Chapter Text
The Lantern Rite felt like a dream someone else had fallen into long before Freminet ever arrived in Liyue.
Soft gold glowed from thousands of drifting miracles, rising from every street and balcony of the harbor. They gathered midair like schools of amberhued fish, clustering above the harbor’s curved roofs before scattering toward the open sky. Liyue Harbor hummed with life: vendors calling out, children tugging parents toward stalls, musicians layering warm notes over the chatter of the crowd. Lanterns bobbed overhead, brushing the night with amber-colored light.
It was too much color, too much noise. Not bad noise, just. . . prosperous. Alive in the way Fontaine rarely was lately. Warm in the way Snezhnayan bases never were.
Freminet stood at the edge of the ceremonial bridge, hands tucked into sleeves, quietly overwhelmed though his face revealed none of it. He blended into the passing tourists without effort—shoulders slightly hunched, eyes downcast, posture apologetically unobtrusive. That alone would have made him disappear into the festival entirely, if not for the person who suddenly crashed into his side in an explosion of warmth, laughter, and fun.
“Well there you are!” Gaming exclaimed, voice bubbling with triumph. “I knew you’d drift right to the bridge. Liyue people always do. It’s like we’re magnetized to the scenic spots.”
Freminet blinked at him, startled. Not at Gaming arriving.Gaming always crashed into moments like a spark from a bonfire, but at how easily his loneliness evaporated the second Gaming touched him.
“You said you. . . you had to patrol for another hour,” Freminet said, his voice soft and slightly muffled.
“I lied,” Gaming said proudly. “Well, no! Uh, patrol was an hour longer. I just did it very fast. Which wasn’t technically allowed. Or smart. Or advised. Or. . .Freminet, are you listening to me?”
“Most of the time.” He allowed a small smile.
“You can’t say things like that with a straight face,” Gaming groaned happily, his little nub-like tail swishing just enough to be noticeable. “It’s illegal in at least six nations.”
Freminet’s smile grew just barely, small enough to be swallowed instantly by the night. But Gaming noticed, he always did. He noticed everything about him: the micro-expressions, the tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze drifted toward exits even in peaceful crowds.
That had been the strange part from the beginning: Gaming didn’t overlook the uncomfortable parts of him. He noticed, and didn’t flinch.
“Come with me,” Gaming said, suddenly tugging at his hand. “I found a place that sells the best sweet rice balls. Their secret is. . . Oh! Wait, it’s supposed to be a secret. I shouldn’t be saying it out loud. Come on!”
Freminet let himself be dragged through the lively festival, weaving through vendors and lantern-bearers. The smells were overwhelming; sweet dough, fried chili, roasted chestnuts, but not unpleasant. Just. . . vivid. Everything in Liyue had a life of its own. Even the ground seemed warmer.
He didn’t dare voice it aloud; not the feeling, not the truth stitching itself to it. I wish this was the version of the world you knew me in.
Gaming’s chosen food stall was hidden behind a folding screen painted with qilins dancing under a moon. The owners recognized him immediately.
“Back again, boy?” one called. “Third time tonight!”
“Not for me,” Gaming said, puffing his chest. “I’m showing my uhm. My uh, friend. Yeah, I’m showing my friend where the good stuff is.”
Freminet didn’t comment on the pause. His heart already had, feeling like it sunk to deeper waters than he’s ever been. It’s not that he hated the fact Gaming said that, he’s the one insistent on the two of them keeping their relationship under the radar.
They sat on a bench near a long communal table where festival-goers assembled their own lanterns. Paper sheets in hues of amber and pale green lay stacked in perfect squares. Small brushes glinted in jars of diluted ink, and bowls of tiny decorations: jade flecks, painted tassels, and little paper designs waited to be chosen.
Gaming handed Freminet a paper square before Freminet could decline.
“Let’s make one,” Gaming said. “You can put whatever you want on it.”
