter places our Tsaritsa at her least powerful. In simpler terms, it isn't unlike a child acting out." 

Swallowing, Kaeya does his best to run with it. Cooperation will lead to well-oiled plans coming to fruition. If his Childe can get to the top of Liyue as soon as possible, it's just a matter of time until he's ready for the world. 

The boy places a sugar cube in his cup, swirling the spoon around the rim. "You would speak so lowly of your goddess? Call her childlike?" He laughs. "No matter. She's a little paranoid, hm?"

"You would be too if you were bound to Celestia as she is."

"You raise a fair point."

Signora drums her fingers on her thigh, looking out the window again. It is tall, arching, and the crimson drapes are pulled away so she can see the forest in all of its dark, dark glory. Waiting patiently, Kaeya can tell she's on the verge of tipping, spilling whatever plans Pantalone may be keeping secret from him. All she needs is a little push. 

"Ophelia," he says, setting the teacup down. She looks up, a hopeful look in her eyes as Kaeya gets to his feet. "Tell me about this outfit. It was his, wasn't it?"

"Yes," she breathes. "You... You look so much like him."

Inwardly grimacing, Kaeya wonders if he'll have to do this the hard way. He's sure Childe won't find out, ever, but still, the action would dirty his conscience more than he would like. Before he can do anything, though, Signora stands up, pulling Kaeya into a tight hug, petting his hair gently.

It is not what he is expecting. Instead of something romantic, it is maternal, and Signora rocks back and forth from side to side, holding Kaeya as she does so. 

"Oh, my little boy," She whispers, and it becomes apparent to the dark-haired Harbinger that Rostam was not the only person she had lost. "I'm so sorry."

Kaeya leaves her chambers after a while, and as soon as he emerges, Childe perks up, kicking up off the wall. The apple in his hand shines a bright green, almost as vibrant as the gemstone at Kaeya's throat. Grinning, he leans close to his lover in excitement, tilting his face to the side as Kaeya draws near. 

"Well? What did she say?" Childe asks expectantly. 

Quietly, Kaeya presses a kiss to his cheek, placing a tentative hand on the other's waist as he does so. The nervousness and shyness are strangely out of the blue, and Childe draws back, brow knitting in worry. 

"Kaeya?"

"Scaramouche is to be placed in Inazuma. But before that, Pierro has a personal request for him. Signora wants Mondstadt, which Columbina relinquished for Fontaine." Kaeya sighs, a tiredness to his voice that drags in the back of his throat. "We, on the other hand, have Liyue to ourselves. Unless we fuck it up badly, we won't need supervision. The Tsaritsa is bordering on irrational as we near the midwinter, so Pierro is assuming his role as her first Fatuus."

Childe tucks Kaeya's hair behind his ears, pressing a kiss between his eye and eyepatch. Then, his hands travel down to tilt the other's face up, smiling gently down at Kaeya with eyes that shine like the stars. "You're doing so well."

"I need to go lie down," Kaeya replies, his hand lingering on Childe's chest for a moment too long to be accidental. It's not suggestive - just tender, brushing above his heart with the heel of his palm. There is no double entendre. "Come with me?"

Chapter Text

"You're going to have to let him go someday, you know."

Dottore stands in the doorway of Pantalone's study, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his mask perched on the side of his head. 

Casual, but there is a tension that he holds in his body that reminds Pantalone of a cat, waiting to strike at any moment. The hint is the way his eyes are flickering around the older man's desk, scarlet and quick, never focusing on something for a long time and then returning to Pantalone's face with a shine of anticipation. 

"I haven't got him in a chokehold, Oskar." He replies, tone dry and unbending. This is not a conversation he deems fruitful. 

Dottore shrugs. "If you say so."

And with a turn on his heel, he's gone. Pantalone frowns, looking up and finding the absence of his frame in his doorway. How peculiar, he thinks, and then promptly returns to his paperwork, rerouting the trade of Snezhnayan lumber and Inazuman iron. 

He loves his work, he really does, but sometimes, he finds it a little mundane. The thrill of going to war isn't lost on him - after all, he's of the Tsaritsa's Harbingers - and perhaps a part of him anticipates the bloodletting that the others are no doubt getting up to with bated breath. The only thing he doesn't yearn for is Kaeya's demise. Make no mistake, he isn't going soft. He's poured resources into this child - time and effort and money - and if he were to die in Liyue, well, it would be an utter waste. Tartaglia would be to blame, obviously. Vapid, reckless, and stupid, there isn't anything an errant brat like him can't trifle with, and it seems Kaeya has fallen for that cheap charm of his. 

Pantalone's brow knits. He knows that Kaeya could die. This mission is treacherous, and the Tsaritsa expects him to kill a god just because of his lineage, so the likelihood of disaster striking is hovering in Pantalone's peripheral vision like some terrible bird. An omen of destruction.

But the revenue that it would rake in - his mouth waters at the thought of all of that money pouring into the Northland Bank, just sitting there and shining - why, he can't even put a number to it. All he would need to do is set up some fake accounts, pour some cash in, and plant a few agents here and there to advertise adequately, and his pockets would grow deeper than he thought possible. 

Kaeya's life comes to a specific value in his mind. The money he spent on the clothes, the books, the trinkets - it all goes on a list. The money he spent on his Fontaine trip, the upcoming Liyue mission, all of it. It comes to the grand total of millions of Mora. Perhaps ten million. Perhaps twenty. Now, that is a massive investment that he's made in this Khaenri'an heir to a dynasty that wasn't even in line to the throne, so it would be a shame if he went and died on him. 

But if he were to succeed in stealing Morax's Gnosis, there's no telling what a god's heart can do - especially the one of the god who made the very currency that runs gold in the blood of the continent. And even if it's useless, there's the revenue that would simply pour into Pantalone's vaults in swollen, heaving buckets after plunging the wealthiest nation in Teyvat into financial ruin. It's huge. It's enormous. It would pay Kaeya's debt to him, hell, maybe tenfold, and even then, there would still be enough Mora in his vaults for Pantalone to swim in. 

Pantalone sits up. The Liyue job contract lies on his desk underneath a garnet paperweight, the dotted line blank and plain. He had been reluctant before (for reasons already disclosed), but after this thorough planning, there has to be a decision made. There must be an answer. 

And so he gives it. 

Signora places her pen back on the table, flicking a bead of ink from her nail. Lying face-up on her desk is the agreement to chaperone the youngest Harbingers on their mission to Liyue. It means whatever mistakes they make, whichever objective they botch - it is her responsibility. But, regrettably, she is ready to put her life on the line for Kaeya and his little bloodlusty puppy. She sighs, folding the letter up and opening a drawer in her desk. With a slender hand, Signora brings out a stick of blood-red wax, holds the wick over a candle, and drips a seal onto the paper, periwinkle eyes glancing up at the snowy trees outside. Then, once the wax has formed as much of a circle as it can (her hands are not as steady as they used to be), she presses her seal onto the paper. 

And so it is done, she thinks, her tone tinged with a touch of finality. Perhaps Signora will come to regret it. Perhaps she will die. Who can tell, really, apart from the cruel stars that map out her fate? With a shake of her head, she slides her letter underneath her door, watching the timid footsteps of a maid scurry to take it away, and rings a bell for another servant to draw her a bath. 

"You were amazing, Ajax." Kaeya breathes, working through the buttons of his lover's military jacket with nimble fingers. "I couldn't stop looking at you."

After watching the speech he gave to the new recruits, Kaeya had tugged him into the stables, unable to keep his thoughts to himself for any longer. Hiding his face behind his hand in a sudden bout of shyness, Ajax looks away, his face red as Kaeya presses his lips to his skin. "Y-Yeah?"

