Archive of Our Own ^beta

She hears the labors of his love in the kitchen, where he has set court. From her room upstairs in her cramped Mondsdat apartment, the sound travels seamlessly through the air, a raucous symphony: over the occasional scribble of her pen, there are the swishing of whisks, the sizzle of oil in a pan, the woosh a flame makes when it bursts to life on the stove.  

She doesn’t typically like noise when she works, but the orchestra of utensils is almost relaxing, even fading into the backwater of her mind as she dips her feather into an inkwell and lets words cascade over the parchment she plans to send to her editor tomorrow morning. The story unfolds in her mind in time with the cracking of eggshells and stirring of the pot. A thick, flavorful aroma envelops her like a blanket – a proper blanket, not threadbare or thin, filling her with warmth from head to toe.

The rhythm of clinking pans and running water eventually lulls her to sleep, her exhausted body folding over her desk like the wilted stem of a flower. Bronze sconces fitted with candles in various shades of lavender held flames that whittled down their wax thrones, then went out, their amber light flickering into wisps of curled smoke. Outside, her moon and stars shed silver light where she lays, cool as a spring shower.

Sleep comes like a cloud, granting her shade for a moment, before drifting away. When she wakes, it’s to the heavy clink of ceramic on wood. When her eyes finally drag themselves open, they drink in the sight before her.  

A bowl of Mondsdat goulash, still hot, plumes of steam unfurling into the damp air. Chunks of seared meat and soft, grilled potato sit in a bowl of amber stew, the scent of onion and tomato and spice chasing the night’s chill away. Not one to be slow or tentative, she offers herself a hearty spoonful and can’t help the wobbly smile that spreads across her face.  

Food always brings her joy because she never knows when she might have it next, but this is a different sort of happiness, one that spreads like a healing tincture being pressed into her skin, smooth and sweet. A happiness that heals, that nourishes, that plants a seed of bliss that stretches across her aching limbs and sullen heart.  

It’s a joy she’s hardly ever felt before, and she savors every last bit of it.  

It only takes her a moment to polish off the bowl. Her nerves tingle with warmth, the taste of salt still on her lips. With newfound energy, she stands up and peers around the corner. The kitchen lights are off, the countertops polished clean, her five meager cupboards closed. A few dishes are in the sink, water and suds spilling over them in a very clear message: you’re doing this part, witch.

She can’t even be mad, not when she’s still wearing that foolish smile. She peels off her gloves and submerges both hands into the warm water, scrubbing kitchenware and sticking them onto a rack to be dried. When she’s finished, there’s no sign that he was here at all, and that’s precisely the way he wishes it to be.  

Witch, he would have said as he shoved it towards her. Eat something proper, for once.

Scumbag, she would say in return, hiding a smirk behind the silver arch of her spoon.  

If only, she thinks, gazing out the window. She dares not go any closer, for then it would look as though she is searching for someone, when her lover is a ghost - a wraith who should not be found.  

Still, she can imagine him now, traveling through the weaving corridors of Mondsdat’s cobblestone streets, his hat granting him a wide berth, but not more so than his reputation, which sends night vendors pushing their rickety carts the other way and suspicious mothers fleeing with their children. He will say nothing, his veil fluttering gently behind him as he walks, until another Fatui agent approaches him and asks where he’s been.

“Nowhere,” he’ll say, his face betraying nothing. “Only attending to business.”

And that is the end of the questioning.

He interrupts her one evening with two words: “Calla lilies.”

“What of them?” she asks, raising one eyebrow. In the torchlight, she studies a few historical star charts, marveling at their meticulous craftsmanship. Each constellation is outlined in thin, glittering strokes of paint, with striking detail she can’t wait to emulate in her next celestial cartography escapade.

“You have none,” he notes. “Not in your pantry, at least.”

“I have a few for potion-brewing,” she admits, abandoning her oaken desk to retrieve them from the shelf above her scrying table. The pale, bulbous blossoms sag under the weight of their own petals as she clips them from their steps with a pair of shears. “If this isn’t enough, I can go ask Albedo if he has any in his alchemy lab.”

Scaramouche makes a face of disgust. “I refuse to use anything he has to offer.”

“He hasn’t poisoned them, you know.”

“Of course not. He’s too dumb to consider such a thing.”

Mona rolled her eyes. “Rather, he’s too nice. You could learn a thing or two from him.”

“If only he had something to teach, hm?”

Mona bites back a scathing reply – something to do with fashion – and flips her pigtails over her shoulder, effectively slapping her boyfriend in the cheek with the brass ornaments hanging at each end. She smiles as she turns to examine the charts strewn under smooth stone paperweights, ignoring the colorful stream of Inazuman curses, before hearing the telltale sounds of his feet bounding out of the room.

