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Scaramouche would have never imagined that he would be here.
Then again, there were many aspects of Wanderer's life that Scaramouche would have never imagined. Like this moment now, bustling around the tiny kitchen of a cozy apartment and impatiently glancing at the clock every few seconds. He stirs away at a bubbling pot of pasta to ensure it doesn’t burn on the bottom but remains warm enough to serve when you finally arrive.
Speaking of which where the fuck are you, you promised you’d be home early today— he had made sure of it before you left this morning. But’s already half past six and you’re usually home by six fifteen so you probably forgot and now his plans are ruined and—
The obnoxiously familiar jingle of keys followed by the squeak of the front door interrupts Wanderer’s thoughts. His shoulders slightly droop with relief as he turns off the stove bringing the pot over to the neatly arranged dining room table to finally plate the meal.
“Took you long enough,” Wanderer says as if it were a proper greeting. And perhaps for him, it may as well be.
As usual, his sharp words fall off your back like water, much too used to his pissy attitudes by now, several years into knowing each other and nearly a year into a romantic relationship.
“Sorry,” you huff out as you finally shrug the heavy tote bag off your shoulder.
“I ran into Tigh on the way back from the market while I was picking up some new books,” you begin to explain as you shuffle into the dining area.
“He said he was looking for spices Collei requested for her new recipe. Oh, have you ever had her pita pockets before? I know you’re picky about food but they’re actually really good and I think you– whoa … what is this? ”
Your story is cut short as you finally seem to take in the setting before you. As your eyes dart across the table your mouth falls open, appearance akin to that of a goldfish. If he weren’t so uncharacteristically nervous, Wanderer might have laughed at you for how dumb you look.
But instead, he silently places the emptied pot in the sink, uncaring of the intimidatingly large pile of dirty dishes—he’ll get to those later.
With quick strides, he returns to the dining table, taking a seat in front of one of the two plates of steaming rosé pasta, violet eyes seeming to glow in the dim candlelight as he shoots you an expectant look.
“What does it look like, dumbass? It’s a candlelit dinner,” Wanderer sneers, “now hurry the fuck up and eat before it gets cold. I put a lot of effort in this shit, y’know.”
As Wanderer stabs a picks up a bundle of spaghetti noodles with his chopsticks you seem to finally regain your wits, forcing yourself to move and take a seat as you glance between the crystal vase at the center of the table, filled with deep red dendrobrium accented by thin branches of sakura bloom, the dancing flames of the osmanthus-scented candles placed strategically around the room, and the generous helping of what appeared to be cod roe pasta with rosé sauce plated on the finest china you two owned–a housewarming gift from Zhongli. It most certainly is the epitome of a candlelit dinner if anyone had ever seen one.
Wanderer tries to look unaffected as he digs into his own dinner but he finds himself tensing as you promptly take your first bite. You hardly even chew it before your eyes close in bliss and you moan out words of praise that make his chest burn with something akin to pride.
"Your cooking is always so amazing,” you proclaim.
"This is nothing special. Any fool could make a decent pasta," Wanderer shrugs off.
He hopes his ears don’t look as red as they feel as he hurriedly shovels more pasta in his mouth just to have something else to focus on. Praise was something he had always sought–whether from his creator or a nameless mass of devout followers. It made him feel powerful, above all others, like an archon .
And yet, somehow, praise from you felt completely different. Your praises sent a flutter through his chest cavity that he was sure should not be physically possible. Rather than feeling stronger than anyone else, your praises made him feel just strong enough . Just worthy enough to exist, to atone for his sins, to stand beside you. And he thinks the most disturbing part of it all is how satisfied he is with just that. A vengeful, artificial god who once dreamed of ruling all of Teyvat now equally happy just being by your side–what a strange joke.
"But," you hesitantly start, breaking Wanderer from his self-reflections, "what's all of this for?"
His reply is simple, "t oday is the day of that silly holiday mortals celebrated in your world, isn't it."
You nearly choke on a noodle at the implication.
“We're celebrating Valentine's Day ?"
Wanderer shoots you an annoyed glare at your incredulous tone before abruptly pulling away from the dining table and approaching your side instead. You’re still seated and gaping at him like an idiot with a pair of chopsticks in your hand, a clump of noodles limply hanging off of them.
"Of course,” he answers smoothly, “we're a couple now, aren't we? And you're quite lucky because my generosity today does not end with dinner."
Wanderer kneels down on one knee before you, a sight no one in Teyvat or even worlds beyond could have ever imagined possible for the egotistical puppet obsessed with the notion of reaching godhood.
But Wanderer was no longer that vengeful Balladeer anymore. He is merely a wanderer, living as a mortal alongside the person who was somehow able to capture his nonexistent heart and give his life a newfound meaning filled with simple joys he never thought possible. And now, he can only hope to return just a fraction of the happinesses you have given him in the form of a little black velvet box.
You audibly gasp when he pulls the small box out of his pants pocket, holding it out in front of you and opening it to reveal a silver ring. In the center of the thin metal band sits a decently sized diamond, accented with small amethyst gems that sparkle under the flickering candle light and remind you of the eyes of the man himself.
"Before you get the wrong idea–this isn't a proposal or anything," Wanderer grumbles, avoiding eye contact as his cheeks flush.
"it's just…a placeholder. I'll give you the real one in a few years."
The last part is mumbled in such a low tone you would have missed it had you not been seated right in front of him.
Slowly–just long enough to have Wanderer’s stomach churning with his anxiety and second-guessing his every decision–your brain catches up and a slow grin splits across your face.
"Thank you, Kuni... it's beautiful," you whisper, eyes watery.
The use of his original names seems to amplify the intimacy of the moment. Wordlessly, Wanderer stands from his kneeled position, plucking the small piece of jewelry from the box and taking your hand with an unexpected gentleness.
He slides the cool metal on your finger—the fourth finger of your left hand.
For a moment, you both admire it in awe. He can’t help the first thought that pops into his head, the thought that it suits you.
Like was always meant to be there.
Like how he was always meant to be here, with you.
"I love you," you murmur.
When he turns to look at you, he finds you already staring up at him, all soft smiles and twinkling eyes, as if he had personally hung the moon in the sky. As if he was the most important person in your world. As if his worth far exceeds anything he was created for and anything he imagined for himself thereafter.
Wanderer doesn't say anything but he firmly squeezes your hand and brushes his thumb against the new ring on your delicate finger.
A placeholder.