"one dango milk, coming right up!"

The two look up to see Aegon sauntering into the hall, grinning from ear to ear as if he’d just been privy to a particularly humorous joke. Aemond rolls his eyes as he shoves the note into Ormund’s hand.

“Why so tense, dear brother?” Aegon nudges Aemond playfully. “I only speak the truth. You’ve never really thought much of tourneys.”

“Some of us like to keep most of our thoughts to ourselves,” Aemond shoots back, as he fiddles with his armor. “Where’s Helaena?”

“Back in the castle.” Aegon jabs his finger behind him. “All the shouting was getting to her, so Mother had me escort her back.”

At Aegon’s words, Ormund’s expression lit up in realization. “Perhaps it was the Queen behind it!”

“Shut up!” Aemond hisses, at the same time Aegon asks, “Behind what?”

“Er…” Ormund scratches his head, lowering his gaze in response to Aemond’s murderous one. “Behind, er, the Princess’ nameday tourney.”

Aegon scoffs. “My mother can hardly be credited for my sister’s nameday tourney. We all celebrate our namedays for days at a time, with tourneys and feasts galore.”

He glances around, taking in the sight of the contestants and squires milling about the area. “Though our sister’s nameday tourney has, indeed, piqued the interest of all. How strange.”

“Hardly,” Aemond mumbles. “She comes of age today.”

“Ah!” Aegon claps his hands. “Our beloved sister comes of age today, yes. I wonder just what the prize is for this tourney.”

“Surely, His Grace would not decide who Princess [Y/N] marries based on who wins today’s tourney?” Ormund says, blissfully unaware of Aemond slightly wincing at his words.

Aegon frowns. “Have you never picked up a history book, cousin?”

“Have you?” Aemond retorts.

“Of course I did. I never said I read them, though.” Aegon sniffs. “It’s not usual, but it’s certainly not new. Tourneys are simply pageants in all but name. See for yourself.”

The trio turn to see a tall, sweeping teenager, with locks the color of night and skin like copper parading about the hall, his bronze armor chased with red, a spear piercing the sun on its front.

“Qoren Martell,” Aemond whispers, a sense of dread washing over him.

Aegon hums. “Came in right at the last second, as they were drawing up the lists.”

Ormund turns to Aemond, holding up the note he had been reading earlier, an expression of understanding dawning on his face. Aemond fidgets beneath his armor, hating that Aegon had a point for once; there really wasn’t any other plausible explanation for Dorne to finally start taking an interest in the Crown’s affairs.

Aegon looks over at him, seemingly contemplating his next line. He decides instead to clap Aemond’s back, sending him forward. “Oh, don’t worry, brother! The Dornish don’t mind sharing their lovers. They seem to enjoy it, in fact.”

Aemond turns and walks briskly away from his brother, Ormund hastily trailing beside him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Of course, Aegon had to press further, keeping up with Aemond’s pace in a couple of long strides. “Oh, but I think you do,” he says. “If there’s anything the Dornish get right, it’s their outlook on bastards. I’m sure Prince Qoren wouldn’t mind if [Y/N]’s children turn out to have silver hair and a remarkable resemblance to a certain other Prince—”

Aemond stops abruptly to stare Aegon directly in the eye. “[Y/N] is not you. You would let our sister disgrace herself and put the stability of the realm at risk?”

Aegon towers over him, smirking triumphantly. “You and I both know that’s not any of your concern.”

“Then you do not know me.” Aemond turns away again, walking towards the edge of the hall where the tourney field was being set up. Hordes of people continued filing into the stands, some of whom were dressed to the nines despite the sun beating down upon them like a drum. He glances at the King’s Box, watching as the newest arrivals, the Velaryons, occupy their seats next to Rhaenyra and her children.

A mix of gasps and cheers sound from the smallfolk as a shadow passes over them, coupled with a familiar-sounding roar. Aemond squints up at the sky, and his heart practically leaps at the sight.

The voice of the Master of Revels announcing your arrival is all but drowned out by Silverwing’s proud roar, as you land her atop the King’s Box, jostling the people inside. Rhaenyra grabs the end of Lucerys’ coat to keep him from falling off trying to look up at you, while Lyonel Strong steadies a visibly surprised Viserys. Aegon lets out a hearty laugh at the sight, and Aemond could not help but join in.

It’s only when the she-dragon lowers her neck does Aemond finally get a better look at you. You’re grinning from ear to ear, and the only thing that could compete with the brightness of your smile was the glint of your silvery hair in the sun. Your dragon climbs down the Box, much to your family’s chagrin as they grip the arms of their chairs to stay steady.

