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Part I: Lovesick.
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In every relationship there’s ideally a give and take. It’s er– mutually voluntary, if you’re being very optimistic. But you know better than to pin these hopes onto Wanderer, of all people.
Whatever you know of him has been gleaned through vague mentions, an eye more watchful than Fontaine’s Marechaussee Phantom and literal, desperate research. For some reason. Even though Wanderer, on the other hand, is privy to every inch of your past, every bit of your personal life. For some reason.
Years of friendship have taught you– who cares. After all, if Wanderer himself does not wish to offer any information– begging will only achieve a lashing via those pretty, poisonous lips. He’s not the nicest. His momma never taught him please, or no, thank you, or excuse me, after all. Quite literally.
And so you’re stuck muttering curses under your breath, with mixed horror and pity, as you watch Wanderer widen his eyes in mock shock and laugh at the poor boy giving him a love letter. Argh. You’d told him not to do it, but oh well. At least his suitor had the wisdom to pull them both away to a quieter spot around the Akademiya– there’s no one else around their gazebo, thankfully.
No one to watch as Wanderer tilts his head, looking dire for a moment as he says something to the man in front of him, who hangs his head and quietly leaves. Well. That had a calmer ending than you’d predicted.
Unthankfully this does mean you had to run up a slope to find him, but still.
“Oi!” You yell. It sounds more like something between a wheeze and a bark. “Asshole!”
The Wanderer turns, haughty head tipped prettily over his shoulder, soft, doll-like– no, doll skin catching the warm beams of light filtering through the leaves.
He’s so beau- no, no, stay strong.
The prick doesn’t move an inch as you weakly make your way towards him– just stands there with his arms crossed, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It successfully prises them apart when you reach him, and he gives you a wicked grin when you smack a tired fist against his shoulder. He does not stumble.
“Why,” you wheeze, “would you laugh.”
“Why,” he mock-wheezes, “do you care? If someone’s begging to be laughed at, am I not being kind by obliging?”
Ugh.
“You know why it’s mean,” you grumble, plopping down onto one of the gazebo benches. Wanderer sits next to you, mock pouting and solemnly nodding, pretty, iridescent lashes brushing his cheeks with every blink. He’s gorgeous, easily the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen. Prettier than even the lithe warrior you met once in Liyue’s marshes, prettier than the wandering Inazuman swordsman you recently met, prettier than even Kaveh, somehow. Maybe even prettier than Candace.
No, you’re getting distracted again.
“They pour out their hearts to you, and you laugh when they do.”
“That’s ‘cause they’re not pouring jack.” He rolls his eyes. “They don’t know me, so what’s there to fall in love with?”
“How’s anyone supposed to know you when you never tell people about yourself?”
This is a common, predictable squabble with a common, predictable outcome. Every time Wanderer serves his admirers a scathing rejection, you run to their defence, despite some of them disliking you immensely. (He calls it charity.)
After all, you’re one of the few people Wanderer won’t shove away with a sneer.
You’re not sure why, exactly, but you know you’re in his good graces for some esoteric reason, and you know you’re there to stay. After all–
“Funny you say that,” he muses, rolling a piece of hard candy between thumb and forefinger before propping it against your lips, the candy held between your lip and his thumb. His fingers move from beneath your jaw to tap against your cheek in an impatient, open up sort of way. You hope he can’t feel your face heat up.
You open your mouth, and the candy falls in, and somehow it feels warmer than the sun beating down on Sumeru’s static afternoon.
“Funny…?” you prompt, scrambling to regain your footing, but it seems he’s not eager to offer any help.
“Yes, funny. As in amusing, as in it makes you giggle.”
It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “I know what ‘funny’ means.”
“Then,” he says, prettily leaning back in his seat (because everything he does is pretty, somehow) “you could also tell me what I thought was so funny about what you said earlier.”
Fuck.
“Uh…” Yeah, you have no idea. The stupid candy distracted you. You bite down on it in nervousness and it cracks, sending a jelly-like sour filling spilling onto your tongue, making you adorably scrunch your face for a moment. Wanderer laughs, and after taking a moment to compose yourself, you stick your tongue out at him. Jerk, you think affectionately.
“Your face looks like a dog’s ass right now.” He grins.
“You’d know, wouldn’t you,” you retort, and he sagely nods.
“I look at you pretty often.” He shrugs. “Hard not to make a comparison.”
“Aw,” you deadpan. “You stare at me?”
“Nah.” He pops a candy into his own mouth, eye twitching at the sweeter exterior, but shoulders relaxing at the sourness inside. “Not the way you stare at Aqaba, at least.”
“Aqaba–? Is that what this is about?”
Wanderer gives you a smile. It emanates neither joy nor amusement.
“And here I thought you’d at least be honest with me,” he says.
Huh? Did he find out you’ve been asking Aqaba if he knows anything about him?
After all– there’s quite literally no one else left to ask. You’ve read all you can about the Shogunate, about Inazuma’s branching noble families and bastard children, anything that would further help you understand what exactly is the reason for your best friend’s fucked up-ness. It’s just not fair that you know nothing, save for ‘my mum didn’t want me, so she chucked me into an empty mansion with a feather.’
And so you’ve moved on to enquiring about any major incidents in Inazuma. You heard about the Raiden Gokaden incident already, but learning about it had only left you with more questions. The story made sense in a vacuum, but large portions of it were poorly– or even not documented. To make things worse, the hints Wanderer gave about his past (that you’ve quite literally scribbled in a special notebook somewhere. Documentation.) don’t add up.
And so you decided to ask the only scholar you personally knew that researched it– Aqaba. The only other person you know that might have the relevant information is your Archon herself, and you doubt she’d appreciate you running into her home, clasping your palms together, falling onto your knees and begging like the Kamera-obsessed Fontainian woman that passed through here once.