She returns her attention to the charts, sinking within the gilded cage of concentration. She writes with the utmost precision, as all astrologists are required to have impeccable penmanship, for the stars must be documented with perfect writing to preserve their sanctity. It’s tedious, but she relishes the process, and by the time she’s done recording her observations, her palms are streaked with ink.  

It’s at this time that Scaramouche returns from the kitchen. Standing by the doorway, without his hat and ornamentation, bare feet scuffling the ground, he almost looks normal. Almost, because he’s beautiful in a way that dull clothing only brings out more. His eyes are dark as the churning sea surrounding the city, hair silken and slightly mussed, his skin the same flawless shade of ivory as the glowing evening moon.

Even without the ridiculous hat, he pulls her into his orbit, into his arms, with ease.  

Not today, though. His hands are full, each one holding a tall glass of Rainbow Aster, a name Mona never quite understood because the drink only consists of two colors – lavender melon and white Calla lily extract, both subtle flavors blended with sweet milk. The cool beverage threatens to spill from the lip of the glass, its foamy surface crisscrossed with strokes of cream and topped with a single sprig of freshly snipped mint.

He carefully sets the aster in her ink-smudged hands. She tips the glass back for a sip, cold sweetness flooding her mouth. He watches her drink greedily with faint amusement before asking, “have you never had aster before?”

“No,” she admits. “Lavender melon has to be imported from Inazuma, so Mondsdat restaurants charge more for it. I didn’t bother with the extra expense.” She takes another sip, awed by the honeyed tang of the melon. “Though, if you’re feeling generous, you could make this every day.”

He scoffs. “Generous isn’t the same as charitable, and I’m neither. Drink up, witch.”

“Foul mood today,” she says innocently. “Did you get demoted?”

“Hardly.”

“Oh, is it because I brought up Albedo earlier?”

“He,” Scaramouche says, in a tone so full of vitriol she knew that she had hit the truth, “has nothing to do with this.”

“By which you mean he has everything to do with this.”

He set down his glass of aster, as though it’s suddenly gone bitter. “I don’t like that he’s so...close to you.”

She squints. “Elaborate.”

“What is there to elaborate?” he asks, almost defiantly. “I just don’t like that he’s the first person you go to for everything.”

Oh. If she hadn’t known him well, she would have assumed that this was just a simple case of jealousy. And he does get jealous often, as does she, but this is more than that. It’s not just that she said Albedo’s name with conviction, or that they see each other often at work, or that they spend long nights converging over her stars and his tinctures. It’s that he’s close. Closer to her than Scaramouche will ever be. No matter how many evenings they spend pressed together, their shared heat will never be enough to combat the frigid cold of the real world.  

At the end of every visit, he must leave. It’s not a matter of whether or not he wants to stay, he must leave, for the sake of his position in the Fatui, and her reputation as a loyal worker in Mondsdat. Ironic that fate should tie two of the most stubborn people together in a relationship that has to adhere by rules other than their own.

With Albedo, there is nothing to hide. No clandestine meetings after dark, no gifts of flowers bundled in twine left at her doorstep. There is none of the secrecy that chokes the freedom in their relationship.

Scaramouche knows, and is quietly uneasy of that fact. Because as enticing as secrecy might be, perhaps Mona would one day grow tired of it, and choose a man who she could have normal relations with. A man who would love her in public instead of private, afraid of no one.

Mona abandons both her glass and chair as she stands up. “Scara,” she says, quietly, “you idiot.”

His eyes narrow, but she doesn’t let him get a word out. “I go to Albedo for plenty of things, but never the things that matter most. For that, I go to you. I don’t have to say anything for you to be able to help. All you have to do is be there. Like before, and like you are right now.”

The words are strangely intimate. They’ve always spent so much time hiding behind snarky responses and rude insults, but there are times when those facades drop, even if just for a second. Her palm, smudged with drying ink, finds his own hand, brushing against it in a question. He answers by entwining their fingers.  

His face has taken on a pink tinge, and she adores it, withholding a flirtatious quip. It isn’t often she gets to see him look flustered. After a moment of silence, he says, “Maybe he should be conveniently taken care of.”

Mona huffs, punching him lightly on the arm. “And here I thought you were actually considering what I said.”

“Considering,” he replies jovially, “and ignoring. Albedo needs to go.”

“What about Fischl?” she asks jokingly. “Does she need to be ‘dealt with’, too?”

“Obviously. She’s so annoying. And that bird too – what was he called?”