Laughing, Kaeya pauses, bringing his hands up to cup the other's face. "Yeah. I love you."

Surging forward, Ajax kisses him sweetly, smiling against his lips. Snow falls in thick flakes around them, but the warmth of their hands keeps the cold from biting too much, and as the wind rustles the pine trees, the sounds of their quiet laughter are drowned out by the whispers of snow against leaves. With a hand tangled in Kaeya's hair, Ajax leans against the wooden doorway of the stables, hidden behind the racks of saddlery and riding equipment. 

"We're going to rule this world," Kaeya whispers against his chest, sinking lower and lower as his eye bores into Ajax's. "Everything will be ours."

Knocking his head back against the wall, the ginger-haired boy gasps, the air ripped out from his lungs without warning. "Kaeya -"

His knees buckle, so he reaches out, grabbing the beam above his head, his other hand still tangled in his lover's hair. Swallowing thickly, he blinks, stars clouding his vision and the sound of his own heart beating drowning out all other sounds. Blissfully, he closes his eyes, another gasp tripping out of his mouth, and the words Kaeya whispered to him echo in his head softly. He believes in them.

He believes every word. 

Chapter Text

Liyue Harbor has a tricky sort of cold. It fools you into thinking of warmth with its golden sunshine, clear blue skies, and windless air, yet Ajax can feel his cheeks sting with the chill. It is still autumn here, with Snezhnaya being so far north that it leaves the rest of the world behind. Beneath his feet, the docks run all the way past a blacksmith's, the familiar green of the Adventurer's Guild tent fresh and vivid against the pale moss of the roof tiles. A flock of finches settles on a large rock leading up a street to a significantly less expensive-looking part of town. All is quiet in the early hours of the day. 

"Lord Harbinger!" 

He turns, breath misting in the air. A young girl who can't be much older than Agniya jogs up to him, her ponytails flying in the wind. While she is of Liyue descent, a Fatui badge is pinned to her lapel.

"I'm Zhihao - I'll be your attaché for the upcoming job. If you need messages delivered, things cleaned up, or if you just want to know where to get a decent meal, I'm your girl." She smiles warmly. 

Nodding, Ajax cannot bring himself to plaster a grin on his face. "It's a pleasure, Zhihao. I appreciate the help. I apologize for my lack of manners, but my journey was long and tiring. Do you think you could show me to where I'm staying?"

Zhihao does not falter. "Of course, Lord Harbinger."

Without another word, she hoists up two of his cases and starts down the high street leading away from the quieter side of town. The remaining crew bid their curt goodbyes, lugging Ajax's bags off of the ship, and they leave him to follow Zhihao through the busy downtown streets of Liyue Harbor. 

He does not remember his first day very clearly. Awash in vibrant hues, Liyue fades into a vivid watercolor painting. Beautiful, yes, but not tangible - it melts into something abstract, blurs around the edges. 

As a matter of fact, each day is like that. For a few weeks, the only sharpness that Ajax gets is the pang of longing and discontent that settles in the middle of his chest, pushing him further and further into the too-big bed in the mornings. As the silver moonlight paints his ceiling in shades of milk-white and cool mercury tones, he cannot feel anything but the aftershock of a cold snap. He thaws far too quickly, his hands and face hot, his breath labored as he stares at the ceiling, drifting in and out of consciousness. Toeing the line between sleep and pure panic, Ajax turns onto his side, his hand sliding across the silk sheets to reach out to the cold skin that calms his night terrors. 

He meets nothing. 

He starts to count the months. After the meetings and the odd debt collections, he returns to his apartment, looking down over the glowing, bustling city, and he wishes he were anywhere but here. Today, he had a meeting with the Tianquan - a clever, sharp woman named Ningguang. With her ivory hair and carmine eyes, she saw right through his cheerful guard and slid over the Mora his men were asking for to refurbish downtown's Northland Bank, a single eyebrow raised in disdain as twin plumes of smoke curled from her nose. She had smoked such a beautiful pipe. The image of it dangling in her fingers - oh, so elegantly - reminded Ajax of the time that Kaeya found Columbina's old cigarette holder. How he had draped one of her mink shawls around his shoulders, and paraded around her room like a decorated peacock, showing off his vibrant feathers for only Ajax to see. 

One day - after a meeting with the Yuheng to establish where the Fatui could place warehouses and factories - Ajax takes a short walk up to Feiyun Slope. The stores are bright, glittering, and full of wares he has never seen before. He lingers, window shopping, and for a moment, he can almost hear the sound of snow under his boots. Silent on the roof, the only proof of it lies in one's eyes and under one's feet. The purity of it, the cleanliness - Liyue Harbor's cobbled streets do not compare. He catches his reflection in a pond. A twisted amalgamation of a sneer seethes in the still water, only to be dashed to pieces by the tail of an oblivious koi fish, the sunlight captured in its speckled scales. No wonder everyone has been giving him a wide berth; he's got a look on his face that could kill a small animal.

Sighing, Ajax unclenches his jaw and looks towards the horizon, past the bustle and crowds, and out to sea. In the milky fog, he can just make out the jagged shapes of some strange-looking islands, jutting out of the water like spears in a battleground. Something about them unsettles him, like staring into a deep trench in the ocean or watching the tide swallow land in big, gulping mouthfuls. The back of his throat is dry. 

"Lord Harbinger!"

Abruptly, he turns, eager to snatch his eyes away from the stone graveyard, and finds Zhihao jogging up to him, paper bags clutched in her arms. She beams up at him with a practiced professionalism. 

"It's been a while, sir." She says mildly. "I gather you've been adjusting rather well on your own, seeing as I haven't been of any help."

He winces. "Apologies. I'm not quite used to having an... assistant, such as yourself. Usually, I'd be paired with -"

"Another Harbinger." Zhihao finishes, and there is a welcome touch of sympathy in her voice. "Not to worry, sir - I wasn't accusing you. I understand it must be difficult, with this being your first job as the overseer and all. If it's any consolation, you seem to be doing a fine job."

Ajax smiles blandly. "Thank you." 

There is a pause that awkwardly fills the stilted silence between the two of them. Zhihao shifts her weight from one leg to the other, and the faint sound of paper rustling seems to become deafening. Clapping his hands together, Ajax brightens his smile into a grin. 

"Would you care to show me to dinner, Zhihao? I find myself to be getting rather hungry." He says, and she nearly topples over. 

Adjusting her paper bags full of groceries, she straightens, her teeth bared in a charmingly earnest smile. "Why, Lord Harbinger, I'd love to!"

"Please," he interjects, "call me Childe."

Somewhere in Sumeru Academia's library, a boy with a single, starred eye examines a chess piece. It is quiet, the only sound being that of the whisper of pages turning and the murmurs of books opening and closing. The sky is dark, laden with stars like a lady's velvet jewel box, heavy with pearls. A tallow candle drips wax onto the pages of scribbled notes, inkblots scattered across the paper like errant teardrops. The wind is cold through the open window, but the boy does not care. 

Wholly engrossed in the mystery of the chess piece, his calloused fingertips trace the curves and edges, bathed in an emerald green glow. Warm in his hands, the bishop shines with an otherworldly luster, but it is heavy, laden with the heart and worries of a dormant goddess. Kusanali sleeps now, still favored by her subjects, and as per the agreement, she will have what she wants. 

As for the Tsaritsa? 

Everything is as she wills it.

Chapter Text

My Dearest Ajax,

I cannot bear to be away from you for this long. Each hour of my day is spent at my bedroom window, where I stare out at the dunes of the Sumeri desert and wish that our final day together had gone differently. That there could have been a different outcome. Then, each hour of my night is spent at a desk in some stuffy library, pouring over Kusanali's bishop piece.