What’s odd is that Wanderer’s never really had a problem with your nosy habits in the past, though. He really just lets you do whatever, since according to him, it’s funny to see you scrounging around for information only he has. So what’s the issue now? Does he not want you digging around his past? If he’d rather you stay out of it, you’ll happily acquiesce. You care more about him than sating your curiosity.
Evidently though, that’s not what he meant at all, because the next sentence to fall off his plump, beautiful lips is–
“Didn’t think he was your type, honestly.” He yawns. “But hey, he might figure out what you’d like for your birthday every other year, so go for it.” He gives you a sarcastic thumbs up– or is it sarcastic, because truth be told he sounds the tiniest bit butthurt right now.
You grin, about to laugh when you realise– wait, is he serious?
“I– pfft, what?”
Never one to yield to embarrassment, the idiot just sagely nods again. Much to his immense chagrin, if his narrowed eyes are anything to go by, you laugh even harder.
“Stupid!” You snicker and snatch the candy he was just about to pop into his mouth. He scowls at you as you suckle on it briefly– oh, it’s sour– but crunching it reveals the jelly inside, which is sweet instead.
Wanderer takes out yet another candy from his pocket, discarding the parchment into a tastefully camouflaged trashcan. It misses, and you bite back yet another laugh as he irately swirls it into the trash with a jerk of his finger, the anemo rattling it around a little.
When he bites into the candy, his dour expression tells you it was sour all the way through.
“So.” He stands, rolling his shoulders, and you bite back another shit eating grin. Wanderer is a puppet, with puppet joints. He does not need to roll his shoulders. “I take you’re not taking Aqaba to Sabzeruz?”
Oh. Right, that.
“I didn’t know it was the new Valentines,” you muse, as you both begin to make your way down the slopes, toward the city below. “Who are you going with, by the way? The busy little bee?”
“I just might,” he retorts. “You’re insufferable today.”
You snicker. “Wanderer. Darling. It’s okay to admit you’re wrong sometimes.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You call me that.”
“You think I mean it?”
Ouch. You blink. “Obviously not, I guess,” you mutter.
He raises an eyebrow. “You guess?”
Ouch.
“Oh, whatever,” you huff, suddenly not wanting to meet his eyes. You turn to the city laid out below instead. The sun is the tiniest bit closer to setting. You could’ve sworn it was late afternoon just half a minute ago. Time truly is an enigma.
Some birds are starting to cause a racket near the trashcans again, flipping through paper cartons and thrown-out kitchen remains, looking for leftover rice or lentils or bread to squabble over.
You let out a small, rueful aw as a cat suddenly pounces on one and drags it off. Oof. Cycle of life.
“Rest in pieces, birdie,” Wanderer mutters, and you shove at him with a scoff. He doesn’t budge an inch.
“Whatever, with you saying shit like this, I might go with Sethos.”
“Not Aqaba?” Scara snickers, and you laugh relievedly. Thank goodness his bad mood’s worn off. What the hell was that even about? Why does he dislike Aqaba?
“Not Aqaba,” you promise. “I was talking to Aqaba because I wanted to figure stuff out about you actually.”
“Bet he didn’t tell you jack.”
You stumble over a rock as you walk and a gust of anemo steadies you. Ordinarily you’d have teased him for not even bothering to use his hands, but you don’t think your heart can take it right now.
“He didn’t,” you instead say. “Nothing about you, anyway. Unless…” You grin.
He tips his head back, raising an eyebrow. The sun reflects off of his eyes, more indigo than the sky when stained with a trailing, lingering dusk. You wonder what he thinks of when he looks at yours.
You’ve stopped now, at a landing between the slopes that overlooks the city below, and Mawtiyima Forest far beyond.
You wonder if you’ve been staring at the shifting colours of the sky in his eyes for just a moment too long.
“Unless?” he prompts, in a voice that’s leagues softer than the one he usually uses. This seems to annoy him– there’s a tiny crease between his eyes– but still no sarcasm to be seen.
And as much as you adore it, you pray it doesn’t return for a while.
“Unless the asshole that refuted his essays on Tatarasuna was you,” you say, and the spell is broken as he first scoffs, then lets out one of his villainous laughs.
“I was doing that idiot a favour–”
“Yeah, yeah.” You turn to walk down the path into the Akademiya’s halls. Sabzeruz, huh.
Pausing and turning back, you tip your head thoughtfully. Wanderer hasn’t moved from his spot on the landing, still. Whatever, if he wanted to tell you what was on his mind, he would.
Shrugging, you turn to him. “By the way, I think I’ll go a bit early to Sabzeruz– and for the record, no, I’m not taking Aqaba, I promised to show Kazuha around. Have I told you about him yet?”
Wanderer stills. “Kazuha?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “He’s this Inazuman–”
“I know Kazuha,” he cuts in.
“Oh. That should make introductions easier. Or more awkward, maybe? ‘Cause I was asking him stuff about you, but he didn’t really tell me. He did tell me talking to me was like holding hands on a cold night, though.” You grin, obliviously chattering on. “I planned on going with Sethos, but I’ll let you have him.”
Wanderer does not answer.
It’s getting on your nerves a little. Did he and the busy bee get into a fight? But they’re always squabbling, so that can’t be it. Is this about Kazuha? Does he think Kazuha’s cute, too?
“Do you wanna go with Kazuha?” you ask hesitantly. “Is that what you’re mad about– hang on, are you even going?” You peer up at him. When he doesn’t answer, you realise he’ll have to, being the Archon’s…shadow double? Nah he’s twice her size. Familiar, you figure.
“Nevermind,” you call. The breeze is starting to pick up now. “Who are you going with?”
Oh, you realise. Another stupid question.
If he’s the Archon’s familiar, he’ll go with the Archon.
You shrug. “Nevermind that either. You coming?”
Wanderer just stares.
Damn, what’s up with him?
“Your joints lock up?” You ask, smiling, and he lets out a quick, almost angry exhale and looks away.
“Why not ask me?”
“Huh?” You blink. About what, his joints? You just did. “About– oh, about your mum and stuff?” you ask.
