Work Text:
Sandrone knows something is wrong the moment she steps through the door.
Not that there’s any signs or otherwise indicators of it, merely a terrible, looming premonition in her chest. She hangs her coat, and unties her shoes, and hopes Arlecchino is not here. It would make it all much, much worse, as it usually does.
Columbina is sitting on the couch, going over papers, but she places them on the coffee table when she hears Sandrone in the doorway.
“Nasha Town called today,” Columbina says softly, and Sandrone freezes halfway through the living room. Nasha Town. Something constricts in her lungs, a dark, ugly presence. She knew this would happen one day. “I'm going to the moon.”
It’s hard not to look at her when she says it, soft smile, and all the enthusiasm in her eyes, bright, happy. I’ve been wanting this for ages, and I’m so excited written all over her features, in her movements.
Sandrone cannot move. The dark thing unfurls in her chest, cold and dangerous. She needs to say something, she needs to–
“It’s only three months for now,” Columbina goes on, her eyes on Sandrone. Interpreting her silence as shock, assuming things, always assuming– “They allow calls, of course, every week. More often too, if you wish.”
Sandrone is still staring at her, unable to move, to sit down. She knows what she should say, she knows the right words, knows what Arlecchino must’ve said. Congrats, and I'm proud of you, and it was about time they'd pick you. A thousand right answers, a thousand right reactions.
And yet. “Arlecchino?” she manages, eyes searching the room, straining to hear whether someone else is in the house.
“She had to go to work,” Columbina says, unbothered by her change of topic. Patient, always so patient, and she deserves better than Sandrone. “You know how the children are.”
“Right,” Sandrone mutters. Checks the clock. Dinner time. She should–
“Will you sit with me?” Columbina asks, her eyes hopeful, and Sandrone cannot refuse her, won't refuse her.
“Of course,” she says, because that's what Arlecchino would've done, too.
She sits down, a perfect one person distance on the couch between them. Safer that way, always distance, always afraid. It hasn’t always been like this, but–
“Sandrone,” Columbina says, hands in her lap, head tilted. Her hair falls over her shoulders and into her face, and Sandrone wants to reach out, but she doesn’t. Not yet, not now.
“You haven’t said anything yet,” she goes on, warm, understanding, and so, so patient. “Is there something you want to say?” Columbina inclines her head slightly, encouraging. Her hair curls against her cheeks, beautiful, ethereal.
There are a few things Sandrone would like to say, none that are appropriate, none that are right. Arlecchino would know what to say, what to do – has probably done it right and correct before she left for work, and what is Sandrone in comparison? What could she possibly offer when all the right things have already been said, and she wouldn’t have meant any of them anyway?
I’m happy for you and it was about time. Something you want to say – don’t go, don’t do this, don’t leave me behind, don’t don’t don’t – what is there to say that is not a plea, is not a disregard for Columbina’s achievements, her career, her dreams? What is left to be said, then?
It used to be easier between them, simpler. Things weren’t always like this, but they are now.
“Am I a bad girlfriend?” Sandrone does not look at her as she asks, frowning at her own hands. Littered in fresh cuts from work, ink stains on her knuckles.
“Because you aren’t happy for me?” Columbina guesses, still in tune with Sandrone after all these years. They’re the same, still. Different, but the same.
Sandrone shifts closer, bit by bit. Closing the distance, because she wants to try. She wants to be good, be better, be worthy of–
“I don’t think it makes you a bad girlfriend,” Columbina says, a finger to her chin in thought. Cute, the same expression, same mannerism as when they met, years ago. Still the same.
Sandrone brushes her hair out of her face, cups her cheek with her palm. “I am sorry,” she mutters. Difficult words, practised over and over again until apologising didn’t feel like a life or death situation anymore. Trying.
“There is no need,” Columbina smiles, her palm against Sandrone’s hand. “It is not an easy situation to be confronted with, even with preparation.” Patient. Always, always.
Sandrone shrugs, half-hearted. Knows that Arlecchino did better at this, despite all her attempts, all her trying.
-
“You’re early,” Sandrone says, doing a rather poor job at hiding her discontent.
“I have brought wine,” Arlecchino says instead of a greeting and Sandrone only barely holds back her anger.
“Why are you early?”
Arlecchino hangs up her coat and takes off her shoes, and Sandrone does not move to take the bottle from her as a good host ought to.
“I was done with work,” Arlecchino says in that tone she uses with everyone, but especially with Sandrone, and it irks her, crawls up her spine like a threat. “What can I help you with?”
“You cannot help.” Sandrone does not snap at her but it’s a close thing. Her patience always runs thin, but it’s a lot worse when she is involved. Sandrone moves back to the stove, hands balled to fists to contain her anger. She doesn’t know where to put it and there always seems to be so much of it.