Freminet held the brush awkwardly. “Lanterns carry wishes,” he murmured, recalling what Neuvillette had once told him.
“Yeah,” Gaming said. “But they also carry memories. People forget that part. You can write either.”
Freminet dipped the brush into pale ink and hesitated. He stared at the sheet. Blank. Too blank. The weight of a blank page always unnerved him more than a battlefield ever could.
Gaming leaned closer. “You don’t have to make it pretty, you know. Lanterns are for honesty. Not art.”
Honesty.
Freminet let that word guide his strokes. His hand trembled once before the fine hairs hit the paper, he writes with a seemingly single fluid stroke, something in Fontainian script.
I want to better understand warmth. What it means to be a family, to be loved.
Gaming read it without asking permission. Freminet stiffened, anxiety curling in his stomach, but Gaming only smiled, softly, open-heartedly, without mockery. He can’t tell what the words say. Only really being able to read Chenyuan, Common and a little bit of Liyuean.
And then, gently, he picked up Freminet’s lantern and tied a small red plume to the top.
“It’ll fly better with this,” Gaming said. “And wishes carried by red travel farther.”
“It’s not a wish,” Freminet whispered.
“It looks like one.”
Freminet swallowed.
Maybe it was.
They ended up walking along the harbor afterward. Lanterns floated on the water below them, drifting like tiny constellations. Crowds thinned as they neared the quieter areas. Closer to where Gaming often patrolled.
Gaming nudged him, taking Freminet’s hand in his own. “You’re quieter than usual.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“Yeah, but tonight you’re quiet-quiet. Extra quiet. Like you dove deeper than you normally do into the ocean, quiet.”
Freminet flinched slightly. The ocean metaphors always hit too close. Too real.
Gaming noticed. Of course he did. He always does.
“Not bad quiet,” Gaming corrected quickly. “Just. . . distant quiet. Did something happen?”
Freminet shook his head. He wished he could explain. But everything inside him felt layered, complex, threaded with things he wasn’t allowed to say.
He thought about the folded paper in his pocket; the coded message delivered earlier that day. The assignment. The location.
It pulled at him like gravity, like undertow.
Gaming stepped in front of him, stopping their walk and holding Freminet’s hands in his own, pulled close to his chest. “Hey,” he said, tail swishing once with concern. “If something’s wrong, you can tell me.”
“I can’t.” The words slipped out too quickly.
Gaming didn’t push, not directly. Instead, he tilted his head, studying him with that intuitive softness only he seemed capable of.
“Can you at least. . . At least promise me you’ll come to the slopes of Mt. Tianheng?” he asked. “After my shift? Even just for a little?”
Freminet hesitated. He shouldn’t promise. Not with the mission hanging over him. Not with the likelihood of blood, of consequences, of him arriving not at all. Or arriving in a state he never wanted Gaming to see.
But when he looked at Gaming. The earnest, hopeful, lantern-light catching the sparkle in his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to say no.
“I’ll come,” Freminet whispered with a small bow of his head.
Gaming’s relief was immediate and bright, like sparks kicked off a firework. He grinned, leaned in, and pressed a quick kiss against Freminet’s temple.
It left Freminet stunned, a soft shudder working its way down his spine.
“Good,” Gaming said with a proud nod. “Meet you there. Don’t be late. If you’re late, I’ll assume you got lost, or distracted, or kidnapped, or-”
“I won’t be late,” Freminet said, cutting off the spiral.
“Okay. Great.” Gaming beamed. “See you soon, Aking mahal.”
Freminet watched him jog off into the crowd; quick, energetic, warm as a bonfire sparking in the dark.
When Gaming finally disappeared behind a row of lantern-wreathed stalls, Freminet let the truth settle against his bones like ice. I’m going to break that promise.
He stepped away from the crowds, weaving between vendors until he reached a quiet alley behind a shuttered herbalist shop. With shaking fingers, he unfolded the coded slip of paper from his pocket.