He lets out a shallow breath. An almost-laugh. “About– yeah, sure. There’s a bit more to the story than just her and Miko’s nonsense, though, you know.”
“Yae Miko?” Now you’re curious. The Guuji’s involved, too?
Wanderer, seemingly noticing your expression, nods. There’s a hint of a smile playing on his lips, but even that seems rehearsed. “Mhm. Miko. She wanted me dead.”
Your eyes widen. “What?” The Guuji? Why? “Shouldn’t she care for you, since you’re her master’s–?” Shit, you wish you had a notepad. You’re about to tell him to wait while you run to fetch a pencil and some paper but he continues.
“I’ll tell it to you briefly. Don’t you dare run.” Noted, you think. You nod, wide eyed, and the smirk playing along the edge of his lips widens into something a little more candid. “Obedient, aren’t you? No– hush, now. Not a word. Let me finish. My mother made me after her sister, the original Shogun– I said no questions, shut up.”
You bite back a scream. The original Shogun? There’s two?
Wanderer grins now, baring all his teeth. The sky behind him is beginning to bleed into soft oranges, a bloody tint on the horizon far beyond. “No,” he says, as though he can read minds just like his master. “Not two. Three. My mother’s twin was the real Shogun. She died five hundred years ago– by the false sky, you’re surprised at everything, aren’t you?”
“The wh– okay, shutting up now.”
He smiles. It’s starting to look rehearsed again, and suddenly you’re worried he doesn’t really want to tell this story. You’re about to tell him he doesn’t have to, in spite of your feverish desire to know more, but he holds up a hand, looking visibly irked now.
“She died. My mother wanted someone to house her gnosis. She made me, decided I wasn’t worth squat because I had feelings, and dumped me in a mansion with this feather.” He flicks it with a finger and it falls back into place over his chest, beneath his vision. Over where his heart should be. “Then she made my sister, the third Shogun. Vanished into a plane inside her body. She doesn’t have a physical form anymore.
“A man called Katsuragi found me. He’s– he was the servant of this guy called Mikoshi Nagamasa. Nagamasa was the son of Mikoshi Chiyo. Torachiyo, whatever. Ring any bells, scholar?”
He sounds so scathing. There’s something– something wrong. You already know this story isn’t going to have a happy ending, but you’re starting to suspect this is a far bloodier, more convoluted tale than you’d expected. You’d thought this would be more about just him– but Torachiyo?
You’re suddenly glad you didn’t ask him to wait so you could fetch some stationary to take notes.
You feel like he’s only going to get angrier if you back out now, though. There is an air of grim certainty to him. Arms crossed, feet planted firmly on the ground, not a shred of humour to be found in his eyes, on the edges of his lips. And so all you can do is whisper– “She was… your mum’s friend, right? The one that she had to kill?”
Wanderer stands, still as a doll. He stares straight at your face and somehow past it. Only his lips move. “You’re supposed to be smart, so I’ll let you figure out why he had to kill Katsuragi later.”
Oh. Shit. You do not like where this is going, but more than that you don’t want to put him through this so suddenly. Your mind is a whirlwind of emotions– you’ve no time to decipher past soured tempers when he’s staring at you with eyes as cold and hard as marble right now.
“Wanderer?” You take a hesitant step towards him. “If you’d rather not, you don’t have to–”
“Katsuragi took me back to the furnace. This guy, Niwa Hisahide– remember the Niwa clan?”
You’re strapped to a Sumpter beast running straight at a wall. All you can do is answer. “He… um. He was a master of forging blades via the Isshin Art.”
A sneer splits suddenly across Wanderer’s face, and your eyes go from concernedly downturned, to narrowed in defiance when he says, “You’d know all about the Isshin art, wouldn’t you?”
“Is this because I spoke with Kaedehara?” you ask sharply. He rolls his eyes, looking even more incensed somehow and ploughs on.
“It’s Kaedehara now, is it? Funny. No matter. Niwa took me in, and taught me bladesmithing. A harbinger, The Doctor, pretended to be a technician from Fontaine and caused the Tatarasuna disaster. Impurities in the forge because thanks to him, we were smithing en masse with basically dead god remains.
“They sent me to get help from the Shogunate. My sister refused to see me– hell, I didn’t even know she existed– and while I was busy begging her men for just even an audience, Dottore killed Niwa. When I came back he told me Niwa left me and fucked off to who knows where.
“He told me I had to walk into the furnace with a device to absorb the impurities.” His expression softens a little as your anger morphs quickly into horror. In a lowered voice, he continues. “I did it. I thought I’d die, but the device saved me. When I came back Dottore told me it was because the heart inside the device protected me.”
“The heart–?”
“Niwa’s. But I didn’t know.”
There’s a long pause, as he regains his breath. You exhale shakily into your palm.
“Wanderer?” you murmur. “You can stop now.”
He barks a breathless laugh– or at least, you think it’s one. “No, I can’t.” He gives you a tight lipped smile. Your lips part in dismay when his next sentence is–
“Dottore told me Niwa killed a servant to get the heart, so I ran away. Mikoshi killed Katsuragi. I made friends with this kid, and he died and betrayed me. I tried to die in a fire, it didn’t work out. Nothing ever did. Pierro found me a bit later, and made me a Harbinger.
“Dottore tortured me for years, and like a halfwit, I let him. He tried to make me a god after I got my mother’s gnosis and Signora, the Eighth, died.”
“Wanderer–”
“It didn’t work. Kusanali and the Traveller beat me. The glutton fairy was there too, I guess. I found out what actually happened at Tatarasuna. I tried to kill myself, but it didn’t work, and now I’m here. And ah, by the way, it was actually me that ruined the Raiden Gokaden. And your beloved Kaedehara.” He widens his lips into a grotesque imitation of a smile, then drops it. “The other thing I forgot. Miko wanted me dead so she could be my mother’s only lapwarmer. She got what she wanted. Any questions?” You say nothing. You’re not sure you can. Wanderer exhales. “Good. You’re not getting any answers anyway. I’m tired now. But there.” He stiffly shrugs, a poor shot at nonchalance. “Now at least you can stop hassling Aqaba and Kaedehara and Archons knows who else about this.”