“Listen,” Arlecchino says, like she’s trying to be gentle, the same way one would talk to a feral dog, when they’re trying to make sure it doesn’t bite anyone. “I may be a guest, but I am as much her partner as you are, and it is no trouble at all to help. I know my way around the kitchen.”
Oh, Sandrone is sure she does, and she doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to have to think about it. “I have it under control,” she grits out, a clear dismissal, and Arlecchino is smart enough to know when she has lost.
“As you wish,” she replies, unimpressed by Sandrone’s temper, and leaves the kitchen.
A small blessing, but Sandrone knows that it’s not the end of it. Whenever they have conversations like this, Arlecchino steps back only to attack later, a ruthless preparation for battles Sandrone should be able to see coming by now, but that catch her off guard every time, still. She is never ready to be faced with Arlecchino’s razor sharp precision and attentive observation. Against a woman like her, Sandrone can only lose.
-
“I’ll see you out.”
Sandrone doesn’t eavesdrop or turn to the hallway as they go together. She doesn’t want to see it, how Arlecchino kisses her goodbye, wishes her a goodnight, whispers into her hair.
She’s seen it before and it had done nothing good, only made the dark pit in her stomach grow darker, uglier, deeper. A never-ending cold that creeps into her bones, crawling through her veins. Instead, Sandrone busies herself with something mechanical, something repetitive. The dishes are grounding and forgiving, one plate after the other, the practiced efficiency, the primal urge of using your hands.
Columbina returns to the kitchen a while later, humming under her breath, a soothing tune, her steps quiet as though floating. She pokes a freezing finger to Sandrone’s cheek before resting her palm on Sandrone’s shoulder.
“Arlecchino told me you talked,” she says, her voice light as a melody. Always so soft and gentle, as if she’s talking to a bird. “I am glad that the two of you are getting along.”
Sandrone does not have the heart to tell her that getting along is stretching the truth.
“Did she say anything else?” Sandrone asks, slowly lowering the glass back into the sink.
“No,” Columbina replies and Sandrone turns to face her, drying her hands off on her apron.
“Is… is she alright with you staying tonight?” A question Sandrone does not mean to ask, because she does not want to have the answer. Not that it matters– Arlecchino has already left and said her goodnights.
“Of course,” Columbina’s voice is so soft, so tender. A gentle caress, and Sandrone doesn’t know how to give her back the same gentleness. Does not know where to find it in between all the anger and jealousy and fear.
“So,” she starts anyway, because they’ve known each other for years, and she loves– she loves Columbina, and so she must try. If it comes easy to Arlecchino then it will come easy to Sandrone, too, eventually. It has to. “The moon.”
Columbina smiles at her, running her hands up to cup Sandrone’s cheeks. “The moon,” she repeats, eyes closed with how bright she smiles, “my first love.”
A sharp twinge of indignation hits Sandrone, cold shivers down her skin. Ridiculous– she forces her nervous system to dial it back. Not a threat.
“You’ll really go,” she mutters, and it comes out half questioning.
“Yes,” Columbina says, still smiling, and Sandrone cannot quite remember the last time she’s seen her so happy. The moon. Sandrone wants to protest, to scream, to cry, to beg. She covers Columbina’s hands with her own and tries.
-
Columbina sings her to sleep, that night. Reassuring, tender. Her voice is a spell, and her song is a promise, and Sandrone closes her eyes, and focuses on the fingers carding through her hair. She will miss this. I’ll miss you, she thinks and doesn’t dare to say.
-
“It’s normal to be nervous.”
Sandrone does her best to listen and stay focused on his encouraging words, but there’s so much going on – monitors blinking, and images, and graphs, and diagrams.
“It’s a bit overwhelming the first time, isn’t it?” He smiles. It’s a gentle smile, understanding, kind. His sister had the same smile, but her eyes were burning. A hunger for knowledge, that certain adrenaline you find only in people who are going to sit down on tons of fuel and tell people to shoot them to the moon with it.
“How do they coordinate all those people?” Sandrone asks in astonishment, staring through the window at the rows of monitors, and the many people in front of them, talking into headsets, and to each other.
“That would be my job,” says a blonde woman, standing in the door to the room. The visitor watch room, Sandrone has been told.
“Hello,” she says, walking up to Sandrone in her heels, as if she needs them, tall as she is. (Arlecchino has the same annoying habit.) Sandrone forces a polite smile onto her lips, taking the offered hand.
“I’m Rosalyne-Kruzchka Lohefalter, the flight director. I oversee the flight controllers and make sure that everything goes smoothly.”