She is an interesting one, that Lesser Lord. To be adored by her people in such an infantilizing way. I am sure our Tsaritsa wouldn't stand for it. I hear from Signora that she is faring far better in the mild warmth of spring now that winter has ended. From what I have picked up, it would be best for you to watch for a note from our dear Tsaritsa.

Oh, my Ajax, it feels as if I have sealed myself away in the depths of the ocean. Being away from you is like suffering under a strange and peculiar poison. I cannot sleep. My bed is too cold, too neat, and too empty. As for the daytime, I am weary of the same view, the same sands, and the same sky. I miss Morepesok and the holes you carved out on the lake, how, each night, they would freeze back over - just as thick - and you would take a saw to them again with Teucer at your side. 

I cannot help but feel pretentious, going on about how I miss your family. After all, they are yours, and what is mine wishes me dead. Ah. Forgive me - I seem to be plagued by the truth each time we speak, even if the sea and this paper separates us. 

I will send more, my Ajax, but I am afraid my candle is spluttering and shrinking as I write, so I shall have to keep my goodbye sweet and short. I love you dearly.

Always yours, 

Kaeya

Darling Ajax,

I am so glad you have been making such excellent progress! Liyue Harbor is gorgeous at this time of the year - I do so hope you are making the most of it. As soon as my work with the bishop piece is done, I shall come to meet you immediately. For the time being, I suggest distracting yourself. 

Your attaché sounds like a sweet girl. Why not spend some more time with her? Visit the Heyu Tea House for me, love, and I'll visit the hot springs for you. Then, when we are reunited, we can do both as many times as we like. It is a promise, my darling.

Signora is holding up well in Fontaine, although all of her sulking is enough to spoil that lovely weather they must be having, and (strangely) sends her regards. Meanwhile, Scaramouche is making progress on Mondstadt. I assume that he's aiming to take her place when we move on to Inazuma, but I could be wrong. Any news on how Pantalone fares? The old coot hasn't written a single letter but keeps sending gifts with the price tags still attached so I can feel guilty about receiving them. 

I am dreadfully sorry to hear about your nightmares, love. There is nothing I want more than to be there with you. Although it sounds childish, I miss every part of you. Each day is another day I have to go longer without the smell of your bath oils soaking into my bedsheets and into my clothes. The feeling of your lips on mine or your hands on my skin. 

I fear that when I see you again, I shall have to commit your hands to my memory all over again. An irrational fear, for even if we were in the dark, I would know you by the feel of your hands alone. Each scar, each blister, each callous - I know you, Ajax, and your touch is imprinted in my mind because of it. 

I wouldn't have it any other way. With all my heart, I love you, my darling. 

Always yours,

Kaeya

Chapter Text

He stands on the shores of Yaoguang Shoals, watching the ice stretch out into the mist, scented of salt and something strangely metallic. The ice is thin, delicately spread across the water like a mirror, the fog dancing across it like the ghosts of a ballroom in Zapolyarny's grand halls. He can almost taste the powdered sugar and the spiced wine of the winter solstice celebrations back home. When he closes his eyes, the backs of his eyelids are painted gold, crystal chandeliers spinning like snowflakes dancing onto the tip of his tongue. 

"Lord Harbinger?" Zihao bites back her words. "Sorry. Childe?"

He turns, the snow-covered sand crunches beneath his feet. "Sorry, were you saying something?"

She waves a hand noncommittally. "Well, not really. Just wondering why you were staring into space like, you know - like a lemon."

Placing a hand on his chest, Childe takes a step back, feigning windedness. "Woah, there. How cutting, Zhihao. A lemon?"

"Mondstadtian phrase. Forgive me, your excellence - I didn't mean to wound your ego." She dips into a low bow, a sly smile on her face. "But really, what are you looking at?"

Peering into the haze, he squints slightly, the sun hidden behind the grey mists on the horizon. In the distance, several islands jut out of the sea, crooked and viciously stabbed into the water - almost like a battleground, he thinks. Something thrums in the back of his head, and he winces. On the horizon - he swears it - the air warps. For a fleeting moment, the islands in the distance shift. Like a reflection in a pool of water dashed to pieces, they ripple on the horizon, fluid and almost taunting. 

"What are those islands?" Childe all but demands, eyes fixed on the now still archipelago. 

Zhihao pauses for a moment, and although he cannot see it, she blinks at the sudden change in tone. "That's the Guyun Stone Forest."

"How do I get there?"

As she fumbles with her bag, struggling to find her notepad and pencil, Zhihao's brow furrows. "I can arrange a ship to take you tomorrow, sir Childe, would you like a tour or-"

"Today."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I have to go there today."

She blinks, tapping her pencil against the paper of her notepad. An unfinished sentence has been scrawled onto the page. "My apologies, sir, but it takes at least two hours to sail to Forest from the harbor, even on the fastest ship. Besides, you have a meeting with Lady Ningguang at noon."

Without missing a beat, Childe rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, placing the toe of his boot gingerly on the sheet of ice resting atop the calm ocean. "Clear it from the schedule."

"Sir, I really can't recommend-"

Fishing through his pockets, he brings out a small pouch of mora, tossing it behind him as he puts his weight on the ice. It holds. "Go buy yourself something nice, Zhihao. Clear my schedule."

Any protestations she throws at him are lost to the thrumming in his ears, the sudden feeling of water rushing around his hands, slithering and quick. He glances down; his gloves are bone dry. The air is still, as if holding its breath in anticipation, and the shoals are silent, white snow covering the sand like a veil of quiet. Zhihao watches on in trepidation as Childe crouches like a runner at the beginning of a sprint. 

"Sir-"

And then he is flying, racing across the ice like a man possessed. With dawning terror, she realizes that underneath the soles of his boots, the ice groans and wails, cracks splintering across the stillness of Yaoguang Shoals. But he has already disappeared into the mist, the sound of footsteps on ice slowly dissolving into the same quiet that they found the ocean in. Swallowing hard, Zhihao realizes she can do nothing but wait, listen, and pray he doesn't fall into the frigid water. 

Everything is white. Ajax's lungs sting with cold air, and the wind cuts at his skin as he sprints, the ice groaning beneath his feet. He doesn't know how long he's been running - perhaps seconds, perhaps hours - but Guyun Stone Forest looms in the distance like a rip in the white parchment of the sky. Like a sudden flash of blackness in the white, he stumbles, vision blurring as he sees the emptiness below the ice. The ocean is deep. He can't stop. 

So he skids forward, regaining his balance, keeping up his speed, and presses on. Snowflakes melt against his eyes, hot tears welling up from the wind scratching against them. Nothingness greets his panting breaths, nothing to echo off of, nothing to absorb the sound. Nothing. Silence. A milky expanse of white and grey, with the only thing rooting him to reality - showing him which way is up, where the sky is, and where the thin sheet of ice separating him from the frigid inky depths lies - being the jagged silhouette of Guyun Stone Forest. 

The ice cracks. The air is sucked out of Ajax's lungs in shock, and then it is nothing but bubbles, freezing water that rips into his skin like barbed claws, and the thrashing of being plunged into the ocean with nothing to hold onto. Unforgiving and unmerciful, the ice around where he was sucked into the sea cracks apart in his fists as he struggles to gain a handhold - something to bring him back to the abyssal expanse of white on the surface. 

That's when he feels the tug on his ankle. 

Too shocked to scream and too cold to move, Ajax watches as the white sky launches away from him, shattered full moons rushing to the surface from out of his mouth and nose. Filling his mouth like tar, heavy and slick, sticking to his tongue as it slides down his throat, dread pools in the hollows of his chest, and he knows that he has to look down. 

He must look down. 

He must look down. 