“Wanderer–”
“What now?” His voice sounds sharper with every syllable, unjustly close to a snap. What the hell? You’ve done nothing to make him angry like this– he told you everything of his own volition, and you’re nothing if not concerned.
Did he just not want you shoving your nose into his business? You rack your mind trying to look for a past moment that betrayed his discomfort at your inquisitiveness and fail– this is a game you’ve been playing for years. You look for information and he laughs when you find nothing.
Your mind’s a mess. Your heart has never beat this hard before, and there’s an uncomfortable flush spreading along your neck and ears, sending goosebumps across your skin. Something is wrong. You open your mouth to say something– anything– but what can you even say?
Wanderer barks a bitter laugh at your silence. “Wanna find out more about Dottore’s experiments?” he sneers. “What exactly happened with the Raiden Gokaden?”
“What– no.” You couldn’t give less of a shit about the Gokaden. “I just wanted to ask if you’re– are you okay?”
“Am I–? Forget it.” Even his breaths are heavy, and furious. “You know now, and you’re welcome. Happy?”
What is going on? Is he angry or hurt or sad? Or are you? You have no clue. All you know is that he looks and you feel stormier than even Seirai right now.
“How,” you say, and your voice has risen the way his has, dangerously close to a shout. The sky behind him is rimmed with a deep, bloody red. “How am I supposed to be happy hearing that? And why are you mad at me when I’ve done nothing wrong at all? And that aside–” you step forward to hurriedly take his hands in yours but they’re stiff, almost wooden to the touch. Uncaring, you force them into yours, wrapping your fingers around his tightly, hoping your hands can press the warmth back into his, the warmth that the wind had just blown away.
“Wanderer,” you whisper, insistent, and he turns his head to the side to look past you. “What the hell?” You hiss. “Look at me!”
He turns to you, and there's a cool look of almost… disconnect in his eyes. He lets out a breath and wrenches his hands from yours.
“I'm fine,” he says. Curtly, but not quite coldly. There's a tautness to his jaw, a tenseness to his shoulders that reaches all the way to his half curled fingers. When he sneers at you then, you can trust the verity of his disdain. “Now hopefully you can stop asking Aqaba and Kaedehara and Archons knows who else about me. Happy?”
“Okay, cool off.” You put your hands on his shoulders with a frown and forced calm. He somehow looks more pained than soothed. “I don't know why you're mad and I won't if you don't tell me why. And yeah, I guess I'm happy to know, but I'm sorry all that happened? We can talk about it, if you want–?”
Wanderer grits his teeth. When he lets out an exhale, you feel it brush against your lips. “Are you going to stop pestering Kaedehara about the Gokaden, or not?”
Your mouth falls open. What the fuck is up with this guy?
“Yes, I am!” You cry. “And if me bothering him made you so mad, you should have told me that right from the start, instead of–”
“I don't care about you talking to him.”
Huh?
“Then what is this about?”
He grips your elbows and all of a sudden, his hands are warm, warm. You didn’t quite realise just how close he’d gotten until he presses his forehead to yours, looking incensed.
Not until he brushes his lips to yours, and you freeze, wide eyed. And when all you do is blink at him, breathless, body warming, your hands tightening on his shoulders, he steps even closer, impossibly so– until his chest brushes yours and his fingers dig into your hips, until he shuts his eyes and kisses you.
Your brain barely registers what you’re even doing before you’ve thrown an arm over his shoulders, the other wrapped firmly round his neck. You’re nothing but want coalesced into one warm being, wrapping around him in a breathless daze.
His lips, cooled first by the wind warm rapidly as yours caress them, insistently pressing and kissing with an urgency that has him gasping into your mouth. His lips part so prettily you can hardly resist brushing at his mouth with your tongue, his own coming to press against yours for a moment. Grabbing him, you yank him even closer, and his head tips back as you break away to pant against his cheek before he’s hovering and forcing your head back with a vengeance, your face cupped in his palms as he kisses you with a passion. A string of spit slides slowly down from the corner of your lips and you grab at his forearms to pull him closer to your torso, to hear him gasp again into your mouth when he suddenly pulls away, burying his face in a hand, and the moment shatters like glass.
Shit.
No. No. No. What have you done? What has he done? There’s a sinking feeling in your abdomen that grows only bigger and bigger, engulfing you whole. Wanderer floats above you, staring to the side at the city below, mouth covered with a hand. You can see pink marr the soft skin of his arms where you grabbed him to pull you closer, and if you weren’t heaving for breath already you’d instantly have started apologizing for whatever the fuck this was.
“Hey,” you pant. God, what–? What is even going on right now? Too much is happening and you’re nothing if not confused.
When you look up at Wanderer, and can feel him straining to keep his composure, all the way from here. A tiny, impetuous part of you wants to grab his hand and yank it off his face so you could see his lips, which are likely pink and swollen and glistening. But him not responding– him keeping his eyes steadily on the city– strikes a little fear into your heart for the very first time.
Wanderer never scares you. He irks you, he gladdens you, he makes you rage and laugh and weep– you’ve never wanted to cower from him before.
But right now, suspended above you, is a puppet that nearly twice became a god, that very nearly became the third Shogun, that kissed you so fervently you cleanly lost your senses, and more than anything, you’re terrified– that if you scare him now, he’ll leave and you’d never know. He could sleep for a hundred years if he wanted, to just wait for your passing. He could fly away right now, and–
“What?” He softly asks, finally looking down at you, and in the hulking shadows of the Divine Tree, for a moment, he looks just so small, the blues of his attire swallowed whole by the bloodred behind.
You don’t know what to say.