Silverwing dips herself to the ground of the tourney field, allowing you to dismount and pat her neck before you wave to the crowds. You don a black dress chased with blue (which Aemond presumes is for your late lady mother, who was an Arryn), with the Targaryen three-headed dragon embroidered on your front.

“A fly might make its way down your throat if you don’t close it,” Ormund murmurs in Aemond’s ear, and he only sniggers as Aemond elbows him in the stomach. When your eyes meet his, he prays his ears aren’t as red as he thinks they are.

“Seven blessings on your nameday, dear sister,” Aegon says, pairing the mock reverence in his tone with an exaggerated bow.

You only snort as you remove your riding gloves. “Save your courtesies for someone who actually believes them.”

“Now, is that any behavior befitting a lady who has just come of age?”

You deliver a playful punch to Aegon’s midsection, which he just barely dodges.

Ormund bows. “I wish you a happy nameday, Princess.”

Aemond fidgets nervously, silently cursing both Aegon and Ormund for getting to greet you first.

You smile warmly. “Thank you, Ormund.” When you turn to look at Aemond, you reach out to push his visor out of his face. “Finally joining the lists today, eh, Aemond? I never thought you were interested in jousting.”

Aemond opens his mouth, but no sound leaves it. Behind you, Aegon raises his eyebrows, giving him a look that says, Say something!

“I…decided to test my skills today,” Aemond manages.

Aegon silently gestures for him to keep going.

“…and I thought your nameday would give me extra luck,” he adds, now feeling the blood rushing to his cheeks.

You laugh, reaching over once again to pat the front of his armor. He wonders if you can feel his heart hammering underneath the cold metal.

Aegon clears his throat, glancing at something behind Aemond; in his periphery, he sees Qoren Martell hovering around the group. Ormund, miraculously, gets the silent message.

“If you would excuse us, Princess,” the Hightower lord says, slapping the back of Aemond’s armor. “As his loyal squire, I have a duty to get Prince Aemond ready.”

You nod in understanding. “I will pray for your opponents,” you say solemnly, and a genuine smile finally breaks out onto his face.

“Will you allow me to escort you back to the King’s Box?” Aegon says in his mocking tone once again, and you wrinkle your nose before dropping your hand into his.

Ormund pushes Aemond in the other direction. “Come now, my Prince,” he says. “You’d better get ready if you want to win the Princess’ favor.”

“I’ve been put in the lower lists,” Aemond reminds him miserably, while keeping his eyes trained on Qoren Martell attempting to strike up a conversation with you.

“What of it?” Ormund scoffs, suddenly sounding confident. “It just means you’ll score more victories. Makes the final one all the more sweet. Just trust your training, and you’ll have Qoren Martell on his fat Dornish ass before you know it.”

It seemingly only takes a split second for all the air to leave Aemond’s lungs when he crashes into the dirt. Though his armor had taken the brunt of his fall, pain shoots all over his body like tendrils of lightning, ironically leaving him feeling momentarily weightless.

He manages to roll onto his back, gasping for air and staring up at the sky above. The ringing in his ears subsides enough for him to hear the triumphant shouts and the shocked gasps of the crowd, as well as the neighing of his distressed horse. He blinks the stars out of his eyes, and after remembering seeing a Bolton squire die from a lance to the throat, he checks himself for any injuries. To his relief, he seemed to be physically fine.

“My Prince! Aemond, cousin!” Suddenly, Ormund was hovering over him, distress and clear fear in his eyes. “Speak to me, are you alright?”

“I’m…” Aemond coughs, feeling his lungs constrict, then relax. “I’m fine.”

A tourney master joins Ormund. “Will you continue with a contest of arms, my Prince?”

Ormund helps Aemond sit up, and he catches a glimpse of his sword lying off to the side. He blinks again, and his vision finally returns to normal; he sees his opponent (who, by the stag on his armor, Aemond surmises is a Baratheon) jumping off his horse and running over to him.

You fool, Aemond wants to shout. If your opponent wished to continue, you might have benefited from the distance.

But he glances over to the King’s Box, where members of his own family were peering over at him, awaiting his decision. His mother leans over the railing the furthest, so much so that her ladies were trying to restrain her.

He does not see you.

Aemond sighs and shakes his head, and the tourney master nods.

“Prince Aemond forfeits! The winner of this round…”

“My Prince!” The Baratheon boy tosses his helmet to the side, sticking his hand out. Aemond clicks his tongue, but accepts the gesture, allowing his opponent to pull him up. “It was an honor to tilt against you, Prince Aemond. I hope to be given the opportunity again.”

