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Chapter Text

A late night; crickets chirping, leaves swaying gently in the breeze, milky moonlight streaming through the windows. 

Childe tightens the arm slung over Alhaitham’s shoulders, where they lay in bed. He hums to himself, content, before jolting when familiar slim fingers brush along his bare abdomen.

He shoots a confused look downwards, only to find Alhaitham staring intently at where his fingers still haven’t left Childe’s stomach.

What is he… Ah.

Alhaitham watches, silent, as the scarred skin beneath his palm shifts with the steady rise and fall of Childe’s breath. Hesitantly, the ginger breaks the silence.

”Something wrong?” He questions, trying for something light, but an edge of worry bleeds into his tone against his will. 

Alhaitham merely hums in response, deep and sleepy. Then, without another word, shifts to crane his neck down and plant a tender kiss on the marred flesh previously covered by his fingers.

His lips linger for a few seconds, before he pulls back, finally meeting Childe’s eyes. 

Childe can’t help the way his own widen, caught off guard by the sudden but not unwelcome affection. 

Alhaitham’s expression stays the same, but his eyes soften at the corners, and he tucks himself back into Childe’s side once more.

”Not at all.”

Chapter Text

Nilou hums quietly, arms tucked behind her back and heels clicking on the marble floor as she steps through the grand doors of the Akademiya.

High, arched ceilings and the gentle flow of running water greet her. She smiles politely at scolars and students alike as she walks past, well acquainted with the path she was taking. 

It definitely wasn’t the first time Nilou had come to visit her girlfriend Layla, especially since she found herself with so much free time lately.

Muscle memory leads her down multiple halls adorned with dark browns and golds, before she reaches her destination. Clearing her throat, she knocks thrice in succession; a familiar pattern the couple had developed over time.

Nilou isn’t put off by the lack of response, in fact, she was expecting it. Knowing her girlfriend, she’s probably sound asleep, drooling onto her now-finished documents.

With this in mind, Nilou quietly opens the door, aqua eyes immediately landing on her- as she guessed- sleeping lover, slumped over her desk. Shutting the door as quietly as she could, Nilou crosses the remaining distance to step up beside her girlfriend.

She allows herself a few moments to admire the unfairly pretty face of the sleeping girl, before brushing a stray stand of periwinkle hair behind a pointed ear, and bending to plant a kiss to Layla’s cheek. For good measure, she scratches lightly at her scalp.

“Hey, love, wake up.” Almost immediately, Layla’s lashes flutter before opening sleepily. She takes stock of her surroundings, including Nilou’s hand on her cheek before smiling, small and sleepily.

“Hi, Nilou.” She yawns, stretching and blinking the last dregs of sleep from her eyelids.

Nilou smiles, straightening back up. “Shall we head out?”

Layla surveys the amount of uncompleted documents littering her desk, shaking her head to herself lightly.

“Mhm, I could use a break.”

Chapter Text

“Wait- wait! What do you mean, you’re leaving?” Diluc snags Thoma’s wrist before he could walk completely out of his life, heart thumping painfully against his ribs.

Thoma is uncharacteristically quiet. For all the years they’ve known each other, Thoma was always bright and loud, like the sun; impossible to take your eyes off of with his bright green eyes and sunkissed freckles. He snorted when he laughed, wore shorts too big for his lanky legs, and knew strange amounts of facts about beetles.

And Diluc is in love with him.

He barely even fully understands what love is yet, but he finds himself drawn to his childhood friend. He can’t be leaving. Not now!

Thoma finally turns to face Diluc, and the redhead lets his hand fall from Thoma’s wrist. The blond looks sorrowful, a sad smile upon his face. Diluc hates it. They’re only teenagers, just hitting fifteen.

Thoma takes a steadying breath, shaky on the exhale, as he steps closer to Diluc. “I’m not leaving long, promise. Okay?” Thoma— however infuriatingly to Diluc’s younger self— is a good bit taller than him, but he forgets to care when Thoma reaches up and ruffles his hair. “I’ll be back.”

Diluc only frowns harder, starting to feel sick. How long isn’t the problem. It’s the fact that he’s leaving at all that’s causing a lump to form in Diluc’s throat. Still, he has to know.

“How long?” There’s an edge of desperation creeping into his voice, now. Diluc finds it hard to care.

Thoma casts his gaze downwards, golden hair framing his face. “I don’t know,” he answers, sullenly, and Diluc feels a piece of his heart cracking.

“You- after all this time? Why now?” he chokes out, voice just on the edge of breaking. Thoma doesn’t answer, then. Instead, he closes the distance between their two bodies, enveloping Diluc in a tight hug, cradling his head. 

“Diluc, I-“ Thoma’s breath hitches when Diluc’s hands tightly clench the fabric of his shirt at his shoulder blades. “I have to go.”

Diluc knows, he does. He can’t do anything about it now, he just has to let go. But sometimes it feels like letting go is all he does.

In a sudden surge of desperation, he roughly separates Thoma from their hug, but doesn’t give Thoma time to question it before he grabs both sides of his face and kisses him, pouring as much feeling as he can into one press of lips on lips.

When he pulls away, Thoma’s eyes are wide, glistening with unshed tears. Diluc’s eyes are fierce, unyielding. Blaze burning deep within the embers of his soul.

“Come back to me, Thoma.” 

Thoma nods dazedly, blinking to clear his misty vision as he thumps their foreheads together.

“Always, Diluc.”

Chapter Text

It’s a really nice day out.

That is the lone thought crossing The Wanderer's mind as he sits against the trunk of a tree, the sakura-sweet breeze ruffling the ornaments on his hat. It makes a pleasant soft jingling sound, quite like wind chimes.

It’s strictly in moments alone like these that Wanderer feels the most at peace. He's not the poetic type, nor the sentimental type, but there's something undeniably pleasant about the scent of a breeze, birds chirping far away from society.

Although, Wanderer isn’t expecting to be alone for much longer. No, in fact, he is waiting for someone. Normally, Wanderer wouldn't dare come back to his hometown, the memories far too unpleasant. But, he'll make an exception if it means he gets to see his girlfriend.

As if summoned by the very thought, said girlfriend flattens the grass beneath her as she sits, curling against Wanderer's side. He acknowledges her presence with a small head tilt, serene expression gaining a soft smile. He knows Yoimiya's watching.

As expected, she sighs happily, slumping further into Wanderer and nuzzling her cheek into his shoulder.

It's not often the two get to meet up, the distance separating their nations far too great to travel regularly. The most they are able to do is send letters back and forth, but they're okay with that. Wanderer keeps some of Yoimiya's letters tucked under his pillow, just to trace his fingertips along the crinkled parchment. Sometimes, if he's lucky, Yoimiya will leave a lipstick stain. It helps.

Wanderer shifts, rotating the arm pressed against Yoimiya's torso to offer his hand, palm up. This routine is familiar.

Yoimiya immediately seizes his hand, interlocking their fingers together with her left, and tracing mindless shapes across his knuckles with her right. Wanderer tilts his head, plants a kiss to Yoimiya's hair, and sighs. Squeezes Yoimiya's hand.

"How have you been?" He asks, watching wisps of clouds float through the azure sky.

Yoimiya squeezes his hand back, planting a return kiss against his cheek before cozying back up against his side.

"Well..."

This routine is familiar.

As Yoimiya begins prattling on about her many experiences, minuscule and large, Wanderer thinks that- not for the first time- if he had a heart, it would be swelling to twice its size.

Chapter Text

"'Luc, darling..." Zhongli whispers.

"Hrn," Diluc responds, squeezing tighter where his arms are locked around Zhongli's waist.

Normally, Zhongli would indulge his lover's clinginess, combing long fingers through deep red hair and listen as Diluc just about purrs in response.

...Normally, he would. But... this morning, he is running incredibly late for work.

"My love, I have to get up for work. I'm already running late," Zhongli tries again.

No dice. Diluc doesn't respond.

When he first woke up, Zhongli had sat up languidly, prepared to have their usual lazy morning, until he checked the clock to see he had overslept by forty-five minutes. As soon as he tensed and prepared to rush out of bed, his doom was sealed when Diluc grumbled and tugged Zhongli back closer, arms wrapping around his waist half on top of him.

Zhongli didn't even try prying Diluc's arms apart. His grip was extraordinary on a normal day, but sleepy, clingy Diluc was an impenetrable force.

Changing tactics, Zhongli began petting at Diluc's hair, gently detangling the long strands as they spilled over his shoulders. Perhaps if he could get Diluc to relax completely, he could slip out from his grip. To his dismay, Diluc simply lifted his head from where it was buried to crack an eye open and glare pointedly at Zhongli. I  know what you're doing.

Zhongli concedes with a sigh, shifting instead to brush his hand down Diluc's warm back.

"You're really not going to let me go?"

"Call in sick," Diluc groans, muffled by the fabric of Zhongli's sleep shirt.

"Diluc, I  did that last week. They're going to start suspecting something."

Diluc mumbles a few choice words under his breath, looking at Zhongli fully as the older chuckles.

"I'll give you extra kisses tonight if you let me go," Zhongli bargains.

Diluc pouts.

"And I'll cook dinner."

Diluc stares intensely at Zhongli's face for a moment, then finally, releases his grip with a click of his tongue.

Zhongli immediately slips from the silky sheets of their bed, stretching his stiff limbs. Diluc is looking extremely disappointed with this development, settling back against the pillows with a frown. Zhongli simply smiles warmly at his boyfriend.

"Give me a kiss now, then," Diluc speaks up, frown smoothing out into a look of reluctant resignation.

Zhongli acquiesces easily, padding back over to Diluc, hand on the redhead's cheek to pull him closer. He plants a firm kiss to Diluc's lips, swiping a thumb along the coarse stubble on his jaw. He pulls back to place one last kiss to Diluc's forehead.

"I really have to go now," he mutters against the warm skin. "I love you."

With that, Zhongli releases his lover and stands back, pleased to find Diluc smiling. "I love you too."

"Goodness—" and really, not a single soul could blame Zhongli for diving back in when Diluc was sitting with beige sheets pooling at his hips, wearing Zhongli's shirt and looking sleep-soft in the early morning light.

One passionate kiss later, Zhongli hears Diluc chuckle against his lips and he pants through a grin.

"You make it so hard to leave," Zhongli complains lightly.

Diluc playfully shoves him away. "Go to work, Zhongli."

Zhongli speed-walks out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind him to resist further temptation. The one thing he thought about all throughout showering and wrestling his suit onto his body, was that his boss is going to kill him.

Chapter Text

There's something that will always be exhilarating about sparring to Keqing. Getting to analyze herself and her opponent, lose herself in the familiar movements and the pounding of her heart without feeling the looming stress of a battle. It makes her feel alive.

This feeling is amplified even further when she spars with a recent friend she's made: Shinobu.

Shinobu is a remarkable swordswoman, fast on her feet and extremely agile. Her skills are nothing short of impressive, which makes them even more exciting for Keqing to test herself against.

They'd met by chance, when Keqing was making a trip to the harbor for Lady Ningguang, and Shinobu had been looking quite out of place among the Liyuens. Naturally, as one of the Qixing, it's Keqing's responsibility for the workings of Liyue to remain smooth; this includes helping foreign visitors, so Keqing had walked up to Shinobu and inquired of her business in Liyue, offering help should she need it.

Shinobu had shook her head, and stated she was studying under Yanfei— a familiar name— and was just taking a stroll around the city. Shinobu was pleasantly polite, and easy to talk to. The two of them had conversed for a few minutes, and Shinobu hadn't seemed intimidated by Keqing's high status, if she even knew in the first place.

Their friendship was formed quickly after that, and throughout Shinobu's stay in Liyue, Keqing got to know her companion quite well. Even when Shinobu returned to Inazuma, they still exchanged letters, planning meetings over lunch or sparring sessions, much like this one.

The loud clang of metal against metal brings Keqing back to the present, where she can feel sweat gathering at her nape as she dodges Shinobu's advances and attacks any slight opening her opponent leaves.

When it comes to sparring, the two of them are mostly evenly matched, though it seems Keqing has more combat experience. She is usually the one coming out victorious in their matches, though Shinobu is rapidly improving.

Shinobu's expression is concentrated, violet eyes alight as they dart around Keqing, sword following their movement. Another satisfying meeting of their swords highlights the racing of Keqing's heart, thoughts of the past fizzling out in favor of giving her all on the next move.

She feints a direct strike towards Shinobu, twisting on her heels at the last minute to zip behind the shorter, driving the blunt edge of her sword into the green-haired girl's spine. Keqing uses such moves frequently, and it seems she was a bit too predictable, because Shinobu takes the momentum guiding Keqing towards her to twist around, dragging Keqing down with her as they crash into the grass.

Keqing's blade stabs into the dirt next to Shinobu's jaw to keep herself from falling fully onto the other, other hand capturing the wrist of Shinobu's arm still holding her sword, pinning it with a tight grip. Panting, Keqing uses her strong thighs to pin Shinobu's beneath her, looming frame above her casting her in deep shadow.

Light purple hair comes to fall over her shoulders, stray strands sticking to her cheeks with her sweat. Shinobu herself is panting, chest heaving a foot away from Keqing's own. Shinobu struggles under Keqing's hold, but eventually stills.

"Give." She concedes, letting her sword fall harmlessly from her grip. It lands with a dull thunk against the ground.

Keqing releases her grip, shifting to dig her fingers into the dirt beside Shinobu's wrist.

"That is five wins for me, three for you," Keqing pants. It isn't meant to be a brag, simply to state a fact.

Shinobu's head falls fully back onto the sun-warmed earth beneath them. "Guess I still got a ways' to go, huh?"

Keqing's eyes catch a bead of sweat as it rolls down the side of Shinobu's temple and disappears into her hairline.

"I wouldn't quite say that. Your reaction was faster than the last time I tried a move like that against you."

At that, Shinobu's lips stretch into a smile. "Yeah? That's high praise coming from you."

Keqing laughs lightly, distantly wondering why her heart hasn't slowed down yet. Must still be the adrenaline.

"Indeed."

When Keqing's eyes open again, she finds Shinobu staring up at her with a warmth dancing in her irises. Her heart skips a beat.

Ah.

That's what it is.

Eyes flitting across Shinobu's soft yet sharp features, Keqing is uncharacteristically overcome.

Quickly, she drops to an elbow, face inches away from Shinobu's. She's close enough to feel how Shinobu's breathing stutters.

"Adrenaline." Keqing mutters, and kisses Shinobu's slack lips.

Shinobu makes a surprised noise against Keqing's lips, but doesn't push her away. Keqing pulls away, apology ready depending on Shinobu's response.

The only response she gets is Shinobu's eyes shining, and a returned kiss planted onto Keqing's lips.

"Adrenaline." Shinobu parrots back, smirk twitching at her lips.

Keqing laughs breathily, hesitating there for one more moment before heaving herself to standing. Shinobu grips Keqing's offered hand, grabbing her sword on the way back up.

Keqing rolls her shoulders, flicks the mud off her sword, and points it at Shinobu.

"Shall we go another round?"

Shinobu shifts to a fighting stance.

"Don't go easy on me, now."

Chapter Text

Tighnari is struggling. Seriously. But for once, it isn't work related. Actually, the forest has been the healthiest it’s ever been lately. No, the source of his stress at the moment would happen to be a Mondstadtian woman who went by the title “Mona Megistus."

Tighnari has only been to Mondstadt a handful of times, the most notable being when he accompanied Collei to attend the windblume festival, but each time he's sworn he's seen that mysterious Mona Megistus around. Almost as if there was some sort of invisible force causing them to be in each other's orbit. Which is— ridiculous, surely. 

The reason Tighnari is so stressed out due to this "Mona", is because throughout their couple months of friendship, he has somehow fallen head over heels in love. It's something deep and simultaneously deep ly embarrassing. It's more often than not that Tighnari finds himself gazing at the stars high up in the sky and only being able to think of Mona and her star-glittered outfit.

There's just something about her that's incredibly alluring, and he found himself inexplicably drawn to her. Her sarcastic humor yet steadfast dedication was fascinating to Tighnari, and he didn't mind learning more about the night sky, since he's so used to being rooted to the ground.

He was quick to confess to Cyno about it, but now Cyno won't stop making star and love related puns, and it's driving him insane. Though, he does encourage Tighnari to be more forward with Mona, and while Tighnari would prefer to do things... his own pace, he appreciates the support.

Apparently, Mona has quite a lot of free time (so she says) and so she's been visiting more frequently than Tighnari expected, considering her nation is so far away from his own. Mona claims to love the Sumeru cuisine, and, well, Tighnari won't decline dinner invites via letter if it means he gets to chat with Mona some more.

So that brings them to right now, the two of them settled into a booth tucked in a corner of the city tavern. The atmosphere is pleasant; warm but not stuffy, with a comfortable amount of noise. One thing Tighnari especially appreciates about Mona is that she's a naturally quieter person, or at least knows not to be too loud around Tighnari's sensitive ears.

Mona is a few drinks in, while Tighnari is just about starting his second one. He really hates the feeling of being drunk, so he casually drinks more often than not. Mona isn't drunk, but it's enough to make her lips loose and her cheeks pink. She looks gorgeous under the soft yellow light, her cool palette contrasting with the warm tones of the tavern. The moon shining through the window lights her eyes aglow.

Ugh, there he goes again. See? Infatuated. It's infuriating. Infuriating because he can't do anything about it. No matter how much Cyno tries to encourage him to just make a move, he simply cannot see a world in which Mona reciprocates his, frankly, embarrassing feelings. They've only been friends for months, afterall. This is something for Tighnari to keep to himself.

But, just— something in the way Mona's looking at him tonight is wearing down on his resolve, and her lips are such a perfect pink, her voice carries like music to his ears, soothing in a way he's never experienced.

...Has he had too much to drink after all? He attempts to inconspicuously check how much of his drink is left. It looks fine, did he somehow order something different, then?

Mona clears her throat across from Tighnari, causing his ears to swivel towards the noise as he abruptly stops squinting into his cup. Mona's expression is a strange mix of unimpressed and fond. Tighnari takes another sip.

"Something wrong?" He asks, after setting his beverage down.

Mona rests her cheek onto her palm, leaning slightly across the table with the movement.

"Nothing," she responds, "you just looked distracted. I was worrying I was boring you." She tries to hide the disappointment in her tone, but Tighnari catches it anyways.

He absolutely cannot have her thinking that.

"Oh, no, you could never! I'm sorry, I've been quite stressed lately." Because of you, he does not and would never add.

Mona nods sympathetically. "Isn't that why we have these meals anyways? Go ahead, talk to me, I hate to be the only one talking your ears off."

Subconsciously, Tighnari's ear twitches, and he suppresses a nervous laugh when Mona smiles in response.

"Ah, that's alright. You can continue, I insist." Tighnari presses, glad his voice still comes off relaxed. He hopes.

Mona inspects Tighnari's expression before sighing. "Well, alright. So, like I was saying, I've been doing some more research on fauna recently- specifically those native to Sumeru- because I'd like to understand some of the terms you use. And, as an astrologist, I don't tend to focus too hard on what's below my feet, but what I've been reading is fascinating! I didn't know there were so many types of flowers. I still remember the first fact you told me; that Sumeru roses aren't actually roses. It caused me to look into many different species of roses, which led to other flowers, and then to weeds, and I guess it really shouldn't be surprising but there's such an abundance of plantlife. I  can see why you're so dedicated to it. It's incredibly admirable, finding out just how much knowledge you've got stored in that head of yours. I was hoping you could suggest me some books from the House of Daena on Sumeru history, I'm sure they have some? I'd also like to learn more about the crea... tures of... wh-what are you doing?"

What's Tighnari doing? Well, he's failing to fight back the flush threatening to spread from the tips of his ears to his cheeks, and leaning across the table to do what he's been yearning to do for weeks now. To gently grasp Mona's perfect face and kiss her perfect lips.

Tighnari learns that Mona wears sunsettia flavored chapstick that night.

When he pulls away, Mona's face is slack in flustered shock, face rapidly turning as red as the accents on her outfit. Her hands, which she was previously using to gesture as she spoke, are frozen mid-air. Tighnari returns to his seat and pretends his heart isn't trying to set a record for fastest beating heart ever recorded.

"Forgive me, but I couldn't help it. I've been wanting to do that for... so long."

Mona still has not responded. Her aquamarine eyes are wide, still shining, still looking as if they hold the stars in them.

Tighnari hides in his cup and wonders just how many drinks he'll need to have to get so drunk he forgets this night ever happened. Before he can drown his regrets in alcohol, Mona speaks up.

"Don't... don't apologize," she says, the most timid Tighnari has ever heard her. She smiles shakily when Tighnari makes eye contact, her fingers are lightly touching her bottom lip, like she's struggling to believe what just transpired.

"Fate says I've been wanting you to do that for longer..."

Tighnari's brows shoot to his hairline, but Mona isn't done.

"...and that, you should do it again."

Tighnari has never obliged someone easier.

Chapter Text

Collei is visiting Mondstadt again. Since her Eleazar was cured, she's been taking any opportunity she can to visit the wind-blessed city. There's something that feels so nostalgic about it, somehow.

This time around, she's going alone (with explicit permission and encouragement from Tighnari) but surprisingly, she's not too anxious about it. Since Windblume, she's gotten to know some of the locals better, and her anxiety lessens with each successful interaction.

This time, she's met a boy named Bennett. He's apparently notorious for having abhorrent luck, and Collei can't help but empathize with the boy. Despite this fact, and the multiple scars Collei can see wrapping around his arms, he's a certified ray of sunshine. His personality is nice without being overbearing, and he easily carries conversations. He doesn't seem to mind when Collei gets quiet or overwhelmed, either.

Right now, they're on the path outside the city on the way to Wolvendom, because Bennett wanted to bring Collei to meet his friend who goes by "Razor." Collei's nervous, of course, and she always will be when meeting new people, but Bennett keeps insisting that he thinks her and Razor would get along great. Collei feels incredibly impelled to believe him.

"I think you guys are pretty similar!" Bennett says, kicking a pebble along the dirt path.

Collei watches the pebble bump along the ground until it eventually stills. The thicket is getting a bit denser, they must be getting close.

"Really?" She responds.

"Yeah! Like you're both quiet and don't really talk much."

Collei ponders that for a few moments. Is Razor anxious like her? She's been trying her best not to judge, but it is a bit strange that he lives in the woods.

"Oh." Collei wrings her hands, stepping around a puddle on the ground. Bennett walks right through it.

"We're almost there!" He calls out cheerily, even though they're only a few feet apart.

Just as they pass a tree whose roots are half-out the ground, the previously normal bush next to Collei rustles loudly. Immediately on alert, Collei whips towards it, but doesn't have time to pull her bow out before a large grey blur rushes out from it, barreling straight towards her.

Collei yelps, and in her scramble to dodge the attacker, trips on one of the roots, only just barely catching herself before she falls face first into the dirt. Her hands take the brunt of the impact, but the earth is unforgiving, and her knees happened to scrape against some protruding rocks.

She doesn't linger on the sting for long, and instead shifts from her hands and knees to sit on the ground, scooting away until her back hits the bark of a tree. What was that? Why did it try to attack her?? Oh, she shouldn't've let her guard down! And where even is it???

Collei's breathing speeds up as she rapidly scans her surroundings, quickly finding out that Bennett's also gone. What the heck?!

Before she can fully spiral into panic, the aforementioned white-haired boy stumbles into her view, covered in much more dirt than before.

"Collei! Collei? Are you okay?" Bennett sounds actually worried, kneeling in front of her.

Collei blinks rapidly, taking in the still sounds of the trees around her, the distant sound of waves lapping at a shore.

She breathes out shakily. "Yeah, yeah. I'm okay." It's only then that she notices someone had followed Bennett. Someone new.

Collei shifts to get a better view of them, and discovers they have even more scars than Bennett does. They look to be around the same age, and they're the same height as Bennett. Their hair is long and silver, incredibly unkempt but tucked mostly into a hood. Their clothes are... interesting, to say the least.

"Um," Collei starts, no intention to finish the sentence. The person has not stopped staring at her. She can't read their expression.

Bennett looks between Collei and their new visitor. His face quickly lights up in a grin, and he stands to drape an arm around the person's shoulder to bring them closer.

"This is Razor! We met him a little earlier than I thought we would." He says with a laugh, scratching the back of his neck.

Collei tries her hardest to not let her shock show on her face. The thing that attacked them was the person they were going to meet?!

Suddenly, and without a word, the boy slips from Bennett's hold and approaches Collei. Collei, still cautious and slightly not trusting, eyes him warily, pressing back against the tree trunk.

Bennett puts his hands on his hips, watching the exchange unfold. "He won't hurt you. He may have been raised by wolves, but he doesn't bite! Unless you're prey, of course."

"Raised by... wolves?" Collei looks back at the rugged boy, who has come to a stop beside her. Luckily, he seems to grasp the concept of personal space.

The boy— Razor— however, isn't looking at Collei. At least, not at her face. He instead has a frown directed towards Collei's knee, where the ground had cut through her stocking and subsequently her skin. It's not a severe injury by any means, but there's visible blood.

Suddenly, Razor's eyes jump back to Collei's. She's never seen someone with eyes like his. They're a very striking red.

"Sorry... for scaring you." Razor says, brow still creased.

It seems Bennett was right, he is a boy of few words.

Collei smiles tremulously. "That's alright, I- uh- might've overreacted."

Razor shakes his head, messy hair bouncing with the movement. He looks back at Collei's knee, and holds his hand out.

"Here." He says, with no further explanation.

"Uh..."

"Give Razor your knee. Razor can help."

"Oh, okay."

Slowly, Collei unfolds her leg from it's previous spot folded to her body. She winces when it stretches the skin around her cut. More blood pools out.

Razor's gloved hand carefully slides to the underside of her knee, and he examines the cut further.

"Needs wash. Dirt in wound bad, infection bad." He looks back at Bennett, who was idly standing nearby.

"Bennett. Lake."

Bennett gives an enthusiastic thumbs up. "You got it! It's just nearby, we can help you get there, Collei!"

Collei flushes, hands waving wildly in front of her. "Oh, no! That's okay! I- I can walk." But Bennett and Razor are already lifting her arms over their shoulders. When Razor's other hand settles on her waist, she doesn't find herself hating the touch.

Despite her insistence, the pain still makes her limp slightly, and the supports on either side of her help. Maybe she also sprained her ankle when she tripped...? That thought carries her to the, true to Bennett's word, nearby shore that Collei heard waves from earlier.

They set Collei down just a few feet away from the water, and Bennett backs up a respectful distance away.

"I'm afraid my presence might somehow make this worse, with my bad luck and all, so I'll be right over here!" He explains, before Collei can even ask.

Meanwhile, Razor had taken his gloves off and is cupping water from the lake in his bare palms. He shuffles over, and slowly releases the water over Collei's knee. He repeats this process until the dirt and blood are washed away as good as they can be.

He wipes the excess off on his pants, and then they're just sitting in silence. Razor looks like he's having the world's most intense debate in his head, so Collei leaves him to it. Just as the silence becomes stifling, he seems to come to a decision, because he starts to get close to Collei's knee.

Really close. Collei immediately tries to interject.

"Uh- um- Razor—" and then he licks her knee.

Collei is stunned into absolute silence.

Razor studies the injury heavily, looking immensely disappointed. 

"Purple witch says kiss heals wound. She lied." His tone is nothing short of perplexed.

Bennett's echoing burst of laughter serves as the backtrack to Collei's mounting hysteria. That  was supposed to be a kiss?!

Chapter Text

Layla groans softly from her spot on Aether's lap, head pillowed on his thighs. He pauses in the stroking of her hair as she pries her eyes open, an unhappy expression scrunching her face up.