His shoulders relax– regal as he is, they never slump– and he lets out a heavy exhale, looking like a god passing judgement. The feather by his heart flutters as a reminder of his divine origin, and for the first time in your life you wish you were an immortal, any immortal, so you could chase him for a hundred years, so you could begin to even find him and beg his forgiveness. For what, you’re not quite sure. And yet.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, in a voice so low no mortal would hear.
Wanderer does.
“You’re sorry,” he echoes, looking as though all the world’s fight and fury just left for the sunset through his lips when he spoke. “You’re sorry.”
You’ve never seen him make that face before.
It’s the barest expression. Just pursed lips and downcast eyes, his shoulders rising as he exhales again. He’s barely moved and yet he looks like he’s slouching into himself, looking not regal, not immortal, just… sad.
“I’m sorry too, then.”
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You end up going to Sabzeruz with Kazuha.
Wanderer goes too, of course, with Nahida. He stands behind her whilst she happily prances around, looking so sincerely ecstatic at the decorations and festival stalls and her people celebrating her that it paints your smile into a wide, genuine one, even if just for a moment.
For the first time in your life, though, Wanderer is completely unreadable to you. You can’t get a feel for his emotions at all, or even whether they’re on the positive side or otherwise. He’s a statue, a doll– a puppet, standing behind Nahida, accompanying her.
You see them converse, and whenever she sets her eyes on him, you fancy they look a little rueful. But their parade soon passes by, and the rest of your day is spent with Kazuha.
He’s gentlemanly, his tongue silken and his calloused fingers gentle when they tug you away from a snail you would otherwise have stepped on. When he’s occupied with coaxing it on a leaf to put it somewhere safe, your mind wanders to someone rude, with a barbed tongue and the softest hands you’ve known.
You host Kazuha for some days before he has to leave again, and your heart stings when you see him seated on the couch that he’d otherwise be sprawled on, when Kazuha sweetly compliments your cooking and someone else’s words ring in your mind, softness sealed tightly beneath leagues of sardonic ribbons.
When it’s time for Kazuha to leave, he presses one of your hands in both of his, squeezing them in thanks. When you smile at him in return, he tells you gently that he hopes things work out for you and that hatted gentleman– the one that glanced at you all throughout Sabzeruz.
✦—————————————✦
Part II: Serendipity.
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Wanderer still hasn’t talked to you.
Still hasn’t visited, hasn’t so much as glanced your way in the hallways, asked you to move aside in the bazaar, opting to take a longer route instead.
Whatever molten anguish you’d felt that day has since solidified into quiet, red hot anger.
He used to be such a frequent visitor that your home was well supplied with food enough for two– and hell, even to his taste. His toothbrush in the bathroom is pristine and stiff– he used this new one perhaps twice or thrice before. Well.
Leaving his things out is a painful reminder of him, and, you quietly think to yourself– it's almost, no, fully foolish. Embarrassing, even.
A month has passed, now nearly two. A new year is nearly upon you– it's just a week or two away, so close you can hear it murmuring round the corner, telling January to be a bit quicker than the previous year’s, and begging March to be exceedingly slow for no reason at all.
You remember being out on a walk with Wanderer the previous New Year's Eve, giggling as you eavesdropped onto the various resolutions being made around you. A bit mean, but hey, it's not like most people ever stick by those.
And the year before that, you'd been home, watching the fireworks from right here as you peeled and ate overripe oranges. He'd yawned, leaning prettily against a window frame, and you'd chucked an orange segment right into his mouth, making him choke on it for several seconds. He’d chased you all around the house with a vengeance, and you’d subsequently missed most of the lovely display.
You hadn’t minded in the slightest.
And the year before that–no. You force yourself to stop. Reminiscence only stings.
Although… Now that you think about it, you’ve never spent the new year without Wanderer before. Not since you’ve met. Not that it matters– you’ll be fine. Perhaps you could go pay your family a visit. Perhaps you could go out with some other friends– they’ll be happy to see you venturing out voluntarily, you’re sure. You could touch so much grass that way.
But, truth be told, you don’t really feel up to a party. It’s the last month of the year, and it’s cold, and cold means you celebrate inside, with warm food and cards and chatter. Maybe you could call your friends over. But, you know. The new year could serve as a new beginning, a chance to nurture healthy habits. To eat something homemade and sleep at nine, you’d have to do with just a friend or two. Preferably just one.
On the New Year's Eve two years ago, Wanderer had helped you make a tiny bonfire in a large, broken pot on your balcony. He was surprisingly good at lighting fires. (You wonder if the fall of the Raiden Gokaden involves arson, somehow.)
Reaching over in the dark, you grope around your bedside table for a water bottle, and your hand brushes against some pins, a shirt you’ve been wondering whether or not to wash, and your mora pouch.
(That reminds you– you haven’t begun searching for a present for Wanderer yet.)
And– fine, maybe it wasn’t so much about the new year. Maybe it was more about his birthday. So what?
You heave a soft sigh.
It’s one in the morning. Or is it two? Either way, it is late and you cannot fall asleep. There’s restless, jittery sparkles tumbling around inside your torso, leaving little trails of excited warmth wherever they go. You need to get them out somehow. Perhaps a walk would do the trick.
Is it worth risking at this hour? you wonder. Just how high up on the stupid scale would I rank for taking a walk out at this hour in just my nightclothes and a cardigan?
Pretty fuckin stupid, if you ask me, another voice in your head whispers. This one sounds an awful lot like Wanderer. Archons, you need to get him off your mind. This is insanity.
You know what? Perhaps the sheer anxiety of taking a walk out at this hour might distract you from him for a short while.
✦—————————————✦
Yeah, no, never mind.
Today is not a day for walking. Well, tonight, and night. There had been a cloying breeze carding through your hair, through the leaves when you’d swept out of the house, wrapping your cardigan tight around you like an angry grandma. The moon had been playing peek-a-boo with the fast moving clouds already, but you hadn’t expected them to lovingly engulf her so soon. By then, though, you were halfway up the Akademiya slopes already, and so sunk cost fallacy for a mission you hadn’t even realised you were carrying out had effectively reeled you in.