The assignment details were concise. Final. Intercept a relic-smuggling cell in a clearing north of Mt. Tianheng. Eliminate threats. Retrieve any items linked to Nod Krai.
His breath snagged. Nod Krai. Why was it always coming back to that place? That ghost-country of moons and death and silent metal dust. The place Arlecchino’s been going to and from too often. The place Freminet had nightmares of without remembering why.
He tightened his grip until the paper crumpled. He didn’t want Gaming anywhere near that. Near him in that state. But the assignment wasn’t optional. Nothing from the Fatui ever was.
He rested his forehead against the cold brick wall, eyes closing as the muffled sound of festival laughter drifted faintly from the harbor. It hurt. Quietly, deeply, to stand so close to warmth and be barred from reaching for it.
Gaming’s earlier words echoed in his mind. "If something’s wrong, you can tell me."
He couldn’t. He never could. Not if he wanted Gaming safe.
Before leaving the harbor, Freminet looked down at the lantern Gaming had helped him make. He stared at the Fontanian words written across the paper in pale ink.
I want to better understand warmth. What it means to be a family, to be loved.
He touched the red plume. Gaming’s choice. Gaming’s wish. Then, with trembling hands, he lit the flame inside. The lantern rose slowly, delicately swaying as if unsure whether to fly or fall. But then the wind caught it, and the lantern drifted upward, joining thousands of others rising toward the mountains.
Freminet watched until his lantern vanished into the glowing sea of lights. “Carry it far,” he whispered. His voice cracked. “Farther than I’ll be able to go.”
Then his shoulders squared. His eyes cooled. His breath steadied into silence. He turned toward the dark mountain path leading to Mt. Tianheng. Gaming had asked him not to be late.
Freminet walked into the night knowing he wouldn’t arrive at all.
~~~
The path climbed upward, winding between stone outcroppings and dangling vines lit only by moonlight. Lanterns from the harbor glittered far below. Warm, trembling stars separated from him by distance, duty, and destiny.
Freminet moved like a shadow through the underbrush. Footsteps drifted ahead—low voices, hurried and sharp at the edges. The smugglers. His fingers closed around the cold metal of his claymore. The warmth of the festival evaporated from his skin, replaced instantly by something colder than the frost gathering along the rocks.
He inhaled. Exhaled. And stepped into the clearing.
The fight had not yet begun, but it would. And when it was over, another truth pulsed under his ribs like a heartbeat. Gaming would be waiting for him after this.
Gaming would go to their meeting spot, lantern in hand, believing he would see the version of Freminet who liked quiet nights, sweet pastries, and writing wishes on flimsy festival paper.
Freminet swallowed. “Forgive me,” he whispered to the dark. To the part of himself that wanted tonight to be different.
The diving helmet slid over Freminet’s head with a metallic click. One he felt more than heard.
The world muted instantly.
The distant crackle of festival fireworks. The leaves whispering overhead. The terrified breaths of the man closest to him.
All of it faded into cotton-soft distance.
Inside the helmet, he heard only his own breathing. Steady, rhythmic, impossibly calm. The glowstones lining the inner rim cast a pale icy tint across his vision, washing the world in cold, muted blue. A comforting blue. A quiet blue.
“You won’t hear them,” Arlecchino had promised when she first fastened the helmet for him. “You’ll stay calm this way.”
It had worked. Too well.
The world beyond the glass became a place that moved without sound, bled without screaming, and died quietly. That silence was a mercy. Because without it Freminet would break.
Tonight, he needed that mercy more than ever.
There were five smugglers in the clearing. Six, if he counted the one crouched over a crate with a crowbar. All of them armed. All of them desperate.
Desperation makes people bold.
Freminet watched their mouths move, shouts he could not hear and their stances shifting into defensive readiness.
Even muted behind the helmet, their fear radiated like heat.