A light warm breeze ruffles Aether's hair and the grass around them. The sun is still well above their heads, but it’s on its way to setting.

Since that day the two of them came up to this hill and watched the sunset together, it had become a regular meeting spot for them. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they just enjoyed the view in silence. Most times, it was a way for Layla to finally relax and get a nap in.

Aether smiles gently down at his girlfriend, meeting her eyes when she blinks sleepily up at him.

"Something wrong?" He asks, resuming his fingers' path through Layla's soft hair.

Layla frowns. "I think I'm so tired that I can't sleep.” She curls towards Aether's body, yawning. "Does that even make sense?"

Aether hums thoughtfully, lacing the fingers of their free hands together. "Kind of. Anything I can do?"

Layla's eyes shut momentarily, enjoying the feeling of safety A ether blankets her in. "Could you..." she starts bashfully, before stopping.

Aether swipes his thumb across Layla's temple and back to her hair, squeezing her hand in encouragement. In truth, he'd do anything for her. Layla is modest and doesn’t ask for much, so she's likely just embarrassed about her request.

Layla takes a deep breath. Her eyes are still closed, but she squeezes Aether's hand back.

"Could you hum for me...?" Layla finally says, cheeks a light pink.

Aether smiles warmly, even though he knows Layla can’t see it. "Of course. Anything in particular?"

Layla shakes her head the best she can while pressed against Aether's thigh. It mostly just causes her to nuzzle further into the fabric of his pants.

Aether chuckles. "Alright."

He quickly racks his brain for a tune to hum, eventually settling on something soft and melodic. Before he begins, he hunches over to kiss Layla's forehead.

"Sleep now, Layla," he whispers against the pale skin.

Layla mumbles an agreement, and easily drifts into blissful sleep with Aether's voice as her lullaby.

Chapter Text

Thoma was doing some routine dusting in the Kamisato Estate when one of the guards stationed outside told him he had a visitor.

You see, while Thoma might be known as the "fixer-upper" of Ritou, that didn't necessarily mean he was someone of high status. He was only the Lord's housekeeper, afterall. So he was quite surprised at this fact. So surprised, that he immediately set down his duster and followed behind the guard as they made their way to the entrance of the estate.

Thoma was very curious for who it was, and briefly he wondered if the traveler had visited, and needed something from him. However, when he crossed the threshold to meet this mystery visitor, there was no blond hair in sight. Instead, a man named Shikanoin Heizou stood waiting.

He already knows of Heizou and his work as Inazuma's detective. He's quite skilled at what he does, as well. The guard bows respectfully to the two gentlemen before returning to their post.

Heizou's arms are folded across his chest, fingers tapping his bicep idly.

Thoma smiles amicably at the shorter man as he approaches. "I s there something I  can do for you, detective?"

"Just Heizou is fine," said detective responds.

Thoma's smile widens. "Well, Heizou, what might be the purpose of your visit? I can't say I'm quite used to people asking specifically to see me."

Heizou's fingers stop their drumming, and he tilts his chin up to make eye contact with Thoma. His expression is suddenly serious, causing Thoma's smile to drop.

"Yes, well, I was actually hoping I could request your assistance in a recent case."

Thoma's eyes widen. "A case? Me? Why? What kind of case?"

Heizou chooses to ignore all of Thoma's questions, and instead holds his hand out. "Give me your hand, please."

Thoma misses the mischievous glint in Heizou's eyes through his confusion.

"Uh, okay...?" Thoma says warily, and places his hand in Heizou's. Heizou's own smaller one twists, turning to hold Thoma's fingers in a loose grip.

"You see..." Heizou begins, "there's been a robbery, and I'm afraid you are involved."

Thoma looks between their hands and Heizou's eyes. "I understand, but what do I have to do with it? Am I a suspect?" Thoma's last question sounds significantly more nervous than before. It makes Heizou chuckle.

"You're spot on. As expected from a man working closely under the Yashiro commissioner."

Thoma feels a tad bit speechless, but it doesn't seem to matter anyways, because Heizou keeps speaking.

The detective brings Thoma's hand close up to his face before continuing. "You, sir, are the thief who stole my heart."

Then, he kisses the back of Thoma's hand.

Thoma, on the other hand, is going through at least five different emotions at the moment. Namely, utter confusion, but he eventually lands on a mixture of flustered and disbelief.

"Did you come all the way here just to use a pickup line on me?" He asks, incredulously, eyeing the smiling man in front of him.

Heizou winks. "Did it work?"

Thoma realizes their hands are still connected, so he shakes off Heizou's light grasp and frowns in an attempt to hide his warm cheeks. "That is— incredibly unprofessional. And no, that lead-in was terrible. You had me thinking someone had wrongfully framed me."

Heizou shrugs in a what-can-you-do way, tipping his head to the side. "That's unfortunate, I'll have to come up with something else."

Thoma facepalms, willing his blush to go away. "If that's all, then I hope you'll be on your way, detective. I have chores to attend to."

"But of course, Thoma, you're a busy man." Heizou says, cheekily.

Thoma nods, once, ignoring the teasing tone. "Well, then farewell." And begins to walk back into the estate.

"I'll come back again when I've thought of another one!" Heizou calls out behind him.

Thoma keeps walking until he knows he's out of sight, and tries to ignore the tiny part of him that looks forward to it. He's only partially successful.

Chapter Text

Kaeya decided to extend his stay in Sumeru.

He had just planned to visit, to take some time off from being a knight so he could simply just be a human. A vacation, if you will. Now, four days later, he feels he's seen everything he can see. Well, almost everything.

Kaeya's heels click along polished flooring as the Akademiya's doors open automatically, granting him entry into the lavish interior.

Admittedly, he had asked around for a certain someone during his four days enjoying everything Sumeru has to offer. He couldn't help himself, curiosity eating away at him when he had heard offhand comments about a "General Cyno."

He doesn't have to wait long before a deep voice sounds from behind him. "Were you the one asking for me?"

Kaeya turns and— the man in front of him looks significantly different than he did those few years ago. He carries himself differently; the air around him is charged with a confident kind of energy, a confidence one can only achieve with experience. His gaze is cold but there is an undeniable warmth swimming in his eyes. He'd be intimidating if Kaeya was a criminal. He muses that's probably the goal.

Kaeya catches Cyno's eyes the exact moment he flicks them up from his chest. Recognition flashes in the scarlet as they hold contact, and Kaeya feels his lips ticking up on one side. "Indeed I am."

Cyno stares for a moment, and then— "Cavalry Captain." He greets, crossing his arms over his chest.

Kaeya's smirk melts into a smile, eyebrow raising. "Please, Kaeya is fine. No need to be so formal."

Cyno tilts his head in acknowledgment. "Is this important, Kaeya? I'm afraid I'm a busy man."

Kaeya chuckles. "Come now, you can spare a few moments to chat with an old friend, can't you?"

Cyno raises a brow, looking close to refuting the 'old friend' comment, but eventually sighs through a drawn out blink. "Very well," and he joins Kaeya's side, leading them out of the Akademiya. It isn't until they're stepping onto the cobbled streets of Sumeru city that Kaeya speaks.

"It's been a while... General Mahamatra , is it?" Kaeya smirks.

"Cyno, is fine." He says, parroting Kaeya's earlier words. He shoots a glance over, expression maintaining its usual neutrality.

As they walk, Kaeya twirls his coin between his fingers. "You haven't forgotten me, have you?"

Cyno huffs. "What might someone like you be doing in Sumeru's Akademiya?" He asks, ignoring Kaeya's question altogether.

Kaeya purses his lips. Looking for you. "Just sight-seeing. I am on vacation, after all."

Cyno hums, letting the conversation fade away. Kaeya takes the opportunity to really soak in the shorter man's profile. The bits of information he gathered from locals doesn't do the real thing justice. He'd gotten tidbits of his personality, or at least, the personality he has as the "great General Mahamatra". Nobody had mentioned how... well— beautiful, he is.

A calloused hand grabbing his wrist pulls Kaeya from his musings, as well as literally pulls him away from the main street, Cyno leading them to a corner where a building meets the giant tree that the city is built upon. Caught off guard, all Kaeya can do is stare at the man in front of him as the sounds of vendors and casual conversations fade away. When they come to a stop, Cyno sends one more glance to the opening of this- makeshift alleyway, before turning back to Kaeya.

"Is this supposed to be a tour?" Kaeya attempts to joke, feeling uncharacteristically nervous as those simmering eyes pin him to the spot.

Cyno's hand moves from Kaeya's wrist to his forearm, letting the awkward silence hang between them. Cyno's eyes focus intently on Kaeya's only visible one, as if attempting to find deeper meaning. When he begins to lean forward, Kaeya's eyes widen in understanding.

All it takes is a barely-there nod before Cyno tugs Kaeya down by the grip on his arm, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. Kaeya blinks, processing, and then lifts his free hand to cup Cyno's nape and drag him back in.

The kiss doesn't advance past a simple press of lips against lips, very mindful of the public setting, but Kaeya's heart pounds behind his ribs anyways.

When they separate, Cyno is the one smirking.

"We have catching up to do, don't we?" Kaeya murmurs against Cyno's lips.

The white-haired man hums in agreement. "Join me for dinner in the tavern at dusk. We can talk then." He then releases his grip on Kaeya and steps back.

A delighted smile lights up Kaeya's features even as he silently mourns the loss of Cyno's skin on his. "Then, l'll be seeing you soon, Cyno."

Kaeya catches the smirk widening to a smile as Cyno nods before turning to leave. Smothering the giddiness in his chest, Kaeya waits a respectable time before also exiting the discreet spot. Cyno is nowhere to be seen. As Kaeya walks with no real destination in mind, his fingertips absently come to rest on his bottom lip, curved into a smile.

Dusk can't come sooner.

Chapter Text

Ayaka is humming a soft Inazuman tune, curled in Shenhe's lap. The latter's chin rests on her head, and she's sitting still as Ayaka idly plays with her scarred fingers. A gentle breeze ruffles the leaves of the tree they're under, but it's warm, and Shenhe's body shields Ayaka from most of it.

For the two of them, they don't need to be like stereotypical couples, all lovey-dovey and such; just this gentle intimacy is more than enough, especially since it took so long for Shenhe to be warmed up to the idea of affection, a foreign concept for the Adepti pupil.

A gentle sigh moves the chest Ayaka is resting on, prompting her humming to drift off. She sits up to look at Shenhe's expression, only to find her already staring back. Ayaka doesn't think she'll ever get used to having the intensity of those eyes directly on her. She flushes under the attention, as always, but clears her throat nevertheless.

"Is something the matter?" She asks, gently threading their fingers together, a show of silent support.

Shenhe's lips quirk into a smile, the small one that brings light to her eyes— Ayaka's favorite; a smile just for her. Shenhe shakes her head.

Ayaka tilts her own, but before she can question her girlfriend further, those beautiful eyes are closing and that smile is pressing against her lips, vision full of soft, pale skin and white hair.

Ayaka, with her heart ballooning in her chest, closes her eyes and kisses back, ever happy to indulge in any affection Shenhe initiates, as rare as it is.

Shenhe pulls away, and her eyes gleam like opals, stealing Ayaka's breath away. "What was that for?" She whispers, cheeks a healthy shade of pink.

"Just... happy." Shenhe responds, turning Ayaka into a mushy puddle.

Ayaka breathes through the surge of affection and leans back on Shenhe's chest, ear pressed to her steadily thumping heart.

"I'm glad," she eventually manages, brushing her thumb along the back of Shenhe's hand.

Shenhe hunches to nuzzle her cheek against Ayaka's forehead.

"...I love you."

Ayaka almost cries.

"I love you too."

Chapter Text

"Traveler, you wouldn't happen to be free tonight, would you?"

Aether raises a brow at Lyney's smirk. Though they haven't known each other for very long, Aether's at least able to tell when Lyney's trying to cover something else up with that disarming smile of his. From the way his hands are awkwardly held at his sides, he must be nervous about something.

He somehow caught Aether and motioned him aside when Paimon was ordering from Court of Fontaine's café. It's just the two of them, out of earshot from any possibly nosy customers.

"I guess so?" Aether answers hesitantly. "I've just got basic commissions to do for the day, and I don't think Paimon has any big plans for us— as far as I'm aware."

Lyney's expression brightens considerably, sending of flash of wariness through Aether's mind. "...Why?" He asks.

Lyney grins, and wordlessly takes Aether's hand, bringing the scarred knuckles up to his lips. A fleeting kiss is pressed to tan skin as their eyes lock. "I'd like to invite you out to dinner, my liege. What do you say?"

Aether noticeably doesn't pull his hand away, but he does visibly cringe. "'My liege'? Since when did you talk like that?"

Lyney chuckles and releases his grip. "Just wanted to try it out. That's a no, I presume?"

"Yeah, no," Aether deadpans. Then he smiles. "Just stick with my name, please."

Lyney cocks his head. "But I don't know your name."

"Agh. You know what I mean."

"So? You're free?" Lyney's voice is notably more excited than before. The fact he's so eager about simply having a meal with Aether makes him huff out a soft laugh.

"I am," he says around a smile. "What time do you expect my presence?"

"17:00 at Hotel Debord, I humbly request your attendance." Lyney crosses his legs and gives a flourishing bow , playing along with Aether's jokingly fancy speech.

"Alright, alright, enough," Aether laughs. Lyney tamps down on his grin as he bends back to standing.

Lyney's about to respond when an all-too familiar whooshing sound approaches them from behind. "Traveler! They had new pastries today, and they're super yummy! Come try s— wait, Lyney? What are you doing here?"

Aether accepts the scone Paimon hands him, and throws one last glance towards Lyney. "I'll see you then, Lyney."

"See him for what? What did you guys talk about? Is Paimon coming too?"

"You couldn't survive a few hours without me, Paimon."

"Hey!"

Their bickering continues down the Court's street, leaving behind a certain giddy magician just barely suppressing from dancing in joy.

Chapter Text

Lyney has been practicing for his next big show for multiple months straight. It's tiring— exhausting, on certain days— but it always fills him with a sense of accomplishment coming home having made progress. There's one particular trick towards the end that both him and, surprisingly, Lynette are nervous for. Despite her not outwardly showing it, Lyney can tell by the way her ears pin just slightly back, how her shoulders are tenser than normal.

Regardless, the show must go on, and therefore the practice must also go on. By the time the twins are feeling confident in their execution of the performance, the anticipation is building like lava in a volcano. Lyney trusts himself and Lynette; they've been doing magic together for years upon years. But, alas, this doesn't prevent Lyney from being a ball of nerves an hour before the show is set to begin.

Already, audience members are grabbing their early seats, each one of them with barely-contained excitement in their hushed voices. Lyney himself is backstage, pacing across the wooden floorboards. Lynette is doing her own pre-show preparation, sipping tea on a nearby couch.

It's not like him to have doubts, and that's not exactly what's getting under his skin at the moment. It's just—

Lyney's anxious train of thought slows to a halt when he hears heavy boots approaching that are decisively not Lynette's. The clink of metal— chains— greets his ears seconds after, and he doesn't even have to whirl around to know who's walking up to him right now. He does anyways.

Wriothesley gives him a wave, slowing his steps as he approaches Lyney's side. Lyney makes a conscious effort to settle his expression into a confident smile, posture straightening. Unfortunately, his efforts are for nothing, because the first thing Wriothesley says to him is, "you seem more nervous than usual."

Lyney attempts for his usual tone, but doesn't quite land it. "Really? How so?" 

Wriothesley crosses his arms. He's already tall enough as is, but his heels make him positively tower over Lyney. "You know I can read you better than that. Don't bother."

Lyney allows his shoulders and smile to drop, sighing. "As is the unfortunate truth."

Wriothesley's voice softens, stepping fully into Lyney's space. "So? What's the issue tonight, hm?"

"Nothing in particular— honest." Lyney debates how to communicate his worries. "There's just a complicated trick at the end that has my nerves on edge." Wriothesley slowly interlocks their fingers, silently urging him to continue.

"I just... I don't know what I'll do if something goes wrong again."

Wriothesley lets the ensuing silence hang between them, gathering his thoughts. "You're an extremely capable and talented magician," he says, deep voice rumbling from his chest. "You and I both know that. Lynette would even tell you that if you asked her." He squeezes Lyney's hand a little tighter.

"Knowing you two, it'll be one of the most spectacular shows you'll ever pull off." He smiles, mirth filling icy blue eyes. "Besides, I can be a witness at your hearing if something does go wrong. I'm a very persuasive man."

Despite the grim implications of the joke, Lyney finds himself smiling along. "I suppose you're right."

Wriothesley's other hand drops to Lyney's waist, pulling their bodies together. "And," he murmurs, ducking down until their lips are inches apart, "I'll be watching, so there's nothing to worry about." He punctuates his sentence by closing the minuscule distance between them, planting a firm kiss to Lyney's lips. "For luck," Wriothesley explains.

Lyney's worries feel blessedly lighter, sucked away by the soft look in Wriothesley's eyes and the way he speaks with utmost surety. "The great magician Lyney doesn't require luck," Lyney smirks, smoothing his hand over Wriothesley's chest.

Wriothesley grins wolfishly, fangs glinting in the low light. "He doesn't, does he?" His eyes bore into Lyney's own, and suddenly it's just the two of them, close together in this bubble they've created with each other.

"Ahem. Are you two done? It's twenty minutes until showtime."

Wriothesley flinches near-imperceptibly at the sudden voice. Lyney, having heard that voice his entire life, simply smiles over his shoulder at Lynette.

"Yes, I believe we are done." He turns back to Wriothesley even as they separate, watching in amusement as the tall man clears his throat in embarrassment. "You better get your seat before they're all taken."

Wriothesley nods, and does a mock-salute as he backs towards the door, addressing both twins. "I'm excited to see this, you know. Don't let me down."

Lynette simply blinks wordlessly at him, while Lyney smiles and feels relief lighten his chest when it forms easily. "Wouldn't dream of it."

The click of the door shutting echoes in the empty room. Resolve gathers in Lyney's chest, and he frowns determinedly at Lynette. "Let's go over this one more time."

His worries aren't important now. They've got a show to put on.

Chapter Text

"Shouldn't we stop meeting like this?" Kokomi whispers, backed against the stone wall of her private "study." Sara has one strong arm caging her in, firmly keeping her there (as if Kokomi would want to be anywhere but here right now).

"Why?" She asks, voice a touch rough. Like it always is when she's trying to whisper but just ends up with something low and soft.

"If we're caught, it could be detrimental to both of our professional reputations, miss Kujou."

Sara's golden eyes blink three times in the ensuing silence where Kokomi worries she's just ruined everything, before Sara's lip ticks up. "Wasn't it you that said people know not to disturb you when you're here, priestess Kokomi?"

Kokomi breathes out something soft and shaky, trapped in the honeyed gaze of Sara's unrelenting stare. "Yes."

"Then..." Sara starts, leaning even further into Kokomi's space, until their breaths intermingle. "We won't get caught, right?"

Carefully, Kokomi brings her hand that was previously braced against the wall behind her to lay on Sara's shoulder. "Yes," she says, like a broken record.

Sara hums. "Besides, I'm not that careless. You think I'm not also aware of the risk?" Her eyes flick down to Kokomi's parted lips. "It's worth it, is it not?" And then she finally leans in the last centimeters separating them, wiping any other thoughts of risked secrecy from Kokomi's mind.

It's dangerous, the power Sara has over her in moments like these; the priestess of Watatsumi Island, reduced to a puddle from a pretty lady kissing her. Sure, she's also just a bit in love with the pretty lady, but, well, can you blame her?

The kiss is familiar, since this arrangement has been going on for a near-month now. Sara's lips are fuller than her own, and slightly more chapped. It's blissful. No matter how many times Sara grips Kokomi's small waist and tilts her head to kiss her deeper, it'll make Kokomi's stomach flip every time.

It's worth it, is it not? Sara had said.

Yes, definitely worth it , Kokomi thinks, arms looped around Sara's neck.

To hell with reputations. Kokomi trusts Sara, after everything. They'd figure it out. For now, nothing's more important than just enjoying this moment while it lasts.

Chapter Text

There's something so intimately freeing about dancing to Nilou. It gives her the ability to lose herself in the flow of one movement to the next. It's her life's passion, and it's just her luck that she gets to share it with people with a likeminded love for the art.

The theater feels like her second home a lot of the times, the troupe there her family. Little in her life is as important as this, which is why she's over the moon about sharing it with her girlfriend.

Dehya's busy, very busy, so their schedules hardly ever line up in time for Dehya to watch Nilou's performances. The woman herself has expressed how regrettable she is over this, that she wants nothing more than to watch Nilou dance. So that's why this show in particular is so important.

Because finally, finally , after nearly two and a half months of trying, Dehya finally has a free day that coincides with Nilou's performance. Nilou feels like she's almost vibrating out of her skin in excitement, flitting about from person to person in preparation while waiting for the designated time Dehya promised she'd come.

Each member she speaks to has the same fond smile on their face, watching their dancer lit up with eagerness. Nilou's usually more collected than this, but knowing she's at long last able to dance for Dehya has her brimming with happiness.

One minute before Dehya agreed to arrive (Nilou's been counting) a troupe member taps her on the shoulder and she turns around to see Dehya approaching, smile already present and accounted for.

Nilou meets her halfway and jumps into Dehya's arms, who easily catches her around the waist with a laugh. "Wow! You're excited," she says, leaning down the exact same time Nilou stretches up for a kiss.

"And you're here!" Nilou exclaims once they part.

Dehya's smile widens to a grin, something infinitely soft in her eyes that sends warmth like a licking flame through Nilou's chest. "I am. And I can't wait."

Nilou kisses her again, just because she can.

"You're gonna love it."

They separate enough for Nilou to stand back upright, but lock their fingers together.

"I know I will."

Chapter Text

"Comfortable?"

Layla sighs, feeling her own breath rebound off the pale skin her face is tucked into. Wriothesley shivers at the feeling, one-arm grip tightening around Layla's waist.

"Mhm," Layla slurs, already halfway to sleep.

Wriothesley huffs out the beginnings of a laugh, smile quirking his lips. "Good. Sleep as long as you like."

"'Kay..." Layla nuzzles further into Wriothesley's neck, breathing in the familiar scent of chamomile and metal. Her knees press against Wriothesley's sides, but he'd already said it wasn't uncomfortable, so Layla just has to trust him.

Currently, they're in Wriothesley's office, in the Fortress of Meropide. It wasn't Layla's first time here, since she'd taken to visiting the underwater facility whenever she had time (which wasn't very often), so the rusted walls had become a comforting sight.

She had planned originally to have tea with Wriothesley, maybe coax him to take a stroll around, but alas her chronic exhaustion had kicked in, and her eyelids were drooping a few sips in. Wriothesley had graciously offered her his couch to rest on, while he continued his paperwork.

"Wanna be with you," Layla had said, shaking her head. She already felt bad enough about wasting The Duke's time, so maybe some physical closeness could count as their time together instead.

Wriothesley blinked a few times, before nodding and opening his arms. "Well then, come here."

A flush immediately colored Layla's cheeks, but thinking about curling up in Wriothesley's large, warm embrace won over her embarrassment. Besides, there was this soft look in his eyes that encouraged her closer. So, she found herself stepping up to Wriothesley's chair and awkwardly crawling onto his lap. Large hands easily guided her movements, and soon she was straddling his lap, arms hugging his torso.

"Won't this get in the way of your work...?" Layla had asked, already sinking into Wriothesley's surprisingly warm body.

"Not at all," he assured, "I can still use my arms like this." He scooted the both of them in his chair forward, until his hands met the metal table. "See?"

"Oh," Layla said with a yawn.

And thus brings them to now, with Layla a handful of breaths away from falling asleep completely.

Right before she succumbs, Layla presses her lips to Wriothesley's neck in a lingering kiss, directly below his pulse point. In response, a large hand pets scarred fingers down her spine, urging her to finally rest.

She sighs her appreciation, and falls beneath the murky depths of unconsciousness.

Unbeknownst to her, Wriothesley is smiling softly as he feels her body finally go sleep-lax, whispering a quiet, "sleep well."

Chapter Text

There is something magical about watching Ayaka dance. Whether it be her dress that rises around her like a cloud, or her silky hair that flows like water, her twirls and steps are mesmerizing. And it's not even something she's done by necessity. It's simply a hobby for her. On top of being an extraordinary swordswoman, she can also dance as if she alone controls the gravity around her.

Compared to that... Lyney is absolutely dismal. Sure, as a magician, he knows how to perform slights of hands and specific maneuvers to catch the audiences attention, but dancing? Not his thing. What did an orphan need from dancing? And then as a Fatuus? Needless to say, he's in desperate need of some lessons.

The opportunity presents itself when he finds himself in Inazuma, under the guise of a granted vacation from Father. The word "vacation" has him feeling nervous, because while Father is gracious and cares for The House, Lyney's pretty sure Fatui don't take vacations. Either way, he's not one to let this opportunity pass him by, so him and his siblings boarded a ship and arrived in the beautiful nation of eternity.

He had run into Ayaka by chance, surprised to see her out and about when he'd found out she typically doesn't leave her estate. He had introduced himself with a bow, of course, as well as the stoic girl at his side. Freminet had opted for staying back at their temporary housing, unsurprisingly. Ayaka returned the gesture politely, head bowing to allow Lyney to watch her icy hair fall over her shoulder like mist, and sun to gleam on the armor at her shoulders.

From then on, Ayaka humored the foreign guests as they strolled around the city. At some point, Lynette had slunk away with a nod to Lyney, indicating her social battery had depleted. Lyney let her go with a wave, and then it was just him and the Kamisato's younger sibling. Their chatter carried them throughout most of the day as they walked and talked and ate. Ayaka treated Lyney to some of her favorite Inazuman snacks, eagerly watching Lyney's reaction to the unfamiliar cuisine.

It was surprising how easily and how well they got along. Ayaka seemed shy at times, but Lyney knew when to ease up on his teasing, and seeing her smiles was more than worth it.

Hours passed by like minutes, and it wasn't until they passed through the entrance to Chinju Forest that their conversation slowed to a stop. Lyney marveled at the way the moonlight shining through the trees set the grass aglow, blue luminescence lighting the way as their heels clicked along the stone path.

At one point, they came upon a clearing, where the trees formed something like a circle, the canopy thinning to make way for the streaks of blue-white light as if it was slicing through the air. It was marvelous. Lyney's eyes scanned the scenery, committing the gorgeous image to memory. He intended to keep walking, but heard Ayaka's accompanying steps abruptly stop. She gasped softly, and when Lyney turned to inquire what had caught her eye, she was already stepping off the stone, shoes meeting soft grass.

Lyney watched, confused, as she eventually came to a stop directly in the middle of the almost-circle. She did a few slow turns, silver eyes darting around the environment like she was mapping out its features. She smiled to herself and nodded, before turning towards Lyney. She hadn't said anything, and Lyney was loathe to break the ethereal atmosphere that had settled around them like a light fog, so he didn't speak as well.

She looked to be searching for something on Lyney's face, so he offered her a raise of his eyebrows. She blinked in response, face softening, before she approached the magician once more. She came to a stop a meter away from him, holding out her hand.

"Won't you come dance, Lyney?" Ayaka asked sweetly, cheeks tinging a soft pink. The light lit her from behind, creating a halo that made her hair shine like freshly fallen snow.

Lyney was momentarily stunned, but he was careful to keep his expression light as his eyes tracked from her pale face to her hand extended towards him. Without a second thought, he placed his hand in hers, quickly slipping his palm down to take a light hold of her dainty fingers. He stepped off the path, bringing him close enough to the now-blushing woman to see the different shades of gray in her eyes.

"It would be my pleasure," he purred, and raised her hand to his lips. He planted a soft kiss on the inside of her wrist, just by her pulse, watching her eyes widen. "Miss Ayaka."

