A Little Glass Vial

The scholar analyzes that feeling, where it comes from. Is the difference, perhaps, because you are already his? This is you, sharing something precious that feels too vulnerable to admit to him - a feeling he knows very well - not a stranger gushing over him without properly knowing him.

When you meet next time, Alhaitham seems lost in thought. Yet at the same time, you feel his gaze following your every move. Because he is. He notices everything. Between the two of you, you might be the more outspoken one, the one who tends to confess your feelings more directly. Right now, though, he can see you speak his language of love fluently too - more than he gave you credit for, too blinded by how easily you seem to express your emotions aloud and trying to meet you there.

Now he sees it, though. Every little gesture, every lingering touch, every indirect admission that you care. You startle when he slides his hand across the table to catch yours. Maybe this is enough, maybe just as he knows now, you understood his feelings the whole time.

Ayato

It is not his style to be hiding in the shadows but Ayato always keeps his mind open to trying new things. Such as now, biding his time in the cool shade the tree offers while he listens to the voices approaching. There’s something about the hushed excitement with which his sister speaks that already piques his interest, yet it is only when he hears the unmistakable shyness and panic in yours that he considers abandoning his previous plan of making a surprising appearance. He’s a curious man and if you’re not careful enough to make absolutely sure nobody hears what you’re saying, it can’t be that important after all.

And thinking that is his undoing. He has to stifle a laugh. How foolish he was for dismissing what he’s going to hear as a simple ammunition for teasing. His posture shifts, now he leans against the trunk comfortably as he gets lost in your sweet confessions. He stares up at the sky obscured by the leaves. You’ve said those things before, maybe not with the same words, but he’s never doubted your feelings. So why does he feel this way now?

His surprise is postponed. Instead of scaring you by jumping out of the shadows, Ayato surprises you with dinner ready on the table, the servants dismissed for the remainder of the day. Your home is quiet, safe for your husband describing the delicacies on the table and teasing the special dessert he prepared for later - no doubt something he thought of himself. And while it’s not unheard of for him to make romantic gestures such as this, something feels off.Yet when you press him about it, Ayato offers only a mysterious smile and a playful can’t i adore you for no special reason? accompanied by a fleeting kiss to the corner of your lips.

Baizhu

“You have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“Qiqi will forget this conversation soon. Your secret is safe with her.”

Intrigued, Baizhu ducks closer to the wall. Secrets? Secrets between his two favorite people? He’s curious and amused at the same time. Should your voice be strained, he would worry and interrupt whatever was going on, but seeing as you were giggling along with the little girl, he barely expected more than a silly exchange that would warm his heart and provide him with sufficient energy to push through his tasks for the day.

Instead, what he hears makes his heart stop for a moment and his legs weaken. Perhaps he should make his presence known. Perhaps he won’t need to, simply collapsing on the spot should be enough. 

Once the dramatics leave his body with a quiet, shaky breath, he carefully peeks into the room. His eyes land on you in a second, on the shy, embarrassed smile and eyes, fortunately, closed while you laugh with Qiqi about the foolishly sweet things you’ve said. Baizhu bites back a smile and finds another route to his destination.

Later, however, while you’re getting ready for bed, he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around you. His lips leave a trail of soft kisses from your shoulder to your jaw, no different than if he was running a feather over your skin. But his arms, they keep you in place without fail. 

“The effect you have on me is concerning, my heart,” Baizhu whispers into your ear before you can voice your surprise.

His hand finds yours and guides it to his wrist, allowing you to feel his racing pulse. He feels your confusion growing, but he doesn’t explain - how could he? He will treasure the secrets he heard, although they’ve perhaps never been secret at all. Not when he can see them all now that he looks into your eyes.

Dottore

He bristles when he hears a voice responding to yours, and soon the irritation is doubled. Dottore assigned you a task of utmost importance and time sensitivity. It’s a test of sorts, sure, yet the notion that you’d fail and what’s more - that you’d skirt your duty to mindless chatter makes a confusing mix of irrational feelings well up in his chest.