Shutting his eyes, Ajax is thirteen again, watching the light fade from the world as he falls between its teeth. But he clawed his way out again. He sharpened his teeth to points, whittled his fingers into claws, and scraped his pupils into slits to stare it back in its dark, cruel face. Whatever is dragging him into the deep can be killed. 

So Ajax grows bigger, beastlike, and opens his eyes in the murky blackness, and steels himself, feeling lightning at his fingertips. Blinking twice, his vision sharpens, and he finds himself staring down at a writhing, pulsing knot of serpents, each head large enough to swallow a fleet of the Tsaritsa's navy. Jutting out of the mass of slithering bodies, stone pillars tether it to a jaggedly cut throne of bedrock. It becomes apparent to Ajax that this is a prison, but not a prison that will stay. Fear runs cold in his veins. Slowly - languidly - a head rises up to meet him, six eyes boring into his skull, unblinking. It observes him with an amused sort of curiosity, like watching a small animal writhe on a claw it's been impaled on.

After what feels like a million years in a single second, his vision pulses gold, and the head screeches, dragging itself back to the stone prison. Surging upward, Ajax feels his body tremble with the wasted strength of the beast leaving him, his eyes fluttering shut. 

Zhihao stands on the shoreline, hugging her arms close to her body, teeth chattering, and searches the horizon for the silhouette of her (perhaps mentally deficient) boss. The minute hand on her pocket watch marks an hour and a half since Tartaglia sprinted off into the mist, eyes glazed over and unblinking. Unsure of what else she can do, Zhihao is rather pissed off at this point. Worried to death, sure, but anger seems to be the only emotion keeping Zhihao warm at this point, so she's going off of that for now.

The Qixing will chase her down for a follow-up of the meeting Tartaglia missed, and if that's not enough, they'll probably send that painfully earnest Qilin girl, too. Archons, every interaction with her is a pain in the ass. She's always so exhausted, sometimes drifting off as she reads through the papers Zhihao has usually forged for the Fatui. Perhaps a blessing in disguise, though. 

She's roused from her internal grumbling by the creak of wood against ice, the splash of oars as they plunge through grey water. She looks up, peering into the fog as a golden glow sails through the gloom. For a moment, Zhihao sees the flash of molten hands at the oars, but when she blinks and the mist parts, she realizes it must be the reflection of the boat's lantern against the boatman's gloves. 

Sitting in a sailboat rather casually for someone who just emerged from the abyss of white fog, a man in a fitted suit elegantly brings the boat to rest, while across from him, a girl cheerfully waves from the stern, her pigtails swaying in the wind. 

"Ahoy, there!" She calls out, her rings glinting in the lamplight. "You wouldn't happen to know this young man, would you?"

Zhihao's stomach plunges into her boots. Now that she can see this boat in the light, she recognizes the name painted into the ship's bow as the 75th Director of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor's name.

She struggles to grasp for words, her lips trembling and blue from cold. "This wouldn't - you're not a funeral barge, are you?"

The girl lets out a high, sweet laugh. "Oh, we don't mean to be!" 

Stepping aside, she points to a rather familiar-looking corpse draped at the boatman's feet. Oh, Celestia, Zhihao thinks, her stomach turning with nausea, I am so fired. 

"He doesn't happen to be yours, does he?" The girl asks, a little too cheerfully. 

"Oh, Lord of Geo, he's -" Zhihao chokes out a fragmented sentence, hands clutching at her face.

"Aiyah, Zhongli, I told you we should've covered him up."

"Director, I'm quite certain he's-"

Without warning, the corpse of Her Majesty The Tsaritsa's Eleventh Harbinger, Tartaglia, alias Childe, sits up very straight, eyes wide open, and turns to look at Zhihao with a face as cold and pale as the milky fog behind him. 

Obviously, Zhihao lets out the most bloodcurdling scream known to man. 

Chapter Text

"Lord Harbinger, you are aware of the consequences of leaving your post, aren't you?"

Kaeya paces the hall, silk shirt billowing as he does so. The air is hot, tinged with the crunch of sand, the sun casting tall shadows in the Fatui's stronghold hidden in the dunes of Sumeru's desert. With his brow furrowed and jaw twitching, he turns sharply on his heel, rounding back on the agent addressing him with searing anger.

"And you are aware of the consequences of second-guessing Her Majesty's Harbinger, no?" He seethes, his voice quiet and even. "You are to fetch me La Signora. I'll have a word with her, and there won't be an issue."

Stubbornly, the agent plants his feet, and even though he is masked, Kaeya is sure he can see the stoic expression on his face. A sneer curls on the young man's face, and he narrows his eye, hand curling into a fist as the Vision at his hip pulses white. In a mere matter of seconds, there is a dagger of ice held at the back of the agent's head, sharp and gleaming. 

"Get out of my sight."

Foolishly, the agent tries to argue once more. "Your excellency, you are not permitted to-"

A crimson shard of ice tips the mask onto the stone floor, dripping thick gems of red onto the inside. With a tidy flourish, the agent's skull is cleaved in two, the scent of blood hanging heavily in the hot hair, and Kaeya watches in disdain as half of the man's face falls to the floor with a wet thump, blood stretching across the stone. Behind them, the two guards at the doorway blanch, silent and rigid with fear. Kaeya turns on his heel, marching to his room once more and shutting the door violently behind him. 

With a sharp sweep of his arm, he clears the desk of books and various models of Kusanali's Gnosis, hands finding a pen and parchment. Immediately, he gets to work on contacting Signora, detailing why he is to be sent off to Liyue to reconvene with the Eleventh instead of finishing his research on the Dendro Archon's Gnosis. He knows she'll understand. He doesn't even need to show her the letter he recieved for her to realize just how similar the two of them are.

Childe awakes to the sound of ice crunching beneath wood, gasping for air as he tries so desperately to cleanse his mouth of the taste of seawater. Recalling what he'd seen in the depths of the ocean, he feels his skin prickle with cold, and the six eyes of that serpent flash on the backs of his eyelids each time he blinks. His breath mists in the air, joining with the fog as it rises, falling just outside of the golden glow of a paper lantern swinging from a wooden post. Beneath his hands, the wooden floor of a boat bobs up and down on the shoreline's gentle waves.  

An ear-piercing scream nearly knocks him back out, and Childe squints, his eyesight blurry. A girl in a rather nice suit with a fur collar looks down at him with irritated disappointment, her hands on her hips. 

"Aiyah, I really thought we had a customer this time, Zhongli." She puffs her bangs out of her face, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her thick coat. 

Behind him, a deep, rumbling voice replies, right on cue, "I'm certain we shall find business elsewhere, Director. Though, perhaps we should make sure this young man doesn't become a customer of ours now, shouldn't we?"

Childe turns, looking up at a man with long, charcoal black hair and eyes that burn like the cigars Pulcinella had imported from Fontaine before he started smoking the ones from Natlan. Dressed in an elegant suit, he seems somewhat out of place, and judging from the fine leather of his gloves, he certainly isn't the average boatman. When the man turns his gaze on Childe, he feels a strange sense of recognition glow dimly in the back of his mind, but it's so faint that he chalks it up to almost drowning.

"Are you alright, sir?" The man says, his voice velvety and rich. "That was quite the experience, no? Not everyone can say they've nearly drowned in the frozen expanse of Guyun Stone Forest in the winter. In fact, legends say that those who look out into the mist at sunset can -"

"Zhongli!" The Director barks. "If you keep that up, you'll bore him to death before he freezes. And if we can't keep him, we might as well help out, so help him up and give him to his babysitter."

("B-Babysitter?" Zhihao pipes up, her face still ashen and hands still trembling.)

With a steady hand on the small of Childe's back, Zhongli helps the Harbinger find his footing on the snow-covered sand, smiling gently at him as he offers his arm out. Near-delirious and incredibly confused, Childe frowns, reeling from the cold, and regards Zhongli's arm with incredulous suspicion.