Though her cheeks blazed magenta, she smiled at the gesture. "Very well," she said, notably breathier than before.

As she led Lyney into the clearing, it felt as though he had stepped through a magical portal to another dimension. Everything seemed to glow under the caress of the moon, including Ayaka herself. She was positively radiant.

Small hand warm in his, quiet anticipation began to build in Lyney's chest. His heart skipped a beat as their eyes met.

"However, I do have to warn you," he blurted. Ayaka hummed in question. "I am a terrible dancer."

Ayaka's giggle was just as sweet as her perfume, "I'm not the judgmental type, no need to impress."

That's all Lyney needed to believe her.

"Then, shall we dance?"

Ayaka's eyes glimmered with mirth. "We shall."

Chapter Text

"Is this... really necessary?" Keqing mutters.

"Indulge me," Cyno responds lowly.

Keqing swallows back a sigh and leans into Cyno's arm around her waist. Frankly, she thinks this whole thing is ridiculous. What's the point of faking a relationship at all, especially for something as trivial as having a date for Lantern Rite? Regardless of Keqing's blossoming feelings for Cyno, this whole situation seems... unideal. 

It was Cyno who had approached Keqing with the request— phrased as an offer, but Keqing could sense the underlying plea— and after a moment of quiet deliberation, she accepted it with a nod. It's rare to see Cyno not only beyond his own nation, but also not on duty. 

A rare day off for the both of them, far be it for Keqing to deny such a leisurely night simply enjoying the festival. Besides, it had taken a singular glance at Ningguang to receive a knowing and encouraging smile, and, well, she couldn't say no after that. 

Cyno's dark fingers tighten their hold on Keqing's waist as they stroll about the city, admiring the glowing decorations and greeting the citizens respectively. Cyno brings her tighter against his side, leaning in to be heard above the bustling festivities. 

"It's even prettier than I imagined," he says, a note of genuine awe in his typically stoic voice, "did you have a hand in decorating?"

Keqing attributes the small shiver traveling down her spine as a result of cool night air brushing along her open back. She similarly leans in, a smile dancing across her lips when Cyno strokes her hip. 

"I oversee the planning and carrying out of the decorations, as well as ensuring all is prepared and set up in time, however, I'm not the one to design them. Does that answer your question?"

"Sure," Cyno hums, their conversation briefly fading into the night as they continue walking. 

Keqing enjoys the companionable silence settling over them, taking time to simply breathe in the familiar scent of salt and fish on the breeze. She meets the curious eyes of fellow Liyuens, the smarter ones averting their gazes. The attention doesn't bother her per say, but she is very aware of the few brave souls who openly whisper about the Yuheng, gossiping amongst themselves as to her current affairs. It's the type of conversation she scoffs openly at, and while she definitely isn't one to care about what people say about her, it feels different in this context. It feels like there's something she has to prove when she catches curious and probing glances at her and the man at her side.

"To what degree do you intend to upkeep this charade?" Keqing asks, bringing the two of them to a stop near the wharf. They're close enough to the water to hear it lapping at the docks below, but not so close that it overpowers the sounds of music and laughter. 

They separate in favor of facing each other properly, and Cyno raises an inquiring brow at the sudden question. 

"...Why do you ask?"

Keqing sees a pair of women giggling in her peripheral, whose eyes widen when she reaches up and laces her fingers at Cyno's nape. He isn't much taller than herself, but it's enough for him to have to duck his head to bring them face-to-face.

"Indulge me," Keqing says, purposefully repeating Cyno's earlier words.

Vermillion eyes widen, and Keqing finds them much more alluring than any citizens'. He nods silently, hands settling carefully at Keqing's waist. As if he wasn't the one to propose they do this frivolous operation in the first place, as if Keqing isn't the one who brought their bodies closer together. 

They lean in simultaneously and wordlessly. The moment their lips connect, a firework bursts to life above them in an explosion of golden sparks. Keqing frees a hand to thread fingers through long white hair, sighing at the feeling of Cyno's hand sliding to hold the small of her back. 

It's chaste, for the sake of public decency, yet Cyno's exhale is shaky when they pull back. "What was that for?"

Keqing observes with quiet satisfaction that prior straying eyes have finally left the fake couple alone, either in favor of allowing them privacy, or to instead enjoy the colorful light show lighting up the night sky. 

"Posterity's sake," Keqing explains, quick to soothe the barely-there flash of disappointment in Cyno's eyes with hands smoothing across his shoulders. "Now, General, let's enjoy the rest of the night, shall we?"

Keqing makes no objection when Cyno captures her lips in another lingering kiss. "Lead the way."

Chapter Text

"Don't go. Please."

Ganyu's voice is soft, softer than normal and almost too quiet to hear. There's something shameful laced into her tone, as if asking to spend more time with her lover will be met with shun.

As it were, Neuvillette sighs gently. "Is something the matter?"

Ganyu shakes her head, cornflower blue hair shifting with the movement. "Just..." she sighs. "Nevermind, I apologize."

Neuvillette surveys her expression. Despite his many years attempting to become acclimated to human behaviors, he still has a hard time with expressions, and understanding complex emotions. However, the two of them have been in a relationship for a little under a year. Neuvillette has had practice with Ganyu's specific type of emotional expression.

Eyes downcast and face carefully neutral: she's trying to appear more okay than she's really feeling. This... still perplexes Neuvillette sometimes; how humans often display fake moods to disguise their real emotions. Despite her half-Qilin origins, Ganyu resembles a human above all else.

Regardless, Neuvillette dislikes how the concealed sorrow weighs down Ganyu's face, so he gently takes her cheek in palm. Her skin has always been ridiculously soft. A gloved thumb strokes back and forth, and Neuvillette kneels down to lessen their considerable height difference. One knee on the floor, he's now eye-level with Ganyu, who had remained sitting in their temporary abode when Neuvillette stood to leave.

"You know I must go, we both have duties to attend to," Neuvillette says gently, "But that doesn't mean you'll never hear from me again, and you know that too."

Ganyu holds eye contact, cheeks the same rosy pink they always become when Neuvillette holds her so, and nods.

"So," Neuvillette says, "what is really the matter?"

He lets the silence that follows the probing question stretch on, patient to a fault. Absolutely loathe to rush his lover, he simply waits, watching a troubled expression begin to take form on Ganyu's face. She's likely attempting to find proper words for how she is feeling.

At last, she speaks, voice impossibly softer. No matter, Neuvillette is plenty close to hear her clearly. "I suppose it's... time," she says, then pauses.

Despite his confusion, Neuvillette remains silent. He knows Ganyu just needs an attentive listener out of him right now, so that is what he'll be. Her smaller hand reaches up to cover his own, slotting her fingers into the empty spaces so they're interlocked. She presses her cheek into the hold, lashes fluttering.

"We can only spend such select time with each other, and so infrequently, that I find myself... forgetting, or rather, deciding to avoid thinking about that fact altogether." She breathes a quiet, shaky breath. Neuvillette places a gentle hand on her knee, just to remind her that he is there, and listening.

She continues. "Because of this, it feels like waking from a pleasant dream whenever I am reminded of the truth; that we can never... spend long enough, together. I cherish every second, yet still want more." Her head dips, breaking the unsteady eye contact. "Isn't that... selfish of me?"

Neuvillette considers his words, once sure Ganyu is done speaking. "It is true that our responsibilities are inflexible- essential- to our nations' respective prosperity."

He sighs. "However, wishing you could spend more time with the one you love, suspend yourself in that happiness, is not selfish. I do not know much about these types of emotions, but I know intimately the reluctance to exit a dream once you have become comfortable in it. Quite human, no?"

Ganyu looks back up at that, and Neuvillette's heart hurts to see a thin sheen now covers her eyes. Wordlessly, he untangles their fingers apart and off of Ganyu's cheek, cradling both of her hands in his own.

"Despite my initial confusion... I can say that I have felt the same. The truth is, Ganyu, that these lives of ours have been different since our creation, and the only option is to adapt. I know well that you're incredible at that."

Neuvillette's lips tick up with a small smile. "The difference, now, is that you no longer have to do it alone."

Ganyu's eyes widen, tears gathering at her lashline. They suspend themselves in the heavy silence, and wet Ganyu's eyelashes as she blinks them away, but they do not fall. Her next smile is simultaneously relieved and saddened. Neuvillette can tell, in how the tenseness in her shoulders is gone, but how she seems resigned, come to a grim conclusion.

"You're right," she says, voice stronger than before. "I'll... just have to work with it, and the emotions it causes."

"We will work with it," Neuvillette corrects. "There is nowhere in Teyvat you can go where I won't be with you in some way." He leans up to kiss her forehead, making sure to linger long enough that their warmth bleeds together. "It will do you well to remember that."

When Neuvillette pulls back, Ganyu's smile is soft, prior despondency washed away.

He echoes her smile. "I will write to you three times a month. Whenever I can. Okay?"

Ganyu nods. "Okay."

"Truthfully?" Neuvillette asks.

"Yes," she confirms.

"Wonderful." Neuvillette pulls away with reluctance, but Ganyu shows no sign of her earlier sorrow. He stands gracefully, and Ganyu stands with him, walking him to the door.

Truthfully, he is only slightly surprised when Ganyu stretches up and kisses him, soft hands resting on his chest. He enjoys the softness of her lips, and the sweetness of her scent.

"Goodbye, Neuvillette," she says, before stepping back.

One hand on the doorknob, Neuvillette's lips part. "Though we are thousands of meters apart, it is not land uncrossable." A soft click, and light spills into the coziness of the room.

"See you soon, my love." With that, Neuvillette steps out into the salty sunshine of Liyue. He hardly registers the door shutting behind him, already drafting up the letters he will send to his lover.

Apart, but not unreachable. He will make sure of it.

Chapter Text

Liyue is saved. Safe. Thanks to the efforts of both Liyue’s people and the Adepti, as well as the Traveler.

Ningguang watches the waves recede with a swelling feeling of relief beneath her ribs. She had no doubt they would pull through in the end, as she was willing to sacrifice anything for her nation, but the nerves are at last settling.

She hears familiar footsteps click along the wooden dock, until a figure approaches her left.

“The sun shines on another day,” Ningguang says, in lieu of a greeting. The two of them are past formalities at the moment.

“Yes,” Keqing agrees, expression grim yet determined. “I suppose it’ll be a lot more work for the Qixing moving forward.”

Ningguang smiles. “Indeed.”

A salty breeze ruffles the women’s hair, the two of them watching as the Traveler and various Adepti exchange partings with one another.

“You sacrificed a lot,” Keqing says lowly, after a few moments of silence.

Ningguang merely hums in acknowledgement. It’s true that using the Jade Chamber was a last resort attack, but she wouldn’t hesitate if she had to do so again.

“It was necessary for victory. The citizens of Liyue will prosper in the absence.”

Another lapse into comfortable silence.

“Well,” Keqing says, before Ningguang feels two hands cradle her own. Surprised, she turns to her companion, immediately meeting the other’s eyes. “Lady Ningguang, I’m glad you’re alright.”

Ningguang, in that moment, truly doesn’t know how to react.

Then, slowly, Keqing brings their hands to her lips, pressing them gently to the backs of Ningguang’s knuckles.

“I’m relieved.”

A few quiet breaths, and then Ningguang smiles. The genuine kind of smile that creases the corners of her eyes. She cannot remember the last time she has smiled as so.

“As am I,” she says, and gives Keqing’s fingers a squeeze.

It would seem that the healing has already begun. Now… to begin the plans of constructing a new Chamber…

Chapter Text

"Shall I kiss it better?" Eula drawls, forced neutrality in her tone.

Jean pants, wipes stray dirt off her cheek, and scowls up at Eula. "No need."

"Hmph."

Claymore dug into the grass below them, Eula watches Jean catch her breath from the likely heavy-hitting blow Eula just dealt her. She's bent at the hip, knuckles white around the handle of her sword. There's no blood or visible scratches, but Eula knows well there's likely a myriad of bruises under Jean's layered clothing.

In hindsight, it was probably an unwise decision for two people with a not-so-friendly relationship to agree to spar regularly. While they're not directly hostile with each other, Eula takes her skills seriously, and knows just as well that Jean is a worthy matchup against her. She's not the Acting Grand Master for nothing, as much as the notion annoys Eula.

So of course they'd treat friendly sparring as a serious duel— save for spilling blood, they're careful to keep blades from slicing deep— and work each other up into a huff during it. Hence the taunting, which is uncharacteristic otherwise.

Something about seeing Jean's soft-skinned and pretty face twisted into an angry frown is gratifying, like its own form of sweet vengeance. 

She stands back up at last and rolls her shoulders out, adjusting her grip with a huff. Eula lifts her greatsword in response, and both of their expressions melt back into stone-faced concentration. Eula watches, heart kicking up in her chest due to adrenaline, as Jean's eyes plan their next attack.

Heavy clangs of metal meeting and dirt scuffing beneath their heels becomes drowned out by the blood roaring in Eula's ears. Birds chirp nearby, grass swaying in the wind, carrying with it the scent of dandelions. All sensory details that become lost to Eula as the two women engage in a dance of blades, flowing movements so practiced Eula could do them in her sleep.

Jean keeps her on her toes, as loathe as she is to admit it. All it takes is one centimeter too left a step, and the blunt end of Jean's sword knocks into Eula's shoulder with enough force to bruise. Eula barely flinches, rounding double-time on the blonde with teeth bared, just in time for an involuntary grunt the escape past as the wind is knocked straight out of her stomach.

Eula reels back the exact moment Jean backs off with a flick of her blade, both panting into the sudden quiet.

Jean smirks something proud, almost arrogant, completely out of place on her lips. "Well," she breathes, voice tinged with so much self-satisfaction that it makes Eula's stomach curdle, "that's quite a nasty bruise."

Eula's eyes narrow, cataloging Jean's approach before she even moves to do so. Her arms lift to defend once more, but all Jean does is lay a hand on her left shoulder. Chapped lips meet the bare skin there, blood pooling underneath as a bruise blooms red and aggravated.

"I kissed it better," she says, and nonchalantly brushes past Eula. "Shall we stop here?" 

Eula is left behind, jaw clenched, watching Jean's smirk turn infuriatingly sweet. "Unbelievable," she mutters lowly, hefting her claymore over her shoulder to dissipate into sparks.

"I'll be taking vengeance for that," Eula snaps at Jean’s back, skin burning at the carefree laugh she gets in return.

"Well, we're tied, so leave it to the next match,” Jean says over her shoulder.

Eula simply clicks her tongue, and strides to catch up.

Chapter Text

To Wriothesley, habits are one of the most effective ways of living, especially when you work a job like his. Since a lot of the workings of The Fortress come down to routines, once you create a habit for yourself, you're immediately set for success.

Though... there are some habits that are unintentional, ones that are simply drilled into your skull. Those ones, like what you do after you wake up, what order you get dressed in, are carried out subconsciously. Typically harmless things, right? 

Well... for Wriothesley himself...

"Ah, Miss Clorinde,” Wriothesley greets, meeting the woman halfway for a quick peck on the lips. 

She doesn’t smile, but her eyes are soft. Still in Work Mode. 

“How was your day?” he asks, leading Clorinde up the stairs in his office.

“The usual,” Clorinde replies, accepting the teacup handed to her. 

Wriothesley hums, and easily takes over the conversation from there, right up until Clorinde has to leave once more.

Wriothesley hardly checks if any civilians are looking their way before he kisses Clorinde, simply happy to be in his girlfriend’s company for something other than a work meeting. It lasts no longer than five seconds, and he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as he pulls back.

At this point, it’s their own personal way of greeting.

Together, likely drawing copious amounts of attention (the smart ones quickly look away and keep their whispering quiet), they make their way to the Court’s café.

Seated with their drinks, Clorinde crosses her legs. “What’s the occasion?”

Wriothesley blinks. “Hm?”

“You aren’t usually seen outside of Meropide.” 

“Ah,” Wriothesley hums, “Unfortunately, it is upon work bases. Sigewinne is scary enough to ensure order in my temporary absence.” 

Clorinde’s eyes glint with amusement. “Like you don’t trust the inmates themselves.”

Wriothesley chuckles. “I don’t remember denying that, did I?”

Clorinde rolls her eyes good-naturedly, fingers drumming on the table between them. Wriothesley said he was on the surface for work reasons, but that doesn’t mean he won’t make time for a bit of leisure, especially since he was able to convince Clorinde out. 

After all, now that the Archon no longer needs a bodyguard (due to her nonexistence), Clorinde has found herself with more free time. Of course Wriothesley will take advantage of that. 

When Clorinde’s fingers stop their steady pattern, Wriothesley sets down his hot tea. “Are you going to drink your coffee?”

Clorinde raises a brow at him. 

“I did pay for it, after all,” Wriothesley continues.

“Although I told you not to,” Clorinde fires back. Wriothesley simply grins.

“I couldn’t help myself,” he says, delighted when Clorinde gives in and finally takes a sip. 

“There. Happy?” 

Wriothesley leans across the round table, watching Clorinde’s lashes flutter like they always do when he gets close to her. They share a chaste kiss, and when Wriothesley pulls back, he licks his lips. 

“Very.” He watches Clorinde’s cheeks flush a light pink. “You have good taste in coffee.”

Clorinde sighs, long-suffering.

A week later finds Wriothesley hunched over a slowly dwindling pile of papers on his desk, massaging his temples. The sporadic tapping of his foot echoes soft thumps around the metal walls. 

Just as he sets aside another signed report, the large door to his office downstairs creaks open, and very familiar clicks of heels reach his ears. He perks embarrassingly quickly, already shoving his chair back to greet his most beloved guest. 

The second Clorinde enters his sight, he's meeting her halfway. She reciprocates the kiss as easily as she has the past hundreds of times, and Wriothesley only notices a shock of blond hair when a familiar voice clears their throat.

Jerking back, Wriothesley gulps. "Oh."

"I knew it!" Paimon screeches.

"It—" Wriothesley tries, but he's cut off by the Traveler's snicker.

"Don't bother. We won't tell anyone."

Clorinde tilts her head at them, then looks back at Wriothesley. "This was a secret?"

"I hope not, because wow are you guys obvious."

"Paimon!" Traveler hisses.

Wriothesley, mouth still slightly ajar, sighs wearily. "It's... fine. Worse rumors have been spread about me." 

"Is it still a rumor if it's true?" Paimon muses.

"We're leaving," Traveler announces suddenly, entirely to Paimon. They drag her behind them like a very strange, glittery balloon, boots clanging and echoing along the metal floors. Distantly, Wriothesley wonders what they came here for. Nothing important enough to stick around, apparently.

Silence reigns on the remaining pair, and only when the office's door shuts heavily does Clorinde's composure begin to crack. Her gloved hand raises to cover her mouth, shoulders shaking minutely.

"Oh my God..." Wriothesley mutters, partly mortified but mostly relieved.

Clorinde snorts, and gives up on concealing her laughter, throwing her head back as her other hand leans on Wriothesley's shoulder for support. It isn't long before Wriothesley's own wheezed chuckles join in the symphony of noise.

Wriothesley’s the one to recover first, speaking through a slightly pained smile. "You knew the whole time. You let me do that. I can't believe you'd betray me like this!"

"I couldn't help it! Your face was too good!" Clorinde doubles over, forehead meeting Wriothesley's chest as she seemingly recalls his likely horrified face. 

"You hate me," Wriothesley laments, though he's grinning all the same, hand resting on Clorinde's waist to stabilize her. He basks happily in his girlfriend's ringing laughter; it really has been too long since he heard her laugh like this.

She huffs out a last few amused breaths and straightens up, arms coming to rest upon Wriothesley’s shoulders. 

"I do,” she teases, and is already there when Wriothesley leans in.

A sudden thought enters Wriothesley's brain.

Perhaps they'll keep this habit up until their wedding day?

Chapter Text

"You know what I just realized?" Yoimiya says into the peaceful quiet, feet swinging off the tree branch her and Nilou are sitting on.

"What's that?" Nilou asks, curious, currently busy painting the nails of Yoimiya’s left hand.

"I haven't kissed you yet today!" Yoimiya says, as casually as one might be when exclaiming about the weather.

Nilou freezes, cheeks blooming pink, voice going soft. "Is that so..."

"Mhm!" Yoimiya's grinning now, immediately meeting Nilou's gaze when she looks up. Despite the sun filtering through the leaves above them and settling warmth on her skin, Nilou thinks Yoimiya's smile is ten times brighter.

She offers a shy smile of her own, and finds out what it feels like to kiss while smiling when Yoimiya easily leans in. Her summer scent lingers even as she pulls away to continue talking animatedly.

A bit dazed by the speed of her heartbeat, Nilou just nods along, squeezing the hand still in her grip and continuing the paint job.

If a relationship with Yoimiya entails casual and warm kisses like that every day, Nilou feels blessed that they happened to meet when they did. Chancing another shy glance up at her girlfriend, she finds herself unable to wipe off the soft smile stuck to her lips.

Chapter Text

When Diluc wakes up, the smell of sizzling ham and eggs immediately greets his senses. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he realizes that the bedroom door is cracked open, and the bed is empty beside him.

Typically, he's the one waking up at the crack of dawn, but it seems his companion had turned the alarm off so he could sleep a tad longer.

Smiling to himself, Diluc sits up properly and throws his legs over the side of their shared bed. He leaves his hair as is, cascading over his shoulders as he stretches his sleep-stiff muscles. He hears his boyfriend before he sees him, humming softly in the kitchen while dutifully cooking breakfast for the both of them.

He too is sporting a bedhead, blond hair as rumpled as the rest of him. It's adorable. Diluc has always loved how Thoma looks in the mornings, sleep-soft in a threadbare t-shirt, hair turned honey-golden in the morning light that settles like a mist in their shared apartment.

Diluc easily slots himself behind his boyfriend, arms coming to wrap around a lithe waist. Back during the start of their relationship, Diluc grumbled whenever reminded of their height difference. But now, he simply buries a small smile into Thoma’s shoulder at the taller’s small noise of surprise.

His free hand reaches up to hold Diluc’s scarred forearm. “You scared me, babe. You’re awake?”

Diluc hooks his chin over Thoma’s shoulder to watch the man cook, expert hands following the familiar motions of flipping the meat and folding the omelettes.

“I am. My body can wake up early without an alarm, you know.”

Thoma gives his arm a light squeeze, twisting the stove knob to turn the heat off. “Darn. I was hoping to wake you up with breakfast in bed.”

Diluc scoffs. “As if I’d let you eat in bed.”

Chuckling, Thoma turns around in Diluc’s hold so they’re face-to-face. “You’re right, you would make us get up anyways.”

Thoma smiles down at Diluc, arms draping around his waist to pull him into a proper embrace. A gentle breeze blows in through their open window, carrying with it the smell of a spring morning, and Thoma’s green eyes seem to light up from the inside.

Diluc feels himself falling and falling, swiping a hand through the hair falling over Thoma’s shoulders. He cups his nape and doesn’t even have to speak before Thoma is meeting him halfway for a kiss that tastes of warmth and content.

A warm hand raises to cradle Diluc’s cheek, plump lips curving into a smile against his own.

Here, in their shared kitchen, sharing sun-bathed kisses in the light of an early morning, Diluc feels the warmest he’s ever felt.

“Good morning, Thoma,” he mutters when they separate.

Thoma’s lips stretch into a lopsided grin, his signature one. “Good morning, Diluc.”

Chapter Text

It's a late night. Late enough where the only light comes from the moon and stars above. Late enough where the only sounds to be heard are the waves lapping at the shore. That, and Wriothesley's quiet breaths, and even quieter heartbeat.

The smell of sea is drastically different to the metallic scent Wriothesley is used to. Though, there is familiarity in its saltiness, what with The Fortress being underwater and all. The birds are silent, replaced by the chirping of crickets and faint croaking of frogs. Across the sea, the light of Fontaine's Court glows, perpetually lighting up the night. 

Sandy footsteps approach Wriothesley's right, and his hand stills where it was fidgeting with his belt loop. 

"All by yourself?" A smooth voice says, calm to match the humid night.

The figure comes to a halt next to the boulder Wriothesley is seated on, blue and black fabric entering his peripheral. He merely hums in response, allowing the ambient sounds of nature to be his greeting.

Even if, after a moment, he says, "As are you."

His companion huffs amusedly, and fills in the previously empty spot at Wriothesley's side, close enough for their limbs to brush together. "Of course."

Wriothesley finally turns his head at that, watching Yelan's legs bend at the knee, tucked up onto the rock. "What's that supposed to mean?" He murmurs.

Wordlessly, she brushes Wriothesley's coat further off his shoulder, and drops her head down sideways onto it. 

"Who else would I be with?"

Stunned, Wriothesley is left staring down at Yelan tucked into his right side, the angle only really allowing him to see the top of her head and her lips curled into a gentle smirk. She's intently watching the shoreline, eyelids and lashes fluttering with her blinks. 

Wriothesley sighs out any remaining tension, and rests his cheek against her sweet-scented hair. "I don't know." Out here, where the night is calm and peaceful, he can let his guard down and enjoy a rare stress-free moment. He's sure Yelan feels the same.

Five minutes in finds Yelan tracing the dark scars along Wriothesley's muscled forearm, nails leaving behind a trail of goosebumps. The resulting full-body shiver is completely against his control.

“So,” Yelan murmurs into the silence, “what are you doing out here by yourself?” Her fingers walk a path down the tendons beneath pale skin, before slim fingers lace with Wriothesley's own.

Impulsively, Wriothesley brings their joint hands up to his lips to press a kiss on the back of Yelan's fingers. "Thinking," he responds, just as quiet as the night breeze.

Yelan turns to look completely at him, then, and Wriothesley blinks at the change in position, gaze caught in Yelan's own aquamarine. She does not ask about what, simply hums with the ghost of a smile on her glossed lips.

A question rises in Wriothesley's throat, a simple and you? that his lips part to voice. It's quieted before it can truly take form by a slim hand carding through the hair at his nape, a breathless exhale leaving him instead. Yelan is... a lot closer than before. 

It doesn't matter, Wriothesley thinks, why Yelan is here. Because she is, and frankly that's enough for him.

His free hand rises to cup her cheek, and he sees the stars reflected in her pupils, the deepening night sky in the bangs that frame her face. She's gorgeous, as always. She smiles like she knows exactly what Wriothesley's thinking, and in the end, Wriothesley has no clue who is the first to lean in. All he knows is that Yelan tastes like her berry lip gloss, sweet with a hint of tartness, and smells like her perfume, light and feminine.

He exhales a content sigh through his nose, and tilts his head further, wanting to drink in as much of his lover as he can. Yelan reciprocates easily, trim nails scratching through the scruff at his nape and behind his ears, sending tingles cascading down his spine. 

She hums shortly against his lips, and pushes back against his heavy weight. Wriothesley, in this moment, thinks he'd go along with whatever Yelan asked of him, so long as she keeps parting those slick lips against his. He leans back, but Yelan doesn't make him go far, and with some careful maneuvering, ends up straddling Wriothesley's waist instead. This way, Wriothesley's hands are freed to grip her waist, and she can cradle his head between both palms, tilt it as she pleases to sink deeper into Wriothesley's beseeching kisses.

Under the moonlight, they trade slow, passionate kisses; large, scarred hands petting along Yelan's side, her own unable to settle, instead gliding from his neck to his shoulders and back up. 

The first tease of tongue and Wriothesley groans, immediately allowing Yelan entry to explore his mouth, to lick along the ridges of his teeth and the points of his fangs. In turn, he chases that sweet, intoxicating taste further into her mouth, pressing close, closer, relying on touch and taste alone.

It's exhilarating, kissing Yelan; It always is. Her touches drive him mad and her pleased hums send warmth tingling down his spine. 