Yet he’s stopped in his tracks before his steps can get within your earshot. His enhanced senses can perceive what a regular human couldn’t, such as your voice, calm and poised, explaining the inner workings of your heart to the other person. 

It makes his face contort like a child’s after drinking a bitter medicine. Then an incredulous laugh bubbles quietly up his throat. The world tilts on its axis, nausea follows. Those words are not unheard; they’re simply usually heard much more quietly, privately, behind locked doors and between the sheets. You whisper them to him, mumbling them against his skin because he won’t meet your gaze or acknowledge them. He never thought he’d hear them aloud - spoken without hesitation, doubt or shame. 

You don’t flinch when you find yourself trapped between his body and the desk a minute later, the other bolting away the moment he appears. He doesn’t feel you stiffen or tremble at all when his breath hits the vulnerable skin of your throat, nor when he bites down on the side of your neck. Not hard enough to draw blood and, he realizes belatedly, not hard enough to hurt. Only enough to leave a faint mark. Somehow his fingers find their way between yours, pinning you to the desk. He’s already panting so hard it makes him laugh. 

This is not the experiment he had in mind for today, or any other day for as long as he lives, but inspiration is known to strike at the oddest of moments.

Flins

He wakes up to a voice. Which is strange because he also wakes up to a feeling of safety, and Flins has grown so used to safety meaning loneliness. It takes him a moment to fully process all that he can hear and feel, and for the time being he remains still as if he was resting. First is the touch - a hand combing through his hair slowly, which threatens to lull him back to sleep. Then the voice gets clear enough. Your voice, your words. Suddenly, sleep is no longer tempting.

Fortunately, his face is hidden against your stomach enough that he can allow himself a secret smile. He has to express himself somehow without also being discovered. It’s been so long since he’s known intimacy such as this. Compromising this moment is the last thing he wants. He promises to himself he’ll make it up to you somehow, he has to, but for the time being he chooses to stay as he is. 

You don’t seem any wiser when Flins pretends to wake up. Very slowly, uncharacteristically affectionate. So much so that you don’t tease him, skipping straight to suspicion and mild concern. But he only reassures you, telling you about a beautiful dream he had while kissing your wrists, your hands, all the way to your fingertips. He doesn’t let you pull away - every attempt is met with a gentle squeeze and a pleading look. And you’re no monster to say a no to that.

Despite his best efforts, he can’t quite figure out how to make you feel as loved as your words spoken while he was supposed to be oblivious to them made him feel. He ends up hovering around you, and it’s so unfair how effortlessly you pile onto that feeling with every touch, every word of concern. He doesn’t think you understand why he holds you so much tighter when he finally breaks and pulls you close.

Neuvillette

He knows it’s wrong. The Iudex of Fontaine, listening in on hushed voices, albeit voices behind his closed doors, inside of his own office. There’s already been a precedent of a secret being kept from him, and he’d rather not think about an event of similar severity being repeated when the voice he recognizes is yours. The gasps of the melusines do nothing to calm his beating heart, he can only press his ear to the wood of the door and close his eyes.

They don’t stay closed for long. It makes little difference as Neuvillette stares blankly at the ground, his sight unfocused and shaky. He holds his breath, he doesn’t mean to, but if he misses a single word of your confessions he feels he’d regret it for eternity.

The moment passes too soon. Steps get closer to the door and he does his best to act as if he witnessed nothing. He thinks he must be doing fine until you stand in front of him - he feels the facade crumble. Neuvillette leads you back into the office despite your playful scolding that you’ve already held up his work enough. 

He confesses to listening in before you can decode the expression on his face. The tips of his ears turn red, his voice wavers. Then the silence stretches, before he eventually, softly, admits how hearing you speak that way about him has affected him. Like you couldn’t tell from the uncertainty radiating off of him. 

So now it’s your turn to take his hand and pry details from him. With utmost patience despite your racing heart, you delve to the root of the issue - that he feels just as strongly about you too, yet struggles to come up with a way to show you. The realization comes with a self-depreciating chuckle and an apologetic smile that becomes a little more relaxed when you inform the hydro dragon that a simple kiss will suffice.