One of them, a broad-shouldered, scarred, confident older man, stepped forward and jabbed the air with a sword, barking an order. The others fanned out in a loose semicircle.
Freminet didn’t wait.
Cryo burst outward in a sudden cone of frost, forcing the closest three to stumble back, slipping on the rapidly icing ground. The one in front recovered quickly, charging with surprising discipline. His sword came down in a clean vertical strike.
Freminet blocked it, the impact sending a dull vibration up his arms despite the helmet’s muting effect. The man gritted his teeth and pushed, strength impressive for a civilian. Freminet shifted his weight, slipping to the side, letting the momentum carry the man past him.
Then struck the exposed back of the man’s knee.
He crumpled.
Not silent through choice. Silent because the helmet spared Freminet the sound. Spared him the sounds of his anguished screams.
Another smuggler, a wiry woman with twin daggers lunged in the same moment, blades flashing. She moved fast. Very fast. Freminet twisted away from the first swipe, felt the second scrape sparks off the metal plating at his shoulder.
She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t retreat. She pressed her advantage. He admired her resolve in a distant, cold way. She feinted left, darted right, came in low. Freminet slid back, bringing his claymore down in a wide, sweeping arc that forced her to leap away. Frost spread beneath her boots, making her footing uncertain.
She recovered anyway. Brave. Foolish.
Another smuggler, a bowman took the opportunity, loosing an arrow that ricochets off his helmet and drops right to his feet. Two others flanked him, one with a polearm, the other with a mace. Coordinated. Smarter than he expected.
The polearm thrust caught his shoulder plate and shoved him back a step. The mace wielder swung from the right. Freminet ducked, feeling the rush of displaced air even through the dampening helmet.
They pushed him. Hard. So he pushed back harder.
A burst of Cryo erupted from his claymore as he swung upward, forcing the polearm wielder to block clumsily. His weapon trembling under the force. The mace came again; Freminet spun behind the wielder and delivered a sharp Cryo pulse to the back of his legs, sending him down in a slide across the frost.
The daggers-woman came again; persistent, fierce. She aimed for the weak points in his basic armor, trying to slip a blade under the plates. Freminet caught her wrists, twisted her away, kicked her back several paces.
His breath fogged the helmet. His heartbeat steadied. His training clicked into a perfect, merciless place.
These opponents weren’t weak. But he was built for this. Freminet advanced.
The bowman fired a second shot. Freminet deflected it with the flat of his blade. The woman lunged again to which Freminet caught her mid-strike, holding her arm in a firm lock. The polearm wielder tried to intervene, jabbing the spear toward Freminet’s ribs, but Freminet pivoted, dragging the woman with him to block the attack.
The polearm wielder hesitated, as his weapon went through his own companion. He hesitated just long enough. Freminet ended the exchange in a quick, efficient flurry of motion.
The bowman ran. The one with the crowbar dropped it and fled with him.
Freminet followed.
Footsteps thundered through the brush—silent to him, but visible in their frantic, stumbling rhythm. The crowbar man vanished into the dark. The bowman tripped over a tree root and fell hard, scrambling backward in terror.
Freminet approached, claymore steady. He raised the blade finishing him off with a quick swipe and spray of blood, something that looked all too much like water to him through the blue glass of his helmet.
He corners the last, against a tree, raising his claymore up to deal the final blow. And suddenly he froze.
Because another presence entered the clearing. He deals with the smuggler, not caring too much if the witness sees, because he’s going to have to do the same to them too.
Freminet’s breath hitched inside the helmet. His fingers tightened involuntarily.
A civilian. A familiar form his current mind can not quite recognize.
Not supposed to be here. Not supposed to see this. Not supposed to see him like this.
Gaming’s eyes widened when he saw the bodies on the frost-covered ground. Wide, stunned, horrified. But not at the sight of violence.
At the sight of Freminet.
“Fremi. . .Freminet?” he breathed, stepping forward.