Not likely, Aemond wants to snap back. But he only gives the boy a brief smile and a respectful nod, before turning away.

“Do you need help?” Ormund offers.

“No, be quiet, keep walking,” Aemond commands, keeping his head held high. He nods and waves to the crowds shouting out their congratulations to him, deliberately ignoring the pain he was starting to feel in his left leg.

As soon as he was out of both the public and his opponents’ sight, Aemond finally gives in, grabbing the wall for support as he reaches down to tug at his armored leg.

“Aemond!” Ormund throws one of Aemond’s arm over his shoulders. “Sit down, I’ll call the maesters.”

“No, no need,” he hisses in reply. “Just help me get my armor off.”

“But you might have twisted or broken your leg, I—”

“If I had twisted or broken my leg, you’d think I’d bloody well know, wouldn’t I?” Aemond snaps. “You’re my squire, act like it. Just take off the damn armor.”

Ormund blinks. Aemond feels a twinge of regret over the venom in his tone, but elects not to say another word. He instead works on the buckles of the metal, all the while trying to swallow down the growing lump in his throat and blink away the stinging in his eyes. Ormund finally assists him, detaching the parts away and allowing Aemond to stretch his limbs out.

The humiliation weighs over him even as he climbs into the King’s Box. Ser Criston Cole is the first to greet him, and after looking over him to find no serious injuries, pats Aemond’s shoulders. “You did very well, my Prince,” Criston assures him. “Don’t lose heart. You’ll get your chance one day.”

Aemond offers him the same tight-lipped smile he’d given his opponent, and keeps it on as his mother hurries over, worry painted all over her face.

“Are you alright?” she fusses, pushing his hair out of his eyes, looking as if she was about to demand he remove all his clothes in front of all who were present. “The lance—I thought it went through—”

“His armor took the blow, Your Grace,” Ser Criston says. “The Baratheon squire’s lance splintered against it, yes, but there’s no harm to him as far as I can see.”

A Baratheon squire. Aemond’s jaw locks in anger; he, a Prince of the realm, had lost to a Baratheon squire of all people.

Alicent sighs. “You scared me, deciding to enter the lists out of nowhere. Perhaps you should wait until you’re a little older before—”

“Why did you place me further down the lists?” Aemond hisses, keeping his voice as low as possible (but failing to contain the anger in it).

Alicent frowns. “What?”

“I was supposed to tilt against the likes of Qoren Martell,” Aemond whispers furiously. “I am the son of the King, in line to the throne, brother to the Princess to whom this tourney is dedicated to! Why wasn’t I placed where I was originally supposed to be?”

“I am not liking your tone, Aemond,” Alicent warns. “Remember that you are not of age yet. This is a vile, cruel game where men attempt to kill each other for sport. Be grateful that you were even allowed at all to compete.”

Aemond opens his mouth to protest, but Alicent gives him a look so scathing, whatever argument he had promptly died in his throat. He grunts in displeasure and pushes past her, ignoring his father's Council members congratulating him as he goes.

He finds his seat regrettably next to Aegon, who at the sight of him, bursts into uncontrollable laughter. Aemond surges forward, only to be stopped by Rhaenyra's outstretched arm.

"You did well, little brother," she says, though all Aemond hears is the underlying distaste that she seems to reserve solely for him, Aegon, and Alicent. "But settle your scores with Aegon later. I'd rather not ruin my sister's day with any of your antics."

Aemond removes her arm from his path, sauntering forward and dropping into his seat, taking care to crush Aegon's foot underneath his. A heavy hand finds its way onto his shoulder, and he turns to find its owner, a scowl on his face ready to greet them—

"Well done, my boy," Viserys says, a smile on his lined face. "Next time, you'll win. I know it."

One could almost take your words for affection, old man, Aemond thinks, as Viserys pats his shoulder again before settling back in his seat. Still, he manages a polite, "Thank you, Father," before turning back to the tourney still playing out beneath him.

It takes a while for him to realize that you were sitting right across him, already turned to face him with your signature blinding smile. You reach out to pat his interlocked hands. "Father's right," you tell him. "You'll win next time. If you focus on your training."

"I will if you will," he blurts, before he could stop himself.

"Ha! I feel I'm much better at riding a dragon than wielding a sword."

The moment is shattered when Lucerys (who Aemond just realized had been sitting on your lap the entire time) begins to wave your wreath around wildly, causing you to turn away from Aemond to keep your nephew from falling to the ground.