Pantalone

It’s almost time to leave. The annual ball is about to start and Pantalone means to be fashionable late. He is the main star, so to speak, after all. Your handmaiden should also be aware of the time, and so he sees no point in knocking-

“I’ve wished the marriage wasn’t a matter of convenience for a long time now.”

His hand hovers above the doorknob and retracts. His brows furrow. While your voice is somber, almost desperate, the voice of your handmaiden is excited, albeit concerned. He doesn’t understand.

It’s only when, upon the woman’s insistence, you let the floodgates of your feelings open that he gets the full picture. 

Smirk tugs at his lips, one he can barely contain. A man should not feel as he feels hearing such confessions from the one he’s wedded to, yet here Pantalone is. Pride soars through his chest, a sense of victory, the satisfaction of a beneficial deal struck. And all the while - peace. Like a guard dog with no master stumbling upon a lamb, given purpose anew.

There seem to indeed be some things the value of which cannot be expressed or evaluated.

Nobody, of course, dares to comment that your late arrival at the ball borders on rude instead of fashionable. The talk of the town, or rather the content of the hushed whispers that the speakers think cannot be heard over the music, is all about you and your husband.

About the way the regrator’s hand remains possessively on your lower back, both seemingly to guide you and to prevent you from straying too far away. In fact, it seems the closer you remain, the better. They talk about the many instances when his lips brush right against the shell of your ear whenever he’s talking to you privately. 

The whole hall wonders - did the ninth harbinger fall in love?

Tighnari

His ears twitch and turn in the direction of the sound that does not belong this deep in the forest. A smile’s already tugging on Tighnari’s lips when he listens for a moment longer and recognizes the voice as yours, accompanied by another’s. It’s impossible to keep you away from the more dangerous parts of the forest, he’s made peace with that, but he’s at least relieved you listened to him and didn’t venture this far alone. 

He finishes the task he was devoted to and is about to greet you and join you, should his company be welcomed, when he hears it. The way your voice drops lower, barely heard above the songs of the birds and the hum of the trees, and how it grows softer, fonder. For a moment he hesitates, some part of him worried about what he might hear because a tone like that is supposed to be reserved for him. Only it turns out it is.

He breaks into a wider smile - then he reels himself in. He shouldn’t be listening in on your private conversation, even if he’s the topic of it. A very, very cherished topic it seems. But his body won’t listen. His tail has a life of its own and his feet remain stuck to the ground. His expression grows softer, fonder. He might’ve remained there, staring in the direction of your voice like a fool if it wasn’t for his emotions simply growing too overwhelming. 

Tighnari grins sheepishly when you yelp the moment he appears from between the trees, more so when your friend suddenly has a very convenient excuse to flee - though he calls after them that they shouldn’t be by themselves in these parts. Even if he prefers to have you to himself. Suddenly it seems like all your eloquence disappeared. But that’s fine - that’s cute, he chuckles. He can do the talking now, if you only take his hand.

Zhongli

Idle chatter is a rare occurrence without the director around. Any sort of lively energy, really, especially on days like this one. And so with her out on business, Zhongli is intrigued by what made hushed conversation resonate through the empty halls of the parlor. Above all, he picks up your voice, strained by emotions. Hardly a surprise after the display you’ve all bore witness only hours prior.

Meaning to check on you, he approaches slowly. Yet finding himself to be the topic of the conversation, his steps pause, then stop altogether. His brows furrowed. It’s not that he doesn’t understand why the sudden outburst or why you’d feel the need to talk about your feelings with a third party - what he doesn’t understand is the trembling of his own heart. How can it still be so fragile after aeons of heartbreak?

Later, in the quiet privacy of your bedroom, Zhongli comes clean. It remains a mystery to him why his heart flutters again when he watches you get flustered - first by the realization, then by him recounting similar sentiments to you. It only gets strangers, the feeling shifts into an ache first, then into a stable pressure that feels almost crushing.