His voice hit the metal dome of the helmet like a soft underwater vibration. There, but muffled, distant, blurred.
Freminet flinched. He heard his name, but he wasn’t able to process it.
Gaming’s hands twitched. He repeated, louder this time: “FREMINET!”
The helmet softened the sound into a low thrum. Freminet didn’t recognize the tone or the words—only the shape of Gaming’s mouth, the fear in his eyes.
Fear directed at him.
Something sharp cracked inside his chest. He stepped back, breath fogging the glass.
He needed to get Gaming away. Needed to hide this. Needed to-
No.
He had to finish the witness. That was the rule. No survivors. No exceptions.
His training crawled up his spine, cold and merciless.And before he could stop himself. He advanced.
Gaming stiffened.
“. . .Fremi?” he whispered, voice trembling. “What are you-?”
Freminet drew his claymore up into an attack posture. Gaming’s entire body jolted in shock. The realization hit him all at once:
Freminet couldn’t hear him. Freminet couldn’t see him clearly through the fogged helmet. Freminet was still in combat mode.
“Oh Archons! Fremi, wait!” Gaming gasped, gripping his own claymore. “You don’t know it’s me!”
Freminet lunged. Gaming barely had time to intercept the blow.
“. . .I’m sorry. I don’t want to do this.”
Steel slammed into steel with a bone-rattling clang. The shock nearly knocked Gaming off his feet.
“Freminet. . .STOP!” he shouted, trying to project his voice as hard as he could. “It’s me! It’s YIP GAMING!”
The helmet warped his shout into a dull pulse.
Freminet pushed forward, overwhelming strength driving Gaming backward, boots skidding over ice. Gaming gritted his teeth, digging in, arms shaking under the force pressing down on him.
Freminet was stronger. Much stronger
“Okay, okay, okay!” Gaming hissed. “If you can’t hear me. . . then. . .”
Then he had to defend himself. Properly.
Freminet swung again. Gaming parried. Sparks flared across the frost.
Freminet pivoted, using a heavy overhead strike that would’ve cracked through a shield. Gaming rolled to the side, feeling the air tremble as the claymore smashed into the ground where he’d just been standing.
“No choice. . .” Gaming panted, fear and adrenaline mixing hot in his throat.
Freminet reset his footing with mechanical precision. No hesitation. No emotion visible behind the glowing blue of his helmet.
He charged. Gaming braced, barely blocking the next series of blows.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Each strike shoved him back. Each impact sent tremors through his bones. His breath came sharp and fast.
“Freminet! LOOK at me!” he shouted, forcing his claymore upward to lock Freminet’s in a tight bind. He stepped in closer, dangerously close, and grabbed Freminet’s shoulders, shaking him. “FREMI! It’s Gaming! YIP GAMING!”
Freminet hesitated, but only barely. A half-second pause. A falter in the rhythm of his attacks.
Gaming saw it, and he clung to it.
“Come on,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Please. Please recognize me. . .”
Freminet’s breath hit the helmet hard enough to fog the visor completely. He shook his head, confused, overwhelmed, still half-lost in the quiet blue haze of battle instinct.
His claymore twitched; lifting again.
Gaming’s heart lurched. “Then. . .I’ll make you remember.”
He dropped low, sweeping Freminet’s leg. Not enough to injure, just enough to destabilize.
Freminet stumbled. A rare misstep.
Gaming surged forward, throwing his own claymore to the side. Pressing their foreheads together. His against the cold glass of the diving helmet.
He shouted with everything inside him. “FREMINET! IT’S ME! I LOVE YOU!”
The words were muffled. Dulled. Barely audible. But the meaning. The shape of the words. The emotion behind them. Something broke through the haze.
Something reached him.
Freminet froze mid-strike. The claymore slipped from his hands and hit the ground with a muted thud. His knees buckled.
And for the first time that night. Freminet stopped moving not because of training, but because of Gaming.
