⟢ synopsis... having a partner with a kamera in hand that instead of capturing ordinary things, decides to capture them. (fluff)
⟢ featuring... pierro. capitano. dottore(35). columbina. arlecchino. scara. sandrone. signora. pantalone. childe.
The jester's quarters is usually shrouded in a heavy, suffocating silence, reserved for the grim reality of planning a war against the divine. The maps spread across his enormous oak desk are stained with the ink of fallen nations, and the air always carries the faint, ancient scent of ash and dried parchment.
But then there is you. And the soft, mechanical click of a kamera lens shifting into focus.
When you first asked him to buy you a kamera, he didn't think much of it; you always had a habit of staring at scenery for far too long, or of saying out loud how beautiful something in your line of sight was, so naturally he assumed a kamera request was to capture such sights. Pierro never thought that the real reason behind the request was simply to capture him.
Of course, you always took pictures of beautiful sights, but more often than not, when Pierro was around, the first thing he could hear was the soft click of your kamera towards him.
At first, it caught him off guard.
He was overlooking troop deployments across Snezhnaya.
He was quietly watching the snow fall beyond the palace windows.
Every time he heard that familiar shutter, he expected you to be photographing something behind him.
The lens was always pointed directly at him.
Pierro doesn’t move immediately. He keeps his gaze fixed on a pile of documents, his gloved hand hovering inches over a document. A deep sigh comes out before he even looks up.
"Again...?" He asks before another sound invades the room.
"...Is there something amusing about my paperwork?" Pierro's tone deceptively flat.
"Nope." you reply easily.
"You look pretty... even when you're so focused like this."
There was something in the way you said 'pretty' that awoke an amused feeling in Pierro; he never thought someone would use such word about him so matter-of-factly.
Maybe it was that amusement that made him allow you to take pictures of him in the first place. Although Pierro had set a rule about taking pictures while he was working, just in case your clumsy hands might lose the camera and it may fall into the wrong hands, but besides that, he truly never minded how many photos you took of him. How could he deny your happiness?
Having someone look at him through a lens just to find something beautiful to preserve is the only warmth he has left.
The first time it happened, Capitano assumed it was an accident.
The quiet click echoed through the camp. He turned his helmet slightly toward you, waiting for an explanation.
You simply lowered the kamera with a smile.
"...Apologies," you said, though your expression suggested you were not sorry in the slightest. "The light looked nice."
Or at least, that was what he thought.
Capitano is not a vain man.
Praise means little to him.
His entire life has been devoted to duty, to honor, to protecting others before himself. He neither seeks attention nor enjoys standing at its center. If anything, he prefers remaining unnoticed, his face forever hidden behind cold steel.
Which is exactly why your fascination confuses him.
One evening, after hearing the familiar click for what must have been the seventh time in the span of an hour, he finally speaks.
"...May I ask something?"
"You possess hundreds of photographs."
"...Then why continue taking more?"
You blink as though the answer is obvious.
"Because they're all different."
"You're never doing the exact same thing."
You begin scrolling through the kamera.
You move beside him, showing him the tiny photographs.
"This one's when you were talking to Ororon."
"This one's after Sandrone's tea party."
Capitano studies the images in silence.
None are carefully posed.
They are simply... moments.
Things he himself would never notice.
"I still don't get why I am the solemn center of each photo..."
"Because i love you." You simply said. "Isn't normal to take pictures of one's true love because they're the most important thing in someone's life?"
"Besides i like the idea of preserving your memory with photos... just in case."
Capitano's shoulders become strangely still.
From then on, he never asks you to stop.
Sometimes, while you're fumbling with your Kamera, he'll patiently wait before walking away.
He notices long before you realize he has.
"You've photographed me forty-three times this week." His voice suddenly interrupted.
You nearly drop the kamera.
"I remember." He quickly answered, his gaze hovering over you for a moment.
"You never photograph my laboratory."
"You never photograph my work."
He gestures toward himself.
Not dramatically. Not visibly. But something in his focus sharpens.
"I like you, is it a crime to photograph something i like?"
He studies your face with unmistakable curiosity.
Rather than discouraging you, he begins doing small things in return, he'll deliberately lean against his desk while reading, knowing the angle of light will change, knowing it will alter how he appears in your frame.
He'll remove his gloves before writing notes, slower than necessary, as if testing whether you notice the difference.
