Work Text:
Childe, Tartaglia. Harbinger, Vanguard.
A fiery blaze burns in his chest, thumping and writhing and wailing, barely constrained within a muzzle of bone. A roaring beast, tethered by naught but a thread.
The slice of his blades, every thud of a hand or a head on the ground. The sounds of knives sharper than the teeth of a dragon splitting the air.
That is all he knows. Blood, coating his hands, elbow to fingertip, copper and iron and salt.
And yet, it all slips away when his eyes meet yours. Curious and bright and kind.
And then, he is Ajax. Brother, son, lover, friend.
He met you on a windy day in the Nation of Contracts at a bookshop tucked away in the corner of the street.
You, a beautiful man whose hands are gentler than a feather’s touch, armed with a silver tongue that rivals the Harbinger’s and a voice as sweet as Inazuman dango.
Him, a warrior born of ash and blood, palms bruised and body scarred. He carries grief and anger and bloodlust like jewels on his head.
When your hand brushes his, he cannot help but clasp it. Calloused, battle-worn palms pressing against the smooth, soft skin of a bookshop owner. Blood and love, war and kindness. Two opposing forces, drawn to each other like moths to a flame.
The sun is brighter when your laughter accompanies it. Coffee and cakes are sweeter when your hand pushes them to him. Water is cooler when you splash it onto him.
His eyes are cold and filled with the lethal snows of Snezhnaya. But you? You thaw him. For you – his eyes are mischievous and loving and you swear you see a flash of life in the steely sapphire blue.
He holds your hand like you will save him; you clutch like you will try your hardest.