"I have," he starts, tongue bitten and almost frozen, "I have a - I have a boyfriend."

Zhongli nods sagely. "Very good of you to have one. I am simply offering my arm for your safety. Should you fall, it wouldn't be terribly wholesome for your boyfriend to receive word of your unfortunate demise."

"Ha!" Childe throws his head back laughing, because it is so terribly funny that this Zhongli should suggest such a thing. "He'd track you down if you let that happen. He's a - he's so scary. And hot. Scary-hot."

"Aiyah, this one's in desperate need of medical attention." The Director hops off the boat, bouncing a few steps after overestimating the distance between the ground and the ship's bow.

Swallowing hard, Zhihao nods, gathering her things together and fiddling with her hands. The day has darkened to night, and now the fog is no longer a milky white, but a dark grey, the contrast between the golden light of the ship's lamp and the teeming gloom of the dusk at Yaoguang Shoal. Snow falls in fat flakes around them, and nervously, Zhihao brushes them out of her hair. 

She tucks a strand behind her ear. "Let me take him. He's expected at our accommodation tonight, so our tenants can fetch a doctor."

The Director pauses. "Well, if you're sure. It's no problem for us, really. We know a guy who knows a zombie healer."

"No, no really, it's - I beg your pardon?"

"Director, let us escort these upstanding citizens back to the Northland Bank and let them rest. I'm sure their colleagues are wondering where they are." Zhongli interrupts, calmly holding up a very dizzy Childe by the shoulders, a collected smile on his face. 

Defensively, the Harbinger lifts his head up, glaring at Zhongli with the fierceness of a thousand suns. "How do you know where we're staying? Are you spying - are you spies?"

"The emblem of the Fatui is emblazoned across you and your subordinate's clothes, sir. The recent settlement of one of the Tsaritsa's Harbingers has become the talk of the town."

"That's Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa, to you!"

"Yes, of course, of course. However could I be so impolite? Now, one foot in front of the other - yes, that's it. Let's get you home, sir."

Chapter Text

The door opens with a soft click. 

Childe only hears it because he's half-conscious, eyes cracked open to watch the heavy silk curtains shift, the sudden scent of the faraway outside filling his nose and mouth like a perfume. Deeply, he inhales, letting his eyes flutter shut as he retreats into the refuge of the bedcovers, sleep tugging at his fuzzy brain. The rustle of fabric on fabric keeps him barely lucid, watching the backs of his eyelids struggle stubbornly to stay closed. This goddamn fever - everything comes to him from behind a partition of waxy paper, soft, warm, and frustratingly unclear. He sniffs, one side of his nose stuffed up. 

Then, gently, the covers peel back, and something warm slides into the bed beside him, smelling of seawater and the slightest tinge of something floral. Childe's nose wrinkles. "Who's - what?"

"Hush," a voice replies, a hand stroking his hair back from his sweaty forehead. "Relax. I'm here now."

A pang of homesickness hits Childe square in the face. The voice - its familiarity makes tears spring in the corners of his eyes. Bashful, he hides his face in the chest in front of him, hands curling into weak fists as his nose fits comfortably in the chest's sternum. 

Calla lilies. That's right. Satisfied, Childe hums quietly, the sound ringing through his sinuses as the blocked nostril decides to switch to the other side of the nose. Sleep takes him rather quickly. 

A thin veil between sleep and lucidity takes the form of hushed whispers between two voices, little snippets of orders he remembers receiving. Tartaglia stirs - he's barely aware he does so - and thinks about the objective. What was it? Something boring - establishing connections and all that. Perhaps it had something to do with a desk? Gleaming coins tumble from his hands, and memory rushes back to him like a kick in the teeth. 

"Ekaterina," he mumbles, "can you tell my guests I'll see them shortly." 

The whispers fall silent, and a hand places itself over his. 

He frowns, eyes barely open. "Mr. Zhongli! I'm very flattered, but..."

A huff permeates the stuffy cloud of sleep. 

"Don't be upset, Mr. Zhongli. I'm sure there's someone out there who can love you. Not me, though. I have a very cool and sexy boyfriend." Tartaglia sniffs, his nose blocked entirely. "He has a nice butt."

Sleep takes him once again, despite the faded laughter that slowly dissipates as the world grows dark. 

The veil is thinnest the third time, with more clarity than the last. Still, when Ajax's vision clears, the sinus headache below his eyes throbbing with tinny pain, he sees the morning sun color the white curtains gold. The glass panels in his east-facing window create a mosaic of sunlight across the ceiling, with soft edges and misty luminosity. At his side, someone is sleeping, a book steepled over their leg. Faint behind the barrier of his stuffed nose, the same scent of calla lilies calls to him like the sound of the ocean through a seashell. Memories, vague and faint, of kneading dough and folding it with flour-dusted hands, of a stuffed lion in dirty, snow-chilled fingers, of kissing someone in a bed too small, the pain blooming at the top of his head as it hits the headboard - they all rush back to him like a river. 

"Kaeya?" He is shocked at how hoarse his voice is. 

The head on his shoulder stirs. "Ajax?"

Content, he feels the gentle fingers of sleep droop over his eyelids. Smiling dumbly, he turns, pressing his forehead against his lover's. "I missed you."

"I missed you as well, love." There is a smile in his voice that colors his words. "What have you gone and done this time?"

Perking up immediately, Ajax struggles against the soft pillows to sit up properly, grinning widely. "I found a massive fucking snake with lots of heads."

"Pardon?"

Kaeya thumbs the rim of his teacup gently, staring out at the docks from the veranda. Cold winter air delicately places snowflakes on the amber surface, barely disturbing the small mirror in his cup. Across from him, a man with dark hair sits, his own cup half-empty. Kaeya eyes him through his hair, studying him as he gazes out to the misty sea. Something about him - his demeanor, his tone - sets him on edge. He reeks of antiquity and ancient myth, perhaps even legend, the kind that makes Kaeya's skin crawl. Sullenly, he turns his gaze back to the white horizon. 

"So," He forces honey into his voice. "You're the infamous Mr. Zhongli."

Mr. Zhongli chuckles, lowering his eyes in a sort of bashful recognition. Kaeya refrains from glaring. "No need to be so formal, Lord Harbinger. I am of no particular importance; Zhongli shall do."

Kaeya hums a few notes of melodic laughter. "Surely you should drop the formalities with me, then? It is only fair."

There is a lull in the conversation. Zhongli gazes out to sea once more, his amber eyes nearly glowing against the snow-peppered mist. "I know what you're to ask of me."

Silently, Kaeya sips his tea. Zhongli continues. 

"Your liaison, Tartaglia, had fallen into the depths of Guyun Stone Forest's waters. For that, I can only apologize."

"With all due respect, sir, I do not need your apologies - I need your answers. Director Hu told me you possess the knowledge to inform me more of what exactly my 'liaison' encountered down there." Kaeya interjects, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Blinking, Zhongli sets his teacup back down. "Ah. Well, in that case, Tartaglia came face to face with Osial, Overlord of the Vortex."

It is Kaeya's turn to be rendered speechless. "I beg your pardon?"

"Osial is -"

Waving a hand gently, the dark-haired young man sits forward in his seat, cutting the consultant off once more. He'll have to lay it on thick if he wants to squeeze as much information out of him now, thanks to his poor manners. Well, small potatoes. 

"I know who Osial is," Kaeya says shortly. "How on earth was Childe able to get so close? Why would a fallen god want to consort with a mortal as insignificant as him?"