He'll pause in the middle of speaking, just long enough for you to react, as if waiting for the exact moment your finger tightens on the shutter.
"You did that on purpose."
"I wished to confirm a hypothesis."
"...If that is your preferred terminology."
It even surprises him how much he enjoys it.
Not the attention itself, but the fact that its you giving it. That distinction becomes important to him in a way he doesn’t fully articulate, though it lingers in the way he allows himself to be seen a little more often than before, he's is not someone who cares for vanity, nor for how he appears in a frame. And yet, the knowledge that you choose to capture him out of everything in your world truly fascinates him.
He's even looking forward to seeing the results.
"May I see today's collection?"
You never really hid the fact that you took pictures of her, in fact you were quite obvious, despite that, she never really said anything, sometimes you wondered if Columbina was even aware that the subjects of the pictures you took was her despite how obvious it was. Of course, Columbina wasn't dumb.
Today she slowly turned her head, as if the light itself has gently called her attention, not startled but curious, her movements are soft, unhurried, almost dreamlike.
"Are you taking a picture of me again?"
You hand her the kamera without hesitation.
She looks through every photo with quiet curiosity, her expression unreadable but not unkind. She lingers on some longer than others, tilting her head slightly as if listening to something only she can hear within the images themselves.
"...You always photograph me when I'm singing."
"I think you look happiest then."
She tilts her head further, almost childlike in her curiosity.
A gentle smile appeared on her, soft and distant like moonlight on still water, beautiful, at least you saw it that way. Very dramatic that is true but, Columbina's beauty was truly the best thing you could've captured.
At least that's what you tell everyone.
"...Then keep taking them."
Sometimes she'll quietly wander over while you're reviewing the pictures, footsteps almost silent, as if she’s afraid to disturb the moment even though she’s already part of it.
Without asking, she'll lean her head against your shoulder, watching the screen as if sharing the same memory, breathing in the same quiet.
"...I like seeing myself through your eyes." She said suddenly.
"You say that like it's strange."
She never thinks your habit is strange.
She finds it sweet that someone would treasure even the smallest, quietest fragments of her existence.
"You know..." Columbina suddenly whispered.
"I think i would like it if you were in the photos with me too, we can't let your beauty go to waste."
Your shoulder stiffened slightly, your gaze flicked away as your cheeks burned slightly.
"Don't say things like that so suddenly youー"
"hehe now i have a picture of you too, all flustered ( ◜‿◝ )♡"
You never hid the fact that you took pictures of Arlecchino either, and it wasn't like you could hide anything from her regardless. It had never bothered her this small habit of yours, however she did set a clear rule.
"The House is off limits."
"No confidential meetings."
"No children unless they're not doing something important and have clearly stated properly that they're comfortable with pictures being taken."
Her rules are absolute, and you respect them without hesitation, its not like they don't make sense.
She's reading in the lounge.
Making coffee in the early morning light.
Fixing a loose button on her coat before stepping out.
"...I can hear you, you know."
One evening she catches you scrolling through thousands of photos, her presence silent behind you. You don’t even notice her until she speaks.
She points toward an image taken after a long mission.
Her hair is slightly messy.
Human, in a way few ever see her.
"You look very handsome when you're exhausted." You reply honestly.
Silence stretches between you for a few seconds.
A very faint, incredibly rare smile tugs at the corner of her strict lips. She lets out a quiet, fond sigh, shaking her head.
She leans slightly closer, just enough to see the screen better.
"You document everything."
"Even moments I would consider... unnecessary."
Her eyes narrow slightly, but not in displeasure. More like she’s trying to understand the logic behind it.
"I like seeing you even in your most unflattering moments."
"As romantic as that is, I don't think anyone appreciates a bad photo."
She straightens, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she reaches out and gently tilts your kamera down, not stopping you, just adjusting your angle with precise, practiced care.
"If you insist on doing this..."
Her thumb brushes the edge of the device.
"...then at least do it properly."
Scaramouche at first finds the whole thing annoying, as much as he loves you it is truly persistent how you keep trying to capture every single moment of him.
"Put that useless piece of junk away before I shatter it into a million pieces. I am not joking."
You instinctively hug the kamera closer. He just stops close enough that it feels like he could take it if he wanted to... and he did.
He snatches it with effortless speed.
You expect him to delete the pictures immediately.