Some sweet folks from the Corp of Thirty had already offered to walk you home, concern plainly painted across their faces, but you’d declined. You were on A Mission.
In the dim hours of the night, you tip your head up and confess quietly to the stormy sky– you miss Wanderer, and like any good scholar, when faced with a problem, your first few instincts were to despair and whine, before your sleepy yet simultaneously restless mind decided to steer you towards the source– to try and fix it in the quickest way possible.
Getting over him isn’t an option. Weeks spent in his absence have given you more spare time than you knew what to do with, and it had allowed you to quietly, angrily compose yourself. Pissed or no, you were going to find and drag him back into your life. It's not fair– did all those years of friendship mean nothing to him? (You know for a fact they had– by the Archon, he’d kissed you. What a stupid thing to run from. Were you really such a terrible kisser?)
You square your shoulders grimly, wondering which way to go. Go home? You really, really don’t want to. The other option… Well, the guards at the Sanctuary of Surasthana would not be happy to see you in the slightest, no matter how friendly they were with you ordinarily. Imposing upon your Archon’s place of rest is easily the most uncouth thing you’ll have done this year, if you really go through with this. Argh, the things you do for love.
You should be able to fix things. It can’t be that hard– he’s not stupid. You just need to find him. Maybe you could ask the guards to take just the littlest peek inside? And call out to him, perhaps?
But what if he’s not home at all?
You clutch your chest as whispered doubts and what-ifs spin around your mind in a hazy, whirling dance. You’ve kept yourself busy to avoid thinking of him, but it’s been difficult to truly lock it all away, and now as you watch a stray cat streak over to a dog, who– much to your surprise– attempts to clumsily play with it instead of barking up a storm– you admit to yourself– not only do you miss him, you miss him badly.
The gall of him, to kiss you and vanish. You’ve racked your mind to figure out what the hell that meant. (You know what it meant, you know you do. But you kissed him back, so why the fuck did he run away?)
His voice rings through your mind even now.
“You’re sorry,” he’d said. “You’re sorry. I’m sorry too, then.”
“What the fuck does that mean,” you hiss, burying your face in your hands. The Corp members standing some distance behind you glance concernedly at one another.
“Hey,” one of them calls out, a worried frown on his face. You know this one. You’ve seen him around. He’s cute, and incredibly sweet. You know it, because sometimes you see him playing catch with some kids, and you’ve seen him feed every single animal he seems to come across. You’ve seen this guy manage to coax even a finch on his finger, once.
Finches are always following Wanderer around, your brain whispers, and your eyes sting a little.
“Yeah?” You respond, voice wobbly with sudden emotion, and the guy instantly looks at you with so much worry in his eyes you nearly throw yourself at him to let it all out in his arms.
“You sure you’re okay?” He asks, concerned. You’re about to heroically tell him you’re fine, when someone else interjects.
“What’s going on here?”
Right on cue, there’s the briefest flash of lightning in the distance before a giant crack of thunder rolls all over Sumeru city, making it tremble beneath you. Or perhaps it’s you that’s shaking. Soft, damp pinpricks of water land on the ground, expanding gently as they soak into the dust. All you can do is just stare at Wanderer, nonplussed, as it truly begins to pour.
✦—————————————✦
“Do you need a towel?”
“There’s one in here.”
“That’s mine,” you say, and there’s a pause. You sigh. “If you’ve used it already, whatever. I’m gonna heat some milk up. You want any?”
“A cup. No honey.”
You sigh again. “I know.” You also know he’d rather have bitter tea, but you’re in no mood to exert more energy than is necessary right now, least of all for him. It’s not like he’s monopolized pettiness.
You pad over to the kitchen, wrapping your cardigan tighter around yourself. The storm has picked up in earnest now, slamming against the Divine Tree, against your walls and windows. It’s already successfully destroyed the potted plants in your balcony, which you can’t bring yourself to care about right now. You’re just glad you forgot to hang your laundry out today.
Wanderer’s the one that brought you back home. You’d walked at first and, when the wind picked up, he’d lifted you up in his arms and flown you both here at a speed that nearly had you shrieking. If, you muse as you pour some honey into your cup and lift the pan of hot milk off the stove, you’d felt slightly less petty, you really would have screamed.
You’re busy pouring the milk into the mugs when your bathroom door swings open with a long creak, letting scented tendrils steam drift leisurely out.
Wanderer steps out, clad in some of your clothes. They’re ill fitting, but he looks alright nonetheless. Good, even, much to your chagrin. He always does. Ethereal beauty and all that. You roll your eyes as you leave his mug on your counter and walk over to your cabinet to get a spoon, refusing to offer any further acknowledgement.
Wanderer floats to sit on your counter, turning even something so mundane into something regal. That’s just how he is. (You wonder what Inazuma would have been like with a softer Archon, an Archon surrounded by finches. An Archon that sheds tears. Or shed, maybe? You’ve never known him to cry.)
“You’re quiet,” he muses, breaking you out of your thoughts. Never one to shy away from confrontation, he stares straight at you over the rim of his cup as he takes a sip. He doesn’t blow on it. You’d normally be secretly beguiled by those eyes, but tonight you just stare sullenly back. Predictably enough, he doesn’t react to your moodiness. You’d figured he wouldn’t– known that he’d never apologize first. He’s too proud. He’d never grovel, least of all for a little mortal like you.
But if he thinks his silence will turn you talkative, he’s dead wrong.
“And deaf, too,” he adds. “Or maybe just too uncreative to think of a good response.”
“I don’t think I need to be creative for this at all,” you retort. (Maybe not that wrong.) He raises an eyebrow at that, and although there’s no other change to his expression, you know he’s pleased.
“And,” you continue, composure dissolving at the audacity of this jerk, “don’t think you can come around and act the way you used to after leaving me for two months, with zero explanation!” Storming over, you slam your now-empty cup onto the counter with more force than is necessary. A long, splintering crack runs up its side, and you click your tongue, frustrated.