By the time they part, Wriothesley's lips feel numb, and his hair is likely thoroughly messed up from Yelan's wandering hands. Their foreheads connect gently, and they pant together in the quiet. Wriothesley's the first to grin, right side of his mouth ticking up before the rest follows. Yelan kisses the corners of that grin, because of course she does, and smiles right back, eyes lidded.

"So," Wriothesley says, voice as deep as a purr, "what are you really doing out here?"

Chapter Text

It’s been a long day. Like, a very long day. 

Even though the disasters that seemed to occur back to back are behind them— and that’s great! Absolutely it is— sometimes the little things end up piling up and getting to Navia.

Little by little she’s learned to share her workload, and her own members of the Spina have helped remind her that being Boss doesn’t mean being alone at the top. But it’s hard to break a habit you’ve been learning since you could talk. Really, since Navia could comprehend complex subjects, she knew of the Spina di Rosula, and how proud she was of her parents, and of being their daughter. 

Navia flops heavily down onto her back atop the plush mattress, tucked into the corner of her own private room. It’s one of the finest they have, not to say that it’s luxury, because of course it’s not; it’s honest living, but nevertheless it allows Navia to relax her muscles bit by bit. 

Unfortunately, she’s only halfway through her Very Long Day, and gracefully fellow members urged her to take a break when they caught her muttering to herself. A bad habit, really, but they were so nice about it. And she couldn’t say no to that!

Navia doesn’t know how long she lays there, simply resting her eyes and letting her mind drift, finally comfortable in the hard-won peace they all fought for. All she knows is she’s pulled from her daydream-like state by her door creaking on its hinges as the metal is smoothly opened and closed. Clicks of heels that are both familiar and unfamiliar approach her splayed out form. 

If it were another member of the Spina, she would have bolted upright and straightened out her outfit as best she could, conveying the prim and proper woman she wants to be. But that stealthiness and distinctly metal-on-metal-sounding footsteps all indicate that Navia’s girlfriend Arlecchino has just entered the room. 

The bed dips by Navia’s side, and she can feel where Arlecchino’s thigh presses against her side. Even through her corset and her girlfriend’s thick pants, she can feel Arlecchino’s heat. It’s blazing warmth, a hearth in a harsh snowstorm. Comforting. Familiar. 

Her hand is lifted from its limp rest on the sheets, dry lips meeting her knuckles that brings an involuntary grin to her face. In response, the kisses trail to her palm, then her wrist, then halfway up her forearm before she giggles and finally opens her eyes. 

This is one of Navia’s favorite Arlecchinos; the one nobody else sees, when her sharp, blood-drawn edges dull to something holdable behind closed doors. When she gives affection freely. With reserve and dignity as she does most things, but still. The kind of expressed affection that melts Navia’s heart more than any pyro reaction ever could.

Their eyes meet, something uniquely and undeniably soft in the black-red pools of tar. Contradictory, but that’s just Arlecchino; a head pat with clawed nails, a compliment with rough gravel, a kiss and a bite. (Though that’s a Navia-exclusive.)

Arlecchino links their fingers together, her left and Navia’s right, settling them on her stomach. The other raises to cradle a sunkissed cheek within black-tinged fingers. Long since have the days passed when Navia could ever view those hands as a threat. As something to fear.

Evidently, Arlecchino does not wish to change that anytime soon, as she shifts her gentle grip to tuck a stray blonde curl behind Navia’s ear. 

“Hi.” Navia smiles sleepily, even as the ever-burning touch of her lover wakes her up more and more by the second. Arlecchino hasn’t said anything, simply allowing this moment to hang between them, so Navia waits for the woman to voice what’s on her mind. What she came here for.

“Long day?” she murmurs eventually, deep voice inspiring prickles of heat at the back of Navia’s neck. 

Navia hums an affirmation, melodic and short. Arlecchino says nothing more, simply moving her hand so her fingers pet soothingly through Navia’s bangs. Navia doesn’t ask why Arlecchino is here, or how she even knew to come at the exact right moment. Instead, sighing with appreciation, she takes the proffered opportunity. 

“It’s nothing big, in fact, the Spina is doing the best it has in a long while, and yet the days’ little stressors still get to me.” She sighs, quietly reveling in the way their joined hands rise and fall with the exaggerated breath. “One must be strong-willed and composed to lead an organization, and I always try to be. I know I am; someone to be proud of, someone who deserves the Demoiselle title beyond the inheritance.”

With an embarrassed huff, Navia sits up. “But, ah…” 

Arlecchino wordlessly adjusts herself as well to accommodate the movements. Her legs remain half off the bed, Navia’s soon to join, while their hands stay loosely tangled together, the other returning to her lap.

“The other members noticed me working too hard and urged me to rest, so of course I didn’t refuse, how could I?”

“Hm,” Arlecchino offers simply in response, after a moment of quiet.

A cursory glance at the clock reveals that Navia has been resting far longer than she intended, so she hastily disentangles from the sheets and Arlecchino’s hand, straightening out her hair and the wrinkles and folds of her dress. 

Arlecchino immediately understands, and rises from her seat in one elegant movement. She allows a moment for Navia to resituate herself before lowly clearing her throat, drawing Navia’s attention upward. Bending at the waist, she plants a kiss to Navia’s forehead. The way she gracefully lifts a hand to tilt back Navia’s hat gives her butterflies every time. 

Navia soaks up the affection like sun to a sunflower, already tilting her head up with the guidance of a warm hand to meet Arlecchino halfway for a sickly sweet press of lips. Navia relaxes into it, inhaling the smoky, iron-tinged scent of her lover. Arlecchino pulls away, thumb rubbing once, twice on Navia’s bottom lip before she steps back entirely.

“Take that as encouragement,” she says. Hands curled loosely at her sides, she continues, “You know you can come to me for assistance. With anything within reason. Of course, I can’t guarantee my service 24/7 or even half of that time, but I can spare a handful of hours should you need it.”

This is a sentiment Arlecchino has expressed multiple times, likening back to when she offered her assistance during the floods. That was a while before they got together, back when they were strictly professional, mere acquaintances. Now, Arlecchino is offering help in a more personal way. She’s offering Navia help. Directly , should she need it.

Her stubbornness (habit) prevents her from requesting outside help with such menial tasks, but still Navia can’t help but grin, the one her friends call blinding. 

She stands and stretches with a small noise, sighing out refreshed and satisfied. When she meets Arlecchino’s eyes again, hands proudly on her hips, her girlfriend is gazing at her with the ghost of a smile teasing cruel lips. Soft, soft, soft. 

“I know, Arlecchino. But I think that encouragement-kiss really did the trick!” 

Arlecchino levels her with a flat, calculating look, before she concedes with a sigh and a blink. “Very well.” Eyes skittering to the side, she turns to leave, Navia trotting up to join her at her side. 

Arlecchino is about to twist the door handle open when Navia abruptly covers blackened skin with her own. 

“There is one thing…”

Arlecchino’s head turns, likely to inquire exactly what, but Navia simply stretches on her heels to press her smile against unsuspecting lips. 

“Encouragement for you as well!” She chirps, and promptly exits the room with a swish of her skirt, heels clicking down the steps, leaving Arlecchino staring in her wake.

Truly, as silly as it sounds, those few precious moments with the love of her life really did help lift her spirits. She tries to settle the smile on her lips and pep in her step to no avail, but her fellow members look relieved in the wake of it, so she gives up the effort. 

Yeah. Maybe this day won’t be so long after all.

Chapter Text

"Do you think we're together in every life?" 

It’s a question Nilou sometimes ponders, when her mind is busy but her steps are slow, under the desert moonlight. A silly question to ask oneself, even sillier to ask another person, but every time she marvels at the feel of her boyfriend's hand in hers, it lurches up onto her tongue.

Wanderer seems to barely give it a thought. "Probably not." 

Any response Nilou had is wiped clean from the disinterest in his tone. 

His eyes flick to the side to catch her expression and stay a while, before he sighs and closes them. 

"I hope we are."

Smooth fingers squeeze her own, and Nilou's heart rate picks up. 

“Mm. Me too."

Nilou's already sitting in her seat by the time the bell rings, notebook and pen— even though her boyfriend keeps telling her to use a damn pencil, she prefers the feel of a pen— ready in front of her. It isn't until the professor clears her throat that Scaramouche waltzes through the doorway, late as always.

The teacher doesn't even spare him a glance, having given up on calling him out after the fifth time in a row. It's his Thing now. Nilou smiles as he approaches her row and takes the empty seat beside her, like he's done every day since the beginning of the quarter when they found out they share a class.

Leisurely, he slides a laptop out of his bag, and begins the process of setting up while the professor introduces the lecture. Nilou will never understand how he's so lackadaisical about school, and yet is doing so well. For herself, she struggles to stay on top of work sometimes, as busy with her dancing as she is.

A foot bumps against hers under the table, and a smile immediately finds her lips. She can't help it, it's basically Pavlovian. She bumps Scaramouche back, and turns her head to meet his eyes. He squints, scowls, and then glares down at her hands atop the table. What a range of expression.

She can already predict what he's going to say before he whispers it out. "Seriously? Still using a pen and notebook? I know you know a laptop is easier for notes."

She just shrugs, and begins fiddling with the blue silicone grip. "I like handwritten notes more... Plus, it's more effective to remember when you write it down. I read that somewhere."

Her boyfriend scoffs, turning his attention on the blank Google doc in front of him. "Yeah, okay, Cupcake. Head's up, Prof's starting."

She kicks at him a little for the nickname— not a petname, Scaramouche made very clear exactly how he feels about them— but they both know she secretly likes it. Kind of. Maybe it's a biased opinion. 

Whatever. Scaramouche kicks back again, always the one wanting the last laugh. Nilou lets him, because she's gotta start writing.

Scaramouche is already standing by the time class is over, bag packed and leaning back against their shared desk. Nilou is still frantically scribbling the last of what she remembers from the lecture while her boyfriend lazily scrolls on his phone, waiting for her.

He can complain as much as he wants about Nilou being too slow, but he’s always waiting for her to catch up; whether it be meeting up after class or after school, when they’re going out on a date and Nilou takes just a bit too long trying to decide what to wear, when Nilou forgets something in the rush of exiting class and Scaramouche simply stands by the doorway. 

Even now when Scaramouche sighs and says, “Hurry up or I’ll leave without you,” Nilou simply huffs, smiling, as he doesn’t budge an inch from where he stands. 

She hastily jots down the last of her notes and slaps her notebook closed, bangs fluttering with the displaced air. Scaramouche looks up from his phone, heaves a sigh, and pockets it, straightening up with a theatrical groan. 

“Finally,” he drawls, hand already held out for Nilou to link their fingers together after her bag is slung over her shoulder. 

“Thanks for waiting!” she chirps back with a smile, routine, part of the unspoken script they follow every time. 

On cue, Scaramouche sighs again, though his face gentles into something vaguely fond. Nilou’s friends tell her it’s her smile that does it; how nobody can be sour, even as an act, in the face of it. But then again, lots of things Nilou does soften Scaramouche. 

Girlfriend Privileges.

“Alright,” Scaramouche gives Nilou’s hand a tug, signaling they’re officially going now, “Where to?”

He’s talking about lunch of course, since they have a free period and there’s delis near their campus. Nilou ponders as they make their way out of the classroom, before stopping short a few steps into the hallway. Scaramouche halts as well, a small sound of confusion leaving him at the sudden pause. 

Nilou wordlessly fishes her phone from her bag and unlocks it one handed. With her other hand still clasped with Scaramouche’s, she pulls her boyfriend closer to her position back leant against the wall. Luckily, she had planned this the night before. 

She swipes until she pulls up the search engine tab showcasing the nearby café that opened just a few days ago. With a smile, she shows Scaramouche her screen, watching his eyes narrow as he reads. 

“A new place, huh? Didn’t even know.” His tone is approving, with the sarcastic drawl almost all his words drip with, but Nilou can tell the difference.

“Yeah! Can we go?” Her head tilts, inquisitive.

A few moments of silence pass while Scaramouche’s eyes lazily dart around Nilou’s face, a distracted hum being his only response. 

Then, like clockwork, like it’s instinct, he dips his head to press their lips together. They’re around the same height, so it’s easy, comfortable. He smells like fresh detergent, quite subtle, and tastes of mint from gum he was probably chewing earlier. 

“Might need some of your notes later,” he mutters against Nilou’s lips in between kisses, “If they’re legible.” 

Nilou lightly shoves at his shoulder for the jab. They both know her penmanship is incredible, just because she rushes sometimes doesn’t mean they’re ineligible!

“Maybe if you ask nicely~” she teases back, sing-song. 

Scaramouche, predictably, scoffs, but he nods anyway. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s just go.”

Nilou’s way ahead of him.

(And he does say please when asking for Nilou’s notes later that night, even if they both know it was far from necessary.

They could never deny each other anything.)

Chapter Text

"We make a pretty good team, hm?"

Aether cocks his head. "You think?"

Yelan leans back in her seat at the table, lips curled into a smirk around the rim of her cup.

It’s funny, Aether thinks, that she owns this very teahouse yet insists on paying like a normal patron. To keep business flowing, she’d said, when Aether brought it up. As if she’s short on Mora, working for Ningguang as she is.

Paimon’s somewhere downstairs; Yelan sent her on a quest to get them some snacks to go with their tea, along with a request to give them a few moments alone. Her and Aether shared a confused glance at that, but in the end Aether merely shrugged. Could be something important, something that only Aether’s ears can hear. The top of this teahouse does seem strangely barren for it being near the middle of the day. 

Aether chalks it up to Yelan’s influence, and doesn’t worry too much about it. Yelan’s trustworthy, a true companion he knows he can depend on, so whatever it is Yelan has to say will be told in due time.

Yelan swallows her sip, gently swirling her teacup as if it’s a particularly fancy Mondstadtian wine. Her eyes flick between Aether’s own repeatedly, and he gets the strange sense that she’s trying to communicate something with her lidded gaze alone.

Aether, unfortunately, is not versed in this type of communication, so a vaguely awkward silence descends.

Yelan remains unbothered, and simply breaks it with a soft inhale, smirking lips parting. “I know you’re quite the busy bee, Traveler, but hear me out. I have a proposal.”

Aether’s fingers stipple idly upon his thighs where they rest. His brows raise. Go on.

The woman across from him takes one more sip, then sets her cup back down on the table. Her chair creaks as she crosses one leg over the other, nimble fingers laced atop.

“We work quite well together— I think this is something we can both agree on.” She waits for Aether’s slow now before continuing, “It’d be great to always be able to collaborate like this, but I know your journey takes you to lands far and wide, and I would never try to stop you.”

Aether’s arms cross over his chest, his half-drunk tea becoming cool. “Where are you going with this?”

Yelan hums, a weirdly amused sound, like Aether’s confusion particularly tickles her. “I’d like to propose that during your occasional visits to Liyue, we work together on something— or some things — to our mutual benefit.“

Yelan lifts a hand to do a lazy yet graceful gesture, as if sweeping through a pool of water. “You’ll be compensated of course, and I wouldn’t force you to do boring, menial work.” 

“Great,” Aether says lightly, “because it sounds like you’re trying to commission me. And I already do plenty of those.”

The woman chuckles. “Definitely not. It’s a partnership. In turn, of course, you could always ask me for my assistance on something. It’s the least I could do.”

Having said her piece, Yelan resumes sipping at her tea. She seems content to let Aether think on the offer, so he does gladly, finally finishing the rest of his lukewarm drink. He sets his empty cup down and brings a hand to his chin in thought. 

On one hand, having Yelan to work side by side with would be a huge help given her proficiency in both combat and cunning, especially since she’s suggesting something fifty-fifty. However, sometimes Aether just wants to visit old friends for the sake of visiting, and though Yelan clearly said she wouldn’t force him (and could she, really? Even if she wanted to?) it still sounds like a hassle. 

Aether hums, considering, brow furrowed lightly. He’d also have to consider Paimon’s willingness in all of this. She’s even lazier than himself, so keeping her on board might be tricky should the partnership begin to just feel like more work. It could be beneficial, though, if he were looking to clear some boredom and just happened to be in town.

Hm. 

Aether shrugs off his thoughts. Just two friends occasionally doing missions together. Could be fun… He’ll have to think more about it. And talk to Paimon.

Aether blinks out of his thoughts to meet Yelan’s gaze once more, which has evidently been watching his thought process the entire time.

“I’ll think more on it, and talk to Paimon about it too.” He pauses, leaned forward in his seat. “She’s included in this as well, right?”

Yelan nods easily. “Of course. You two are a package deal.”

Aether huffs, smiling, but says no more. Their discussion is coming to a close, and Yelan seems to agree as she languidly moves to stand.

“Unfortunately, I will have to leave it at that, as I have somewhere to be. Take your time, alright?”

Just as Yelan is about to pass him, she bends at the hip to plant a kiss to Aether’s cheek. She smiles down at him when she straightens back up, something softer and more genuine than her earlier smirks.

“Just a suggestion. Consider it, okay?” She urges gently, and turns to leave with a swish of her coat. 

As she disappears past the corner of the teahouse stairs, Paimon comes floating up, snacks and drinks in hand. 

“Hey!” she greets, returning to her seat and carefully dumping her prizes on the table, “I saw Yelan leaving just now, did you guys have a talk?”

Aether, still a bit occupied with the memory of Yelan’s supple lips meeting his cheek, tears his eyes away from where she exited with considerable effort. He meets Paimon’s confused-excited face, and smiles.

“Yeah. I’ll tell you about it later.”

Consider it, huh? 

He’s already made up his mind.

Chapter Text

The warm wind in Natlan is so similar yet strikingly different to the dry wind of the desert. It feels more refreshing, tropical— though of course Sethos will always be biased to where he grew up.

He takes a deep breath, feeling how the air fills his lungs to the brim; how the breeze brushes softly through his hair like a caress, washing over his skin as much as the sunlight does. Hiking here was really worth it, if not just because he enjoys the activity itself, but also the view is definitely helping.

Sethos smiles, hands on his hips, and spies Yumkasaurs in the distance, babies hopping around as they try to imitate the gravity-defying movements of their adult companions. Grass tickles his ankles, rustles under the footsteps approaching his back.

Helplessly, his smile widens into a grin. Finally here, huh? He tosses a look over his shoulder to see a disgruntled-looking Kinich trudging up to him. He’s not panting nor is he sweating, far too used to traversing these lands in all types of conditions, but he’s probably a tad annoyed that he was the one who had to catch up to Sethos.

“You finally caught up,” Sethos teases, half-turning to face the man joining his side.

“You’re too fast,” Kinich responds with a sigh, “I thought hiking was supposed to be relaxing.”

Sethos hums, tucks his arms to tap his chin in faux thought. “Did I say that? I think I just said I enjoy doing it. What if I like the workout?” 

Kinich fixes him with a strikingly deadpan stare, before he sighs, and gracefully lowers himself to sit among the blades of grass. Every fold of his joints is sinuous, almost elegant as he crosses his legs. The breeze sways his hair along with the grass beneath, and his eyes close against the sensation, looking purely at peace. Like his place is within the earth; like he’s one with it. Sun cascades upon his every glowing feature, as if favored by the Gods. All things considered, that wouldn’t surprise Sethos one bit.

Once he’s had his fill admiring the way Kinich’s dark eyelashes fan across the tops of his cheeks, Sethos flops down far less gracefully than his companion did. He arranges himself into a normal sitting position with a content sigh, one knee tucked up to rest his arm on, the other supporting his weight from behind. From the corner of his eye, he spies Kinich peeking through one half-opened eye at him. His lips pull up of their own accord.

“Where's Ajaw?” Sethos asks, and brushes some stray curls from his face, smile ever-present. Him and Ajaw get along surprisingly well, according to Kinich, because they can match each other for banter, and Sethos has quite a talent for laughing off every insult or unsavory comment Ajaw makes. He does genuinely find Kinich's peculiar companion fascinating company.

“He started complaining halfway up, the second you started pulling ahead,” Kinich says, eyes rolling not nearly as subtly as he probably intended. “So I locked him away.”

Sethos hums, pinches at the fabric stretched across his knee. “He really finds anything to complain about, doesn’t he?”

Kinich huffs, something that sounds like You have no idea. He's fiddling with the fingertips of his gloves, hands held loosely in his lap, posture relaxed. 

It's a wonderful sight. Kinich was quite uptight when they first met, so Sethos is delighted he gets to see his more languid countenance; when the breeze carries his stresses away with it. 

Sethos scoots closer to bump his shoulder into Kinich’s. It slightly jostles the shorter man, but Sethos spies the small smile ticking the corner of his lips. 

He hadn't really meant to, but the way the wind is bringing a shimmering wave to Kinich's hair makes Sethos unable to resist lifting a hand to gently settle it atop his head. Kinich doesn’t startle, but his eyes do blink open in slight confusion. They dart to Sethos’, immediately meeting his gaze, green upon green. There’s a silent question in them, and perhaps Sethos thinks his brow is raising, if only he could see it.

That thought is what guides his hand forward until fingertips brush the colored fabric of Kinich’s bandana. He gently sweeps away what part of his bangs the wind already hasn’t, and brushes a thumb along the texture. Kinich's head has turned completely to him by now, hands clenched into loose fists in his lap. 

Sethos himself is leaned in closer to lessen the awkwardness of the angle, and from this proximity he can see every different shade that makes up the glittering spring unfurling in Kinich’s irises. Close enough to count the moles dotting Kinich’s skin.

“What are you doing?” Kinich murmurs softly, a whisper of a breath. There’s no scorn or discomfort in his eyes as they search Sethos’.

Sethos smiles, eyes creasing. “Checking if you have eyebrows,” is his playful response.

Kinich's expression alone in reaction to that has Sethos briefly turning his head away to let out a soft laugh. Who knew someone with such little range could make such a face. Sethos’ best description of it is a cat who has just been denied pets after you hovered your hand near their head, and they’re contemplating scratching you for it.

“I'm kidding,” Sethos soothes, fully knowing it’ll have the opposite effect, and finally tucks his thumb and forefingers beneath the black fabric concealing Kinich's forehead. 

Slowly, he pushes it up Kinich’s head, only a few centimeters, watching with an endeared warmth filling his chest as dark bangs begin to stick up in multiple directions, interspersed with shades of blue-green.

And — Ah. His brows are furrowed. Isn’t that adorable. It turns what might have been a frown into a pout instead, one that has Sethos grinning helplessly.

“Don’t be sour,” Sethos murmurs through a toothy grin, before he leans in and plants a kiss right upon the newly revealed skin of Kinich's forehead. His own nose brushes the tip of his thumb where it holds the bandana out of the way. It's warm.

The muscles beneath his lips twitch, and then he pulls away. Kinich's brows climb up to his hairline, almost disappearing behind the bandana Sethos just removed to reveal them. He couldn’t hold back his snicker if he tried.

Sethos doesn’t bother sliding the fabric back into place, just leaves it halfway up Kinich's forehead and leans back onto his hands, posture nothing but confident, smiling like the cat that got the canary.

Kinich’s lips straighten, then purse, jaw working like he’s trying to keep them shut. He fails, and they part, but no sound comes out, so he shuts them again. He pouts for real then, and with a grumble, reaches up to settle his bandana back into place, smoothing it over and fussing his hair back to perfection.

Sethos catches just about none of the words said under Kinich's breath, but he thinks maybe “annoying” and “ridiculous” and “cute” are scattered among them.

Satisfied, he beams one last time at the man staring at him with beseeching eyes, before facing forward once more. Kinich eventually settles, mirroring Sethos’ position, and the two of them enjoy the serene silence until Ajaw unceremoniously bursts into their peace with shrieked complaints until Sethos is cackling into the air and Kinich is mercilessly swatting him away.

“We should hike together more often.”

Kinich crosses his arms. “How about some more emphasis on the together, next time.”

Sethos, amused and endeared and delighted all in one, just laughs.

Chapter Text

It's not that Wanderer forgets he's a puppet, per se— in fact, you'll find the jarring difference of having no beating heart quite unforgettable— but he often struggles to remember just how human that makes everyone else around him; beyond the general sense of superiority that comes with knowing you are infallible.

Until it gets thrust in his face in a way so startlingly and... frighteningly. Then it's seared in his mind forever.

He met Sethos months prior, accidentally in fact, and he hadn't intended to get close, but after that it seemed he couldn't shake the young man no matter how hard he tried. They became unwilling companions (on Wanderer's side) courtesy of Sethos' pure determination to befriend him, to Wanderer's bewilderment. 

Wanderer is still hesitant to form close bonds and gain attachment to things he could easily lose; he above all others is well aware of the price of life— how quickly a good thing can end. Alas, something about Sethos drew him in, and even if he wanted to escape this friendship, he doesn't think Sethos would allow it.

Sometimes his skin still crawls when Sethos throws that breezy grin his way, like he's untouched by trouble and sorrow, when Wanderer very well knows that isn't the truth. 

It's... indescribable— the feeling Sethos gives him. No heart, with artificial innards, and yet Sethos manages to gain a place between Wanderer's ribs regardless.

If there's one thing that Wanderer has learned about this life, it's that all light eventually fades.

The desert gains a certain abyssal quiet during nighttime, Wanderer has come to realize. With only the pale gleaming of the moon to light your path, one must rely on instinct to confidently guide one forward.

Or, if you’re Sethos, know the twists and turns betwixt the cliffs and caverns like the back of your hand. 

Normally, Wanderer would be enjoying this peaceful quiet; hovering and, well, wandering a safe distance from Caravan Ribat. 

But he had been bored tonight. The Akademiya work that Lesser Lord Kusanali had inflicted upon him gave him nothing but headaches. He isn’t meant for idle academic work! He sees no point in it. So he had left, and happened upon a departing Sethos with quite a grave expression on his face (Wanderer chooses carefully to not remember how it had lit up upon making eye contact). 

And so Sethos took Wanderer with him— after some light convincing that consisted of a silent, hard stare and a single raised eyebrow— and filled him in on the information as they made the long trek through the desert. Admittedly, with Sethos’ shortcuts they managed to set foot and travel on the red-orange sand faster than expected. 

In the end, no matter how disarmingly friendly that smile of Sethos’ is, not every dispute can be settled diplomatically. 

They got careless; missed a single blindspot. Even while covering each other’s backs, someone had managed to slip through, and it was two seconds too late by the time Wanderer had realized. 

The click and twang of a crossbow firing rings like a gunshot in the windless night, a small grunt of pain the only indication it hit its mark. 

A sharp gust of wind from Wanderer’s fist sends the offender sprawling, weapon splintering in half. He doesn’t have time to check on Sethos, the next person already charging forwards. At least there’s only a few left, and they seem weaker by the looks of it.

Yet… a quick glance thrown over his shoulder, and Wanderer spots where the arrow has lodged itself into Sethos’ side, deep enough to pierce well through flesh.

Sethos continues fighting valiantly, despite the fact that Wanderer knows with each labored inhale and draw of his bow, that iron tip digs deeper into sinew and muscle. A patch of red is already blooming wide and bloody as he moves, dirtying his off-white shirt. 

It's a breathless minute between the sounds of combat and when the mercenaries (if they can be called that) are either knocked out or scattered and everything settles. 

Wanderer sets himself back on the ground with a breeze of displaced sand, already facing his companion.

Sethos is heaving, arms lowering from their raised position. He barely flinches as the arrow is jostled, but Wanderer knows adrenaline can only last for so long. 

It's as Wanderer is closing the measly few meters between them that Sethos stumbles seemingly from his own weight, listing to the side, but a heel dug into cool sand keeps him standing. His bow disappears into golden sparks over his shoulder, and finally he seems to be feeling the injury. His perfect posture falters, nearly doubling over.