The silence stretches longer than it should, his eyes narrow slightly, his thumb hovers over the device, not quite pressing anything. For a moment, he looks almost irritated at the idea that something so small has managed to capture him so easily.
He tilts the kamera slightly, and the screen reflects faintly in his eyes.
"You really think this is worth keeping?"
"Yeah." You reply quickly.
That single word makes him pause.
He scrolls slowly and reluctantly
It’s a picture of him when he thought no one was looking—standing alone, wind brushing through his hair. Just... quiet.
He clicks to the next image.
Each one makes his expression shift in the smallest, barely there, but still there way.
"...Why do you even take so many?"
Then he immediately hands the kamera back.
He turns his head away as if that ends the conversation, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t fully leave. He clicks his tongue once, like he’s trying to erase the entire interaction from memory.
He complains every single time.
He rolls his eyes, clicks his tongue, calls you ridiculous, insufferable, and worse, but never actually stops you. He just stands there enduring it like it’s a personal inconvenience he refuses to admit he tolerates, like your presence has become an irritation he’s quietly accustomed to.
After complaining so much, now whenever an entire day passes without hearing the shutter—
"Aww do you miss the attention?"
"...Don't misunderstand."
He crosses his arms, looking away, voice sharpening as if to cover something else.
"...It's simply strange."
But he doesn't leave the room right away.
When you first asked Sandrone for a kamera she expected for you to document the tea parties she hosts, after all it's probably one of the only beautiful and peaceful moments that she has and she takes good care of making everything nice and sets a beautiful table presentation.
So when she finished setting everything every time she didn't expect for the kamera to always point at her.
At first, she assumes it is a mistake.
"...You are not photographing the table?"
Her voice is flat, but there is a faint pause at the end—like she is genuinely trying to understand.
You lower the kamera just a little, still smiling at her.
"I am. But you’re part of it."
She thought it was just a one-time thing.
But then it happens again.
Every tea party, every carefully arranged afternoon, every moment she designs for “peace” ends up with your attention drifting away from the porcelain or mechanics and toward her instead.
"...You are doing it again."
Her fingers tighten slightly around her teacup.
"...That is not a sufficient reason."
But her voice is quieter than before.
And she still doesn’t tell you to stop.
The next time, she prepares more carefully.
The table is even more precise than usual. The lighting is adjusted. Everything is arranged like a display meant to be observed from a distance.
"...This time, focus on the table."
She narrows her eyes slightly.
She just lets a long sigh out.
"I am listening and taking pictures."
"You should be listening and then taking the pictures."
"It works for me this way."
She knows she can't change your mind about the pictures you take, and deep inside she probably would be sad if she ever managed for you to actually stop taking pictures of her.
But she won't ever say that out loud of course.
There are very few things Signora considers worth preserving.
Power fades. Beauty withers. Nations rise only to collapse beneath time's heel. Even people are fleeting; she learned that lesson five hundred years ago when Rostam died and Rosalyne died alongside him, leaving only the Crimson Witch... and later, the Eighth Harbinger. Every attachment she has ever treasured has ended in ashes.
So when she realizes that you are trying to preserve her...
She doesn't understand it.
At first, she assumes it's infatuation, the kind that fades.
She has seen nobles obsess over appearances. Diplomats flatter beautiful women. Admirers become bored after a season.
She expects the same from you.
After all there's no denying that she's a beauty, even she knows that. She expects admiration.
The familiar click of the kamera echoes through the hallway of the Zapolyarny Palace.
She doesn't even bother turning around.
"You've photographed me three times since breakfast."
"...Four." You grin shamelessly. "You looked pretty."
A faint sigh leaves her lips.
"You have remarkably low standards."
For a second, only a second, you catch the slightest pause in her stride before she continues walking as if nothing happened.
You photograph her while she's reading, while she's silently drinking tea, while she's staring through palace windows during snowfall, while she's half-asleep on the couch after returning from an exhausting mission, the glamorous moments, the ordinary moments.
The moments no one else is ever allowed to witness.
That confuses her more than any compliment ever could.
"Why preserve... these moments?"
She gestures vaguely toward herself.
"I am not attending a banquet." She says."I'm hardly dressed for court, there's nothing impressive happening."
"I don't need a special occasion."
"...I wanted to remember how peaceful you looked."
She looks away before you can notice the tiny crack in her carefully maintained composure.