He watches as, to nobody's surprise, Qoren Martell wins the tourney. The Dornish Prince urges his horse forward towards the King's Box, and asks for your favor. Rhaenyra nudges Ser Laenor, the two sharing knowing glances as you stand with Lucerys in your arms and balanced on your hip, instructing the boy to toss your crown of red and black roses into Qoren's hands, much to the delight of the spectators.

In that moment, Lucerys’ curly brown locks no longer suspiciously remind Aemond of the Commander of the City Watch standing right next to Ser Laenor, but of the man staring adoringly from below as you and Lucerys wave to the crowds.

Aemond stands, mumbling an excuse in his brother's ear, and leaves the Box in a hurry.

Having to watch as Viserys deliberately has Qoren sit next to you during your own nameday feast had irritated Aemond beyond measure, given that he could do nothing but pick furiously at his own food as Qoren regales you with tales of his House and region. It had seemed like forever before the King had finally gone to bed, and even then his torture ended bitterly with Qoren bringing your hand to his lips.

Rhoynar scum. He scowls as he slams the door behind him. Your lot come from vagabonds at sea with no real homes. Our blood is the blood of Old Valyria, the blood of kings and conquerors and warriors. She rides the Good Queen’s dragon. What in the Seven Hells could ever possess you to think you could have her?

Aemond opens the window to his room, allowing the cool breeze of the Red Keep to wash over his agitated figure. Aegon’s teasing, Ormund’s obliviousness, and Qoren’s audacity had given him a migraine like he’d never had before, yet he could not find it in himself to sleep it off.

Of course he was fond of you, that much was certain. He’d always looked up to you, asked for your advice, took great comfort in the fact that your dragon had not been born to you either. It had always been his crutch for when he laments his lack of a dragon, what with Sunfyre hatching in Aegon’s cradle and Helaena claiming Dreamfyre shortly before her tenth nameday. Ultimately, though, Aemond supposes he hadn’t much to go on about you other than the fact that you took the time to get to know your half-siblings, unlike your actual full-blood sister.

He’d mulled over the idea of claiming Vermithor, who at this point was the only known dragon that had yet to be claimed after the death of Jaehaerys. He would imagine himself flying alongside the Good Queen’s dragon atop the Good King’s, and what a poetic ending that would be for all his troubles.

A knock comes at his door. “My Prince, I apologize for the late hour,” one of his servants calls out to him. “Princess [Y/N] is here to see you.”

Aemond’s head whips around. “Send her in,” he replies almost immediately.

The door swings open to reveal you, still in the same dress he’d seen you in that morning, the only difference being your hair now let down; a silvery waterfall, not unlike his own.

He turns to face you, heart hammering in his chest.. “What…what do you want?”

“I came to check on you,” you reply. “You fell hard earlier, I didn’t get a chance to check how bad it was.”

Aemond chuckles dryly and gestures for you to sit. “ “How bad it was”, huh?”

“Our family is more than fond of tourneys,” you remind him. “We’re just about the only ones that are not. I would be lying if I said I was not surprised that you changed your mind today.”

“I’ve not changed my mind.” Aemond picks at his sleeve. “I don’t give a shit about tourneys. Never have and never will.”

You laugh, and though it is a quiet sound, he tries to fool himself into thinking it’s more genuine than the ones you’d shared with Qoren. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He sits there with you in silence, and for the first time all day, he relaxes. It’s nice, he thinks, to simply be in your presence, where no one—not even himself—expects him to do something to impress you.

Being with you was enough.

That said, the thought of you leaving for Dorne forever leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Namedays are always a time for celebration,” you begin. “I confess, however, that my nameday…always comes with a tinge of sorrow.

“I went to the Sept with Rhaenyra this morning. It’s always been a habit of ours on our namedays. It’s really less of us praying to the Seven for good fortune, it’s more of…finding comfort in the silence. It…it’s where we hear our mother and siblings the best.”

He nods in understanding.

You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, staring off into the distance wistfully. “Father’s always been good at putting on a mask,” you continue. “He’s good at it, too, probably from all the years he’s had to do it. But today would have been Baelon’s nameday, too. And today was also the day when Mother…”

You duck your head.

Aemond leans forward to capture your hands in his. Despite his own misgivings with Aegon, he had to admit that it was difficult to imagine a life without him. He would have been the heir, forever put against Rhaenyra. Forever put against you, one of the few of her true kin.

You squeeze his hands gratefully. “In any case,” you say. “I am glad you’re no longer interested in tourneys, otherwise I would not have brought you this.”

You produce a box from the depths of your skirt and slide it over to Aemond. He clicks his tongue in mock disapproval. “It’s your nameday and you’re the one giving out gifts.”

You wave your hand dismissively. “I have a whole mountain of them in my apartments, very few of which I would actually care to have. I take far more pleasure giving things to you.”