Wanderer stops when he’s close enough to reach out and touch the feathered end of the arrow. He doesn’t. Instead, he looks Sethos up and down with a building feeling of something inside of him. Whatever it is, it’s ugly. 

Sethos presses a hand to the afflicted area, and they both watch as it comes back wet with blood. He wheezes out a pained sound through his teeth.

“Well, fuck,” he says, strained. Wanderer blinks in mute surprise. He was beginning to think Sethos didn’t even know how to swear. 

It sounds wrong, in a disquieting way, coming from the typically sunny, smiling man.

Sethos tries for a wry grin, tilting his head up to aim it at the elder. Wanderer couldn’t stop his cringe if he tried. It doesn’t reach Sethos’ eyes. Not even remotely. 

It strikes a strange familiarity in Wanderer, how it appears like a mask, a plaster to hide the cracks underneath.

The smile drops.

“We should…” Sethos’ lashes flutter as he trails off with a rough swallow and shaking breath. He doesn’t finish his sentence, and it’s only when he begins swaying where he stands does Wanderer snap out of the wordless stupor he was in, quickly tucking himself up against Sethos’ non-injured side.

He loops Sethos’ arm around his shoulders. “Put pressure on that wound. Don’t move the arrow.” Mouth a grim line, Wanderer shoulders half of the younger’s weight. “Hold on tight.” 

“I know,” Sethos replies belatedly, like he’s either processing things slower, or responding is harder. Nevertheless, his left hand clenches the fabric draping Wanderer’s collar, the right pressing up against his gut. 

Either he feels very little pain, or he’s exceptionally skilled at concealing it, because he hardly makes a sound. The only indication he’s actually injured is the permanent grimace on his face and the heavy, uneven breaths.

Wanderer knows of only one place in the city where he and Sethos can stumble in, half dead, and receive treatment. He wraps his free arm around Sethos’ waist, resolutely ignores the hitches of breath sounding near his ear, and takes to the skies. 

It’s quicker this way. For both of their sakes.

“‘m gonna be okay,” Sethos later says, when his bare abdomen is securely wrapped in white cloth and he’s no longer in danger of bleeding out. He smiles, eyes tired.

It turns out the merc’s aim had been about as bad as if a blind man had attempted it. At least, that’s what Wanderer tells himself, to soothe the rising fury in his chest.

Despite coming dangerously close to Sethos’ ribs and therefore his lungs, the arrow missed any major organs or arteries.

Sethos had said it was a stroke of blessed luck. Wanderer scowled and told him just what he thought about luck in combat. 

Wanderer scoffs. “I wasn't worried. Quite the audacity to assume otherwise.” Bluff. A terrible, horrible bluff.

A small bit more humor flickers through Sethos’ eyes, then, his smile losing a bit of its strain. 

“Right. My bad.” 

With a huff, Wanderer crosses his arms and looks away from the earnest expression on Sethos’ face. As if compelled like magnets, his eyes slide back to where the arrow used to be. 

He didn't stick around after dropping Sethos off to the makeshift clinic on the outskirts of Sumeru city, merely confirming death wasn’t imminent before swiftly exiting the way he came. Raised voices shouting hurried commands and a keenly focused stare followed his back the entire way out.

In the few hours he spent alone until sunrise, he worked through the complicated knot of feelings in his chest. He considered Sethos, their strange and tentative friendship that’s been cultivated into something stronger, and the events of the past few hours. 

After much chagrin and a massive blow to his pride, he concluded with himself that, back there, he had been scared for Sethos. Worried , even. For his safety. Wanderer has never been one to freeze in fear, nor feel peril in the face of death. 

But… when it came to Sethos… it was different. Wanderer is loath to put a proper word to the amalgamation of emotions that the memory of flint spearing flesh gives him, choosing instead to tell himself that of course he was more concerned about Sethos than he’d typically be, he’s just a mortal human.

A strange, choked sound jerks Wanderer out of the depths of his thoughts, and the first thing that comes into focus of his eyes is his own hand. Not all that strange— except for the fact that beneath his fingertips is the very spot that had haunted Wanderer’s thoughts, concealed by bandages.

His fingers twitch, accidentally pressing down into lithe muscle. His eyes flick up just in time to watch Sethos’ chest jump and mouth click shut with his clipped inhale. Similarly wide eyes meet each other, and with an embarrassed grimace, Wanderer slowly retracts his hand. 

Due to the fact that he’s still stubbornly watching Sethos’ face, he sees the way his breath leaves him in a silent tremble when the touch disappears.

A dark throat bobs. “That hurt,” Sethos supplies, weak in the face of his own lie, strangely breathless.

There's no way Wanderer’s barely-there pressure caused Sethos enough pain to react like that. Wanderer conveys this thought with an unimpressed glower. Sethos merely offers him a helpless wide-eyed look.

What a stupid expression. Wanderer gets the sudden and inexplicable urge to kiss the small furrow that forms between Sethos’ tilted brows. 

His face goes slowly, methodically blank in the wake of that thought. Distantly, he sees Sethos’ face echo his confusion at the sudden change. Silently, Wanderer entertains the pros and cons for a total of five seconds before he tosses that idea over his shoulder as far as he can.

Ah, even more humiliating than caring about Sethos. Wanderer likes him. Juvenile. Unbelievable.

Completely predictable.

With a huff, he scoots his stool closer and leans over the bed that has become Sethos’ temporary rest spot. Sethos watches him come closer with something wary filtering into his eyes.

With one last sigh to shake off lingering embarrassment, Wanderer cups Sethos’ face in both palms, watching in something strangely close to delight as his every feature softens at the touch. His eyelids slip closed, and Wanderer’s lips press together at how the man nuzzles slightly into the feeling, warmth bleeding into his porcelain skin.

“Weirdo,” Wanderer murmurs, voice soft unlike anything he’s ever heard himself speak. 

Peace broken, Sethos’ eyes blink back open, a retort clearly forming on his lips before Wanderer leans in and seals them closed with his own. 

Maybe it’s just an excuse to stop Sethos from talking, maybe it’s because just seeing Sethos smile isn’t quite enough to ease the tangled mess residing where his heart would be. Maybe it’s to quiet Wanderer’s own thoughts, to shut up the racing uncertainties and frustration tainting his thoughts like poison. 

“Moron,” he accuses, pulled back centimeters from Sethos’ parted lips, trying to stop his grip from tightening, “You scared me.”

He feels Sethos’ exhale brush warm and soft against his chin. Like a helpless release of breath, like something knocked it right out of his chest. 

Wanderer doesn’t pull away, not quite yet, and is rewarded with fingers threading through the hair at his nape and guiding him into another, deeper kiss. Unfortunately for Sethos, that means Wanderer feels them clench and release sporadically at each lingering press, each new angle. 

So expressive, Wanderer thinks with an amused hum that vibrates between the two of them.

The kisses remain languid and close-mouthed, and it’s surprisingly Sethos who pulls back first. His head drops back the few centimeters it had unintentionally raised to meet Wanderer, long, curly brown hair fanning out against the pillow.

Wanderer carefully makes sure he does not smile at the sight of Sethos blinking the daze out of his eyes. With a toothy grin that’s so bright it nearly blinds Wanderer, Sethos exhales happily.

“I’m healed,” he says, tone honeyed and bordering on something absolutely disgusting. 

“Gross.” 

Sethos laughs, loud and bright, the back of his hand meeting his slightly flushed forehead. “Ah, ow,” he wheezes out, sounding paradoxically overjoyed.

Wanderer thinks that, maybe if he had a beating heart that could pump blood, his cheeks would be as pink as Sethos’ currently are. As it were, that’s impossible, so he settles for letting the smile tugging at his lips take over.

“Idiot,” he scolds, failing to not sound fond.

Sethos settles soon enough, and somehow, nearly all the tiredness has vanished from his body language. Instead, it’s replaced by an… undeniably happy glow. He's going on about something or other, Wanderer only maybe twenty percent paying attention. Sethos seems not to care one bit.

The sun climbs overhead as they chat— quite one-sidedly, admittedly— its rays oppressing and bright.

Yet, in Wanderer’s eyes, Sethos remains ever brighter.

“You were worried though, right?” Sethos’ face is somewhere in between sincere and teasing. Wanderer frowns and pointedly decides not to analyze the expression further.

“Must I say something so humiliating?” he complains.

Sethos laughs, breathy and ending with a wince. He laughs despite knowing it will hurt every time, like he just can’t help it. “Nah, I’m messing with you.”

Well, thank you for sparing me, Wanderer thinks sarcastically, and goes willingly when Sethos uses their connected fingers to tug him back down to his side. 

With a roll of his eyes, Wanderer accepts the kisses Sethos presses to his cheeks. For once, he thinks he’s grateful for not being human. It would be so much more humiliating if his body showed his thoughts and emotions against his will through heated cheeks and a racing heart.

Wanderer gags vaguely as Sethos nuzzles into his hairline, the younger grinning at the fake sound.

The Wanderer may not have a heart, but that doesn’t stop Sethos from becoming an intrinsic part of something soft and budding inside of him.

Inexorably.

Chapter Text

Cyno's about one-third of the way through the roster of jokes he mentally prepared this morning when he catches the widening smile on his companion's face.

Much like himself, Albedo is a stoic character, someone Cyno found a tad harder to read upon their first meeting. His abnormally smooth, pale skin paired with steady, unchanging expressions made him appear as though carved out of marble or chalk. Not to mention the brush strokes that made up his eyelashes and the watercolor of aquamarine that sparkled his eyes like clearwater.

It was a relief to see a smile on the man's perfect face, even if it was a professional, cordial one. It had taken a while before the smiles started reaching his eyes, and it was then that Cyno vowed to be the one to make him smile– to make him laugh. Just what kind of laugh would he have? A delightful, ringing of bells? Or a soft, chuckle of rustled grass?

Despite the looks Tighnari kept throwing his way, Cyno was sure this determination had nothing to do with infatuation and everything to do with his pride as a comedian. Fairly quickly into the evening, however, did Tighnari decide Cyno's jokes were too much for him. Hastily, he bid them goodnight before the punchline of the second one even left Cyno's mouth. Perhaps he had realized Cyno's plan.

Polite as always, Albedo waved him off with a smile and a shake of the head at Tighnari's apologetic tone. Cyno doubts a man of Albedo's intelligence was so oblivious as to not realize there was an ulterior reason for Tighnari's abrupt exit, so he presumes it's because he is a new friend, and can't read Tighnari as well as Cyno can.

Cyno gave his own wave, half-hearted in favor of clearing his throat and resuming his joke. Luckily, their conversation progressed pleasantly with the crackling of a campfire at the forefront of their background noise, and Cyno's jokes seemed to be landing... about as well as they typically do. 

Thus, the reason for his delighted shock when Albedo's humming mouth lifted from its neutral line into a smile nearly showing his teeth. 

Cyno mentally backtracks the content of the particular joke he just told, and proceeds to flip through his repertoire to find one of similar material. He doesn't have one— He hadn't known what in particular would land with someone like Albedo, so he prepped quite a variety. Okay. Not a problem. He can improvise just fine. 

Cyno takes care to remain neutral in body language and expression. He has found people view him funnier when they don't expect the punchline. Albedo's smile dwindles a tad, yet there remains a particular lightness to his expression that Cyno hadn't recognized before now. 

Albedo has so much knowledge inside of him that Cyno has never made himself familiar with. As a close friend to Tighnari, Cyno's both heard and seen facts about flora and fauna galore. Tighnari's told him more about the life cycles of plants than Cyno thinks he will ever realistically need to know. But alchemy is an entirely different topic. For one, it's hardly natural. Some rules of nature simply don't apply to alchemy the way they apply to flowers.

Albedo breezily demonstrates what he had just been describing: a pale, silver-ish almost branch-looking object seems to grow from his very fingertips. Cyno watches it appear from thin air with a ballooning feeling of awe in his chest. Albedo's smiling, something small and almost proud as he watches Cyno watch him. He's not even looking at what he's doing, as if he's done it thousands of times; like it's ingrained in his being. 

"Yes, I find that in particular quite fascinating," Cyno comments, tone mild and eyes slightly wide.

"Hm?" Albedo's head tilts a tad, pale bangs shifting with the moment. The shimmering branch pinched between his gloved fingers fades to dust before Cyno's eyes. "How so?"

Cyno takes a quick, quiet breath. "Well, it certainly knocks my stalks off."

Albedo's hand freezes midair. In fact, his entire body seems to freeze. Only for a moment, however, before that gloved hand retracts to fit itself over Albedo's mouth. His eyes crease before fluttering closed, and his shoulders hunch in.

Frowning, Cyno says, "Get it? Adapted from the saying 'knock your socks off,' it instead uses the word 'stalk' like one of a plant—"

He's interrupted by a sudden, breathy sound coming from the man in front of him. Cyno's mouth drifts shut, eyes darting over the now-uncovered face of Albedo. The hand that was previously muffling his sounds falls to his lap and Cyno, slightly dazed, watches as Albedo starts laughing. It's soft, but rich with amusement. 

After a moment of awe Cyno disguises as confusion, he smirks. "I don't need to keep explaining it, do I?" he asks, purposefully deadpan, and is rewarded with the glorious sight of Albedo's body language expanding like a flower to bloom as his amusement escapes him anew.

His laugh is louder this time, carefree and genuine, and Cyno realizes, Ah, it's ringing bells and rustling grass. Moreso than that, it's like when the morning sun finally warms the sands of the desert after the biting chill of a winter night.

The warm feeling swelling in Cyno's chest feels a lot like pride, a little like the infatuation he had denied being his motivation. Or perhaps it's the other way around.

He's made other people laugh before, though rare, but it's never felt like this. Even when it's the first time they've laughed at something he's said, it feels more successful than anything genuine. It's never felt like waking up to sunlight streaming in from the window and warming the bedsheets, or like the first full meal after a grueling days' worth of cases and paperwork.

Cyno justifies it's because Albedo seems like a hard man to amuse, but the excuse sounds weak to his own ears. 

You buffoon, comes Tighnari's imaginary voice in his head, it's love.

Oh, he replies, uncharacteristically dumbfounded. What?

By the time Cyno's thoughts allow him to return to solid ground, Albedo's laughter has died down into gentle chuckles, and his eyes, now open, are watching Cyno with an indescribable glint inside of them. They meet Cyno's immediately upon refocusing, crimson on orange-tinged aquamarine. Cyno thanks both his upbringing and his job for the fact that his expression hadn't changed in the wake of the realization that settled into his brain.

However, something must have shown on his face, because Albedo's grin stretches wide once more, fondness creasing his eyes. His head tilts, slightly back and to the side. Almost... beckoning. 

His eyes finally leave Cyno's to flick to the empty spot at his left, lingering before they drift back in place. Cyno's brows raise. Oh. His hands clench together, fingers interlocked until his bones grind and ache, before he releases the tension with a near-imperceptible huff. 

Movements deliberately languid, Cyno stands from his seat to round the campfire and instead join Albedo at his side. The man's smile has softened drastically, but the flickering warmth of the fire paired with the darkened backdrop of a sun long-set does well to keep him appearing glowing and warm.

"You're quite funny, Cyno," Albedo says lowly into the silence. Cyno hadn't realized how soothing the deep cadence of his voice is. 

Resolutely and with slight prejudice, Cyno bats away any inappropriate thoughts and focuses on returning to that simple and casual air of conversation they had.

He hums. "You're one of the first to say so."

At that, Albedo's brows raise. He shifts a tad to face the other, the genuine disbelief in his expression continuing to stupefy Cyno. "Really?"

"Why do you think Tighnari left so hurriedly?" Cyno remarks, amusement melting into his tone despite himself.

Albedo simply blinks. "I see." Then, "A shame. I've never met someone with humor like yours." He smiles, small and genuine, "It's quite refreshing."

"Is that so?" Cyno hears himself ask distantly.

Albedo, heedless of the increasing rhythm of Cyno's heartbeat, continues. "Often, I have professional conversations. A downside to working for the majority of one's days is everyone starts to become a colleague to you, and you can't help but talk with them as such." Albedo's eyes flick away, naturally, considering his words. "That's not to say I find such conversations boring, or that my friends aren't entertaining from lack of trying."

Cyno hums, just to convey that he's paying attention.

Albedo's eyes jump back to his once more. "But I don't think I've ever found myself smiling and honest to archons laughing in everyday conversation. And it's so effortless." 

Cyno's heart pounds that bit harder. 

Albedo takes a breath that hums on the exhale. "I suppose what I'm trying to say is that speaking with you is carefree in a way I hardly experience. I wish more people told you so, as I'm sure your friends feel the same."

Breathless, Cyno murmurs, "None of my friends find me funny. And they have told me so themselves." Cyno doesn't lament this fact, and he never will; if anything, it gives him more motivation to keep testing material until something works. 

Albedo, however, gains a sympathetic edge to his expression. Cyno feels padded fingers slide between his own, and he darts startled eyes down to see Albedo holding his hand, sliding underneath rough skin where it rests between their thighs. 

"A shame," Albedo repeats, with a gentle squeeze, and Cyno's gaze returns to his face once more. His tone, where it had been something closer to calculating before, is softer now, honeyed in the natural lilt Albedo has had thus far.

Mutually, they search each other's faces in the ensuing silence, and something wordless builds between them, a tension Cyno is wholly unfamiliar with. Albedo's carved-from-marble face is softening impossibly in front of his eyes, and, helpless and feeling out of his depth, Cyno gulps and blurts out:

"Are you a megaphyll? Because I'm frond of you."

Damn Tighnari's hours of lectures on plants.

Cyno's face goes slack with his embarrassment, and he watches as the languid ease that had overtaken Albedo melts into something like disbelief. He would facepalm if his hand wasn't currently occupied and the other as heavy as iron. 

Silence. And then:

Albedo bursts out laughing. 

His head ducks down and his shoulders shake and the force of his amusement pitches his voice an octave higher, bright and delighted. Cyno exhales, forcefully steady, as heat crawls up the nape of his neck and pools at the tips of his ears. His heart pounds rapidly in his chest, battering against his ribcage like the frantic beating of a bird's wings.

Albedo's body lists slightly forward, forehead meeting Cyno's shoulder. This close, Cyno can feel the breath of his exhales fanning down over his bare bicep. 

Albedo doesn't seem to be stopping anytime soon, and if he were any closer, Cyno thinks he'd feel that smile pressed up against his skin. 

Suddenly, amidst the chortling, Albedo's next inhale becomes a snort, and really, Cyno can only fight a smile for so long. So, helplessly, his face loses all tension, and he allows himself to grin. In the face of Albedo's unapologetic joy at something Cyno said, how can he not? After a few seconds, the grin turns into breathless chuckling, which picks up in intensity until he's laughing right along with Albedo. 

Albedo's head lifts at the sound, and Cyno doesn't bother attempting to stifle himself, unused to this bright, loud elation filling his chest. His next breath is stolen away right from his lungs, as, still laughing, still grinning— Albedo kisses him.

Ah, Cyno thinks, smitten, this is hardly a kiss, is it?

They're both smiling too much, still huffing amused breaths, so Cyno untangles their fingers and brings his other hand up to cup Albedo's cheeks. He tilts his head, tamps down on his grin until it's a close-lipped smile, and slots their lips properly together. Albedo hums softly against Cyno's mouth, and leans further into him as Cyno takes the weight easily, greedily; a push and pull that perpetuates as their lips meet again and again. 

Inevitably, it's a chuckle that breaks them apart– Albedo's. They part to catch their breath, and Cyno blinks his eyes open to see Albedo eyeing him with amusement.

"Did you mean to say that?" he asks rhetorically, teasingly.

Cyno, besotted, frowns in faux consideration. "Well, you see, it's frond like fond, and megaphyll is the scientif—"

Albedo shuts him up with a kiss.

Chapter Text

Never say that Childe doesn’t have a thing for pain.

…Okay, that… sounded a lot more perverted than he intended. It’s not like that.

It’s just… seldom nothing is more thrilling than the heat of battle; throwing his all at something and having it fight back, latching in with claws sharp and teeth bared until it turns grim and bloody, clanging blades and wills and violence until it’s a battle of might.  

Fighting is a dance, it’s a symphony that he conducts and nothing makes him feel more alive.

So when he discovers a new opponent, one stronger than him, it’s euphoric.

Adeptus Xiao is stronger than him on a fundamental level. Childe could train and spar and battle for another decade and still it would be nothing in comparison to the thousands of years Xiao has spent being a weapon and honing his blade. 

His spear is an extension of himself; one who knows death and has caused hundreds.

It's admirable. It's impressive.

It's thrilling.

Childe can’t possibly help the manic grin overtaking his face as Xiao matches him blow for blow, not a weak point in sight. And yet, he gets the feeling the adeptus is still holding back.

He can’t have that.

“That all you got?” Childe taunts, leaping out of reach, “I'm barely breaking a sweat.” 

Xiao hmphs. “If I were to give you all I have, it would kill you.”

Childe drags the tip of his tongue over a sharp canine, his grin twisting into a snarl. Xiao isn’t even being cocky. He's simply stating a fact.

A chuckle, dark and grating, rises from his throat. “Try me,” he sneers.

Xiao inhales measuredly. “Very well.” 

Between one blink and the next, Xiao disappears from Childe’s sight, and before he even has time to prepare himself, his world is upended as his back meets the dirt. Immediately, he readies to launch himself to his feet, but a knee slammed into his sternum pins him like a nail through a butterfly’s wing. 

It knocks the breath right from his chest with a choked cough, turns his heaving into rasping until the threat of passing out flirts at the edges of his consciousness.

Xiao is light, deceptively so, truly a bird swooping and twirling in a dance of death— until his weight is what keeps Childe’s thrashing figure pinned down. That, and the glowing jade spear dangerously close to stabbing straight through his jugular.

Childe’s hands scrabble at Xiao's leg to hopefully wrap around the limb and throw the smaller man off, but he doesn’t budge. In fact, all it causes Xiao to do is press in further until it feels as though Childe’s ribs are mere seconds away from bending inwards and snapping from the pressure. 

Seeing as moving Xiao is a fruitless endeavor, Childe instead reaches for the spear that has now pierced through skin and caused a small rivulet of blood to drip sideways off his throat. The blade cuts clean through his glove into skin as he grips it, smearing blood onto the shimmering surface. He barely feels it, swirling ocean eyes glaring fiercely into Xiao’s glowing amber.

With dirty and cut up palms, Childe gets one hand on the blade and the other on the hilt, and throws his weight sideways to knock it away from his vulnerable neck. It works, just barely, raising a good dozen centimeters up and away, only for Xiao to bring it down swifter and harder, cutting across Childe’s forehead on the way down. 

His superhuman grip is closer to the tip, now, gloved knuckles curled firmly to hold it steady.

Well, fuck.

Point proven, Childe thinks sourly, heart pounding rapid and furious.

“Okay,” he wheezes, conceding, and immediately all pressure is alleviated as Xiao flits graciously to his feet. 

Childe raises himself to his elbows and curls into himself as he coughs, gulping in humid, nighttime air. 

Xiao cocks his head. “Do you see why I don't use my power to spar with you, human?”

Childe, still holding his throat and doing a mental check of the state of his ribs, nods. Nothing broken.

Childe doesn’t allow himself time to calm his breathing completely, just takes sharp bursts of air until the fog creeping in subsides, and then he grits his teeth and hauls himself back to his feet.

His throat, sticky with the blood from his cut up palm, bobs and flexes as he stretches out his shoulders. With a final huff, he crouches back into a ready position.

“Again,” he commands. Xiao raises a brow. With an eye roll, Childe adds, “Without powers this time.”

Childe thinks he sees the beginnings of a smirk on Xiao's face before glowing hydro manifests in his palms, as familiar as the moon in the sky, and he lunges.

It could be hours until their sparring slows, Childe truly doesn’t know. He's far too busy allowing the buzzing roar of elation to fill his ears; blood singing in his veins once more even as he has to keep wiping it to keep it out of his eyes.

Annoyingly, head wounds always do bleed the most.

They’re nearly nose to nose by the time Xiao speaks up again, blades tangled. His eyes are alight, and there’s a flush to the tips of his pointed ears, but other than that, he looks unaffected.

“Have you had enough?” Comes his gruff voice. 

Childe huffs, something on the wrong side of a laugh. Most of his joints are aching, and he can actively feel bruises forming on the few places Xiao got good hits in. “Never.”

Xiao just makes a low hmm sound, and from the corner of Childe’s eye he sees him adjust his grip on his weapon. Eyes flicking down and back, Childe glares straight through to Xiao’s, locking his stare into that inhuman gold and holding it. 

A few seconds more, and Childe sighs. He sucks his teeth, tastes blood, and allows his hydro blades to dissipate from his hands as he straightens.

Xiao’s grip shifts again, becoming looser but still guarded, like he fully expects Childe to lunge again. Good, he’s already learnt, Childe thinks a tad smugly. 

The muscles in Xiao’s jaw tick, eyes hard, and the two of them watch each other in silence only broken up by Childe’s breathless huffing.

Panting, blinking blood out of his vision, Childe raises his hand not to attack, but to dig his thumb and four fingers right into those shifting muscles at the edges of Xiao’s jaw. Using Xiao’s momentary shock, he tugs him in the rest of the minuscule distance between them and crashes their lips together.

It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. A creature like Childe has no business with tenderness. It’s forceful and hard enough to be bruising, all teeth and aggression.

Xiao makes a small noise against his lips, something low and hitched, caught in his throat. Childe tightens the grip he has on Xiao's jaw and tilts his head further. Their lips, scarred and smooth respectively, slide and fit against each other.

Childe readies himself to be thrown off, his other hand already braced at his side in preparation to balance himself or fight back.

No such thing occurs. 

Instead, Xiao growls ferociously, and fists two hands in the sweat-matted hair at the back of Childe’s skull, tight. Childe doesn’t even spare a thought to where Xiao’s spear has gone as the shorter tugs, yanking Childe from the bruising connection of their lips only to surge forward himself, using the grip as an anchor to angle Childe as he pleases. 

Not that Childe is all that keen on fighting it at the moment.

The aching burn tingles across Childe’s scalp, trickles down his spine like a tangible thing. He shudders, full-body. 

Xiao’s teeth are sharp, Childe realizes, as almost immediately his lip is bitten raw and bloody. In the next second, Xiao licks it up, rough across the sting, and the feeling is so arousing that Childe groans right into his mouth and chases the iron tang deeper with lips and eager tongue.

It’s like they’re sparring again, what with the blood passing between them and the aggressive, stubborn push and pull. Meeting each other blow for blow, kissing the breath right from their lungs. 

Childe's hand falls away from Xiao's face to cup his nape and drag him impossibly closer. The blood which had been drying and crusting over on his palm is wet anew with the stretch of his wound, but it only adds to the sensations creating a dizzying swirl of pleasure-pain starting from the stinging roots of his hair down to the ache in his legs.

His lips are starting to feel numb at this point, and his throat is burning from the mix of blood and saliva he’s swallowing, but Archons he does not want to stop.

His other hand, which had been hanging limply at his side and twitching with every sensation, raises to grip Xiao's waist with bruising force that will undoubtedly leave no mark whatsoever. 

It doesn’t matter, not at all, when the action causes Xiao to let out a breathless, whining sound. 

Childe, with a thudding heart and stinging nerves, sends a thoughtless, incoherent prayer to the Tsaritsa.

Then, he succumbs himself to the sensation of consuming and being consumed right back.

Chapter Text

Furina, for the first time in a long, long, long time… is outside of Fontaine.

No amount of breathing in the salt-tinged air and eating the expensive, exotic food help that fact settle in. Furina is outside of Fontaine. Furina is in Liyue right now, celebrating Lantern Rite and seeing sights he never thought he would. 

