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The wedding is secret.
No. Not secret. Secret implies a reason to hide. Secret implies shame.
Tighnari feels no shame, and neither does Cyno.
Their fingers twine as they lay in the forest, staring up into the night. The Traveler claims the stars as false, claims the sky that circles Teyvat is little more than show. The sun and moon and clouds all dance across some invisible shell to hide the true nature of the world.
Cyno points to a cluster of lights directly above them. “That’s you,” he says, finger tracing lines between stars that don't connect. Tighnari thinks he’s drawing a fox.
“How so?” he asks, and Cyno smiles.
“I can’t stop starring at it.”
True to the pun, Cyno’s eyes have not left the sky. Even when a cloud rolls over his imaginary constellation, his gaze remains locked to it.
Rain drizzles over them. They don't move. Cyno continues to stare. Tighnari doesn't feel jealous.
He doesn't.
But he does rise onto his elbows and flips onto Cyno, face hovering between him and the image his mind has conjured.
“You're pouting,” Cyno says, lips quirking into a smile. He lifts a hand to swipe away the hair that hangs between them.
“Am not,” Tighnari protests, but even he can hear how petulant he sounds. It makes Cyno's smile widen.
“I could see a thousand foxes in the sky,” Cyno whispers, “but they will never compare to you.” He cups his hand over the back of Tighnari's head and pulls him down until their foreheads touch.
“I’m yours,” he breathes, right before pressing their lips together.
There is no announcement. No grand declaration of love. No proposal, even.
But there are rings. Two simple wooden wedding bands; one that Tighnari wears under his thick ranger’s gloves, the other tucked into a pouch sewn to the inside of Cyno’s belt.