Aemond shakes his head, finally relenting and opening the box. Glittering among the plush dark velvet was a sapphire brooch, as blue as the waters of the Narrow Sea, sitting in a bed of pure starlight. He lifts it from the cushion and sits the gem in his palm gingerly, admiring its weight and the way it glints, even by the dying fireplace.

“The sapphire was my mother’s,” you explain. “One of many I’d inherited from her. I had it re-cut and set.”

Aemond swallows thickly. “I…I can’t take this. If it was from your mother, then you should—”

You interrupt him by closing his fist over the jewel, holding his fingers down with a firm grip. “I want you to have it,” you tell him firmly. “We are one House now, no matter what others say. None may divide us. Keep this with you as a reminder, you hear me?”

You stare at him with such intensity that he has little to do but agree. You pat his hand and rise from your seat. “Think of it as my favor,” you say, and he doesn’t miss the slyness in your tone. “You have no need to fight in tourneys or any sort of battle to earn it. It will always be yours, Aemond.”

Words he’d been keeping buried for months were bubbling on his tongue now, tearing down the walls that he’s had to construct all his life to keep them from destroying what he has with you. Resistance seemed futile now, now that you had bid him goodnight and turned to leave his room.

“Don’t marry him.”

Your hand had been on the door at his words, and you do him the considerable honor of pausing in surprise before turning again to look at him. “Aemond?”

“Don’t marry him,” he repeats, desperation now leaking into his tone. “Qoren Martell. You were never meant to marry a Dornish, even the first of them, so…”

He wrestles with his words, and you seem oblivious to his agony as you stare, clearly waiting for him to finish. He inches closer and closer to the brink, and there seems to be nothing tethering him to reality anymore, save for the erratic beating of his heart.

You purse your lips, and the expression on your face is something he can’t read—did you think him foolish for telling you not to do your duty? Or did you perceive his desperation as an act of childish jealousy, a brother imploring his sister not to give anyone else the time of day?

What did he think his words meant?

You do not give him an answer. “Good night, Aemond,” you whisper, and you slip quietly out the door.

Your betrothal to the heir to the Dornish throne had begun to sound less like a rumor and more like a given fact, with the endless whisperings fluttering about the Red Keep like irksome flies. Viserys certainly did not do much to silence them, and Aemond had the misfortune of hearing him discuss potential dowries with Rhaenyra.

He had to admit that it was an ideal match, and certainly one he would have considered seriously were he in his father’s place. Any king who would bring Dorne into the fold would be credited with something even the Conqueror could not have done, further cementing his place in Westerosi history. Aemond often dreams of having his name written down in the history books, never just as an afterthought or a simple second son, but of a warrior king who made the Seven Kingdoms truly one, with a queen by his side who would cast a shadow over all who would succeed her.

But like his position in life, all his dreams had to occur in the darkness of the wings; the only good thing about it was that, given their unlikeliness, he was free to dream just a little bit more.

In a surprising turn of events, however, he’d received the news that you had suddenly mounted Silverwing and taken off. At that moment, Aemond truly curses the lack of a dragon—he could have just gotten on and tracked you down, not go through the humiliation of asking Aegon (or any of his kin, for that matter) for a favor. He would have had to explain why it was so important for them to take time out of their day to find out where you had gone, because beyond you being a Princess of the realm, he had no other reason (that he’s willing to admit, at least).

Even Helaena, whom Aemond had realized could see things before they happened, offered no help in this matter. She had even expressed confusion at the very notion, much to his frustration.

So, he turns to his last resort.

Jacaerys looks up from where he was cleaning his armor, clearly surprised to be addressed. “She isn’t at Dragonstone,” he tells Aemond. “She could be anywhere, for all we know.”

“She didn’t tell you anything?” Aemond presses. “No notes, anything?”

Lucerys fiddles with Aemond’s gauntlets, and for a brief moment, Aemond sees you in his little face. “I think she’s gone to Daemon.”

“Prince Daemon? Why would she…”

“It’s just a guess,” Jacaerys says, scratching the back of his neck. “The last we heard of him was that he was in Pentos with the Lady Laena. They’re our only kin living beyond Westeros, and [Y/N] was always fond of Lady Laena.”

Of course. Aemond wants to smack his forehead. It made sense. You, Rhaenyra, and Laena had always been so close. But it wouldn’t have been his first guess, not when a marriage proposal didn’t seem too far behind…

Jacaerys’ and Lucerys’ guess seems to hold merit, as the small council receives reports of a silvery dragon flying east. It’s only confirmed when you finally write to your family, stating that you were indeed exploring the Free Cities and would be staying there for an indefinite period of time.