It's both exhilarating and saddening, but, he decides he’s had enough of being sad, and intends to celebrate to the fullest of his abilities. 

Freedom is sweet, and after enough time had passed to when he stopped waking up forgetting where he was— in his  home, not in the Palais Mermonia— and who he was— not Focalors, not the Hydro Archon, just Furina— he was able to finally, finally relax, and allow himself a vacation. (Though, Neuvillette's insistence and encouragement certainly helped that particular decision).

So he’s been fluttering around tasting the food and marveling at the decorations and probably spending a little too much of his travel expenses but he can’t help it!

Coincidentally (or completely purposeful, knowing Hu Tao), Furina being in Liyue means as well that his girlfriend is in Liyue, and after so many months of letters sent back and forth with attached flowers or small treats, it’s relieving to be in the presence of Hu Tao again.

“I'm so happy you’re here!” Hu Tao had cheered, her grin bright and wide. Furina, a little flushed, a little unused to being blinded directly in the face by that smile, could only nod in agreement. 

Then, Hu Tao had captured both his hands and donned a faux-serious expression as she said: “I will single-handedly make this the best Lantern Rite you’ve ever seen.” 

Furina, mind finally catching up with his body, teased: “It’s the only Lantern Rite I've seen.”

“Semantics,” Hu Tao had waved him off, smile returning, already turned to begin the tour of the various festivities.

So, they see the sights together, Hu Tao dragging a laughing Furina along as she guides him around the bustling harbor with practiced ease. Liyue City really comes alive around the holidays, Hu Tao tells him— Furina ignores the subsequent offhand comment about it getting in the way of her profession— and Furina is quite inclined to believe that. 

There are people everywhere; eating at the various restaurants, buying souvenirs for their loved ones, enjoying the sights and decorations, or simply just walking around or talking and laughing with one another.

It’s impossible to not get swept up in the atmosphere, and Hu Tao’s cheery disposition certainly gives no help in that regard. But it’s a warm feeling that’s growing in Furina’s chest— a welcome one. It’s happiness and fondness and excitement and affection and… Nobody can really blame him if he thumbs off some sauce from the side of Hu Tao's lips when they’re stopped by a food stand. Certainly not Hu Tao herself, who is then too busy kissing Furina to tease him about it.

It's all too soon that night falls, and Hu Tao makes sure the both of them have front row seats to the performance of the year, hands clasped together even as Hu Tao’s body sways with the lilting voice of the singer. Furina’s unable to contain his fondness as he stares at his girlfriend, lit in a soft orange glow by the lanterns floating about and hung around archways, eyes sparkling and glowing— Alive in the night.

Hu Tao catches his stare and partially turns with a cheeky grin to give Furina a wink, giggling at the immediate flush that takes over his cheeks.

“Something on my face?” Hu Tao teases, “You gonna wipe it off again?”

Furina flushes further and sputters, Hu Tao laughing at his expense all the while. 

“No,” Furina huffs, when Hu Tao’s had her fill of embarrassing him, “I’m just… happy. To be here.”

His words come out stilted, still not quite accustomed to speaking his emotions aloud. It tightens an instinctual knot of shame in his chest, one he doesn’t think will ever fully go away. 

Yet, all Hu Tao does is smile, something softer in the curve of her eyes; glimmering in her pupils. “Yeah?”

Furina clears his throat to choke back the urge to backtrack and hightail it out of this conversation in embarrassment. “Yeah.”

“I'm glad,” Hu Tao says, warmth simmering her tone into something that’s coming close to melting Furina where he stands. His hand squeezes tighter where their fingers are interlocked, nerves buzzing.

It's pure self defense of his burning face and thudding heart that makes Furina lean in to kiss Hu Tao. He can taste the smile on Hu Tao's lips as much as he can feel it as it curls against his own. 

Her perfume is sweet and flowery, with an undertone of smoke, and she hums happily into Furina's mouth when their lips part against each other. It's sweet, sickly so, made even more so when Hu Tao uses her free hand to settle it atop Furina’s waist and gently drag him even closer. 

They share warmth and kisses beneath the stars and lanterns, and Furina's so busy with the warmth spreading through his veins that he doesn’t even care that him and Hu Tao are in full view of the public. They're probably not paying attention anyways, as fireworks begin to launch and explode into colorful bursts of light, illuminating the night sky in swaths.

When the two finally part, Hu Tao’s already grinning something sharp and dangerous. The glint in her eyes sets off warning bells in Furina's head, as intoxicated as it feels from kissing his love.

“What?” Furina prompts anyway, wary.

Hu Tao's eyes squint, mischievous. “I guess I succeeded in making this the best Lantern Rite, hm?” 

Furina sighs to the backtrack of Hu Tao’s ringing laughter amongst the bursting fireworks.

Chapter Text

“You’re a bold one,” is the first thing Mavuika says to Capitano as she stares down her nose at him, arms crossed. He's still kneeling, clutching at the smoldering fabric over his heart where Mavuika’s flames struck.

His head cranes weakly up at her, and despite the fact that his face is completely shadowed and hidden by the mask, Mavuika can feel his gaze like a physical weight. 

“In broad daylight, no less,” Mavuika comments, continuing. Her own body is aching from the intensity of the battle, veins still burning from exhausting her powers. Capitano is truly a formidable opponent. As a warrior, she’s almost honored to have fought him. But, regardless of enjoyment in the fight, a slight against the archon is still a slight, and therefore must be punished.

The Harbinger’s lackeys scurried off before Mavuika made her way over, and she knows Kinich and Iansan are keeping a distance from behind and trusting in their Archon’s ability and judgement. 

As of right now, Capitano poses no threat. 

“You are as formidable as I had expected,” Capitano pants, voice rough, in lieu of responding to Mavuika’s actual words. There’s a note of something approving in his voice— he came for a fight and he got one.

Mavuika, arms still crossed, bends at the hip to come face to face with the taller man. A sharp-pointed hand still cradles the ashen hole made of his elaborate cloak, but his heaving has died down. Baring himself before the enemy, defeated, and his body language speaks nothing of concession.

Mavuika keeps her stare steady and unwavering, piercing that inky black to the irises undoubtedly beneath. A silence— building tension simmering near-visibly between them— settles. Capitano’s breaths are inaudible, but his chest is still cycling that same heavy rise and fall as Mavuika’s. Though, Mavuika notes, perhaps a tad more labored.

“You cannot have my Gnosis,” Mavuika murmurs firmly, coals over a hot fire. Capitano’s hand spasms, and below that, his chest jumps, an action betraying his humanity in a way so revealing it nearly makes Mavuika dizzy.

“Defeat is defeat,” Capitano agrees, his voice a rumbling husk. 

Mavuika raises a brow. “But that wasn’t the real goal, was it?” It’s rhetorical, of course. She's far from a fool. 

Capitano doesn’t bother pretending otherwise. “No.”

“Hm,” Mavuika responds, concise. A moment of consideration; she takes in Capitano's vulnerable state, his compliance with conversation, and his prior actions.

“An attack on the Archon cannot go unpunished.” Anger begins to leak into her voice, slow and sizzling like liquid phlogiston. A threat is woven within the burning syllables; a promise.

Capitano doesn’t waver a single centimeter. He holds firm, the sun catching the shining corners of his helmet. He says nothing, gives nothing away, and Mavuika only has limited body language to go about deciphering what he’s thinking. The itching urge to find out exactly what expression he’s making beneath that shadow of mystery crawls along Mavuika’s spine, into her fingers.

She leans in further, perhaps closer than entirely necessary, and unfolds her arms to tilt Capitano's chin up with a two-fingered touch. He goes willingly, silently. The dust is settling around them, the fire in Mavuika’s veins is gradually receding to normal, and the heated tension between them rises.

Mavuika’s thumb joins her other fingers, hooking over and into the ridge of the chin of the mask. Her grip is not gentle. It does not pierce and it might just burn, but Capitano doesn’t flinch. 

With a wave of something dangerously close to excitement, Mavuika realizes she can feel Capitano’s exhales brushing upon her thumb where it rests not quite touching skin.

Her other hand, slowly, raises to settle at the base of Capitano's throat; not squeezing, merely pressure, and yet Mavuika can feel the bob of it when he swallows roughly. 

“Make this easy for me,” Mavuika says, not quite soft enough to be anything other than a command. To emphasize, she nudges the metal in her grip purposefully.

Capitano is still for a few breaths longer. Then, low and murmured, “Is this my punishment?”

Mavuika scowls, an unusual expression for her. The tension in her fingers increases, something frenzied bursting its way from her ribcage and spreading to her limbs. It’s not rage, that she knows. It’s… something headier. That same, slithering feeling that made her ache to reveal the expression Capitano is concealing, buried beneath her skin like a heartbeat.

“Do it.” It's a clear command this time. Capitano hesitates, yet the claw cupping the dying flame over his chest lowers a fraction. 

With an inhale that brings her own smoke to her lungs, Mavuika sends a firm look over her shoulder, making eye contact with the still-hovering figures of Kinich and Iansan. The messenger that had warned her is there too. She jerks her head in a concise, ordering motion. Kinich nods once in confirmation, and then turns to the others. Within seconds, the arena empties, and only remains Mavuika and Capitano.

Capitano’s head follows the motions, turning back to meet Mavuika’s. Wordlessly, he brings both clawed hands up to his neck. They hover there, waiting, and Mavuika gives him one last meaningful squeeze before letting go to make room. Capitano’s hands remain still, the first time Mavuika has seen him waver thus far. 

It lasts a second- between one blink and the next- and then he’s adjusting his high collar, tugging it downwards to the hollow of his throat. Beneath Mavuika’s calculating stare, he braces both palms to the temples of his mask, wraps fingers to the top, presses in, and begins to lift it. 

The chains clink against the metal, casting numerous glints and glimmers of silver on the way. Mavuika watches as inky black hair spills from beneath the mask and joins the other strands fallen over his sternum. Impatient, her forefinger taps against her bicep from where she had crossed her arms once more.

Capitano ducks his head once the helmet is fully removed, and he sets it to the ground with a reverence that Mavuika did not expect possible of him. 

“I did not suspect humiliation to be a punishment among your definitions.” It’s impossible to tell if Capitano’s being serious, with as little as Mavuika knows about him. She makes a guess.

“Silence.” Mavuika sighs tersely. “Obviously not. Who exactly is here to humiliate you?”

Capitano makes a low sound in his now-bare throat, conceding. With a slow, steady sigh, he raises his head and meets Mavuika’s raised brow with a remarkable poker face.

He waits like he’s expecting something. 

Mavuika’s eyes rove over the dark skin of his face, the stark black bangs parted in the middle that dip past the corners of his thick eyebrows and frame high cheekbones. His eyes, coal-black and burning coldly, keep a steady gaze ahead, patiently watching Mavuika take in his features. While far from soft, they aren’t threatening. Nestled within their dark cores is a deep purple star-like shape, mesmerizing.

On either side of his temples, the hair grows longer to frame his serious expression and accentuate a strong, sharp jawline. His lips are thin and dark, stuck in a perpetual line of stoicism. Splitting unevenly through his cheeks on either side and trailing down his neck to disappear beneath his collar and disrupting the otherwise blemish-free surface are swaths of decayed skin, tinted shades of blue-black and ever so slightly glowing ethereally. They look like slashes from a paintbrush, like an artist was painting particularly aggressively by throwing blues and blacks on top of and criss-crossing each other with reckless abandon. As a painter herself, Mavuika marvels at the sight.

It is rot, and it is an otherworldly type of unsettling. Inhuman and disquieting.

Undeniably, Capitano is gorgeous.

Mavuika hmphs with satisfaction. She lowers her arms and steps even closer, to the point where Capitano has to crane his neck back to keep eye contact. With a smile curling her lips, Mavuika acknowledges that she finally, finally has the pleasure of watching those tar black eyes follow the movement. Steady and unwavering; he barely blinks.

Mavuika’s palms meet Capitano’s gaunt cheeks on either side— sunken in by the crawling rot encroaching on his body. She doesn’t care to inquire the cause. She's been alive for long enough to be familiar with this kind of ailment; its incurability, most notably. She dances the tips of her fingers along where the ridges of the blackish blue meet dark skin, watches Capitano’s lashes flutter heartbeat-quick and settle the second she catches it. 

Another surge of satisfaction blooms between Mavuika’s ribs when she realizes Capitano’s hands have gone completely limp, resting in the gap between his thighs. She can’t help her smirk.

“Il Capitano, First of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers, defeated and pliant at my feet.” A steady inhale, as Mavuika briefly centers herself. “What a sight to see.”

She moves her palms to cup either side of his jaw instead, tilting his head back even further to most likely the point of discomfort. Capitano continues to allow the treatment, gazing up at Mavuika from beneath lightly furrowed brows. 

“And it is you,” Mavuika continues, “who had dared to march into my arena and attempt to take what was mine. Half-heartedly, even.” 

For the very first time, Capitano looks about to argue, his expression pinching and lips slowly parting. The words don’t make it past before Mavuika speaks again.

“You put up a fight, that I can acknowledge.” Her stare hardens. “But not for the reason you had stated. To a warrior, there is next to nothing as insulting.” Mavuika’s fingers dig into the notches of Capitano’s jaw, where the muscles are clenched. He likely doesn’t even feel it.

“We fight for honor, for glory, for our nations and our loved ones. We hardly fight for nothing. A waste of a battle is a waste of pride.” A flash of something complicated flashes briefly across Capitano’s irises, gone in the next second. 

Mavuika soldiers on. “You understand my anger.” A tilt of the head, though it’s not phrased like a question.

Capitano holds steady. Something in his eyes swirls and melts, burning and melting the coal into liquid and drawing Mavuika in like a black hole. He inhales slowly, exhales until it quivers at the end. “Yes.”

Mavuika’s eyes gleam. “Il Capitano, I don’t intend to humiliate you.” Gloved fingers brush beneath Capitano’s longest bangs, tucking and curling below his ears. 

The severe angle in which Mavuika has his head tilted at causes him to raise off his knee a tad, and yet she has to lower herself to meet him all the same. “It is a trade.”

Her final words are murmured against Capitano’s parted lips. “Fair is fair.”

And then, she closes the distance, slow at first until their lips meet. With screaming ferocity, she presses with all the surging fire bubbling dormant and waiting beneath the surface of her skin. It’s harsh and angry, a frenzy that immediately swallows her the second she feels Capitano’s gasped breath against her. 

She makes it not five seconds before abruptly, a large, clawed hand flies up to her wrist. It startles her enough to pull back, a hiss about to escape, but as if Capitano predicted it, he tugs her right back in, tilting his head the other way to crash their lips together much like their blades had minutes before. 

Indeed, it’s the same repetitive, aggressive way their bodies and fists and blades had met as they fought, soaring through the air and crashing down to the arena floor. Flame versus frost, one consuming the other, heady and unstoppable and merciless.

Their groans are synchronized, vibrating between where they meet over and over again with harsh, bruising pressure and sultry smacking sounds. Mavuika keeps her hands firmly cradling Capitano’s head, and he simply leaves his hand wrapped entirely around her forearm; not squeezing, just holding, like he’s assuring she stays.

The reciprocated kiss is a pleasant surprise, even if Mavuika had assumed such would happen. She gets lost in it, in the rhythm they build up even as her lips become numb and she continuously loses her breath. She can’t help the small hums that keep breaking free from her, only spurred on by the low, throaty sounds coming from the man beneath her.

Her anger fades with the ferocity, and by the time she’s deemed the other sufficiently bruised, the both of them are panting, and her hands had slipped into Capitano’s hair at some point. 

A wicked grin curls Mavuika’s lips as she surveys Capitano’s mussed hair, slick and blossomed red-and-purple lips, and heavy-lidded eyes of— now that she looks closer— deep and dark swirling galaxies. A millenia held in one gaze.

“Much better,” she declares.

Chapter Text

Gaming is still wiping the sweat from his brow by the time he walks through his front door. He can’t help the immediate sigh of relief that leaves him— followed quickly by a small smile— when the noise and bustling Liyue atmosphere is finally quieted.

Another long day and night of training and performing. Despite the exhaustion that settles into Gaming’s bones after every day, he wouldn’t trade this for the world. He gets to live his life doing his passion, and after so many years of feeling anxious and guilty over it, it’s nothing short of freeing to reconnect with the joy Wushou dancing brings him.

He toes off his shoes in the entrance, divesting himself of his hoodie and tossing it over the back of one of the living room chairs as he trots further into his home. “I'm back!” he calls out cheerily.

He’s looking for something in particular, one very specific thing that has become a new edition to the small, cozy place he lives in as of late. Gaming peers around a wall and spots him; his boyfriend Freminet, curled up on the couch with feet pulled up and knees tucked into his chest.

Something loosens behind Gaming’s ribs at the sight of soft blond hair and pale skin, sending a rush of muted warmth flooding his system like adrenaline. It's much softer than anything as crazy as that, but Gaming can’t deny the silly grin that stretches his face every time he gets to see his boyfriend lounging in his home when he arrives. 

The happiness, as bright as it is, is short lived when Gaming rounds the side of the couch and finds Freminet not lounging or perhaps even napping as expected, but instead curled up tight, shoulders drawn up tense and expression distraught.

His smile falls, worry immediately replacing it. With light but hurried steps, Gaming finds himself hovering over Freminet's balled up figure. It pains him to see Freminet making himself so small, tucking himself into a tight ball of wound up stress as if he’s afraid of burdening anyone with his troubles. 

“Freminet?” he ventures, unsure how deeply the other boy is in his head right now. The only reaction Gaming gets is Freminet’s fingers clenching and releasing, legs pulling up even tighter.

Gaming bends over, lays a hand on the back of the couch to hold himself up and gently taps Freminet's elbow with the other.

“Hey.” Gaming’s voice drops to something low and soothing, a soft furrow between his brows. “Look at me,” he coaxes, “What’s wrong?”

Freminet shakes his head, but otherwise doesn’t respond. Then, he sighs something shaky, near-silent. “It’s nothing.” 

His naturally gentle voice is made even quieter in his despondence, so much so that Gaming has to lean further in to hear him better. 

Gaming voices his skepticism via hum, makes sure to keep it light especially if Freminet is in a fragile state of mind at the moment. Any disapproval he might sense from Gaming, misconstrued or not, will only make things worse.

With another hum, this one short and upbeat, Gaming pushes off the back of the couch to cease his hovering, instead opting to turn and plop down at Freminet’s side. He twists, throwing an arm across the backrest and lifting a knee up to the cushion. Then, he leans in once more. This way, he and Freminet are on even ground.

Freminet watches him from the corner of his eye, lips pressed tight together and periwinkle eyes swimming with uncertainty.

It hurts Gaming to see his love hurting, especially since he knows just how bright and wonderful Freminet can really be when he’s enjoying himself. 

Gaming moves his hand from the couch to Freminet’s shoulder, thumb rubbing back and forth across the smooth texture of his wetsuit he wears beneath his outerwear.

It has the desired effect; Freminet’s shoulders lose a fraction of their tension, part of his body leaning towards Gaming’s touch like they’re two ends of a magnet— gravitating towards each other.

Gaming smiles, gentle and fond. “You don’t have to talk about it,” he murmurs, “but I wanna help. Any way I can.”

Gaming lets the following silence hang between them, keeping his body language loose and open. He's fine to give Freminet as much time as he needs, for whatever reason. Content to sit here just offering his presence if that’s what his boyfriend needs.

Finally, Freminet's eyes close through a slow inhale that catches, the exhale shuddering out of him. He tilts his head to lay his cheek on his knee, facing Gaming, fingers clenching at the fabric of his shorts. His eyes don’t quite meet Gaming’s own, but they do flick to check his expression for a moment.

Gaming offers his shoulder a squeeze and gazes with inquisitive, blinking eyes.

“I guess I’m just…” Freminet’s lips thin, then purse as he trails off. He bites at the skin of his lower lip before wetting it and continuing, “I'm anxious. And, um, worried.” 

Gaming graduates from rubbing his thumb to petting back and forth; small, repetitive movements for Freminet to focus on.

“This happens a lot,” Freminet mumbles. At Gaming’s hm? he clarifies, “When I leave home— Fontaine.” Another breath. “I get so anxious about… whether I'm allowed to leave or- or if I deserve to. It’s- it’s silly, really. Lyney would say I'm being foolish.”

Gaming resists the incredible and suffocating urge to immediately refute everything Freminet's saying by insisting he deserves the world on a silver platter. It's a feat, but he manages. Instead, he gently urges Freminet to continue with a, “Why’s that?”

Freminet frowns. “Because- I get this… c-creeping feeling sometimes, when I'm relaxing. That I’m not doing enough, that I should be out accomplishing… missions, or… doing more of Father’s b-bidding.”

His voice wobbles. “I just… I disappoint Father so often that I… hate the thought of it. It makes my s-stomach sink and- and I doubt… myself. Even more. I don't have the- the confidence to… tell myself that I…” 

Freminet blinks harshly, multiple times, and Gaming waits patiently for him to pick up his sentence and continue. Then, he spies a sheen building up in Freminet's watery eyes, and knows he’s stopping there. His cheeks turn ruddy, and immediately his face is hidden by the crook of his elbow.

Gaming allows him to hide, opts to scoot closer so his knees press up against Freminet’s side and ankle. Just a reminder that he’s here. For good measure, he wraps his arm around Freminet's shoulder in a side hug. 

“I think,” Gaming starts on a sigh, “that you’re not foolish at all. Well, maybe except for thinking you don’t deserve nice things— but that’s not my point.” 

Freminet sniffles, and Gaming continues. “It’s okay to feel anxious, or unsure, or insecure for any reason,” he says firmly, “You work hard, and it’s difficult to tell yourself it’s okay to rest when you haven’t been meeting expectations— whether they’re your own or someone else’s. Trust me. I get it.”

Freminet peeks out from under his bangs, eyes red-rimmed and swimming with tears. “But…?”

Gaming catches his gaze and smiles, eyes creasing. “ But… nothing can really dictate what you’re worthy of or not, because your worth isn’t a monetary value that can be measured by- by how much work you do or, how guilty you feel about taking a break every once in a while.”

Silence reigns while Gaming’s words sink in. He can practically see the gears turning in Freminet's head as he processes them. After a minute or so, Gaming huffs. “So. I have an idea.”

Freminet uses the fabric on his forearm to wipe at his eyes, uncurling a bit from his hunched posture. Gaming perks upon seeing this; watches him unfurl like a blooming flower. 

Freminet looks intrigued. “An idea?”

Gaming beams. “Let me distract you!” 

Freminet simply blinks at him, waiting for him to elaborate. Gaming takes his free hand and brings it up between them. “I can help you forget all the mess in here…” He pokes Freminet's forehead— stifling a giggle at Freminet's wide, puppy dog eyes— “…while I take care of the rest!” He retracts his hand to point a thumb at himself.

Freminet’s tears are gone, the only remnants being the uneven flush across his freckled cheeks. “How?”

“Like this!” Gaming chirps, and uses the hand on Freminet's left shoulder to tug him in the same time he leans forward, planting a quick kiss on his boyfriend’s heated cheek. 

Freminet's eyes widen further, lips parting slightly. Gaming brings his arm back from around Freminet’s shoulder, uses both hands to cup his cheeks and lightly tug his head towards him. Freminet's body follows easily, completely subconsciously. His own arms fall from his knees to instead reach for Gaming’s wrists. His hands, cold and slightly calloused, tremble where they settle; not pushing nor pulling.

Gaming can’t stop freaking smiling.

He brushes the bangs covering Freminet's left eye to the side, taking in the flushed, perfect face of his boyfriend. Wide-eyed and spellbound.

“Just focus on me, Frem,” Gaming murmurs warmly, “Baby.”

The effect is immediate.

Freminet's impossibly long lashes flutter, and he all but melts into Gaming’s touch. “Okay,” he whispers, shy, “Okay.”

Freminet meets him halfway the second time for a gentle kiss, lips slotting together like they’re meant to. One Gaming sighs into, blissed out and relaxed. Freminet makes a small noise in the back of his throat, almost imploring, and Gaming gives in to the wordless request immediately.

He does his best to keep Freminet focused solely on him: rubbing his thumb back and forth across his cheek, making sure to cradle his jaw with supportive pressure, leaning into him with every kiss and smiling encouragingly as Freminet's hands drift up to his shoulders, then his nape. Slender fingers play with the brown-and-red strands there, combing and twirling and scritching, sending showers of sparks fluttering down Gaming’s spine.

Freminet's lips are as warm as the rest of his face, steadily growing hotter the more kisses Gaming peppers all over the skin. One on each freckle, over the bridge of his nose, to his forehead, even his eyelids— Gaming doesn’t leave a centimeter unloved. 

It's when Gaming’s walking kisses back down to Freminet's lips that he encounters the shaky smile pulling at them, and can’t help the bright huff of laughter that leaves him. 

Their next meeting of lips is more enthusiastic but no less gentle; smiles pressed together and sickly sweet murmurings passing between them.

Consider yourself distracted, Gaming thinks victoriously, as Freminet giggles into the next round of silly mwah sounds Gaming makes whilst cradling him impossibly closer.

He nuzzles their cheeks together, feels the flushed heat of them pressing and squishing, and every nerve in his body lights up as that breathless laughter continues right into his ear.

Yep. Mission successful.

Chapter Text

Heizou wakes up gradually, consciousness greeting him softly as he blinks his eyes open and regains feeling in his limbs. Well, all except one, he notes with fond exasperation.

The sunlight caresses his eyes before anything else does, and he squints and blinks against the gentle pale light until it stops blurring. 

As expected, Heizou looks to see what has happened to his left arm and finds his boyfriend curled up across from him, facing away with Heizou's arm secured firmly beneath his sleeping body. It’s becoming more uncomfortable the longer Heizou is awake, almost all feeling gone save for a tingling in the tips of his fingers.

And yet, Heizou finds himself lovingly watching the soft rise and fall of Kazuha’s chest, the slow expansion and release of his back; eyes surveying the way his undone hair falls over his shoulder and splays upon the pillow in ivory waves. 

His face is relaxed and soft with sleep, eyelashes brushing atop lightly flushed cheeks and mouth parted ever so slightly.

As always, Kazuha is gorgeous, even in slumber. 

Heizou drinks his fill of the Angel from Celestia known as his boyfriend before he decides okay, my arm is really starting to hurt now.

With his non-captured right arm, Heizou brings a hand up to shake gently at Kazuha’s shoulder. 

“Kazuha,” he urges, “My dear.”

Kazuha twitches ever so slightly, fingers curling, but sleeps on unperturbed. With a huff, Heizou props himself up as best he can and hovers over Kazuha instead. 

“My arm is killing me, please, have mercy.”

Hypothetically, Heizou could easily shake Kazuha until he awakens or simply shove Kazuha over and rip his arm free, but he isn’t cruel— and he simply cannot waste an opportunity to enjoy a sleepy Kazuha. Besides, the man needs the rest.

However…

Heizou, with a new smirk upon his face, leans in until his lips are mere centimeters from Kazuha’s ear. He takes a deep breath, and proceeds to blow cool air directly into it. 

That gets Kazuha’s entire body to flinch away from the sensation, consequently rolling further away from Heizou, freeing the majority of his forearm. Victorious, Heizou barely holds back the ha! that wants to leave him as he extracts his arm.

It’s as he’s massaging the feeling back into it that Kazuha sleepily rolls over onto his back, and Heizou spots his squinted-open eyes. 

He brightens immediately, smiling softly down at Kazuha as he evidently struggles to wake up. With a large, hand-muffled yawn, Kazuha curls up on his other side, hazy eyes finally focusing on Heizou's face.

“Good morning,” he mumbles, blinking and rubbing at his eye.