“Oz.”

“Even its name is stupid. Oz,” he repeats distastefully. “Only use he has is dinner. Any other suggestions?”

“One,” she says, leaning in. A mink’s smile slowly spreads across her face. “I’m not sure if you know of him. He’s about my height, maybe a little shorter, and has the most infuriating attitude I’ve ever known.”

“Oh?”

“The easiest way to identify him is his hat,” she says, her eyes of jade twinkling like the very stars themselves are trapped in her irises. “It’s big and it’s stupid, but I almost like it.”

“Just like you almost like him?” Scaramouche’s words have taken on a low, threatening tone, the same kind she’s heard him use when he indulges the complaints of a whiny, freshly-ordained Fatui member, one that needs to be reminded who their superior is. Despite the thinly-veiled danger in his voice, his lips have split into a scathing smile, one brilliant and rare, like a diamond unearthed.

“No,” she murmurs, close enough that she can smell the cloying sweetness of Rainbow Aster that hangs between them. “Not almost.”

Before she can inhale, his lips are on hers, stealing the last of her breath.  

“Oh, stars,” she curses, “I forgot again.”

Scara peers over at her from his place on her couch, where he leafs through one of her astrology books. “Forgot what?”

“I have an editorial meeting with the staff at The Steambird soon,” she shouts from her bedroom, draping her cloak over her shoulders. She peers inside her satchel for the nth time, checking to make sure her purse, inkwell, scrolls, and miniature scrying tools are inside...except, where are her notes from last week’s stargazing expedition? She swears they were on her desk, but-

He appears behind her, flaunting the hastily assembled pages. “Looking for these?”

“Yes!” she manages to say through her relief, stuffing them into her bag. “My shoes – oh, Archons, where are my shoes?”

“By the doorway,” he drawls, “where you always leave them.”

“Right.” She sucks in a breath and attempts to compose herself. “Apologies, it’s just-”

“You? Apologize?” Scaramouche laughs. “Since when?”

She pushes past him. “I would appreciate if you didn’t poke fun right now. I’m wound up enough as it is.”

“What are you so worried about?” He follows her indignant footsteps, and though she would like very much to escape his amused gaze and spare herself the jabs, her apartment is small, and such an escape is only a dream. Still, she turns into the kitchen and sticks her head in the fridge in lieu of ignoring him, her heart sinking when she sees the near empty shelves.  

“I see you haven’t gone shopping,” he notes.  

“Well, if you can’t tell, I’m very stressed right now. Food is the last thing on my mind.”

“You should eat something, Starling,” he teases. Starling is a new name, something he had uttered during a dazed summer night, the two of them curled up on the couch and on the brink of sleep; a name that came when he was too tired to be mean about anything anymore, only honest.

“Mhm?” He seems unaffected. “Why did you stop? Hurry up. You have a meeting to get to, don’t you?”

The Steambird meeting is the farthest thing from her mind at the moment, but she has to recognize that he’s right, even if he’s being sarcastic. Swallowing down a myriad of sounds, she focuses on the food, even as he decides to toe the line once more and kiss her again, just a brush of his lips, under her ear. She hisses like she’s accidentally cut herself with a knife – but there is no knife, except for the blade of a smile he wears.  

“Keep going,” he whispers, almost encouragingly, when Mona knows it is anything but. “You’re almost doing it right.”

It’s meant to goad her – she's doing it perfectly, and she knows it. He only wants to get a rise out of her, and it’s working.  

He trails kisses down the length of her neck, soft as flower petals, just enough to get her to stumble and lose concentration. The rice-balls suffer, but his hands aren’t dormant under hers, and where she messes up, he reaches down and fixes the mistakes just as quickly. If only he weren’t trying to break her will, they might have been an effective team.

On her sixth, he kisses the corner of her mouth, and she succumbs. She turns, kissing him in full. His hands drop to her waist, hers dig into his scalp, anger falling into passion, passion into quiet yearning. He gently lifts her onto the counter, and when she tugs on his hair, yanking his neck up, a low growl echos in his throat. She plants a kiss on his lower jaw, then another on his clavicle, all before returning to seal his mouth so that he can’t let out a single sound of pleasure.

A faint ding registers – the fish is ready, but at the moment he’s unravelling her hair from its pigtails, letting it cascade over her shoulders only to weave his fingers through it as his lips brush over her forehead, eyelids, nose, mouth-

Ding-dong.

It takes her a second to escape the flustered thrall she’s in, but the panic fully comes at her like a cold blade, chasing away the heat. Scaramouche is faster, setting her down on the floor. “Go see who it is.”