You’re lying on his chest, at his insistence as much as your desire to remain close to him. It’s been hours since he coaxed you to sleep but he himself can’t bring himself to drift off. He’s watching you, marvelling at the feeling stirring inside of him. Perhaps it is because of the funeral and the young widow you’ve all witnessed earlier, sobbing at her husband’s grave, that you are - that he is - so desperate to make the feelings you harbor for each other known. 

“An experiment in progress,” he replies. You wait a beat but no more elaboration comes, not even a hint. It’s not surprising. Perhaps it’s not the moon, then.

“And my presence is vital for this experiment?” You decide to push regardless. 

“No, I suppose not,” his voice doesn’t betray anything, not that you expect it to.

And yet you linger, like you always do. Even if he provides no warmth, if you’re cold and optional. The music he’s playing is worth it, however. You think he could’ve easily pursued music in another lifetime. 

The position does nothing to chase the frost away from your body, but you don’t move. Dottore seems absorbed in the notes behind his eyelids, reading off an invisible sheet. The music grows louder, more powerful. It wraps around you, stirs unrest inside your mind as you stare at the moon. As if it was to collide with the world at any moment. Your fingers twitch against the fabric of his shirt. The sky seems ablaze with blue fire.

“You’re still here,” he says, as if to remind you of something.

“Of course,” you turn your head back towards him. The rage has subsided, you draw him closer, locks of blue hair tickling your nose. “You haven’t released me yet.”

His fingers move without hesitation, so does his tongue.

“I haven’t ordered you to stay either,” he points out. A fact to ponder.

Though is there - he hasn’t ordered to let go of him either, nor did he try to shake you off. He didn’t give the explicit permission to touch him in the first place. 

“Should I only obey your orders?” you inquire. Truly you wouldn’t wish to overstep, and while he doesn’t seem like the type who’d allow it…

“Suit yourself,” he huffs. Typical.

And so you do. The music’s reached the point where its flow ebbs, trickling towards an inevitable end. You sit down on the bench, right next to him. Your legs swing on the opposite side of the bench as you lean back to look at him. 

The beaked mask stares back at you, fingers stilling over the keys. The last of the notes get slowly snuffed out by the overwhelming silence of the place. 

His mask that is usually pitch black glows white, reflecting the moonlight. Its sharp edge nudges forward, catching on your cheek. It doesn’t cut, not deep enough to draw blood - not yet anyway. You think he could make it so, if he tried. You’re sure of it. 

Whether the doctor watches you or not, you can’t tell. The light bouncing off his mask is bright enough to make your eyes water but you don’t flinch away. Not when the beak slides over your skin and his face draws near, not when he shuffles closer and you find yourself bracketed by his arms. You only lean further back, your spine resting over the edge of the piano, not making a sound. You’d hate to disturb the peace, to erase the lingering aftermath of his playing.

His breath mingles with yours, slow inhales and exhales synchronizing. Locked in a motionless not-quite-embrace, yet not-quite-trap, you share the oxygen. The moonlight doesn’t reach the smooth surface of the mask now, at least. But you can’t read him any better in the darkness.

And maybe you don’t need to - he did tell you to suit yourself after all, and so you do because you’re tired and you’re cold.

Dottore stiffens when you shift between his arms. You merely straighten your back, your arms slip under his coat. Smile tugs at your lips upon discovering his body won’t warm you up no matter how close you get. Still, you go on and he doesn’t stop you. 

“I didn’t get hurt,” he tries again, “And they couldn’t protect themselves.”

“I’m not calling you weak either,” your voice softens, “I’m just saying you lied to me, Baizhu.”

His face falls further. Leaving his seat, he kneels in front of you, his hands taking yours and bringing them to his lips. 

“I just didn’t want you to worry,” he confesses. Soft kisses are pressed to all of your knuckles.

“You always say that,” it’s your turn to sigh now, “And it only makes me worry more. That’s why I asked you not to lie to me anymore.”