Zhongli only shrugs, a strand of hair falling across the bridge of his nose. He's an interesting-looking man, Kaeya decides, peering at his crimson-lined eyes, the moles dotted across his face and the practiced, elegant way he leans slightly to the side, the strand of hair falling back into place. He is not to be trusted. "I'm afraid even I don't know that. From what I can infer, Tartaglia was beckoned by some form of enchantment or charm, possibly linked to his affinity for the element of Hydro."

Or something far more powerful, Kaeya thinks to himself, absently bringing his fingers to brush over the smooth fabric of his eyepatch. 

"I see. Thank you for your time, sir. This conversation has been of the utmost importance to Her Majesty, and she will do what she can to compensate you." Kaeya rattles off, then pauses, looking at Zhongli from underneath his eyelashes. "I owe you a great debt."

"Is that so?" There is a hint of some inscrutable emotion under his voice. Kaeya smiles, chest tightening in anticipation. "If there is anything I can do for you, please, say the word, and I shall do my best to satisfy you."

When the older man laughs, Kaeya can't help but feel as if he is being gently teased, yet he can't bring himself to feel shame. Zhongli taps the corner of his mouth in a show of thought. 
"Answer me one question, Lord Harbinger, and I think your debt should be settled."

Kaeya spreads his arms. "I am an open book."

With the slightest crack of his amber gaze, everything suddenly feels far colder. The snow stills, the wind dropping to a quiet murmur - it's as if all of Liyue awaits Zhongli's words. Kaeya feels something twist inside of him, and he feigns nonchalance as the immediate feeling of vulnerability slides over him like water. 

"How did the Tsaritsa manage to enlist a scion of the Star Sovereign dynasty into her army when the nobility of Khaenri'ah was supposed to have been sentenced to death during the Cataclysm?" 

Blood rushes in Kaeya's ears. With his heart hammering in his chest, he sits there, his mouth ajar, eye wide, and hands trembling -  he can't help but feel as he's been petrified. Stone cold, he watches as Zhongli scrutinizes his face for what feels like a millennium, and then, as if he hasn't gutted Kaeya's world and left it to bleed, he stands, waving cordially as he departs. 

"Farewell, Lord Harbinger." He calls, his voice deep and rumbling like an avalanche. "May fortune guide you."

Frozen, Kaeya watches him leave, his hands gripping the table so hard that frost spreads across the lacquered wood.

Chapter Text

"This is far too dangerous."

"Don't be a wet blanket, Ajax."

Shaking his head, Ajax frowns deeply, his arms crossed over his chest defensively. "You know it's a bad idea when I say it's too dangerous, Kaeya - don't be thick-headed."

Scattered across the desk are scrolls of parchment, their secrets unraveling underneath Kaeya's sharp fingers - illustrations of the Overlord of the Vortex inked in deep blues and copies of Sigils of Permission with details of historical use written in old Liyuean script, all falling into place for one of his ambitious machinations. 

Kaeya adjusts the spectacles on his face, the gold glinting sharply in the bright sunlight of the afternoon sun reflecting on the snow outside. "Were I being 'thick-headed,' darling, I would have told you to taunt Morax yourself."

Ajax taps the parchment with tentative fingers. "Isn't using an old god and nemesis of the Lord of Geo not so different, though? Firstly, we'll need to free him with those sigil-thingies, and then we'll have to -"

Gently, Kaeya presses his finger to Ajax's lips, smiling softly. The ginger-haired Harbinger's sentence dies in his mouth, his face coloring as Kaeya's finger traces the shape of his lip, pulling gently. Slowly, Kaeya's fingertip drifts to the corner of his mouth, prising his lips open. Ajax feels a sound shake his throat, and he presses his palms to the table to steady himself. 

"Kaeya, are you attempting to bribe me?" He breathes, taking Kaeya's hand from his mouth. He misses the taste of his skin instantly. 

His lover chuckles, his other hand plunging underneath Ajax's belt. "Of course not, my love. I'm only rewarding you in advance for accepting the best and only plan we have."

Clamping his lips shut over a moan, Ajax tips his head back, his hand pushing back further on the desk, sending the scrolls and quills flying off onto the floor. 

"I'll get it." Kaeya says airily, sinking to his knees.

("Mezzetino, you understand what you must do, don't you?"

He sighs, defeated. "Yes, your majesty, I do.")

It takes them months to manufacture half of the sigils needed for the operation. In the meantime, news of Signora's victory in Mondstadt and the continued Sakoku Decree is signaling Scaramouche's triumphant success, and in turn, communicating that movement is hastening. It has been, by far, the most prosperous two years in Snezhnayan history. Kaeya feels himself swell with pride at the thought, even if something bitter anchors him down, like cold, dark waters swirling in the bottom of a golden ship out at sea. Perhaps it will all be worth it, is what he keeps telling himself; he won't be hurt too badly. 

News of a wrench in the Fatui's finely engineered plan has reached him through several letters from Signora, a gift of Dottore's newest creation called a "pistol," and word of mouth. It is chilling, to say the least. The Traveler is a golden-haired young outlander armed with both Anemo and Geo elemental energy and the power to fell the dragon of the east wind, Dvalin. Nevertheless, Kaeya knows that the Tsaritsa is in possession of two Gnoses, and it will soon be three. The Rite of Descension is slowly growing closer, and Kaeya is ready. 

"Let me deal with them." Ajax announces over dinner, stabbing a tender piece of meat with his chopsticks. 

Kaeya frowns through a mouthful of bok choy. "I worry you might come across as a villain to Liyue. The Traveler seems to be completing everyday tasks for those in the outer villages, like Qince."

Eagerly, Ajax grins, swallowing his butchered pork. "Then we frame them for a crime, or something. The Northland Bank could easily whip up some fraud. Perhaps some extortion? Depends on how you're feeling."

Laughing softly, Kaeya nudges his leg underneath the table. With large, round eyes, Ajax looks up at him through his eyelashes, smiling coquettishly. Kaeya sighs with exasperation. "Fine. You may deal with the Traveler."

"I won't let you down, Kaeya, I promise." 

Sourly, Kaeya bites his tongue, knowing he cannot say the same to his lover.

Dear Mezzetino,

The deal with Morax has been completed. We cannot reveal his alias to you as of now. I trust you understand. However, if you would remain in amicable contact with Zhongli, Consultant of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour, all will unfold perfectly. Keep Tartaglia busy with the Traveler. If I were to speak plainly, I would say he is too open with his emotions to be in on every secret within our operation. I trust you will respond accordingly and not do anything rash. 

In other news, Pantalone and Dottore have found themselves engaged. A foolish decision, really. And yet, as the maker of that decision myself, I cannot be aggravated by them for long. Their wedding shall commence in the near future, so please, Mezzetino, do not get yourself killed. 
Thus concludes my report.

La Signora, 8th Harbinger to Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa

Kaeya sips his tea quietly, peering over the brim of his cup at Zhongli, whose coat is dusted with fine powder snow. 

"I find this time of morning so peaceful," he says, his sonorous voice the only sound that travels across the misty winter morning of Liyue Harbor. 

Sitting on a balcony at the Heyu Tea House as the flurries of snow sweeten the cold, misty morning of pleasantly hazy skies of peach and periwinkle, the odd star shining through lazy clouds swimming in the sky, Kaeya watches Zhongli. 

After a beat, the dark-haired man turns to Kaeya, a pleasant smile coloring his face. "Are you enjoying your time here, Lord Harbinger?"

"Yes," Kaeya finds himself saying, "I find a certain serenity to Liyue that I cannot quite find anywhere else."

"I can imagine."

As he pauses to sip his tea, Kaeya finds himself studying Zhongli's demeanor. A relatively tall man with broad shoulders and a seemingly muscular physique hidden behind a fine suit, he seems strangely oxymoronic. Why on earth would a funeral parlor consultant need to be as strong as he appears to be? And, Kaeya notes, equipped with a Geo Vision, too. He swallows, the roof of his mouth hot. When Zhongli meets his eyes, Kaeya can't help but feel as if he is staring up at the foot of a sheer-scaled mountain, towering above him as it pierces the clouds. 