She nods, using her hair and collar to hide the swollen flesh of her neck. She walks to the door and hopes her blush has faded by then when she answers.  

The person on the other side is far from who she expects. “Sir Kaeya?”

“Ah! Madame Megistus. It’s always a pleasure to see you,” greets the Knights of Favonius's Calvary Captain. His single eye glints with dishonest intentions. “I haven’t come at an untimely hour, have I?”

“Not at all,” she lies. “I was just getting ready to depart for the city, though.”

“Oh?” Kaeya’s voice holds a smooth, sultry tremor. “Pity. You see, I’ve come to ask about something quite important. It’s nothing that would take up your time.”

She steps forward, shutting the door behind her, that way he can’t invite himself in. “Tell me more, then.”

The captain beams. “Excellent. I was wondering if you can help us track the whereabouts of a certain Harbinger. He’s adept at maintaining an incognito status when he blends in with the commonfolk, but we’ve seen him pass around this area often enough.” Her heart stops. “He has yet to do anything, but to let that suspicious behavior continue to fester would just be ignorant.”  

Kaeya spreads his arms in a gracious gesture. “Of course, we want to maintain good relations with Snezhaya, and that means maintaining good relations with the Fatui, however difficult they choose to be about it. This is the City of Freedom, after all.”

“So, tell me, Mona,” he says, wielding the use of her first name like a weapon of familiarity, “have you seen the Balladeer around your premises?”

Seen? She has not only seen, but invited the sixth Harbinger into her home multiple times. Sometimes he invited himself in. “No,” she says swiftly, “I have not. I think I would notice a Harbinger if they were so close to my apartment.”

Kaeya tilts his head. “I should hope so, since you have already crossed paths with him.”

Mona flinches. “Pardon?”

“You, the Traveler, and Fischl had collaborated to investigate the appearance of several meteorites,” recited Kaeya. His eyes held a sort of silent thrill as he spoke. “According to Fischl, you instantly recognized the Balladeer as a threat when he tried to join in on the excursion. Our chief alchemist also claims that you have the ability to sense danger with your scrying as well. Which begs the question – if the dangerous, possibly lethal Balladeer is around so often, how has he not been spotted by you?”

Mona feels panic build in her sternum. She knows Kaeya has often had underhanded methods of extracting answers from people – beginning with sugary niceties and later prying an answer from the hearts of the unlucky. Still, she won’t let him dissect her, too, or her honorable title will be for naught.  

“You’re right,” she agrees. “I would be able to notice him, but scrying does not bend to my will, and I only search when I know there’s a threat. I am much too busy with my own affairs to be asking the stars about the Balladeer. Furthermore, it isn’t my duty to capture him – it's yours. So if he escapes, well,” she gives him a polite smile. “You knights only have yourselves to blame.”

Kaeya studies her for a minute, then bursts into laughter. “You’re a formidable opponent, Megistus.”

“Please, let us not think ourselves on opposite sides of the field. We are allies, aren’t we?” She turns away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to ready for. Good day, Sir Kaeya.”

She doesn’t wait for her response, shutting the door and bolting to the kitchen. As she expected, there’s no one there. He must have escaped through one of the many windows in her bedroom, and there is no trace that there was ever anyone other than Mona Megistus in the apartment.

Except, of course, for the box of finished onigiri on the kitchen counter, resting on a bed of lettuce.

Mona can almost hear his laughter, as though he was approving of her questionable lies. She nibbles on the rice, wondering if Kaeya now finds her more or less suspicious than before she’d answered the door. Perhaps he’ll send a force of knights to interrogate her further – although she suspects that none would ever do the job as well as he.  

Just a bite of the onigiri fills her with satisfaction. If this is treason, treason tastes very delicious indeed.  

She isn’t surprised when he doesn’t come the following week.

It hurts, but she knows the distance is necessary. She busies herself with her newspaper column, often peering through the drapes and hoping that there aren’t Favonious knights watching her every move. It’s the type of action better suited to the controversial Fatui, but with Kaeya at the head of the investigation, any method that garners results is a viable method. She can only hope that Albedo will put in a good word for her.

On a cloudy, mist-wrapped morning, she enters her study to find a parcel resting on the center of her desk. The window is closed; the curtains at rest. There’s no indication of Scaramouche, except for the box lying at her hands.

She sits in her chair, anxiety chewing on her nerves like a mangy dog might gnaw on bone. The skeptical part of her is sure that it must be a trap set by the Knights, determined to capture her in the act. So she makes a show of appearing cautious and confused in front of the window, before enough time has passed for her to feel adequately ridiculous about it. Then she whisks the box in her hands and trots off to the living room, which is illuminated only by fickle candlelight, and slowly opens the parcel.