“I know,” he nods, his forehead leaning against your knees. You let go of his hands to stroke his hair. “I’m sorry.”

You hum, a small noncommittal sound. It’s not like you don’t understand his reasoning, you’re just getting tired of the repeating pattern. This time it at least seems that he truly didn’t get hurt, but it doesn’t erase all the previous times when he poisoned himself and you only found out when you found him unconscious, too weak to even take the antidote ready in his hand. That time, he also didn’t want to worry you. And then the next time, and the next…

“It just came out,” he whispers, “I didn’t mean to purposely lie to you.”

“It’s a bad habit to have,” you acknowledge.

“It won’t happen again,” he says, looking up into your eyes. His chin now rests on your knees, his arms wrap around your legs. 

Baizhu isn’t one to say things like that lightly. What can you do but smile at him fondly and nod, accepting his promise. And yet he doesn’t move. You’re happy enough to keep playing with his hair, sure, but the ground must be cold and hard on his knees. You tilt your head to the side in a silent question. 

“Aren’t you proud of me? At least a little bit?” he turns his head too, his cheek squishing against your thigh.

“I am,” you chuckle, “You’re an incredible fighter but I wish you didn’t push your luck.”

He smiles up at you too, slowly raising himself and dusting off his pants. 

“You’re much better at saving lives without the use of violence anyway,” you remind him.

It doesn’t seem like he’s about to argue with that - can’t argue with that. So instead, he deposits himself into your lap. You make a surprised noise but your hands fly to steady his waist without hesitation.

“I did so well yesterday,” he murmurs, his arms around your shoulders, “As you can see I’m alright. Not a scratch on me.”

His lips press against your hairline, then your nose. Looking down on you, the setting sun paints him a halo of a saint.

“Is this you asking for forgiveness or trying to make me less upset?” you tease.

“No use treating the symptoms if the underlying cause remains untended to,” he chuckles, “I’m simply using the most effective way to show you that I really am sorry.”

“Not lying to me in the first place, since we already talked about this, would be effective,” you point out, “Now you’re just trying to distract me and fishing for compliments.”

“Compliments that you so willingly give me,” he smirks. You sigh. It’s all pointless anyway.

Bite after bite, each gentle, not strong enough to leave marks, although something ugly rears its head inside his chest, aches for him to leave a proof of his claim. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind, but he dares not guess and test his luck. Your flesh is so willing to give, he needs to remain careful. His lips linger on your skin as if to soothe the slight sting, or as if he didn’t truly want to move on with the sinful trail of bites he creates. And he doesn’t. That little something inside of him urges him to not leave your skin unattended.

Your hands move, they take his hands along and he allows you. He only follows, drawing you closer to him as you instruct him wordlessly to embrace you tighter and hold you so that no sliver of space remains between your bodies. Neuvillette gives you a warning, as is only fair, that the friction makes his body buzz alight. A growl gets stuck inside his throat, he makes the noise blend into something softer, akin to a breathless moan when you push up against him again, with purpose.

He wishes he could open his eyes and look at you, to turn your head and face you, drink in the sight of your flushed skin and needy gaze, but he can’t. The sensation, the emotions surging into his body as they intensify within your mind, it’s too overwhelming. The little tease you are, you only seem to take pleasure in his helpless state.

“Come here, love,” you whisper, your hand leaves his to instead tangle in his soaked hair, tilting his head so your lips can meet. 

You’re as hungry for him as he is for you, your tongues clashing briefly before he grants you victory. His freed hand now moves too, caressing your side, up your torso to cup your breast in his palm. Your control falters, and that small sign of your weakness makes electricity spark low in his abdomen. He won’t get swayed by it, he shall remain gentle. Much stronger than you are, he won’t hurt you. He squeezes your soft breast in his hand, his thumb softly circling your nipple.

He swallows all the little sound you make hungrily, unwittingly getting carried away, so much so he doesn’t notice the low rumble in his chest. Too bewitched by your taste, the heat of your skin, the slow but steady progress that your hand makes, guiding his own hand lower from your hip.