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There’s an outlander on Ritou getting roped out of his Mora.
This isn’t unusual, exactly, except for—
Laughter. Loud and—strangely boyish. “Two million? That’s a little steep, isn’t it?”
Thoma doesn’t know what makes him do it. Even as he walks towards the Outlander Affairs Agency, he can’t find a reason for it, can’t put the why into words. (Ironic, considering the many demands of his occupation.) He just keeps walking and—does it. Almost without even meaning to.
“I’m sure we could do something about that,” he calls out.
The stranger flashes him a smile. Thoma imagines it would cut, a little closer. It’s sharp and full of unspoken threat. “Oh, and who might you be?”
Thoma smiles back. “Someone who can help,” he says.
It’s all pretty standard from there. He follows the script and throws in the promise of a lunch or dinner, and then the fee is cut from an exorbitant two million to a mere one hundred.
The stranger eyes him appraisingly. “Huh,” he says, arms crossed over his chest, “you’re good.”
“I try,” Thoma says. For no discernable reason (again), he feels almost—almost glad. Almost close to happy.
And—instead of the usual gratitude, the stranger shrugs, and his mouth twists into something like a pout. “Shame,” he says. “I was looking forward to blowing some work funds.”
Thoma blinks. “Excuse me?”
The stranger pulls out a bag of Mora. From the sound it makes when he shakes it, it must hold more than most regular people ever get to see in one place all their lives. “The head of the finance department hates me,” he says. A wink. (Thoma swallows, and wonders, vaguely, if this is how other people feel around him.) “So I do it on purpose to annoy him.”
Okay, that’s—only mildly ridiculous.
Despite himself, Thoma laughs. “I guess you’re not worried about your job, then?”
“I’d probably be more trouble for them if they fired me,” the stranger says.
Now that Thoma is looking at him properly, it’s a wonder he missed it before. Fatui. A Harbinger, most likely. He knows fear should come with the realization. And yet—
It’s entirely possible that facing a god has made him reckless.
Luck doesn’t last forever. His could very well run out right this instant.
Still, Thoma arches an eyebrow and asks, “Would you?”
“I could show you,” the stranger offers easily. Mildly, like he doesn’t think Thoma would ever take him up on it.
Thoma doesn’t expect they’ll be meeting again anytime soon, so he shrugs, and smiles, and thinks that’s the end of it.
…
They end up going to dinner. Together. Well, not together, but—
The Fatui stranger—Childe, Thoma learns—insists, says that he owes Thoma a meal, at least, that all debts must be repaid in full. Snezhnayan customs, apparently. Thoma wouldn’t know. What Thoma does know is that he should be scared, should be cautious, should be reserved, at least, but—
Childe struggles to hold chopsticks, and he can’t help but burst out laughing. “Not used to those in Snezhnaya, are you?”
Fatui Harbingers sulk. And then glare at you from across the table. Huh. “Military training was a lot easier than this.”
“I could teach you,” Thoma says. “There’s a trick to it. Took me a while to get it too.”
Surprisingly enough, Childe lets him.
(Surprisingly enough, a sudden, entirely foreign heat floods Thoma’s cheeks when he places his fingers over Childe’s gloved ones to demonstrate.)
…
Thoma shows Childe around the best fishing spots in Inazuma after that.
He doesn’t even have an excuse for it. Any debt Childe might have been meaning to repay has already been settled, and Thoma really shouldn’t have latched on quite so eagerly when Childe had mentioned in passing during their meal that he enjoyed ice fishing back home.
But he had, is the thing.
He’d wanted to see Childe again, and he’d grabbed the opportunity with both hands and refused to let it go. That’s kind of who Thoma is as a person. He refuses to let go of the things he cares about.
(It still hasn’t started to worry him that Childe might become the most recent addition to that list.)
It’s more fun than he remembers having had in a while, though, watching Childe struggle with a fishing pole.
“I thought you were supposed to be good at this,” Thoma teases.
“I am,” Childe protests. It’s kind of endearing. “Or, well—I used to be, but it’s been a while. It’s—different, in Snezhnaya. A lot more waiting. More snow and less immediate danger of electrocution, too.”
Thoma laughs. “And here I thought adaptability would be of paramount importance to a harbinger.”
Childe shrugs. “I’m honestly more suited to the physical parts of the job.”