Funnily enough, your message had arrived at the Red Keep the same day the Dornish party did.

The excuse given had been that you were sent off as an envoy to the southern Free Cities to ascertain the peace, following the Triarchy’s defeat at the hands of the Daemon-Velaryon alliance. Aemond had to restrain himself from laughing in the throne room at the Dornish lord’s baffled expression, as well as the irritation that Viserys had kept well-hidden beneath his kingly persona.

That same night, he’d received a raven from you, carrying a brief message and a couple of trinkets you had collected on your travels thus far. It had been as if a giant weight had been taken off his shoulders, and in the privacy of his own room, he finds himself running his fingers longingly over your handwriting.

But your letters begin to stack on his desk, the gifts you bring him start to collect dust on his mantle, and every day holds less and less promise of you finally returning to King’s Landing. He’d thought you would finally return shortly after Rhaenyra gives birth to her third son, but aside from a written note of congratulations and a messenger bringing gifts, you never do. Aemond finds himself sitting by his window every night, deluding himself into thinking a bird flying over Blackwater Bay or the occasional cloud would be Silverwing, bringing you back to him.

But you don’t, and he finds solace only in his lessons and his training, stealing glances at the sky whenever he has the chance. He’d thought your absence would finally rid him of thoughts and desires unwanted, but all it is is a thorn in his side; a dull ache that flares up every now and then, much like his old leg injury.

When news of Laena Velaryon’s death reaches King’s Landing, and as he sits next to his mother on the ship, his thoughts were only of you, and if you had already been in Driftmark for a while now. He should have known better when he sees no silver dragon sitting amongst the gold, blue, grey, and red amongst the rocks.

After giving his condolences to the Velaryons, Aemond walks around aimlessly, the disappointment sinking in with every passing second. Politicking thinly veiled as courtesies seem to follow him everywhere he goes, and he eventually finds respite in Helaena’s presence, though it would seem she had not noticed his.

Of course, Aegon had to come and disturb it, only to repeat what he had been complaining about for weeks.

“We have nothing in common,” he grumbles, gesturing to Helaena.

“She’s our sister,” Aemond replies curtly, as he has done many times before.

“You marry her, then.”

“I would perform my duty, if mother had only betrothed us.” The words weigh heavily on Aemond’s tongue.

Aegon scoffs. “If only.”

“It would strengthen the family,” Aemond parrots what he’s learned in his lessons. “Keep our Valyrian blood pure.”

“She’s an idiot!”

“She’s your future Queen.”

Aegon lowers his goblet, and from his periphery, Aemond can see his brother watching him carefully. He keeps his gaze on Helaena muttering under her breath, waiting for Aegon to call him out for the double meaning in his words.

Fortunately, he doesn’t. “We actually do have one thing in common,” Aegon says, as he throws the rest of his drink back and reaches for the next, his eyes lingering far too long on the serving girl. “We both fancy creatures with very long legs.”

Aemond only shakes his head in resignation, feeling a surge of pity for Helaena. It’s the first time he actually feels relieved that you had left before you’d gotten any offers of marriage; he dreads the thought of you being doomed to suffer the same fate as Helaena.

A dragon’s cry pierces the air, and Aemond looks up sharply. He rushes to the edge of the courtyard, listening as best as he could with the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below.

He scours the skies and searches among the dragons already resting nearby, to no avail. His shoulders sag; perhaps you weren’t coming, after all.

But that same cry persists, even as the sun begins to sink into the sea. Aemond has never heard a sound like it before—this one was a melancholic melody, like longingness taking flight above the waters of The Gullet. It isn’t long before his attention is drawn from searching for you to searching for the source of the sound instead, somehow feeling as if it was calling out to him.

And then it happens.

A clear and piercing trill that he initially chalks up to one of the other dragons, had it not been for Rhaenyra looking up, surprise painted all over her face. Aemond follows her gaze, and even in the setting sun, it’s clear as day—

He momentarily forgets himself and runs over to his half-sister, tugging on her sleeve. “It’s her, isn’t it?” he asks, unable to contain his excitement.

“It is,” Rhaenyra replies, pure relief in her tone. She glances down at Aemond, and it’s perhaps only then does she realize the peculiarity of the situation; he doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever had a casual conversation with her. Aemond lets go of her sleeve, clearing his throat and taking off in the other direction with his head spinning.