Heizou’s heart threatens to burst right through his chest at the sight, and so, all limbs intact and accounted for, he follows the song his soul is singing and leans into Kazuha. His boyfriend follows him, ending up splayed out on his back again with Heizou caging him in from above.

Heizou lazily combs through strands of Kazuha’s hair, the other returning the favor by reaching up and running gentle, sleep-warm fingers across Heizou’s cheek. His thumb stops right atop one of Heizou’s moles, a feature he knows Kazuha is obsessed with.

Kazuha's already smiling, serene and brimming with an endless softness. It creases his eyes, urges Heizou's other hand to cup his cheek and tilt his head upwards beseechingly. 

It's with a mellow lethargy that Kazuha's lips meet his own. Sleep still clings to the lines and curves of their bodies, leading to something lazy and unhurried in the way their lips press together.

It’s not long before Heizou's hand is fully threaded through the hair at the side of Kazuha's head, the blond’s thumb brushing back and forth across smooth skin indulgently.

Heizou drinks in Kazuha’s taste, his scent; fresh laundry and morning dew, his kisses refresh Heizou as much as they gradually start to lull him back into a sleepy haze.

Kazuha seems completely fine with letting this happen, evidenced by his slow, deep breaths and relaxed muscles. It’s quite flattering that he’s so at peace with Heizou that he can fall right back asleep just by sharing soft intimacy like this.

Too bad that Heizou won’t let him, after all the effort it took to wake him up.

“Good morning,” Heizou finally murmurs back, basically purring it against Kazuha’s plush lips. 

He swallows his boyfriend’s absentminded hum in response, sinking willingly into this syrupy sweet moment between the two of them, cradled by the rays of morning light.

Chapter Text

It's a foreign feeling when Sethos wakes up to dew-damp air and the soft, distant trilling of birds. Whether inside the Temple of Silence or camping out in the desert, it's typically cold and dry wakeup calls, the only sounds being sand brushing against itself or the occasional distant vulture.

So it takes Sethos a few seconds to blink open sleep-heavy eyelids and remember where exactly he is and why. He takes a deep inhale of tropical air and relaxes onto the cot at his back with a long, content sigh. 

Currently, he’s out in the lush forests of Sumeru, camping with Cyno and a few of his friends. It was Tighnari that had suggested it, saying it was a “rite of passage” for the newbie in the friend group, and Sethos was more than happy to accept such an invitation. After so many years condemned to loneliness despite being surrounded by his people and nursing a perpetual ache left behind by an old friend, next to nothing sounded better than spending a day and night out camping with new company.

And so he did just that, and it was even nicer than he expected. Fishing and gathering ingredients during the day, sitting around a campfire cooking with what they collected themselves at night; sharing stories and stargazing and laughter ringing through the air.

It was blissful. And by the end of it, Sethos was stretched out on his cot and asleep within minutes, his chest warm and content.

Just then, there’s a rustling next to him, urging Sethos to flip onto his side. A helpless smile immediately lifts his lips upon seeing his boyfriend curled up next to him, white hair messy from sleep and face still lax in rest. Sethos leans his cheek on his palm, holding himself up on one arm as the other stretches to brush a gentle knuckle across Cyno’s cheekbone, feather-light.

When Cyno doesn’t stir from the touch, Sethos becomes bolder, tucking wayward strands behind Cyno’s visible ear, eyes crinkling at the way his cheek is smushed on his pillow. 

Sethos lets his hand wander as it pleases, gliding back down from Cyno’s ear and thumbing across his jaw. That's how Sethos spends his first ten minutes awake: tracing his beloved’s features as the light of dawn slowly begins to fill their shared tent with a soft glow.

There were two cots in their tent, but he and Cyno took one look at the setup and needed no exchanged words before they dragged them together into a combined bed. 

It felt unnecessary to even bother with the pretense of sleeping separately, knowing they’d likely just end up cuddling up on one cot one way or another. 

And, exactly as Sethos expected, they’d ended up cuddling all night, heads on chests and limbs strewn about. So, increasing the size of their bed was a good idea. Much more comfortable for two fully grown adult men.

Sethos sighs happily, blinking out of his wandering thoughts when the muscles beneath his palm twitch. He realizes he had been absently rubbing his thumb back and forth on Cyno’s cheek, touch still lingering.

Cyno sleepily turns his face further into Sethos’ palm, sighing something quiet and blissed. His lashes flutter, Sethos watching him wake up with a bright, uncontainable fondness ballooning in his chest. 

Cyno’s eyes blink open, squinting momentarily at the soft sunlight filtering in before he huffs. Still half-asleep and lethargic, his own hand raises to settle over Sethos’, thumb brushing across his knuckles before slotting his fingers between Sethos’ own. 

He hums, and gently pulls Sethos’ hand from his cheek to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to his palm. Helplessly drawn to the inescapable gravitational pull of the star at his side, Sethos twines their legs further together and leans in, kissing Cyno’s forehead.

“Good morning,” he murmurs as he pulls back. Immediately, he meets Cyno’s eyes, lidded yet no less striking. 

It steals the breath from Sethos’ chest, no matter how many times he’s the subject of that gaze; the intensity with which Cyno regards him.

Cyno releases Sethos’ hand to instead reach towards him. His palm meets Sethos’ nape and wordlessly tugs him down until their lips meet. Sethos falls into the kiss willingly, eyes slipping shut as be drinks in the serenity of the moment, Cyno’s low hum vibrating between them. 

His now-empty hand falls to Cyno’s chest, lightly curling into the fabric there. Cyno kisses him tenderly, softly, to match the hushed atmosphere they’re surrounded in. Like they have their own personal bubble separate from the rest of the world. Where only the two of them and their love exists.

When he pulls back, he smiles, small and reserved— Genuine.

“Good morning, Sethos.”

Chapter Text

“All these years… and it’s still spreading.”

Dainsleif looks down from his book, eyes jumping to the complicated expression screwing up Kaeya’s face, and then down to his hands. 

“Ah.” Kaeya is tracing gentle but firm fingers along the otherworldly rot crawling down Dainsleif's sternum. He reaches the, true to his observation, newly furthered edges that brush his topmost rib.

“It is my penance,” he says quietly, a well-rehearsed line. One they’ve both heard too many times. “For the Unpardonable Sin.”

Kaeya’s fingers stutter once they reach his heart, pausing to feel the steady beats before continuing back on their path. Up to the swell of Dainsleif’s shoulder, following the glowing blue lines that cut through his bicep, further still to his elbow.

Dainsleif’s bare chest rises and falls with his slow breath. Voice a subdued rumble, he says, “A rot that kills me. And yet so I still live, to pay the price.”

Kaeya’s exploration ends at Dainsleif’s blackened fingertips. He hums, discordant and displeased. Dainsleif turns his hand over, palm up; an offering which Kaeya accepts without hesitation, linking their fingers together. 

It serves them well that Kaeya is well-versed in subjects of frost, so that the lifeless chill in Dainsleif's abyssal arm does not bother him.

The slow crawl of time comes for them all. It is by the cruel hands of fate that it only shows itself upon Dainsleif by corruption, creeping and growing over millennia. Gnawing at his body but never at his mind. Cursed to be the one who remembers.

Kaeya cuddles himself further into Dainsleif’s side, pressing the whole of his torso against the length of Dainsleif’s arm. Suspecting that a longer conversation is about to occur, Dainsleif carefully bookmarks his page and sets the book aside, giving Kaeya his full attention.

Kaeya’s free hand traces idle shapes up and down Dainsleif's forearm, a sensation that perhaps would be ticklish if his nerves weren’t eaten away. 

He has a faraway look in his periwinkle eye, shining in the low lamplight, cast in dull orange flames. Dainsleif waits patiently for the man to gather his thoughts, focusing on the soft rustling of leaves outside the window. 

It's four breaths later that Kaeya finally speaks up.

“I sometimes feel as though there is a clock ticking over my head,” he says, subdued, “shadowing my every step.” A pause, a shake of the head. “Like I am running out of time, and the universe knows it.”

Kaeya blows out a soft breath. “Have you felt the same? As though there is something inside of you that dictates the paths you take?”

Dainsleif shuts his eyes while the question washes over him. After a moment, he sighs.

“I have always lived on borrowed time.” It’s the truest answer he could give. “I have wished a swift death— known it to be impossible. It is a truth of my existence.”

Dainsleif turns his head to speak his next words onto Kaeya’s crown. “Perhaps it is a fate all of us Khaenri’ans must bear.”

Kaeya shifts to look up at him, Dainsleif following the movement and leaning back to make eye contact. Kaeya looks forlorn, as helpless as Dainsleif felt in the first years of his immortality; when he was still reconciling what he lost with what he gained.

It looks out of place on Kaeya’s beautiful features— sadness. Dainsleif cups his cheek and brushes a gentle thumb under his eyepatch.

“Then,” Kaeya whispers, voice breaking, “will you love me with the time we have?”

Dainsleif doesn’t respond. Instead, he leans in, capturing Kaeya’s lips in a tender kiss. Kaeya melts beneath him, sighing out against his cheek. 

Dainsleif lingers, breathes in the living being cradled in his hands. Then, pulled back centimeters from Kaeya’s parted lips, he murmurs, “Beyond that, my love.”

They both ignore the wetness on Kaeya's cheek, dipping into another kiss in the hush of their shared bed, blurry shadows flickering softly around the room.

The book is forgotten and the clock quiets. In this moment, they have nothing but time.

Chapter Text

Capitano is cold in his death.

He was cold during his life as well, cloaked in all blacks and silvers, cryo power icy and dark to match. Yet his countenance, however hidden behind his mask, spoke of warmth beneath the surface.

But it’s different, this… stillness. Ororon still hesitates to use the word lifelessness. Even as the fact stares right at him, unmoving, still as a statue, unresponsive to his feather-light touch. 

Perhaps The Captain thought himself dead even whilst he was breathing. He certainly carried himself like a man on his last mission. Evidently, he was.

But to Ororon, that did nothing but give him a fire, the spark of life that burns into a flame just below the surface. Even further so to the soul, the very core of every living being. 

Capitano's was so bright. 

Looking upon him now, Ororon can no longer sense his soul. It’s muddled, blurred and cold to the touch like it’s been frozen over. He had found such beauty in that unwavering soul during their brief partnership. Found a companion in a man broken but living anyhow.

It feels like all too soon he was gone, and Ororon was standing, helpless and horrified, as Capitano willingly walked into his death. And yet, despite his grief, Ororon would never wish to turn back time and take that chance away from him— to deny him the relief of freedom from his torment.

He lived a long life, and Ororon was but a blip in his story.

Ororon rests careful, reverent fingertips atop Capitano's heart. There is nothing but the feeling of fabric beneath his calluses. No heartbeat, no rhythm, and no soul.

Ororon sinks to his knees, like he has many times before this tomb, looking to be a man at prayer— Kneeling at The Captain’s feet, gazing upon him with emotion unquantifiable in its heaviness.

But he isn’t praying. There is no god out there that can reverse this fate.

There was love there between them, for a little bit. The circumstances of their situation didn’t allow for much, but… Ororon felt it. He knows he did. The way his heart would trip over itself when Capitano was near, how his fractured soul would call out to him like a lover; hopeless and yearning.

An impossibility, and yet still Capitano treated him with a gentleness, regarded him with respect. Had touched him with kindness and held him like an equal.

Ororon cants forward slowly, weighed down by the memories no other can share. There's a stinging building up behind his eyes, a heat that he knows preludes tears. He grits his teeth against the lump in his throat, strangling back the emotion that rises despite his best efforts.

He presses his lips to Capitano’s knee, just resting, a gentle pressure that aches like a goodbye he wasn’t able to have. His fingers clench at the fabric pooling over his thighs, knuckles bleeding pale. 

And Capitano doesn’t move. 

Where once Ororon had been brave enough to breach the line into intimacy with a rattling heart and shaking hands, to be met with reciprocity, a low voice and kind, guiding touches— there is now nothing. 

Ororon has done this many times since that day. Flayed himself open at the feet of his lost god, knowing he would get nothing in return, yet still a piece of him hoping against hope—

It’s foolish. He knows. Yet, the ache in his heart persists; the tug from behind his ribs guiding him up onto his knees, until he can slump over and settle the top half of himself delicately upon Capitano’s thighs. The fabric rustling between them is the loudest sound in Ororon’s ears.

He presses his face into Capitano's navel, uncaring of the ornaments pricking at him, of the stale, stagnant smell that greets him. It's familiar. 

No hand settles itself atop Ororon’s head, gentles between his ears and sends tingling sparks cascading down his spine.

It’s cold, and the wind brushes against the back of his hood, and he burrows in further, seeking warmth he will not find. 

He allows himself this. For if not this, then he has nothing. 

Ororon fingers along the lapels of The Captain’s heavy coat, absent in his movement, unfeeling in his grief.

He stays until he’s stiff and the ache recedes into numbness.

And he tries not to feel like he’s leaving a part of himself behind.

Chapter Text

Birthdays have never really been a big deal for Mizuki. As someone who has lived for more than a few hundred years, she stopped bothering with counting at some point. Yearly celebrations are for humans, who live for significantly less time than Yumekui-Baku.

Now, Mizuki has always had friends around– Yae Miko most notably, who she has known since she was a little one. For Youkai like themselves, it’s more common to celebrate every century or so. And yet, here Mizuki is, hundreds of years into her life, celebrating a day that feels like any other to perhaps nobody except her.

It’s not that she dislikes the parties, or finds it unpleasant to celebrate the passage of time; in fact, she finds great happiness in the carefree and joyful attitudes a birthday seems to bring those around her. It’s an infectious type of cheer, and she will always appreciate things that bring smiles to people’s faces. It's simply a difference in species.

It just so happens that Mizuki has recently gained a friend who quite loves celebrations of these types, most notably the feasts that are present during them.

Varesa is unlike anyone Mizuki has met before. Her cheerful attitude paired with her natural shyness drew Mizuki in almost immediately. She was even more intrigued when she discovered just how strong Varesa is– was fascinated by her seemingly endless appetite on top of everything.

Letters sent back and forth and occasional meetings for meals slowly became not enough to settle Mizuki’s ever-increasing curiosity with everything Varesa. Mizuki had tasted her dreams once– with explicit and enthusiastic permission, because Varesa was immediately fascinated by the concept of eating feelings– and the taste had struck her tastebuds like the sweetest suckerpunch. They were soft, bouncy, chewy and sweet like dango. Mizuki had eaten many, many dreams before then, but the feel of them settling into her stomach and warming the blood in her veins was exhilarating.

To say she became infatuated is perhaps an understatement.  

When Varesa found out that Mizuki’s birthday was approaching, her entire face had lit up with her excitement, brooking no argument as to whether or not there would be a celebration. Mizuki couldn’t possibly say no to that cute of a smile.

So here she is now, lanterns glowing overhead and swaying in the sakura-sweet breeze, chatting over fluffy, soft cake with everyone who is close to her heart. Subconsciously, she finds herself drifting over to Varesa’s side every chance she gets. Or perhaps it’s the other way around. It amuses her that, every time she glances over, Varesa is munching on something new. Her bulging cheeks flushed with happiness are endlessly endearing.

A large array of classic Inazuman snacks are set out across multiple tables; Bathhouse Manjuu, Sakura Mochi, and Tricolor Dango among them. Mizuki perhaps has what you can call a sweet tooth. Varesa seems thrilled to eat anything, whether sweet or savory. 

Mizuki watches her flit about with a fondness glowing in her chest. Varesa’s warmth is something Mizuki helplessly chases after. It’s just her luck that Varesa seems to enjoy being by Mizuki’s side– almost as much as she’s enjoying the multi-layered cake, Mizuki notes with a stifled giggle.

“Enjoying the treats?” Mizuki teases, sidling up once more to her side. Varesa swallows her bite and beams.

“I don’t get the chance to eat foreign foods often,” she says happily, “They’re so good!” She licks her lips, and then abruptly freezes, flush darknening below widened eyes.

“I’m not… eating too much, am I?” She looks worriedly at the plate in her hands and the cake laid out in front of her, then back to Mizuki. “It’s your birthday after all, I would hate to–”

She’s cut off by Mizuki’s delighted laugh. “I’m nothing but pleased that you’re enjoying yourself, Varesa.” She takes her own slice, happily spooning lavender frosting and spongy vanilla cake into her mouth while Varesa sighs with relief.

The flavors spread out and melt on her tongue, light and airy, reminiscent of the rare pleasant feelings she consumes. “It is good cake,” Mizuki agrees coyly. 

“Mm!” is Varesa’s full-mouthed response. She polishes off her plate and is reaching for more when her eyes catch on Mizuki’s face and stay there. Meeting her sudden gaze, Mizuki tilts her head innocently at her and smiles.

Looking closer, she can tell Varesa’s gaze is settled somewhere near her lips. Ridiculously, her heart begins to pitter in her chest, beating faster the longer Varesa stares with those captivating eyes.

Mizuki hums lightly, unable to tamper down on her smile. “Is there something on my face?”

Varesa doesn’t immediately react to the words, instead looking dazed in her silence. The pause lasts for so long that Mizuki considers reaching up to confirm for herself when Varesa seems to come back to herself with a jolt and minute shake of the head. The bell on her ear jingles pleasantly. Then, she nods.

Mizuki’s mouth forms a small o. “Ah.” She brings her knuckle to her lips and giggles lightly. “How messy of me.”

It’s as she’s reaching for a napkin to wipe her face that Varesa’s bandaged fingers come into her view. Mizuki turns just in time for Varesa’s thumb and forefinger to gently grasp her chin. Mizuki freezes beneath the touch, heart skipping. Varesa’s hand is so warm.

The girl says nothing more before she’s quickly leaning in and licking what might have been frosting off the corner of Mizuki’s lips. Mizuki’s eyes widen drastically at the sensation, gone too soon when Varesa pulls away and darts her tongue back in her mouth to taste the morsel.

Mizuki’s lips part helplessly as she watches. 

“Tastes different,” Varesa mumbles to herself. Then her other hand, free of the plate, raises to join the first in cupping Mizuki’s cheeks.

“Varesa?” Mizuki questions faintly. Said girl blinks, once and then twice, and seems to realize exactly what she just did. She blushes head to toe, stiff in her embarrassment and burning a bright, bright red.

Mizuki’s shock melts into amusement, and her lips slowly spread into a grin. “Hm,” she says, and, maintaining eye contact with a flustered Varesa, reaches for a spoon and blindly scoops up some frosting. Slowly, purposefully, Mizuki brings the spoon up to her mouth and licks it off, spreading it along her lips as she does so. Varesa gulps.

Mizuki tenderly brushes Varesa’s bangs aside, feeling more than a little bit ridiculous with frosting all over her lips, but worth it all the same when Varesa melts from the inside out at her touch.

“Well?” Mizuki whispers into the scant space between them, “How about now?”

Varesa squeaks out a flustered noise, but enthusiastically meets Mizuki halfway when she leans in, hesitant for approximately two seconds before apprehension gives way to a soft, breathless sound. Her hands slide down Mizuki’s jaw to lace together at her nape, so Mizuki takes the initiative to angle their lips further together, trying her best to fight off her smile as their kisses turn open-mouthed and hungry.

In the literal sense of the word.

Varesa licks and kisses the frosting away bit by bit and they trade the sweet, sugary flavor back and forth until Mizuki feels she has memorized it. Still, when they pull away, Mizuki licks her lips to chase it.

“It really does taste good,” Varesa mutters defensively. Her cheek is blazing hot beneath Mizuki’s palm.

“Because of my lips?” Mizuki teases, not missing a beat. Varesa nods, looking quite like she wants to hide away until the stars die out, so Mizuki brings their lips back together in both an assurance and an encouragement. 

Varesa, shy as she is, still seems to have reservations even as Mizuki’s manicured thumb strokes her cheek. Her pleased hum seems to bolster Varesa’s confidence, and she reciprocates more firmly, something chaste and gentle this time.

Pulling back for the final time, Varesa’s eyes remain softly closed before they flutter open. She meets Mizuki’s gaze for half a second before her hand darts from beneath Mizuki’s hair to cover her flustered face, accidentally knocking away Mizuki’s that was still rested there. She whines softly into it, muffled and every bit adorable. Her tail swishes and flicks behind her as well, like she’s trying to work out the overwhelm from her body.

Mizuki lets her do as she pleases, smile never leaving.

When Varesa finally lowers her hand, still flushed but looking significantly calmer, Mizuki giggles. “I have had many birthdays in my years of living,” she says, prompting Varesa to meet her gaze once more. “I think this will be one I’ll remember.”

Varesa’s smile is shaky but bright, her shy laughter far sweeter than any dessert.

Chapter Text

The second Gaming lands, he knows. He knows that he stuck it, that he nailed it. Finally.

He holds the pose for a good five more seconds, limbs quaking from the overuse of his muscles, and pants into the nighttime air.

A cheer and excited clapping reaches his ears first, his heartbeat second, galloping as it catches up. The sensations return to him in a rush, awareness fades in, and he realizes he’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.

He exhales, a rush of elated breath, slightly disbelieving. He did it. He did it. Sweat dampens his nape and his chest is tight from his heaving breaths but he did it.

“You did it!” echoes a voice, dearly familiar and rapidly approaching. Gaming barely has time to right himself on his feet before a body slams into him and he stumbles from the impact.

Instinctively, his arms raise to curl around the torso pressed to his, securely in his hold as the momentum spins them both around. Lan Yan is laughing into his ear, bright and joyous, and Gaming finds himself helplessly joining in. 

“That was beautiful!” exclaims Lan Yan, when she’s set back on her feet. She stays easily in the cradle of Gaming’s arms, her own perched atop his shoulders.

She bounces on her heels a few times, up and down, jostling a still-laughing Gaming with the movements. “I can't believe it,” he breathes, laughs some more. He isn’t able to say much else, nerves zinging with happiness and ribs swelling with pride.

Lan Yan leans in to smack a firm kiss on Gaming’s cheek, uncaring of the thin sheen of sweat there. “I knew you could,” she says. And really, she had. She always had.

Gaming has known her long enough to not doubt her faith in him, but this routine in particular has been giving him an unusually hard time for the past few months he’s been practicing it. He almost always messes up towards the end, and even when he cuts the routine in half and practices until he’s managed to complete the difficult move, it all falls apart when he attempts the full run through.

Lan Yan has been his biggest cheerleader since they were kids, even back when Gaming was still timid about Wushou dancing, when he was too nervous to get serious about it in fear of his father’s response— before the passion really sparked in him and blazed him forward. 

They would sneak out together and he’d watch in awe as she glided and danced through the air like a swallow in flight, eyes gleaming and peaceful smile alight upon her cheeks.

She always looked the most gorgeous in movement. It was meant for her. 

And likewise, Gaming always felt the most alive bounding around, confidence washing over him as he stomped and spun and grinned with all his teeth. He would always finish to the symphony of Lan Yan’s clapping and laughing, her joy infectious. 

That has never stopped. Not even when they grew up and naturally drifted apart to follow their separate life paths. Lan Yan attended every one of his shows, even the ones that weren’t performed to the public, and she was the first face he searched for in every crowd. His light in the dark, his star to follow.

She was always proud of him even when he himself wasn’t. When he was hard on himself for not learning new moves quick enough, when progress was slow going and he was frustrated. 

Lan Yan was there to clap and cheer and lift his spirits and smile and say how beautiful he looked aglow in his concentration, streaks of warm light following his every movement.

In the present and overwhelmed once more by the love filling him up from head to toe, Gaming squeezes Lan Yan into him, as close as they can get. A hug fierce and passion-filled, Gaming’s arms wrap almost entirely around Lan Yan’s torso. She clutches back just as tight, arms locked around his shoulders and cheek smushed into his collarbone. Pressed chest to hip, heart to heart, there’s no doubt she can feel his own rapidly thundering on, leftover adrenaline blazing hot and true.

With a mighty squeeze, Gaming lifts Lan Yan off her feet, knocked breathless by the echoing laugh she lets out in response.

“I did it!” Gaming cheers out loud this time, eyes focused on Lan Yan’s joy-flushed cheeks, her expression alight, “I really did it, Lan Yan!”

A star glitters in Lan Yan’s jade pool eyes, face awash in the bright glow of the moon but as warm as anything. “And you were beautiful as always, Gaming.”

Gaming can’t help it. Couldn’t stop himself if he tried. He abruptly drops his grip, catches Lan Yan beneath her shoulder blades, and swallows her resulting breathless laugh with a kiss.

Pride swells behind his ribs; pride for himself, for how far he’s come, for everything he’s grown to be, and pride for Lan Yan being there every step of the way, growing right alongside him. Joy fizzes into his fingertips, curls them into the back of Lan Yan’s head while the others slip to hold her lower back.

She reciprocates without hesitation, fingers locking at his nape and thumb pressed to his beauty mark. The force with which Gaming’s enthusiasm takes him dips them both, but he holds strong, even as his arms ache and his shoulders smart.

Their grins slide together like puzzle pieces, barely able to stop for long enough to kiss properly, but it sinks into Gaming’s bones like a sense of belonging. 

They kiss, and kiss, and the breathless I love you that slips between them is impossible to tell whose mouth it was uttered from.

This next performance will be his best yet. And as always, Lan Yan will be there to light up his night sky, incandescent and ever-burning.

Chapter Text

Childe’s practiced, carefully crafted smile sharpens, goes dangerous. “Are you looking down on me?” 

He still says it like it’s a joke, easy and amused, like there isn’t a voice buzzing in his head to slice Arlecchino’s head clean off her shoulders. The following voice that whispers tauntingly, could you? only serves to piss him off further.

The steady confidence with which Arlecchino carries herself sends a prickling itch along Childe’s skin that’s something on the wrong side of excitement. Irritation, maybe, but not quite.

Were he any lesser of a mortal, he would call her intimating. As it were, the version of him that was intimidated by stares alone died a long while ago.

Arlecchino manages to look down her nose at him with only a minuscule tilting of her head. Evenly matched in height, yet she looks at him like he’s a bug beneath her heel.

“My apologies. I had assumed you were used to that.” And she’s not even smug about it. It could hardly be called a provocation. 

Somehow, that digs and festers under Childe’s skin worse than any sneering taunt could.

He really can’t stand her.

Dropping his smile, Childe clenches his fingers in the fabric stretched across his biceps. “I really can’t stand you.”

Arlecchino hums. Low, faux-considering. There isn’t even a hint of a smile on her face. “We really don’t get along, do we?”

Childe’s laugh is grating, surprised out of him— a singular ha!

He stalks closer to her, keeping a careful reign on his annoyance lest it fester into actual rage. She watches his approach steadily, hands held loosely at her sides. By all means, she looks unguarded. But there’s a glint to the crimson x of her irises that speaks of danger beneath the surface.

There isn’t a sane bone in her body, is how Childe had described her to the traveler when they asked. He still believes that. Believes the collected, calm exterior is about as real and frigid as her pyro powers— that is to say, not at all.

“Perhaps the day will never come when you and I see eye to eye,” Childe says, a twitch to his lips that has nothing to do with amusement. “I do hope it stays that way.”

Arlecchino’s brow raises, the glint to her eye shifts, and then Childe’s hands are curling into her collar and dragging her in. 

His lips crash onto hers with a fierceness that could draw blood— that just might, if he bites Arlecchino suddenly enough to catch her off guard. 

A clawed hand flies up to one of his wrists in the next second, nails sharp and blackened like rot. It grips, twists until Childe groans rough and scratchy, and wrenches his hand free.

And then their kiss does turn bloody, because Arlecchino bites at Childe’s lip until the skin gives way, and pushes the tangy iron taste directly into his mouth. While their tongues take turns swapping it back and forth, Arlecchino uses her grip on Childe’s forearm to yank him in. 