That’s hard to believe that as well. At a glance, looking at Childe just makes Thoma think that housework and running around Ritou gave him more muscle than being a harbinger did Childe.
“Is that so?” Thoma asks. Childe is all smooth, unblemished skin—a testament to his skill, perhaps—and when Thoma leans in to wipe away a bit of dirt smudged on his cheek he can’t help but notice the difference. The feeling of the calloused pads of his fingers brushing against seemingly unending softness.
(He wonders, just for a second, if Childe is like that elsewhere, too. Softer the deeper you dig in.)
Childe drops his fishing pole. It falls into the water with a dull thunking sound, and Thoma doesn’t even consider retrieving it, doesn’t immediately fret over procuring a replacement either. He just—stares. Looks at Childe, watches the red creep up his neck, and wants to chase it with his mouth.
Dangerous, he thinks. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.
“Usually,” Childe says, “yes. You, uh, you seem to be an exception, though.”
He smiles, something small and almost shy, and Thoma thinks oh. He hadn’t guessed it would be—that it would be the boy and not the harbinger that would do him in.
(It’s maybe not the worst way to go, still.)
…
Unfortunately, it’s the kind of problem that only seems to worsen when you notice it. Once it starts, Thoma just keeps digging himself deeper. Keeps pinpointing the softest bits of Childe without even meaning to, and wanting to keep them for himself.
(Lady Ayaka has started laughing at him behind her strategically opened fan, ever since the first time she noticed him staring—longingly, like some kind of smitten teenager—at Childe’s retreating back.
It’s ridiculous.)
The actual downfall, though, the moment when Thoma feels like he’s staring directly into the sun and dooming himself to a plunge in the coldest depths of the sea, that—
That starts with Childe tugging off his shirt.
He’s got freckles, a constellation of them, above his left shoulder. Thoma wants to touch them. Wants to touch him everywhere. All over.
Thoma watches Childe rush into the water, knows perfectly well it would be foolish to chase after him, and does it anyway.
“You’ll catch a cold,” he yells.
Childe laughs, and just waves at Thoma to follow before swimming deeper. When Thoma catches up to him, he stops and turns and smiles, and—
Water drips from the ends of his hair down his face, down the side of his neck, down down down—
Thoma gulps.
“What’s wrong?” Childe asks. “You’re quiet all of a sudden.”
“You,” Thoma says, which—could be worse. At least they’re alone. At least no one else is here to witness Thoma’s fit of temporary insanity.
Because that’s what it is. Wading through the water to close the distance between them and pulling Childe down by the back of his neck is simple, straightforward insanity.
Thoma can’t find it in himself to regret it, though. Uncertainty creeps when Childe goes still as their lips meet, but then he starts kissing back, slow and tentative, a hesitance in his movements that’s so unlike Childe—because Thoma knows him now, knows his favorite foods and the way he smiles when he means it, and isn’t all that a revelation on its own?—it worries him for a second, until he realizes.
“You haven’t done this before, have you?”
Childe smiles, rubbing at the back of his neck. “That obvious, huh?”
“A little bit.”
“I’m—I’m not good with fragile things.”
Thoma arches an eyebrow at him. “Are you saying you’ll break my heart?”
Childe shakes his head. “I’m saying I’ve had a lot of broken bones healed, but never—I’ve never heard about anyone knowing how to heal—well. If anyone did know how to, that would be a service in high demand, wouldn’t it?”
Thoma can’t help the laughter that escapes him. “It would,” he says. “But I doubt you would need it to begin with.”
“Bold statement,” Childe says. He doesn’t sound like he minds it much, though.
Thoma hums contemplatively. “I suppose it is, isn’t it? What do you suggest we do about that?”
Childe sighs like it can’t be helped. “I think you might have to kiss me again.”
Yeah. Okay. Thoma can definitely manage that.
…
Thoma has made a lot of questionable decisions in his life. Like, a lot. An embarrassing amount that he pointedly tries not to keep track of. (He has doubts that Lady Ayaka keeps an alphabetized list somewhere.)
He’s pretty sure kissing Childe is not one of them, though.
(And that turns into absolutely sure rather quickly when Childe whines as Thoma nips at his bottom lip.)
Dating a Fatui Harbinger doesn’t sound so bad, all things considered. Especially when they’re cute.