People think Signora is vain.
She certainly enjoys elegance.
She carries herself with impossible grace, expects refinement, and refuses to tolerate sloppiness.
But beneath that polished surface is someone who once loved so deeply that grief transformed her into living flame. Someone whose memories of happiness became buried beneath centuries of pain and duty.
Your photographs begin reminding her of something she thought impossible.
Not as "The Eighth Harbinger."
Not as the Crimson Witch.
Even if neither of you says the name aloud.
To the Regrator, everything in existence has a price tag, a net worth, and a calculated return on investment. Relationships are usually no different. But when it comes to you and your constant photography, he becomes endlessly amused by your habit.
Whenever he catches you aiming the Kamera.
"Would this side be better?"
"I'm investing in quality." He smiles. "Am I providing adequate material for your collection today, my dear?"
He enjoys teasing you far too much, adjusting his posture just slightly every time you hesitate, as if the entire world is simply another negotiation to be refined into something more profitable, more perfect, more you-approved
If you gasp because he looked particularly handsome in one picture...
He never lets you finish your denial, smiling likes there’s something quietly satisfied in the way he watches you react.
Eventually your old kamera starts struggling under the weight of constant use, worn down by how often it’s used to capture him in every possible light, every angle, every expression.
"A muse of my stature deserves only the finest tools for their craft. The resolution on that standard-issue Snezhnayan model is quite tragic."
You blink, lowering the kamera.
"It works just fine, Pantalone, is just a bit worn down."
He simply chuckles. "Nonsense. Only the best for the one documenting my legacy."
And without a word, it disappears.
The following morning, a beautiful new one rests on your desk, polished and far more advanced than anything you owned before.
"It captures finer details."
"I know." Pantalone spoke with a pause. "...I wanted to."
he becomes your most cooperative model. He will literally pause high-stakes financial meetings with foreign dignitaries the moment you walk into the room, raising a hand to silence a trembling merchant just so you can get a clear photo of him looking imposing.
"One moment," Pantalone will tell the terrified merchant, completely ignoring the man's panic as he turns his most charming, radiant smile toward your lens. "My partner requires a portrait from my good side. Pray ensure you don't catch the glare on my rings, darling."
Taking pictures of Childe was the worst habit you could have possibly developed. Not because he hated it, the exact opposite.
He enjoyed it far, far too much.
The first few times, it was innocent enough. You'd catch him laughing after a fight, completely focused while cleaning one of his weapons, doing anything really. You'd quietly pull out your kamera, snap a photo, and he'd only glance over with that familiar fox-like grin.
"You taking pictures of me?"
"At least get my good side, baby."
That should've been your warning.
Because the moment Childe realized you genuinely loved taking pictures of him...of him, not because he was the Eleventh Harbinger, not because he was famous, but because you simply liked watching him exist...
he made it everybody's problem.
"Look at this picture my baby took of me!"
"So fucking stubborn aren't ya? haa, i guess once my baby sees me they'll have to take a bloody picture of me."
"Oh, this? My partner took this, aren't they talented?"
Every time he notices the kamera...
He strikes an exaggerated pose mid-step, almost too fast for you to react.
He shifts dramatically, turning his chin like he’s on a stage, eyes bright with anticipation as if the world itself is an audience.
"Oh! Get one while I'm sparring!"
He’s already halfway into a stance, energy coiling through him like a spring.
His grin widens immediately.
You end up with hundreds of dramatic photos of him mid-action, mid-laugh, mid-everything he possibly can turn into a performance. He treats your camera like an audience he never wants to disappoint, always trying to outdo the last version of himself you captured, as if each picture is a challenge he intends to win.
And somehow, he never runs out of energy for it. Even when he’s clearly been training for hours, even when sweat clings to his hair and his breathing is just slightly heavier than usual, even when he's bloody and on high, he still finds a way to turn it into something theatrical
"Alright, We're taking a double portrait," he declares, snatching the kamera right out of your hands and holding it up at arm's length.
He spends the next ten minutes dragging you into a dozen messy, laughing selfies, some blurry, some with him kissing your cheek, and others where he's making a ridiculous face.
"We're sending the best one to Teucer," he says proudly, carefully slipping the kamera back into your coat pocket before planting a soft kiss on your forehead. "Gotta show the kids back home that their big brother found the best photographer in Teyvat."
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