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Resentment.
Utter hatred.
The ability to loathe another, enough to make the mere thought spurn them, lead them toward the verge of insanity, the urge to have their head torn off then and there, and, well—well, he should be feeling this. He ought to be feeling this, he should be shaking at the sight of her, and yet—... and yet.
And yet he finds himself taking comfort in the position they’re in right now.
Sunlight kissing her oval face, her hand in his hair, his head on her chest, and a book on his lap, flipped unto a page he couldn’t care less about because this shouldn’t be happening.
They’re in the comfortable confines of the Traveler’s teapot mansion, in one of the many libraries occupying the vast spaces of the house.
He feels ... safe. Strangely content.
This woman, this hero, this traveler who had harboured the sheer audacity to snatch his chance of godhood, asleep, vulnerable.
And what seems to make this scene more ridiculous is the fact that she should hate him, too—it feels the majority of her sufferings, the pain, the hurt he sees in her eyes is caused by him.
Him, and him alone.
... and yet here they were, closer than peas in a pod, huddled together as though they’d known each other for years.
He should kill her. She should kill him. Enemies—yes, that’s what they were—two individuals sworn to making each others’ lives as miserable as they could.
So why doesn’t he move?
He can’t help but look up, careful not to move the hand rested upon the nest of his head. Her eyes are closed but her brightness doesn’t seem to have ceased.
Ethereal.
With the way the sun is reflecting off the gold of her lashes, she almost looks like an angel.
The image of Lumine, shining in all her glory, passes through the Wanderer’s head—a halo of gold, wings the color of the heavens resting on the base of her back—he then recalls something she’s told him, perhaps only several nights ago—
“—w e were free, Wanderer, we could fly, we could do things.” Then, she bites her lip, wistfully. “But when that god took our powers away, we—we lost each other. I lost him. And we lost everything.”
Seeing her in such a state inclined him to reach out, grip her hands as gently as possible, “I’m still here.”
But he could never do that.
So he settled for retaining his current expression—indifferent, but almost pitying.
Lumine had looked somewhat disappointed at that and he hated it, he hated that he’d been the one to made her feel that way.
He doesn’t want her to look anything less than elated when she’s around him.
Absentmindedly, the Wanderer reaches up, fingers subconsciously stroking the rim of her features. His hand glides, gently, against the bridge of her nose, fingertips dancing lightly on the curve of her mouth.
How wonderful it would be if she were to smile for him, because of him.
His hands trace her almost invisible cheekbone—her face was round, but to him, it was her, and her—she—was breathtaking in his eyes.
His hand travels up, almost caressing her eyelids, touching the eyelashes he’s always been fascinated with, and—
“Well, good afternoon to you too, Wanderer.”
Her lips move, eyes still closed, and he retreats with the speed of a scalded cat.
Lumine laughs, finally opening her eyes only to catch the sight of the Wanderer, recoiling, appearing apprehensive, the brush of red on the tips of his ears giving him away.
“You—!” he tries to counter, but finds no words to defend himself; after all, he’d just been caught, red-handed. “You don’t—!”
The Traveler laughs once more and the Wanderer’s skin reddens even more at the graceful twinkle of the sound.
“No need to be like this, I’m only teasing,” Lumine tries, eyes mirthful. Gently, she tugs him closer and he obliges. “What part are we in again?” she inquires.
The Wanderer only then notices again the book he’s still holding and he answers bashfully, “I don’t remember.” Truth be told, he was paying attention when they were reading a while ago—just not to the book.
Lumine doesn’t look the least bit annoyed. “Well, that just means we have to start from the top again,” she hums, taking the book from his hands, gingerly.
That means I’ll spend more time with you.
The Wanderer wants to slap himself for the thought, but he supposes he’s eager for more time with Lumine, too.
She beckons him closer with a hand, and he inches toward her, cautious. His eyes are reserved.
Lumine lets out another giggle. “Stop being so apprehensive, it’s only me!”
But that’s exactly why.
He rolls his eyes, but before he can even think of a snide remark to counter, Lumine suddenly yanks him closer, hand around his shoulder, chin on his head and the Wanderer thinks he cannot get any redder at this point.
“You smell like dandelions,” she murmurs.
“I’d expect that, with you dragging me around Mondstadt and everything—“
—his words are cut off when the Traveler presses a soft, chaste, kiss on the surface beside his eye and the briefest of yes, maybe he can get redder, crosses his mind.
He can feel the plushness of her lips on the coolness of his skin but he doesn’t let that get to him.
When Lumine pulls away, she’s surprised to see a smirk on the Wanderer’s face.
He lifts a hand to her cheek, muttering, “If you’re going to do something, at least finish the job.”
He barely lets Lumine have a breath before he leans in again, pressing a full kiss right on her lips.
There’s warmth and there’s chill and there’s contentment and excitement and there’s serenity and there’s fireworks, and it’s all worth it when the surprise is retained on the Traveler’s face, etched into her expression (he’ll remember this image forever, he thinks) when he reclines, his breath right behind her jaw.
She can practically hear the smirk in his voice when he whispers, “Now we’re even.”
And she thinks her heart just exploded.