“Hello,” Sandrone says, feeling underdressed in her usual dress. Miss Lohefalter is wearing all the confidence of someone who has a lot of power and takes no suggestions from anyone. “Sandrone. I’m Columbina’s girlfriend.”
“Nice to meet you,” Miss Lohefalter says. “I hope a glance behind the scene can ease some of your worries.”
Sandrone’s smile grows strained. Worries. Who does this woman think she is? Sandrone is not worried– that’s ridiculous! The very notion.
“All these people have their own specific field of expertise and keep close watch of all the systems and parameters,” Miss Lohefalter explains, “together they make sure that everything here in mission control runs as it should.”
She points at a blond guy who’s talking into his headset nearly without break and flipping through the stack of papers in his hand. “That is Dainsleif. He is our so-called CAPCOM, and is in charge of the main part of communication with our LUNA 4 space ship. He’s the one Columbina and her crew will hear from the most.”
Sandrone isn’t sure if that’s meant to be reassuring, but she wisely voices none of her concerns.
“Have you met the rest of the crew yet?”
“We introduced each other earlier,” Aether says, and Sandrone is almost glad for his taking over of the conversation. She stares through the window again, the many blinking lights, and desperately wishes that she could believe that Miss Lohefalter and her team have everything under control.
“The astronaut families usually get together to watch the launch live,” Aether says, and Sandrone turns to him and finds the room otherwise empty. “It’ll be at my place this time, and you’re welcome to join if you want.” He smiles again, like he has too much kindness to give. “And you can bring your friend, too, of course."
Sandrone does not have the nerve to explain that Arlecchino is only a friend of Columbina and not hers.
“It makes it easier,” Aether says, a little quieter, “to deal with all this. Knowing that there’s people around you who understand and who have done it before. Staying behind on Teyvat while people we love fly to the moon can be otherwise lonely.”
-
“Did you have a good time?” Columbina asks when Sandrone drives them back home. Nasha Town’s streets are busy this time of day, everyone eager to go home, everyone in a rush.
A good time. What is that even supposed to mean? When is a time good? “Your coworkers are nice,” she settles on, which feels both safe and is not normal. None of Sandrone’s coworkers are nice, not that she sees many of them, and some are downright insane. She hates them all.
“Yes,” Columbina agrees, that faraway look in her eyes again. Sandrone’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Has it eased your anxiety?”
“I am not anxious,” Sandrone snaps, and she cannot look at her, glad to stare at the road, and the slow moving traffic, and ignore the pit in her stomach.
She’s not anxious. She’s not worried, she’s not afraid, and she does not want Columina to go. None of that matters, and none of it ever will.
Columbina hums, a soft melody, a familiar one. Her lullaby. Sandrone exhales, and forces her emotions into submission until they get home.
-
The day before launch, Columbina takes Sandrone’s hands into hers and looks at her. Her gaze is attentive but kind, and Sandrone wants to squirm away from it. Exposed, raw.
“I’ll be safe.”
“Don’t–” Sandrone says sharply, a lump in her throat. “Don’t say that. You cannot promise that.”
Columbina watches her, fond, tender, like she’s seen all of Sandrone’s sharp edges, and does not mind cutting herself on them.
“You used to get much angrier at me,” she observes. It’s a casual statement, soft and disarming, yet it feels like a strike to Sandrone’s chest. Like she’s lost something somewhere somehow. A fight, a sign. She doesn’t know.
Is it a bad thing? She wonders, but doesn’t ask. Do you miss when I did?
“I’m sorry,” Columbina whispers, lifts Sandrone’s hands to her forehead. “I know this is difficult for you.”
“I–” Speak, she thinks, this might be the last time I will see her. “Don’t apologize,” Sandrone mutters, irked. “This is your dream, is it not? Don’t feel… bad for chasing it. There are paths that are ruthless and selfish, but if you want this, then you should want it fully, without feeling guilty for it.”
Columbina blinks at her, still fond, and always so, so patient. “Is this how you think of me?” she asks, and it is not an accusation. Curiosity.
It strikes all the same, ice-cold and heavy. “No, I–” Sandrone doesn’t know how she thinks of her. Of all of this. It is selfish, and it is ambitious, and it is all Columbina has ever wanted, all she has worked for. “I love you,” she says weakly, and the fear curls in her heart cruelly. “I think– yes, maybe it is selfish, but that is not a bad thing.”
“It is not,” Columbina smiles, “I agree. And I am sorry. I know it isn’t easy.” She squeezes Sandrone’s hands, gentle. “I love you, Sandrone, and I will worry for you.”
Sandrone scowls at her, indignant. “Worry? I’m not a child! I can take care of myself just fine, you needn’t worry. That’s ridiculous.”