"Lord Harbinger, if you would be so inclined, would you mind telling me more about yourself?" Zhongli asks politely, his voice rumbling like stone against stone. "It would be beneficial for me to know more about the upholder of the contract with whom I am making."

Kaeya shrugs, placing a smile on his face. "I don't see why not. But, in return, I'd like to know more about you as well, Mr. Zhongli."

"A fair trade. I shall ask a question first: where in Teyvat has been your favorite place to stay? I trust as a member of such a widespread organisation, you have had to have been positioned across the continent."

Chuckling lightly, Kaeya nods. "Quite. I find that my favorite place to be is..." (He trails off, thinking of thick snow, two butter dishes colored like confectionery, an old childhood bedroom with faded blue wallpaper, and a large garden.) "Have you ever been to Morepesok in the outer provinces of Snezhnaya, Mr. Zhongli?"

The latter shakes his head. "I don't believe I have. I was there a very long time ago to visit an old friend, yet I can't remember where it was that we met."

"Pity. It was truly magical."

The faint sound of the sea fills the silence that follows. Kaeya finds his eye drift to the docks, watching the ships sway in the gentle wind, counting the masts and watching the sails long to billow from where they are tied up, confined to the very tops of their prisons. 

He turns to Zhongli. "You are an adeptus, are you not?"

Surprise faintly registers on his face, and, for a moment, the Harbinger fears he has overstepped. But then laughter rings out, deep and melodic. "My, the courage you have, Lord Harbinger. I commend you for such bravery and shrewdness." He opens his eyes and turns his amber gaze to Kaeya's face, and suddenly, he feels rather small. "These days, I find I am something similar."

Satisfied, he leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. Zhongli nods his head and smiles accordingly, clearing his throat once more. 

"Ah, pardon me, Mr. Zhongli."

He stops, hand hovering in the air. 

"What deal did you make with our empress, Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What did she offer you in place of your Gnosis, Morax?"

Zhongli sits back, and Kaeya thinks himself rather clever.

Chapter Text

Perhaps the Traveler's arrival in Liyue Harbor is what leads the plan to fall to pieces, unraveling like yarn between Kaeya's fingers. As the chill of the winter melts into the mildness of spring, time passes, and the heat of summer comes marching in with hot, heavy footsteps across the piers, the circling gulls, and the breezeless air. Production of the sigils is ahead of schedule, and there are signs from the Northland Bank that the recession may be better than they had assumed, so, naturally, Kaeya's spirits are high and his expectations grand. 

Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is amicable and ridiculously mysterious in its methods of whisking Ajax out of trouble. Zhongli still holds Kaeya at arm's length - as does the latter, and wisely, too, for his nature seems to be an ever-shifting myriad of troublesomeness, humor, and charm. Nevertheless, Ajax and Kaeya find taking tea with the consultant is not the worst way to pass by summer afternoons on verandas overlooking the city. They sit below low-hanging clouds as, below them, people chatter and trade, weaving through each other like great schools of fish, and Kaeya sighs contentedly. 

"I have concluded that I would rather like a private book collection of my own." Zhongli muses, a hand braced under his elbow as he taps the side of his face lightly, and Ajax lets out a long-suffering sigh. 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he gives Zhongli a hard stare. "And how would you go about paying for one?"

He smiles pleasantly at the Harbinger, lips sealed shut with the unabashed shamelessness only a god would know. Scoffing lightly, Ajax crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, a light-hearted scowl on his face. 

"Look at you," he mutters. "Butter wouldn't melt."

"Now, now, Childe, don't sulk." Kaeya pats his leg endearingly, his tone sly and teasing. Beside him, Zhongli chuckles.

In a way, it is idyllic. By no means is the harbor the home Kaeya and Ajax so dearly missed, but it is comfortable - controllable, even - and, therefore, just the right amount of safe. And yet, with the everpresent omniscience of the Funeral Parlor's consultant, Kaeya cannot help but walk on eggshells. Everything about him reeks of antiquity - not like the embalmed smells of things faded by time, but instead like the time itself, of history long forgotten and scars beneath flesh. Kaeya does not trust him; how could he? The leveler of his kingdom, the bane of his very existence, everything about him makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention, his pulse threatening to skip a beat when the light doesn't quite reach Zhongli's eyes. 

And then there is Ajax. His Ajax, the whirling tide that stirs his heart and the squall wind that ruffles his hair with scarred hands and a crooked smile. Ajax, who looks at Zhongli as if he wants to sink his teeth into his flesh. 

Kaeya should not be jealous. He should not be envious of the sheer, primal gaze of pure, inquisitive danger that bores holes into Zhongli's back, the soundless growl in the back of Ajax's throat that Kaeya can feel vibrate within his bone marrow. To be jealous of that would be like a wound wanting reopening - impractical and painful. 

Preserving his Tsaritsa's plans is his priority, even if it means death to others or himself. With Ajax sniffing out a fight like a bloodhound, the likelihood of the plan falling to pieces grows in threat. 'Failure equals death,' he reminds himself every morning, waking up to the gentle breathing at the back of his neck, a freckled arm wound tight about his waist. 

And yet, when the morning rendezvous at the west-facing balcony table at the Yanshang Teahouse with Rex Lapis' golden-eyed, broad-shouldered, sweet-mannered vessel occurs each day, Kaeya finds himself wanting the gaze that Ajax turns on the divine. All teeth, bared in a grin that grinds like a whetstone against a blade, and eyes flashing with sheer exhilaration. It is the face he makes before he lunges in for the kill - a fox about to close its jaws around a rabbit's throat. 

It is a daily task to remind himself that self-destruction will bring about the fall of a snowy palace across the ocean and within it, a broken-hearted goddess-child with impossibly dark eyes. 

The Traveler looks young enough to be the age Ajax was when he first saw Kaeya. Of course, they are an anomaly - a being with the ability to manipulate the elements without a Vision - so nothing can be judged against the standards Ajax would use for a normal person. Then again, he reminds himself, falling into the Abyss and being recruited by Her Majesty's military is far from normal. He mulls this over from his perch on a large rock hanging over the harbor, slicing an apple with a knife. Fair hair, golden eyes, a sword at their back - what a fascinating creature. As Childe, Ajax throws aid in their direction, feeding them the rope that Kaeya shall make their noose, but as himself, he cannot help but think of them as an endearingly troublesome little thing. 

Fighting side by side with the Traveler is fresh and new; Skirk's footwork springs to mind when he sees them finish off some Fatui grunt with a rifle. Of course, he shall face the consequences of such behavior later, but for now, it is simple, and it is easy to be this homesick alien's surrogate older brother. 

However, he still thinks of the callouses on Zhongli's palms, the stance he holds, and the glint of amusement in his eyes when Ajax challenges him to spar. They taunt him - something about Zhongli is uncanny, like a mirage in the desert or the sight of something across the sea's horizon that shimmers into a different image. It keeps him awake at night, his fingers tracing the moles across Kaeya's back and thinking of how he'd best the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor's consultant in battle (he's certain that Zhongli knows how to fight, of course) and the pride he'd see in Kaeya's face. 

So he tosses, and he turns - and he turns again - sleepless and listless in the new everyday life of Fatui diplomats in Liyue Harbor rousing an ancient god from the depths of the ocean to lure Rex Lapis out of hiding. The only entertainment is the Traveler; Kaeya can't quite meet his eyes the way he used to, hiding behind his eyelashes and thick parchment sheets addressed for him and only him. Ajax grits his teeth in the darkness, hurt welling up behind his eyes all of a sudden. Homesickness hits him square in the chest, and he reaches out to touch Kaeya's shoulder in the darkness, but before his fingertips graze the white silk of his nightwear, he turns, eye fluttering open in the dim light like a star. 