“You’re not hearing me. But you said something. . . I heard it. I heard you apologize! You don’t truly apologize unless you’re scared,” he whispered. “Unless you think you’re hurting someone. Fremi, please… look at me.”
Freminet’s head lifted. The light in his helmet flickered. His breath fogged the inner visor.
“. . .Ga. . . ming. . .?”
Muffled. Distorted. But real.
Gaming exhaled a shaking breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “There you are,” he whispered, relief breaking across his face like dawn. “I’m right here. I’m not a threat. I’m not going to run. Just look at me.”
Freminet trembled,violently. Gaming reached forward and gently pressed his palm against the cold metal side of the helmet. Using his other hand to pull Freminet closer.
“Fremi,” he murmured. “It’s okay.”
Freminet’s voice shook. Gaming could barely hear it—but it was there. “. . . You weren’t. . . supposed. . . to see. . .”
“I know,” Gaming whispered. “But I did, and I’m not leaving.”
Freminet’s entire body shuddered as the adrenaline drain finally hit.
“Fre?” he asked gently.
Freminet dropped to his knees, gaming lowering himself down with him. The helmet bowed, hiding his face entirely. Resting against Gaming’s shoulder.
The helmet’s metal surface trembled under Freminet’s shallow, panicked breaths. Gaming lifted his hands, hesitated, then placed them gently against the sides of the helmet.
“Take a deep breath,” he whispered.
Freminet obeyed. A ragged inhale. A shaking exhale. Even muffled, it sounded like someone drowning.
Gaming once again leaned his forehead against the helmet’s cool surface.
“You didn’t hurt me,” he whispered. “You stopped. You recognized me. You stopped.”
Freminet’s voice came faint, distorted. “. . .I didn’t want you to see.”
“I know,” Gaming said. His own voice wavered slightly. “But I’m here now. And I’m staying.”
Freminet flinched as if the words physically struck him.
“. . .Shouldn’t.”
“I should,” Gaming replied. “Someone needs to be here when you come back to yourself.”
A choked breath filled the helmet. “. . .I’m sorry,” Freminet whispered again. “I’m sorry. . . I’m sorry. . .”
Gaming shook his head and pulled him forward, guiding Freminet until his helmet rested against Gaming’s shoulder. The metal was cold. Freminet was shaking. Gaming’s arms wrapped around him anyway.
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Gaming said softly. “You didn’t choose this part of your job. You didn’t choose what the Fatui made you do.”
Freminet stayed rigid for a long moment, as if he didn’t deserve to be held. Then. Finally, he leaned into Gaming. Just barely. Just enough. Gaming exhaled shakily and held him close.
When Freminet eventually lifted his head, the clearing was quiet once more. The frost was melting around their knees. Lanterns drifted in the far distance, faint gold pinpricks in the night.
Gaming brushed dirt from Freminet’s shoulder plating and asked quietly. “Can I take off your helmet?”
Freminet hesitated. Then shook his head. “. . . Not yet.”
Gaming nodded, accepting without question. “Okay,” he said. “Then let's just sit here. Until you’re ready.”
Freminet didn’t ask why Gaming wasn’t scared of him. He didn’t ask why Gaming hadn’t run. He didn’t ask why Gaming’s hands stayed so steady on his shoulders.
But his voice, when it came, was small and trembling inside the helmet. “. . . You should hate me.”
Gaming looked at him, really looked,and shook his head gently. “I don’t,” he whispered. “I’m scared for you. Not of you.”
Freminet’s breath caught. Gaming guided him up carefully, supporting his weight when his legs nearly gave out.
“Come on,” Gaming said softly. “Let’s get you somewhere we can talk, okay? Somewhere away from all. . . this.”
Freminet nodded slowly. For the first time in minutes, his movements felt like his own. Gaming kept a hand on his back the whole time. Steady, warm, grounding.
And Freminet let him.