“Of course,” Columbina breathes, and she leans in and presses a featherlight kiss to Sandrone’s cheek. “But I care about you, and naturally I will worry.”
Naturally. Is it normal then? This aching pressure, this clawing sensation? Normal when you love someone? When they’re about to put themselves in danger?
“There is something I wish to give you,” she goes on, softer, if possible. “A parting gift.”
“We are not parting,” Sandrone interrupts, terrified. “And this is not a farewell. It’s not.”
“It isn’t,” Columbina agrees. She hands her a cassette, self recorded, titled with red marker. From the Moon, with Love. “So that you don’t have to miss my voice.”
For a second Sandrone wants to ask, needs to know. Just me? Or did Arlecchino get the same? But it doesn’t matter. Her eyes burn, the pinprick of tears. “You said there would be calls,” she forces out, tries to hide her face.
“There will be,” Columbina says, hands warm on Sandrone’s where she’s clutching the cassette. “But it is not the same. The audio is tinny, and you will only be able to speak to me at the space center.”
Of course. Limitations of technology. And yet.
“Thank you,” Sandrone whispers, and raises her gaze to look at her, really look, to take in the gentle expression, the soft smile. To memorize the features of her face, the curl of her hair. “I’ll miss you, Columbina.”
“I will also miss you, Sandrone.” She leans in then, her hands reassuring, warm, and Sandrone meets her half-way.
-
Aether’s place is on the fourth floor of an unassuming building. Sandrone curses under her breath the entire way up the stairs, which seems to amuse Arlecchino.
“This is not funny,” Sandrone snarls, annoyed. “Are you an athlete or what?”
“I do run,” Arlecchino says smugly, and Sandrone cannot stand her, she can’t. What a terrible, self-satisfied–
“I’m glad you could make it,” Aether greets them when they’ve finally bested the stairs. “Come on in. Let me introduce you to everyone.”
Oh, great. More introductions, more people. Sandrone feels tired just thinking about it.
“Please, go ahead,” Arlecchino says politely, and Sandrone has no choice but to follow.
There’s a lot of noise, and quite a few people squeezed into Aether’s tiny open kitchen-living room. Sandrone sees drinks, and foods, and wonders briefly if she should’ve brought something as well. She feels silly just entertaining the idea.
“Hello,” a woman with a bob greets them, her gaze inquisitive and dangerous.
Aether smiles as he always does. “Sandrone, Arlecchino, this is Nefer.” He turns to Nefer and tells her that they’re Columbina’s family.
Next to her, Arlecchino has stiffened as the two of them seize each other up. Great. Fantastic. Sandrone can never have a pleasant day, it seems.
She forces a smile, and grabs Arlecchino’s elbow. “Pleasure,” she says, nails digging into Arlecchino’s jacket. “Let’s go on.”
“And this is Kaeya,” Aether continues, introducing them to a man with dark hair and darker eyes. “His brother has been doing missions for a while now, so he knows his way around the whole affair.”
Kaeya is friendly, polite to a fault. Sandrone glances at Arlecchino, who is much the same, and tries not to hate it all.
“Does it get easier?” she asks him, when Arlecchino has excused herself to the drinks, and Sandrone has a hard time tearing her gaze from the TV.
Kaeya’s chuckle is light, and somewhat reassuring. Sandrone tries to drown the instinct not to trust it. “Never. You’d think it does, but I believe you just become better at coping with it.”
Not really reassuring either, Sandrone admits, but she says nothing.
On the TV, the launch pad is shown, and the Public Affairs Officer explains the details. Sandrone wants to watch, she does– but seeing the rocket, and the LUNA 4 spacecraft on the screen makes her feel a little sick.
“I wish I could offer words more reassuring,” Kaeya says sympathetically, “that this is the worst part of it all, and everything that comes after is more manageable.”
Sandrone looks at him and knows it’ll only get harder from here. “When does it end, then?”
His smile is pained but honest all the same. “When they’ve returned home to you.”
She misses the launch. Not on purpose, not on accident, something in between.
There is a drink in her hand, and Arlecchino has found her way back to her side when the reporter announces that LUNA 4 has safely reached Teyvat’s orbit.
It sounds like a collective breath of release, and Sandrone feels the tension bleed from her shoulders. Around them, astronaut partners and family mingle some more, chatting enthusiastically, sharing drinks and food. Sandrone lets the noise wash over her and stares at the TV screen, where the channel has switched to reporting about other, irrelevant things.
Arlecchino touches her hand to the small of Sandrone’s back. “You want me to move in with you now?”
Sandrone scoffs. Who does this woman think she is?! The very notion of that idea–! Utterly ridiculous. “Absolutely not.”