It takes a while for you to show up, but when you do, you’re soaked to the bone, with Laenor Velaryon’s arm wrapped around your shoulders and his other arm around his squire on the other side. The whispers come to a standstill, partially at the sight of you and partially at the sight of the future Prince consort looking as if he was about to follow his sister at any second. You must have found him, Aemond thinks, about to keel over into the water.

At the sight of his father, however, Ser Laenor steadies himself and limps away, leaving you in the middle of the crowd. No doubt you feel all eyes on you, but you straighten and walk to your father, who now looks as if he’s ten years younger again.

Aemond doesn’t get the chance to speak with you, not while you remain glued to Viserys’ side, leaving only to speak with Rhaenyra, Daemon, and his daughters. You’ve not changed at all over the years, save for your hair, which you had cropped short (presumably for it to not get in the way of your flying), and for your gait, as a certain confidence exudes from you as you walk or simply stand. But you were still you, much to his relief.

His thoughts take him back to the strange cry, which rings out well into the night. It’s only until his mother commands him to go to bed that he realizes Viserys has long left and you are nowhere to be found. He waits for his mother and siblings to head into the castle before heading down the stairs, down where you had come bringing your good brother.

He doesn’t have to search long for you—you’re right there on the beach, your head tilted upwards as if in silent meditation. The sand crunches underneath his feet as he closes the distance between you two, and just as you’re within arm’s reach, he stops.

And he waits.

When you finally turn, you regard Aemond with the same smile that had greeted him on your nameday all those years ago, tinged with just a bit of sadness. He wonders if you get your seemingly eternal warmth from the late queen; whatever the case, he certainly has never felt it with any of his siblings, even the one you share all your blood with.

“You’ve gotten tall,” is the first thing you say to him. “You’ll probably be as tall as Daemon.”

“I’ll be taller,” he promises, and your smile grows wider, only for it to drop just as quickly. Aemond remembers the very reason you had come, and the history you shared with Laena. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

You turn back towards the beach, and Aemond moves to stand next to you. “It is our loss,” you correct him. “Laena was kin to you and me both.”

Aemond nods in response. You duck your head and sigh deeply, the grief you feel leaving you looking aged. “I left Pentos the day before she died,” you whisper. “I promised to be back for the birth, but…”

“They say she went into labor early,” Aemond says. “You couldn’t have known.”

You keep your eyes trained on the ground. “I don’t think I could have borne to see it,” you continue in a shaky voice. “She died trying to birth a son, and my mother—”

You choke on the last word, and for a moment Aemond fears you would start crying. He reaches for your hand, and you squeeze it gratefully in response.

But you don’t, and instead take the time to be silent and count your breaths, all the while holding onto his hand like an anchor. When you raise your eyes to the sky once more, he sees all the stars reflected in them.

When you speak again, your voice is steadier. “You remind me of her, you know. Laena.”

Aemond struggles to find an answer, one that would insult neither you nor the deceased. You seem to sense his hesitation, and you squeeze his hand again. “Our dragons weren’t born to us,” you say, confirming his thoughts. “Though I became a dragonrider earlier than she did. She cried the first time I mounted Silverwing, and cried again when I took her up years later.”

“The second time…out of fear?”

“At first, I suppose. But she was laughing, too. Always a wild one, Laena was.” You sigh. “You’re just as spirited as she was. Fearless. Bold.”

“If I were fearless and bold, I’d have a dragon by now,” Aemond grumbles.

“It isn’t that easy, I fear,” you tell him. “I’ve spoken to scholars and warlocks and magicfolk of all kinds in the Free Cities. Some of them are of the opinion that dragons are not as willing as we might imagine.”

“We’re a family of dragonriders. One dragon-less member is hardly enough to discredit that fact.”

“Our Valyrian blood is the exception, not the rule. Had we been so confident in its mere presence, I daresay we ought to have more dragonriders around.”

“Especially with Aegon,” Aemond offers.

“Especially with Aegon, yes,” you chuckle. “It may well be that our blood is a contributing factor. But dragons have minds and hearts of their own. Some say they are even more intelligent than we are. The right is not freely given, Aemond. It is earned, it is fought for, it is taken.”

You turn to face him then, and it’s only when you do so does Aemond realize he has indeed grown taller; he no longer has to tilt his head upwards to properly meet your eyes. You take his other hand in yours, and he feels the calluses from years of dragon-riding brush against his skin.

“I told you you were as spirited as Laena was,” you say. “Like her, you are also kind. Compassionate. Smart. Loyal. You are everything our House stands for and more.”

For the first time in what seems like years, a genuine smile spreads across his face. “I’ve missed you,” he admits.