Wanderer only watches.
“Are you serious?” You demand into the silence. “You’re not going to say anything? You’re in my house, asshole, not a shitty motel you’re staying at for the night. Talk, or get out of here.”
Nothing could’ve prepared you for what he says next. “But I just took a shower,” he complains, lounging on your counter, propping himself lazily up with an arm behind him. All of a sudden, he’s smiling, entirely too comfortably. His eyes glint with smug satisfaction, and you can’t help but feel like you’re missing something. A knife, maybe. His fourth (fifth?) betrayal. Heavens, he’s infuriating. “Sorry. Sunk cost fallacy. My favourite.”
You glare. “Sunk cost fallacy sure didn’t make you stick around by a years old friend,” you say bitterly. Wanderer just smiles, the very personification of delight. His eyes seem to shine brighter with every angry word that makes its way out your mouth. It serves only to piss you off further. “Or,” you hiss, “maybe I don’t even count as one? My mistake.” Saying so, you snatch the still mostly-full cup from his hands, forgetting in your anger that the milk inside was still hot, and his eyes widen, delight vanishing as quickly as it came.
“Careful!” he barks, but the warning comes too late.
Hot milk spills all over your arm, and you cry out in startlement, dropping the mug onto the ground. Being the good little mug that it is, it sullenly drops, spilling milk everywhere, but doesn’t shatter. You wince and nudge it with your toe, and find that the handle has fallen off, but that it’s otherwise completely intact.
“Fuckin loser,” you hiss at the mug on the counter. “Look what your sister can take.”
Shushing you angrily, Wanderer instantly yanks your hands in his and tugs them into the sink, turning on the taps. The pipes, cooled by the rain outside, let in water that is deliciously cold, soothing your overwarm skin nicely. You blink at him as he glares at your hands, lips parted in distress.
“Idiot!” He hisses. “Grabbing it out of my hands like that! Mortals truly are as foolish as they are fragile.” Saying so, he holds your hands firmly in place beneath the running water. You can’t help but notice that he holds you by the elbows, not by the arms, where he thinks the burns are. You’re pressed tight against his side like this, and the planes of his face are right next to yours. His hair is still damp. It smells like your shampoo.
“Well?” He demands, after several moments of you dumbly blinking at him. “Have you been burned stupid?”
Why is he like this? you think ruefully, sighing softly. But fine. You win.
Feeling your anger melt swiftly away, like a block of salt in running water, you wrench your arms gently out of his hands and turn the taps off. Smiling, you hold your arms out for Wanderer to see.
“I'm fine,” you say. “Completely fine. It wasn't hot enough to burn me, it just stung a bit.” Looking carefully first at your expression, he turns his eyes towards your drenched, but otherwise completely normal, unblemished arms. Finally convinced, he pulls away, lips pursed.
Archons, it's hard to stay angry with him, especially now, with his eyes still strained with worry, lips pressed tightly together as he peers at your arms still, checking for himself. He's not furtive– he never is.
You've missed him so terribly.
You hadn’t realised the potency of your jagged, angry hurt, twisting and scraping your heart, making it bleed blue and red and green. Hadn’t realised how much you'd missed bumping into him, the playful smacks and shoves, and on occasion, linked hands. Not until now. Even just this, just his concerned touch, is enough to send the familiar warmth of heartfelt affection coursing through you once more.
You remember when he'd grabbed your bicep on your birthday once, and risen ominously in the air, you shrieking with terror, him chuckling and giving no other answer. The way he'd then grabbed you by the waist and sped through the branches, bursting out of the smooth, tender, newly grown leaves of the Divine Tree’s crown. From up in his arms, you'd seen all of Sumeru City laid beneath you, beyond a soft blanket comprising entirely of new life, the giant tree’s teeny baby leaves. It had been surreal.
What had made it more surreal was the realisation that even in the face of this impressive vantage point, a small voice in your mind had shyly pointed out just how gently you were cradled in his arms, and sent warmth coursing from your cheeks and neck to every inch of you.
And so when he pulls his hands away from yours, here in your kitchen, you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his hair. It's what he deserves, for kissing you out of nowhere and vanishing without a word. You tighten your arms around him, face warming when you remember the way he'd gasped against your lips.
Wanderer doesn’t hug you back, but he doesn't push you away, either.
Instead, after a long pause, he says, “you're stepping in the milk.” His voice is audible and real and close, right here, right next to your ear. “Gross.”
“I'll clean it up later,” you mumble. Archons, he’s here. There’s a long conversation to be had with him, about his past and your future, but it can wait for now. “Hug me back first.”
“Pathetic. First you throw a fit and now you expect me to hug you back? Have at least a kernel of pride.”
“Shut up.” There's no bite to your words, nor his. You wonder where you put your jar of shitty, bitter tea leaves.
Wanderer breaks you out of your thoughts by sighing against your shoulder and finally bringing his arms up to wrap around you. They're firmer than a human’s would be. Divine strength encased in unassuming, slender arms and soft, unblemished hands. When he tugs you closer, you have no choice but to lean into him, shutting your eyes tight as you bury your face into his neck.
After several long seconds, Wanderer warily asks– “when are you setting me free?” And you laugh softly into his shoulder, consumed by relief.
You give no other answer. You don't pull away, though, and neither does he.
You only speak several moments later to warn– “I'm not letting go first, mind you.”
“Is this a competition?” He quickly returns. “If it is– well, can't say I particularly care, but I'm not fond of losing.”
“Isn't the bigger loss to hug me forever?”
“No.”
You blink. “No? That's a surprise.”
He heaves a heavy sigh. “Fool. Would I have kissed you if it was?”
You freeze. He freezes too. For just a moment, the storm stills as well, before lightning crackles in the distance with the sound of a thousand sticks shattering, and the rain picks up again.
You pull away.