Their chests collide, a stumble unaccounted for by Childe himself— he hadn’t thought Arlecchino would drag him closer. Their teeth clack, a quick but painful impact that isn’t even soothed over, just ignored like it never even happened; Arlecchino tilts her head further, keeps Childe’s wrist captured, and carries right on with the same ferocity.

She’s surprisingly passionate as she gives as good as she gets, but there’s no love in it. Not from her, and not from Childe either. He wasn’t looking for kindness from her, and that’s definitely not why he kissed her.

Instead, there’s a flame igniting between them, something similar to the type of searing fire that bursts to life in Childe’s chest during battle— a consuming, writhing thing that ticks through his veins and coalesces where their lips meet quick and dirty.

It’s a fight for who takes the lead, as Childe grips Arlecchino’s collar hard enough that his knuckles brush her throat, and her fist turns into the sting of nails one after the other. He can taste the snarl on her lips as she presses, deeper, seizes Childe by his other wrist as well. She doesn’t pull this one away, though, just grips rough enough to bruise like she wants to leave a reminder branded into Childe’s skin.

Against his will, a laugh starts bubbling up in Childe’s throat. It’s not pretty, not the tinkling, friendly one he’s always forcing out. It’s low and raspy and bordering on feral, mostly smothered and swallowed by Arlecchino— Yet still his chest vibrates with it, a growl catching in his throat.

He won’t give in so easily. Fighting is what he does, it’s the only time he’s ever truly alive. He'll give Arlecchino a damn good one, even in this.

There isn’t a single version of him that doesn’t fight with every drop of blood in his body.

Oh, how he hates her.

Oh, how the thrill of it all sinks beneath his skin.

Chapter Text

Neuvillette has found himself more often than not in Furina’s company following her step down from the Archon’s pedestal. 

Perhaps because there isn’t an underlying reason of duty to dictate every meeting they have, to relegate their conversations into something so serious, that instead they can relearn each other as proper friends.

Not as the Iudex and the Hydro Archon, but as Neuvillette and Furina.

The simplicity of it feels like a dream, almost. Something Neuvillette hadn’t ever bothered to consider in all those centuries at his Archon’s side, especially not with the ever-looming prophecy hanging over Fontaine's head.

It's different now. So different that Neuvillette sometimes finds himself in a daze as he watches Furina sip happily at her tea, prattling on about something completely unimportant— Because she has that luxury now. 

That she chooses still to spend her free time with Neuvillette makes him feel honored, among many other things.

But while they may have known each other longer than any normal human’s lifespan, Furina was alone in her suffering. Such is a fact that opens a yawning chasm somewhere deep in Neuvillette's stomach; a writhing dread, a pit of regret, for not being able to shoulder the burden though he had wished to. 

Furina chose to suffer in silence, for the betterment of the people she loved so dearly. The weight placed upon her shoulders was all that was keeping her tethered even as it dragged her beneath the murky waves.

But she is free now. Well and truly free. From the burden of being an Archon, from spending centuries alone with not a soul to confide in, and from the prophecy. She can choose to spend her time however she wants.

In all respects, Neuvillette thought her to be happy. 

It seems that, even now, despite everything, it’s not quite so simple.

The situation at the moment is a rare occurrence in Neuvillette's life. Which is quite the statement to make, considering he has lived for over one thousand years.

But, though his outward appearance belies no such thing, he feels… awkward, almost, standing outside of Furina’s new home. 

The reason? Because people have not seen her in a worrying amount of time. Which, for someone like Furina who adores making public appearances now that her responsibilities no longer shackle her, is approximately two days.

According to multiple citizen reports, none of them have seen her strolling about, nor having tea at the Café, or even visiting Hotel Debord. Of course, there have already been attempts at trying to reach her, but for the time being, both Clorinde and Escoffier— arguably some of Furina’s closest friends— are busy. 

Apparently, Escoffier did make some of Furina's favorite sweet treats in an attempt to cheer her up, and though in the past that has done wonders, it seems the situation is different this time around. The only other person close to Furina aside from Neuvillette himself would be the Traveler, and though they have an extensive amount of connections, it seems Natlan has kept them quite occupied indeed.

Which is why, a staggering week later, Neuvillette was finally approached in his office by a worried Sedene carrying on multiple concerned messages. His own worry had risen up inside of him, and so with the soonest available time he had, he found himself hurrying over to Furina's residence.

Which is where he finds himself now, hovering outside of the firmly shut door, in the limbo between midday and evening, fielding the curious glances he has gotten in the ten or so minutes he’s been standing here in silence.

See, it is not a legal issue that brings him here. It does not concern Fontaine as a whole, nor does it threaten the safety of their nation. It is strictly emotional, and interpersonal. So he feels… out of his depth, at the moment.

He is not here as the Iudex, nor as the Dragon Sovereign, or anything as important. He is simply Neuvillette, checking in on his… friend.

That isn’t to say this issue is not important to Neuvillette, in fact, it’s quite the opposite. He finds himself very invested in the wellbeing of Furina, especially more so now than ever.

The fact is… Undeniably, the more time they were able to spend together without the stifling expectations hovering around them, the more Neuvillette felt his heart soften further and further for Furina.

Now, of course he had always cared for her. Perhaps it had been of different nature before the truth was revealed, back when Furina wasn’t quite really close with anyone, but there was always a fondness for his companion. It has shifted, gradually and softly, into something deeper. Something warm, something comfortable.

In the time since Fontaine has recovered from all its people went through, Neuvillette has had more opportunities to inspect this bud blooming inside of him, to nurse this feeling into something precious. It may have taken him some time, but he knows the name for it now.

He loves Furina. It is as simple and as complicated as that.

He loves her. He wishes to see her happy; to keep her smiling and safe, and to protect her, mind and body. To see the way her eyes light up when she is excited, and how her cheeks bunch up in the cutest way when she eats her beloved cake.

Alongside this gentle, glimmering feeling grew a fierce, passionate one. The kind of feeling that surges to life in thoughts that consist of protecting Furina at all costs, no matter what; in assuring she is comfortable at all times and finally feels at home in the nation that was always hers, Archon status or not.

If she is unhappy, if she is plagued by doubts and worries, Neuvillette wants to know. And if she is crying, he wishes to be there to wipe those tears away.

With a final, steadying breath, Neuvillette raises his knuckles and raps them against the door. He gently clears his throat.

“Miss Furina, it is me.” A brief pause, to collect his words. “We are all worried for you. Are you alright?”

Nothing but silence greets Neuvillette's words, and slowly, calmly, he counts the seconds as they pass into minutes. Still, not a sound.

He doesn’t bother knocking again; knows that, in all likelihood, Furina is awake at this time of day. Instead, he steps in close, rests a palm against the door, and closes his eyes.

His voice is soft when it next comes, something gentle and genuine. “I'm alright with waiting here if you wish. For as long as is necessary.” Then, softer, so as to eliminate the possibility of any onlookers overhearing: “If it is for you, anything.”

A handful of continued silent seconds, and then the sound of shuffling meets Neuvillette's ears. Fabric against fabric, or perhaps skin against fabric. No footsteps proceed the muffled sounds, but relief spreads throughout Neuvillette all the same. It’s a sign of occupancy, of life.

Then, a weak, trembling voice calls out from behind the door, “Neuvillette?”

Tension he hadn’t known was there drains from Neuvillette's body just at the sound of Furina’s voice alone. He remains where he is, huddled up and speaking into the door, and sighs long and slightly trembling at the end.

“Yes, it’s me.” He makes no move to let himself in, just shifts his palm a tad, like a caress, as if the gesture could reassure Furina that he is there for her, even from the other side of her door.

“What are you… what are you doing here?” Furina sounds weary, her tone subdued in a way Neuvillette has never heard. But there’s a thinness to it, a fragility. He gets the feeling that something very delicate hangs in the balance of their conversation right now.

“I'm simply here… to check in on a dear companion.” 

“That’s it?”

“That is it.” Neuvillette reconsiders his words, and decides laying his heart at Furina’s doorstep right now is the least he could do for her. “Well, that’s not quite all.”

Furina's voice sounds closer when she next speaks. A single, croaked, “Huh?”

“Of course I’m worried,” Neuvillette begins, “But more than that, I wish for you to be happy. And if you can’t, that at least you’re content.” A slight, uncharacteristic hitch in his breath, as the weight of his honesty settles in his heart.

“I am here… for you, Furina. Whatever form that may take.” Neuvillette chooses his next words carefully, and says, “To be by your side with your pain, is my only wish.”

There's a long stretch of silence that descends after the declaration, but Neuvillette isn’t worried. Minutes pass like blinks for a creature like him. He will wait for as many as it takes, for Furina.

There's a soft thump, a tiny vibration that travels to Neuvillette's palm rested atop the door. 

“Do you mean that?” Furina's voice is right in front of him, soft and meek as it is. Beneath the sadness coloring it a deep blue, there’s a thin stream of something almost hopeful.

Neuvillette lets out a slow, slow breath. “Of course.”

The new silence feels companionable, this time, like they’re momentarily basking in each other’s presence. By the closeness of Furina’s voice and the sound from earlier, Neuvillette presumes she’s rested her head against the door. Or perhaps a shoulder, or maybe she has sat against it. 

Regardless, Neuvillette is glad she’s closer now. It settles something inhuman that had been festering in his chest, the dragon instincts in him pacing in circles at not having his treasure tucked near his heart. Metaphorically, of course.

“We do not have to talk,” Neuvillette ventures after letting the moment settle. “If that is not what you require, right now.”

“No, I- I should.” A shaky breath. “I want to.”

Furina is incredibly brave, Neuvillette thinks, and smiles, small and soft. Lets it bleed into his tone. “Alright.”

And he waits. He waits, and listens to Furina retreat from the door, her anxious footsteps pacing back and forth, the sounds of her seemingly stifling her cries, or perhaps calming herself down from prior crying.

There’s muffled mumbling he can’t quite make out either; Furina talking to herself. And while Neuvillette's heart aches to comfort, he stays right where he is, and allows Furina to take all the time she needs.

Then, her footsteps come to a halt. “Okay,” she says, with finality, though it sounds choked. 

All of a sudden, Neuvillette feels underprepared. Which is a feeling he is wholly unused to experiencing. “I…” he begins awkwardly, eyes widening, “did not bring tea…”

There’s a sniffle, and what could possibly be a watery giggle. Neuvillette's heart soars.

“That's okay.” A few more breathless seconds held in suspension, a few more sniffles. “Okay, you can come in. It’s unlocked.”

Neuvillette takes a short, quiet moment to steady himself, then reaches down and grips the handle. The door opens with no resistance, and Neuvillette quickly lets himself inside so as to dissuade prying eyes from seeing anything.

Furina is seated at her bed when Neuvillette's eyes find her, hands in her lap and fiddling nervously. She’s… well, she’s beautiful. Exhausted, dual-colored eyes red-rimmed and bagged down, hair a mess, but beautiful.

Neuvillette lets out a soft breath, something from the depths of his chest, relieved. He takes slow, careful steps towards Furina, broadcasting every movement to give her time to stop him, or whatever else she needs.

She watches him, but says nothing. He comes to a stop in front of her, close enough to touch, and that is when she looks away. 

“May I sit?” Neuvillette asks softly. Furina's eyes dart to his and then quickly away again. She nods.

“Thank you.” And Neuvillette means for more than just allowing him to sit. For allowing him inside her home, for being vulnerable in front of him, for not putting up a façade to pretend she’s okay; for trusting him.

Neuvillette's weight settles carefully, barely-there, and yet Furina still curls further in on herself. She's wearing a simple white button-up blouse with sleeves that fall past her wrists, and what seem to be silk sleep shorts. 

Her shoulders are shaking, ever so slightly. “S-So…” she stutters, “people are worried?”

“Mm.” Neuvillette crosses one leg over the other. “As am I.”

“…I’m sorry you got involved,” Furina mumbles, self-conscious. Neuvillette lets his gaze settle on the light refracted through the stained glass window on the door, in hopes of taking pressure off of her. 

Though, he keeps Furina in his peripheral. “No need to apologize,” he assures, “It is my wish alone to be here.” While he speaks, he gingerly strips his gloves off, one after the other. He sets them on his other side, further up the bed.

They breathe together in the silence that settles. Neuvillette turns slightly towards Furina, until their legs nearly touch. His hand shifts, raises until he’s sure it’s in Furina’s field of view, then he slowly settles it atop hers, halting their fidgeting.

Physical touch as a means to comfort… It's new. For both of them, Neuvillette guesses. He believes, for Furina, this is most effective. Perhaps she needs the corporeal reminder.

He doesn’t move further than that, and is rewarded by the twitch of her fingers, and then one hand flips and clasps tightly to his, palm to palm. She runs warmer than him. It’s a pleasant sensation.

Neuvillette manages a glimpse of her expression before her head dips, and a crack forms in his heart at the way her entire face is scrunched up, tears building upon her waterline. Wordlessly, he settles his other hand atop their joined ones, and that too is soon clutched by Furina. 

Undone by such a small touch. The idea alone is tragic, a drop of sorrow in Neuvillette’s mind.

Furina’s shoulders begin to hitch, up and down with her staccato breaths, and her lashes are unable to hold onto the tears any longer. They glide freely down her cheeks, coalesce upon her chin before dripping down, a few landing atop their joined hands.

It's silent, for the first few seconds, and then Neuvillette begins to tenderly rub his thumb back and forth across the surface of Furina’s knuckles, and her voice breaks free with a pained gasp. Her cries follow, a tidal wave of sadness that hunches her back and escapes from her eyes, pours from her lips in sobs and hiccups.

In the end, she cannot bear the weight, and she cants sideways, into Neuvillette’s shoulder. He easily makes room, maneuvers so she can tuck her face in the fabric there, keeping a grounding hold on their hands even as Furina’s grip loosens and tightens sporadically with her cries. 

To substitute a hand, Neuvillette tucks his nose into Furina’s hair, lips pressing to her crown. Right now, words are not what she needs. So, he will be the boulder she leans on to seek shelter from the pounding waves. The canopy that collects the rainwater to keep her dry.

In his silence, Neuvillette will stay. Steady, and unwavering.

An indeterminable amount of minutes later, Furina suddenly wrenches her hands free from Neuvillette's grip— not to escape, or out of panic, but simply to instead grip at the lapels of his coat. To bring him closer.

With hands and arms now freed, Neuvillette carefully cups Furina’s cheek, and gently guides her from her hiding place. 

“Still beautiful,” Neuvillette murmurs to himself. And truly, he means it. Sadness will never be his preferred emotion to see on Furina’s face, but the glimmering ocean in her tear-drop eyes is mesmerizing. Cheeks red and blotchy and stained with tear tracks, yet his heart still swells with a love that is almost suffocating in its entirety.

Furina blinks wide, glistening eyes up at him, and Neuvillette is quick to wipe away the tears that escape from the action. Her lips part soundlessly, shocked or perhaps awed. 

Then Furina seems to find her voice, and though it is a cracked, shattered sound, she utters, “What?”

Neuvillette smiles. Small, and tinged with a drop of sadness, but no less affectionate. His other hand comes to cradle her wet cheek, so that he has the entire face of his love in the palms of his hands. 

Every blink is more tears that track down Furina’s cheeks, but all Neuvillette does is continue to hold her, to continue to brush them away. Her breath keeps stuttering, hitching in her chest only to be forced out with the next exhale, the next wave of tears.

Neuvillette takes in every little detail, eyes darting around Furina’s face before at once settling on her lips. A final shaky sigh, and he leans slowly in. He keeps his hold on her gentle and non-forceful. If she wished, all it would take is a lean back for his hands to fall. For the distance between them to return back to normal.

Furina's eyes widen further, a different hitch to her breath that sounds like a realization, but she does nothing more. The centimeters disappear one after the other, until their faces are close enough to feel their shared breaths.

Neuvillette whispers, “Mon amour,” against Furina’s lips, and closes the remaining distance.

Immediately, he feels the way Furina’s lashes twitch against his skin as they flutter closed, feather-light and almost ticklish. 

Like clockwork, tears meet the pads of Neuvillette’s thumbs. And like clockwork, he pays them no mind beyond swiping them aside with a caring touch. One particular tear slips past, makes it all the way to their joined lips and turns the kiss salty.

Neuvillette inhales the damp scent mixed in with a subtle sweetness, and tilts his head Further. Furina hiccups, makes a short, whimper-like sound, and melts completely into Neuvillette. 

Her arms settle over Neuvillette's shoulders, fingers held loosely at his nape, twitching with every minute adjustment of their lips. 

It’s a kiss that tastes of salt, and sadness, and so much love it’s as if it’s overflowing from Neuvillette chest-first. As tender as Furina’s heart, as gentle as his hands cradling her cheeks, he pours words unspoken into the press of their bodies as she pulls him closer beseechingly. 

He thinks that, maybe, as Furina’s cries pick up in a way that sounds like relief, that tastes like something blooming new and hopeful, this is something they both needed.

Furina's fingers tangle in Neuvillette's hair, his hold shifts to cradle her jaw, and slowly, the sadness seeps out of her until it stops, soaked up by Neuvillette's touch and Neuvillette's presence.

And later, they will talk properly, and Furina will confide in Neuvillette her worries, and Neuvillette will offer her words he means from the bottom of his heart, and his hand will pet through Furina’s newly-washed hair as she seeks comfort in everything he has to offer.

And even later after that, Furina will return to the public, face clear of its sorrow, and she will be spotted laughing boisterously as if nothing happened, and the people of Fontaine will collectively breathe a sigh of relief. 

But for now, this is enough. For now, Furina is crying broken I love yous against Neuvillette's lips, and he’s shushing her with a tenderness that aches.

For now, this love is more than enough.

Chapter Text

“You know, there is a well-known doctor in Liyue revered for his miracle treatments,” Ayaka had told him, and though her tone was curious, as if she was merely bringing up something interesting, Ayato could hear the suggestion beneath it, poorly hidden.

Her gaze, as well, imploring and searching; waiting for any cracks that might show up in Ayato’s defenses. He had simply sighed, and given her a smile that was equal parts exasperated and fond. 

She had blinked innocently back, cocked her head, and said, “It’s worth a visit, don’t you think?” and that was that.

The thing is… of course Ayato knows of Doctor Baizhu, the, according to Ayaka, “miracle doctor.” If anything, Ayato finds it slightly ridiculous he was even urged to see Baizhu for an illness so unconcerning.

But, well, something persisting for this long was a cause for concern, especially for someone as high-ranking as himself. It’s not as if the sickness incapacitates him, but Ayato would rather be at his very best at all times.

It’s just… well.

Ayato steps through the back room of Bubu Pharmacy, a smile on his face that’s only slightly warmer than the one he wears for the public. Baizhu is, for once, free enough to already be sitting at the desk to greet him.

“I was sure you would be busy…” Ayato says, instead of an actual greeting. He spots Baizhu’s smile lifting his lips from just the quarter of his face he can see before he even turns around.

With a graceful set of movements and creak of wood, Baizhu is in front of him, smiling that handsome smile he always does. There’s a glint to his eyes Ayato believes only he has seen, pleasantly surprised.

Ayato’s hand finds Baizhu’s waist, easy as anything, and Baizhu lays his own atop Ayato's chest, beneath the folds of his coat and right over his heart.

Their lips meet chaste but sweet, Ayato substituting what could be something deeper with a squeeze to Baizhu’s waist instead.

“Well,” Baizhu says, remaining close, hand sliding up Ayato’s chest to cradle the side of his neck, “Hello to you too.”

His next smile creases his eyes shut as Ayato tilts Baizhu’s glasses up out of the way to kiss beneath them. Then, unable to fight the temptation, he walks a few kisses down Baizhu's face until he reaches his lips once more.

“It's nice to see you,” Ayato murmurs back, genuine now, humming into the kiss.

Later, when they’re seated across from each other and Ayato’s sipping on unpleasantly bitter medicinal tea, Baizhu laughs good-naturedly as Ayato tells him it was his sister that insisted he come visit. 

Unbeknownst to her, of course, is the fact that the two men have been in a relationship for the better part of half a year.

Baizhu smiles, hands folded atop the table. “You know, you could avoid some of this if you told her.”

Ayato fights against the way his nose wants to crinkle at the taste coating the roof of his mouth, lest Baizhu think he’s reacting that way to his words.

Instead, he sighs and shakes his head in a what-can-you-do motion. “I haven't found the right time. It's been quite busy lately.” 

Then, he smirks. “Besides, I find her attempts at sly suggestion hilarious.” 

Baizhu’s palm muffles his next chuckle, perhaps out of politeness for the woman who isn’t even here to witness the conversation.

“Ah,” he says, and lowers his hand with a final amused huff, “She’s still trying to figure out who your secret love is?”

Ayato smiles something smug and satisfied, because he knows Baizhu will indulge him whether he’s polite or not.

“Indeed. But from her tone earlier this week, she seems to have narrowed it down to you.” 

Baizhu’s brows raise. “Has she, now?”

Ayato nods. Presses his lips together to restrain his smile. Meets Baizhu’s eyes and sees the same humor reflected back at him.

“After six months,” Ayato finally says, with poorly contained mirth. “Ah, my little sister. Quite the detective, no?”

He may be teasing, but the fondness is real. It’s clear enough in the tilt of his smile, in how he can’t quite keep it down.

Baizhu sighs like he’s exasperated at Ayato’s shenanigans. “Well then, who am I to stop you?”

Ayato grins.

In the end, his sickness wasn’t even serious, and the single trip was all he needed to be healed up and better than ever not three days later.

Sharing meaningless conversation over some proper tea this time— boba, of course— Ayaka has a certain smug glow about her that manages to seep through her pleasant smiles.

It’s all Ayato can do to not burst out laughing in front of her. But, well, whether she figures it out herself or Ayato tells her, it’ll be nice having her know. 

The next time Baizhu manages enough vacation time to visit, Ayato thinks perhaps another greeting kiss will do well. Preferably somewhere in view of Ayaka.

Her face will be priceless.

Chapter Text

If someone had told Lynette that she would find herself head over heels for perhaps one of the loudest people she’s ever met, she wouldn’t believe them.

Well, at first, she’d pretend she didn’t hear anything, and then she’d ignore them without giving a response, because that’s not a conversation starter Lynette knows how to engage with.

She’d probably busy herself with sipping on tea, her tail idly swishing back and forth to keep her focused but fuzzy, until she deemed the conversation important enough to turn on chat mode. That's how it is with strangers, at least. Friends and companions are different.

The first time Lynette met Kirara, she flew through like a tornado, words chipper and lightning quick, boxes balanced precariously in hand. When they made eye contact, Kirara froze like her paws had suddenly become rooted to the floor, her twin tails straightening from surprise.

Lynette's ear flicked, perhaps in response to Kirara's wide-eyed stare, uncomfortable under the intense attention. Kirara shook herself out of it in the next second, rushing through the last of her delivery with the same dedicated haste she arrived with.

Luckily, Lyney was handling it, charming as ever, and it was over before Lynette had the chance to slink away; Kirara departed with a wave and a grin, scurrying off to her next destination on swift paws.

Lynette managed to relax her shoulders, unaware they had tensed up so much. When she turned to her side, Lyney was already smiling at her, something vaguely mischievous in his eyes.

“Who was that?” Lynette asked.

Lyney’s eyes creased, and he turned away to deposit the package onto a nearby table. “Her name is Kirara, Teyvat's best package deliverer— self-proclaimed, as far as I’m aware. Though her reputation precedes her.” He chuckled. “I think you two would get along.”

Lynette leveled a deadpan stare at the back of her brother’s head, frankly disbelieving.

Lynette and Kirara? Even from the first impression she had just received, Lynette can tell; they couldn’t be more different. And also, Lynette doesn’t handle the chatty type very well, at least not without a buffer to act as the main conversationalist. 

Without turning around, Lyney said fondly, “Don’t give me that look. I think it’s worth a try.” He cast a sly look over his shoulder and said, “You might be surprised.”

Now, Lyney is typically right most of the time, due to how clever he is and how well he thinks situations through. It's gotten them this far in life, but Lynette wonders if that applies only to serious situations with the two of them, and not whether or not someone’s personality will mesh with Lynette’s— never mind the fact that Lyney might know her better than she knows herself.

But then Kirara kept visiting, and Lynette slowly realized, Oh no. He was right.

“Come on!” Kirara presses, a slight whine to her voice. “That’s it? After I came all this way?”

Just for you, is the implication at the end there, judging by the cadence to her words, the peculiar emphasis at the end. Lynette keeps her hands tucked politely in front of her skirt, allowing her tail a slow, calm movement back and forth.

Kirara says this 75% of the times she visits. Lynette is past the point of believing Kirara is actually that forgetful.

Lynette blinks at the sparkles forming around Kirara's head, the pleading look to her eyes. She briefly wishes Lyney were here to deal with this. “Is there something else you need?” 

“A higher rating would be great,” Kirara mutters under her breath, eyes darting away, before she straightens once more and says, louder, “Yes! Well, maybe not need, but something I want!”

Ah, Lynette thinks, as Kirara’s cheeks pinken. I see.

She smiles, subdued but genuine, and relaxes her arms to open up her body language. She's learned that people feel more listened to, and more attentive, when Lynette appears to be responding positively with her body as well.

Kirara inches closer. “Just one,” she declares, though Lynette wonders who of them she’s saying it to. Lynette, or herself?

They meet in the middle for a gentle, quick kiss, Kirara’s hand catching Lynette’s and holding on to her fingers. It's over quickly, just a few seconds, but Kirara's turned a shade darker when she pulls back.

“Does that suffice?” Lynette asks, soft.

Kirara looks away. “O-One more.”

Kirara squeezes Lynette’s hand the second time, shifting to get a more solid grip, using it as an anchor. Her lips are soft and warm, the heat of sun-soaked skin from traveling place to place a comforting familiarity. 

Her cheeks are dark enough to make her freckles stand out even more, and her eyes dart nervously to and fro, avoiding Lynette's calm stare.

“Another?” Kirara beseeches, tails swishing, “Just one more.” And Lynette obeys without complaint.

This is something she has come to learn about Kirara since they became companions: she always wants more. More sunshine, more yummy food, more deliveries, better ratings, more knowledge of human life, and, lately: more kisses.

It isn’t greedy per say…

A third, then a forth, then a fifth. And every time, Kirara says just one more, even though they both know she’ll keep wanting another and another.

…because Lynette gives willingly, purring faintly, until they both lose count.

It hardly matters, anyhow. At least to Lynette. Kirara is quieted by this; the affection, and the touches, and the compliance for more.

“I think that’s enough,” Lynette eventually suggests, when Kirara has leaned her entire body into Lynette’s space, and Kirara nods, dazed, and backs up with their fingers still connected.

“Yeah,” Kirara mumbles, red all over but clearly satisfied, and the cycle will repeat the next time they see each other.

Perhaps Lyney was right, but maybe not in the way he anticipated.

(“How did you know we would get along?” Lynette asks him, some months after her and Kirara’s first kiss, before the routine visits became established.

Lyney smiles. “I didn't.” At Lynette’s curious look, he goes on to say:

“Ah, well, you two are both cats, are you not?”

Lynette stares unblinkingly for what must be over ten seconds, running that sentence through the computation in her brain, analyzing it, searching for the tease in the words she must be missing. Lyney stares back, blinking guilelessly.

The silence between them hovers, sticks, and settles.

Lynette turns on her heel and retreats back to her room.

Lyney’s laugh trails after her, and her ear flicks irritably. Kirara is a youkai— a nekomata, which is very different from Lynette. For one, Lynette doesn’t have the paws Kirara does, nor does Kirara have the ears that Lynette does. Silly brother.

But, well, ridiculous reasoning aside, Lynette’s glad for it either way— that Lyney planted that idea in her head, as reticent as she was to start.

Because she and Kirara really do get along.)