A waft of steam floats upwards, and curiosity turns into anticipation. There are several tin-foil wrapped shapes, and a folded note. She unwraps the tin-foil, releasing another hot cloud of fragrance.  

Fish – no, fish shaped pastries: taiyaki. The pastries are small, scales rippling a perfect golden brown, texture crispy and delectable. She gingerly breaks one in half, revealing the dark bean paste inside. It melts in her mouth, slightly nutty and utterly divine. Her love for sweets has only gotten worse as she’s grown older, and she hasn’t been able to indulge in her favorites since they tempt her to spend more mora than she has. It’s a rare treat, and she enjoys every last bit of it, until only crumbs are left.

Then, she finds the note. There’s nothing on it, but a squeeze of lemon reveals scalloped writing:

Your turn.

Mona blinks, confused – then, she understands. The gears in her mind turn as she begins putting together an idea. She heads off to the kitchen to plan, but then remembers – she holds the note over the flickering flame of a candle, and watches the white fade into ash.

He ambushes her at night.

“Ah!” she shouts, summoning a Hydro attack to spew at the intruder, only to realize it was Scara, leaning out of the window. “Stars, would you mind knocking?”

“You must be out of your mind,” he replies, closing the panes. “Those knights don’t give up, do they?”

“What do you mean?”

“They’ve been following me,” he tells her, sounding bored. “But they aren’t very good at stealth. Does nobody in this blasted city have secrets?”

“Sir Kaeya does,” she puts in. “He just isn’t very keen on sharing them.”

“Ironic that he is the one interrogating others, when even his left eye is a secret,” Scaramouche said with a scoff.  

She nods, finding the hypocrisy odd, then asks, “Where have you been?”

“In Liyue,” he says with distaste. “With an acquaintance. He wanted to see Morax-”

“The Geo Archon?” Mona interrupts, awed. “You’ve met them?”

“It was a tedious affair,” Scaramouche says. “And yes, I’ve met them. They aren’t that exciting, trust me.”

“Trust you, hm?” she teases, slipping out of bed and into the kitchen. When she returns to the bed, he’s made himself comfortable, much to her chagrin.  

“Move,” she says, shoving him slightly. She sets a bowl down on the thick purple sheets. Normally she would condone eating on the bed, since she didn’t want to waste time washing stains that could have been prevented, but there are always exceptions – like now. “I hope you haven’t eaten anything yet.”

“What a terrible thing to wish upon someone,” he drawls. “I’m surprised you cobbled something together at all.”

“So am I,” she admits. “It’s certainly not fancy.”

“I don’t expect it to be.” It isn’t teasing nor cruel. “But I expect it to be good.”

“I can manage that.” She pops the lid off a bowl and hands him a spoon. “Der Weisheit Letzer Schluss. Simple, but delicious.”

Scaramouche peers into the bowl. It’s a salad, with slices of tart apple, spicy potato, and star-shaped avocado cusping a split egg, all on beds of crisp lettuce. He’s quiet as he spears a potato on his fork and chews thoughtfully.

Mona steels herself for a rude comment, but all he says is, “it’s good,” and continues to eat.

She blinks. “Oh. Thank you.”

He snorts through a mouthful of apple. “You sound like you evaded war.”

“Perhaps I did.”  

“I could say a million things, but none of them are relevant right now,” he says. “It’s a good salad. Maybe the best I’ve ever had.”

“How many times have you actually had salad?”

“Not including this one, none at all.”

She sighs. “I thought as much.”

“Well, I don’t need to try any other salad to know this is my favorite one.”

Mona lifts a forkful of lettuce and egg to her lips. “How come?”

“Because you made it,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Even if some of this lettuce is wilted, and the apples are cut unevenly, and the potatoes not seasoned enough – it's still better. You could serve me rot and I would claim the same.”

She’s a little speechless, and her expression must be idiotic, because he snickers. “You look ridiculous.”

“Rude,” she sniffs, a small smile on her face.

“Fine, let me amend my words.” He clears his throat. “Mona, light of my life, the most luminous of the stars-”

“Enough!” she yells, clutching one of the pillows on her bed to hide her face with. “You can’t compare me to the stars like that! It’s disrespectful!”

“I am disrespectful,” he reminds her. “Damn the stars. They’ll have to work harder if they want to outshine you.”

“Scara!”

But he only laughs, and eventually, she joins him, their joined sound pouring out of her window like honey-wine, into the quiet Mondsdat night.