If Wanderer had ears, you’re sure they’d be flat against his head. His shoulders are held sideways and upright, head tipped high– the prouder he looks, the more disconcerted he is, and right now he looks as though he were standing on the threshold of a mansion made entirely of gold.
You, though, are entirely too tired for pretenses. It is four in the morning. You simply do not have the time.
And so, you tug Wanderer out of the milk puddle, and cup his face in your hands to kiss him once again.
You’ve barely tugged him closer when his hands are on your waist– gentler and more uncertain this time, featherlight fingers brushing your hips, making you jerk away– they tickle. When he steps away, forehead creased with worry, you groan.
“Man, please. Can I kiss you or not?”
“Can I– you just jumped away like a fucking frog–”
“That’s because you tickled me, smartass!”
“Archons,” he hisses, annoyed, and you’re struck dumb once again by just how pretty he is. “Just come here.”
“Not that easily.” You cross your arms. “Say please.”
His eye twitches. You’re having way too much fun. You know he’ll never actually beg– please is not a word he’s on friendly terms with– but even so. He’s here, in your kitchen once again, and your socks are soaked in milk– which has now turned sticky and cold and you cannot wait to change out of them and climb into bed. You’re definitely not leaving the house tomo– today. Thank goodness for the storm. It’s an easy excuse to stay home.
You’re busy thanking whoever the Shogun is for the storm she’s so benevolently sent your way, when an exasperated sigh breaks you out of your thoughts.
“...please.”
“What?” Did you hear that right? Did he just say please? Did he?
“I’m not gonna say it again, you hear,” he huffs, as your eyes widen in delight. “Now come here.”
“Nuh uh.” You cross your arms, snickering rather meanly. “Explain yourself first, then I might.”
“Are you serious?” He spreads his arms, looking both frustrated and amused now. “Does now look like the time?”
“The audacity– you pissed me off in my own house–”
“I just want to kiss you and head to bed, is that so much to ask for?”
You narrow your eyes at him as you peel off your socks and drop them onto the floor with a wet thlop. Might as well talk a little now when you can. You’re definitely taking a day off tom– today.
“I’ll talk to you in bed and then kiss you. How’s that sound?”
He sighs as he peels his own wet socks off and tosses them atop yours. You both look at the soggy pile for a long moment before grimly nodding at one another– you’ll deal with that to–day. But several hours later.
Some minutes later, you’re finally in bed, warm and happy, with little bubbles of giddiness floatily making their way from your lungs up your throat, popping just behind your tongue. Wanderer crawls in next to you, setting a water bottle down on your bedside table.
“Great,” he says. “Let’s talk.”
“Let’s talk,” you echo, with an annoying inflection to your voice that makes him snort. You mimic the snort too, and he sighs.
“I think staying up this late is starting to drive you a bit insane.”
“Be nice to me or get out of my bed.”
“You are a normal, functional human being.”
You beam. “Thank you.”
Propping himself up on an elbow, he looks at you for a long, searching moment. The lamplight casts him in the softest glow, making him look a little like an oil painting. “Now,” he says. “Let’s talk.”
“I’ll cut to the chase because unlike some people–” you raise your eyebrows meaningfully– “I’m not a coward. Ergo I don’t kiss pretty people and run away.”
“Pretty?” He scoffs. “If you were just pretty, I wouldn’t look twice at you.” Wait– oh, he wasn’t insulting you. By the moon, does he have to say the sweetest things in the most scathing way? (You wonder why you even ask yourself these things when you know the answer to that is yes.)
“I– okay. Thank you.” You bite back a smile. God. A single compliment, if it can even be called that, and yet. “So. You do like me?”
“I despise the way mortals speak of their romances this era.” He rolls his eyes. “If I just liked you–”
“Yes, okay, okay. Settle down.” You reach out to pat his head and he scoffs, but there’s a smile on his lips nonetheless.
“I’m not a dog.”
“It talks!”
“Shut up.”
A mosquito comes buzzing along, whispering sweet nothings in your ear in its reedy voice. Wanderer swats it away.
For some moments, you just lay there, wrapped in the remnants of his voice playing in your head, in your blankets that reflect the warmth of your own body, and his. You throw a leg over his thighs as you shuffle closer and he shifts to make more room for you on his pillow. When you rest your head by his chest, he lays his cheek against your temple, slinging an arm over your torso.
“So?” He asks, and for once his voice is just… soft. Just there. Wanderer talks a lot about hating added flavour, claiming to love bitter tea because its reality isn’t cloaked by cloying sweetness or distracting spices, but he’s guilty of just that. Painting himself with the most unfavourable, forthright brush.
Words and tones are different. If he really wanted neutrality, ought he not sound more civil? I just tell it like it is, he says, wrapping his blunt words in serrated, barbed ribbons called sarcasm and hauteur.
Right now, though, the ribbons are off, and his bluntness is accompanied by only his honest, true self. “I love you,” he says, and your heart does a happy little loop in your chest. Your fingers tighten their grip on his– your shirt. “Do you love me? Just say yes and kiss me quick.”
Your joy is so visceral the joyous bubbles in your chest may as well be real and tangible. You imagine opening your mouth and blasting him with them, and laugh softly into his chest. Against your temple, you feel him smile.
“To think I was scared of you.”
“Damn. That really is honest.” Still smiling, you look up at him, your eyes alight with affection. And, skies above, he has no heart but he swears his chest hurts.
“I love you,” you say, the words forming so, so prettily on your warm lips. When he brings a finger up to trace the outline of them, and you kiss his fingertips. He cards them through your hair, stroking it away from your face so he can see you better– the shape of your eyes, the curve of your lips, the ridge of your nose. Here, pressed against you, in your room, beneath your blankets, he basks in your scent, in your presence. It makes his face flush a little, and you trail a finger from his cheekbone to his neck. Grabbing your hand in his, he pins it loosely beside you as you shift onto your back.
Leaning closer, he presses his forehead to yours, deliberately squishing your nose. You laugh again, right against his mouth, then reach up to kiss him a second time.