"Ajax?" His voice is barely a whisper, gentle as the brush of snow against the windowpane. 

Silently, his fingers press against Kaeya's arm, and in turn, Kaeya melts into him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders to draw Ajax to his chest. As he gently runs his fingers through his lover's hair, Kaeya hums softly in acknowledgment of the sudden melancholy that grips Ajax like a persistent chill. For a while, he just holds him, piercingly awake as he thinks of how he is deceiving the boy he loves. 

Chapter Text

The Gnosis is taken on the first full moon of the month.

Ajax sulks, hunched over the side of the ship, watching the reflection of the lanterns spill into the dark water in the bay, his wrist sprained and broken little finger taped to his ring finger. He feels the watchful eyes of Morax on his back, and he turns, skin prickling with discomfort, to see the deity - stripped of his power - standing on the far east side of the harbor, hands tucked behind his back. Scowling, Ajax screws his eyes tight to the gentle breeze, pretending that the vertigo-inducing rush of looking into the distance to see a small figure - and yet being able to see into their eyes as if he were mere inches away - isn't there. 

Over his shoulder, the wind carries the conversation from inside the ship's wheelhouse like the bitter scent of open wounds and the salt that seasons them. Kaeya is pacing, his boots hitting the floorboards with impatience and frustration. 

"Ophelia, the plan cannot proceed. We have to retreat." He is biting back animosity. Ajax can picture his face, his lovely brow knitted, and his mouth turned downwards in a beautiful scowl. "Perhaps we could fall back on the Akademiya? The Dendro Gnosis is already secured, surely we could plan from there?"

Scoffing bitterly, Signora laughs humorlessly. "Oh, bloody well done, Mezzetino. Yes, let's backtrack on the Electro Gnosis operation, wasting priceless preparation and time! Excellent idea, darling, I don't know how you do it."

"There is no need to be vile, Ophelia. I'm simply trying to make up for lost progress." 

There is a sudden crash, and a glass shatters. Ajax peers over his shoulder to see wine spilling across the windowpanes of the wheelhouse. Then, like a piercing cry of a bird of prey, Signora lets out an unholy screech. 

"You are not the one who jeopardized an international-scale scheme! You are not the one who should be paying for this costly, foolish, and frankly, quite punishable mistake -"

"Hold your tongue, Fair Lady, before I keep it still for you." Kaeya sharply interjects, and the wine freezes pink on the windows, crackling like the splitting of bone. "Do not speak against Tartaglia as if you have any right to hold him accountable. You were the one who suggested the deception. You were the one to tell me that he should know nothing. His outburst is your doing."

Ajax bristles at that. He's conflicted. Who wouldn't be? He was deceived by his lover, his comrades, and his organization. He was as much of a pawn in their plan as that damned Morax. He has every right to be frustrated, especially at Kaeya, who pulled the wool over his eyes despite his affection and trust. Kaeya, who dragged his body from the rubble of the Golden House, bound his wounds, set his broken bones, wiped the blood from his brow, and kissed his temple. He curses into the wind. Despite it all, he loves him, still. Ajax crosses his arms, turning his gaze back to the moon hanging over the water, and sighs. 

It is a week's journey to Snezhnahya by boat. The sea is choppy, charcoal grey and whipped into foam at the peaks by howling wind, spreading cold white fingers across the deck at the worst of times. Swaddled in furs and sealskins, Kaeya watches from the upper deck as the crew members capture bucketfuls of water, tossing it over the ship's sides as others scurry to tie down cargo, binding crates to the sea-soaked wood with dripping rope. Above him, the sky is colorless, tinged with mist and rain. For a while, Kaeya watches, his face stony in the assault of the wind weighted with rain. A door opens and closes behind him, and there comes the shuffle of a limping gait. 

"You should be resting, my love." Kaeya chides, but he cannot turn around. Shame anchors his eye line to the blurred horizon. 

Ajax chuckles mirthlessly. "I've faced worse." A brief pause. "Don't call me that."

Sighing, Kaeya feels the weight of sleepless nights, of tossing and turning in a leather armchair in fear of sleeping next to someone he is unworthy of, hanging on the crown of his head. He slumps slightly, defeated. "Ajax, I love you."

"I know."

"I am sorry, truly."

"I know."

Kaeya screws his eye tightly shut. "I don't ask for -"

"I am always going to be in love with you, Kaeya, but not as much as you love the idea of conquering the world." Ajax sighs, leaning on the railing next to him. His eyes are bruised beneath the sockets, his skin is pale, and Kaeya thinks that he is a creature too fair to be human. "I'm in the process of accepting that you are doomed to burn out."

Kaeya doesn't know what to say to that. He keeps his mouth shut. 

Ajax turns to look at him, his hair glistening with raindrops and his face wet with seawater. It seems as if he is crying. Perhaps he is. His voice keeps steady, but in his tone, there is a sense of deep melancholy - one that fills Kaeya's lungs with water and constricts his throat like an invisible serpent. "You were under orders. I wouldn't have done the same, but perhaps that's why you're the Tenth, and I'm the Eleventh."

Kaeya can say nothing, but he feels tears prick at his eye. 

"I am forgiving you as we speak." Ajax says, his voice softer. "I think I will always be forgiving you."

"And I will always love you, Ajax, more love than I thought I could ever muster." Kaeya replies, and his voice comes out strained, hoarse. He clears his throat. 

Quietly, while the sea tosses the ship about like a cat playing with a ball of yarn, Ajax places his hand over Kaeya's, and draws in close. He smells like blood and antiseptic, like sleep and linen, like salt and brine - Kaeya's skin shivers in anticipation of his touch. In the artificial light of the ship's lanterns, he seems to glow with rain and seawater, the scars on his skin shining like pale slivers of seafoam, and the tawny ginger of his hair appears a dark brown under the soak of the ocean spray. One hand rises to touch the side of Kaeya's face, bandaged and trembling from the strain of such slow, controlled movement. 

"I -"

Ajax shakes his head ever so slightly, and the dampness of his hair brushes against the bridge of Kaeya's nose. His lips are bitten raw. "I know."

Swallowing the stone in his throat, Kaeya shuts his eye. Their lips meet tentatively, as if waiting for an injury. Pain does not come to either of them, and they draw apart with regret that the other does not come back for more. Exhausted, Kaeya presses his forehead to Ajax's, unable to muster anything but a sigh from his lips. 

They arrive home during the final hours of dusk, with the sun hidden behind a veil of snow and clouds, dusting the deck with delicate frost and pinching Ajax's cheeks ruddy. For a little while, before the crew wakes, he stands on the deck alone, watching the snow dance in the air like tiny puppets on invisible strings. The air smells like salt and pinewood, cold and biting, but Ajax welcomes it on his face like a baptism.

It washes away Liyue Harbor - the leaves, the cobblestones, the emerald tiles covered in orange blossoms, the smell of osmanthus, thick and cloying. For a moment, Ajax can forget about the whisper of coins against coins, the blonde hair and the silver sword, the tendrils of ancient power twitching and writhing beneath the ruins of the Jade Chamber. He is in his element. 

The ship bobs on the water, thick sheets of ice steepled at its hull as it swans into the bay, warm lamplight spilling across the black ocean and grey ice like liquid gold. He wrinkles his nose. There has been quite an abundance of gold recently, and he could very much go without it. 

"We're here." Kaeya whispers, and his lover turns, mildly surprised at his stealthy approach. 

He nods, taking Kaeya's hand in his own. "We're home."