“As did I,” you whisper, and your eyes travel to the sapphire brooch you’d given him all those years ago, nestled just above the middle of his collarbone. You let your fingers skim over the gem lightly, before pulling away from him. “Father has mentioned that we may stop by Dragonstone to see if any of the eggs there take your fancy.”

Aemond’s spirits rise. “Really?”

“Really,” you promise. “If nothing does, Rhaenyra’s told me that if Syrax brings forth another clutch of eggs, you’ll have your pick from them.”

He lets out a breathy laugh; he could think of Rhaenyra’s sudden act of kindness as a way to win him over to her favor, but surely Viserys had agreed to the Dragonstone visit only upon your request. He had never been known to turn you down, and the impromptu visit to the Free Cities was clear proof of it.

To think, you had talked him into it for Aemond’s benefit…

He shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “Wait. You said “we”. You’re coming home? You’re coming with me to Dragonstone to pick an egg?”

You give him another one of your comforting smiles. “If you’d like.”

He nods, almost too quickly. He’d come to Driftmark expecting to have the secondhand grief hanging over him like a storm, not to feel as if he’d been denied the sun for years before this very moment. He imagines walking off a ship onto Dragonstone and leaving atop Vermithor, as he’s always thought of doing. He replays a scene from his dreams where he finally flies next to you, the Good King and the Good Queen’s mounts flying over the realm once more.

He’s almost too happy to notice you’d reached out to brush his hair away from his face. “You might take a little inspiration from Laena,” you advise him. “She was dragonless for years, and yet she did what many thought was impossible.”

“She claimed Vhagar,” Aemond says, his mouth suddenly feeling dry.

“She certainly did.” You squeeze his hands before slipping out of them. “Now, go to bed. Your mother will have my head if she finds out I caught you after dark and did nothing.”

The same cry pierces through the night sky again, and Aemond watches as you head back up to the castle. He wants to call out to you again, to tell you what he’s been hearing all day, to confirm something that had clicked at your words just now.

Aemond stares across the sea, in deep thought.

The right is not freely given.

He turns to the west, to the source of the strange cry.

It is earned, it is fought for, it is taken.

He begins walking.

“It will heal,” Alicent frets. “Will it not, maester?”

Aemond winces as the needle pierces his flesh, dreading the answer; but even with one eye, he sees it on the maester’s face as clear as if he had both.

Alicent audibly sobs at the revelation, and Aemond isn’t sure if his feeling light-headed was due to the blood loss, the pain from the little scuffle he’d gotten into earlier, or just remnants of his encounter with Vhagar. He tries to link it to the last factor; it was the only good thing he got out of the entire ordeal.

He’s no stranger to dragon-riding, as you’ve taken him up on Silverwing many times before. But to be completely alone, to hold the reins and be solely responsible for directing the flight, to ride the largest dragon in the world, a Conqueror’s dragon—

Something flutters in his periphery, and Aemond turns his face to see you, still in your nightclothes. He opens his mouth, about to call out for you, knowing that surely you of all people would rejoice at the news…

But he watches as you rush past everyone else to where Lucerys was, his face still bloody and nose crooked from where Aemond had punched him. Lucerys cries out when you attempt to set his nose, and you shush him comfortingly, kissing the top of his head before checking on Jacaerys.

What little happiness left in Aemond ebbs away as Rhaenyra calls for him to be “sharply” questioned, as Viserys demands he reveals where he heard the rumors over Rhaenyra’s sons parentage, as Alicent loses her patience and attempts to exert justice on his behalf by force. All those he could have lived with…if not for you standing behind Rhaenyra quietly, moving only to shield Jacaerys and Lucerys from Alicent. If not for you barely even sparing him a glance.

When he tells his mother an eye was a fair trade for a dragon, he means it.

But when he thinks about you as part of the price, he's not as certain.

"Be calm, Vhagar," Aemond instructs the great beast. He tries to climb the ropes, as he had the night before, but Vhagar continues to squirm.

He sighs, trying to focus. Walking was already disorienting enough on its own, but flying with a limited depth of perception was another matter entirely. But Aemond's no stranger to challenges—this is just another he has to conquer.

"Obey, Vhagar," he reminds the dragon. "Serve me."

"She feels your pain," someone tells him, in the same tongue.

Aemond grips his ropes tightly, his jaw tightening as he tries to maintain his composure. He turns in the direction of his good eye, and when he finds no one, he lets go of the ropes to turn the other way around. Sure enough, you were there, in full riding gear.

He'd forgotten that he was supposed to stop by Dragonstone to pick an egg. And he'd forgotten that that was probably the only reason you had to return to King's Landing.

Now, perhaps, he's left you with no other choice but to remain on Driftmark, as Rhaenyra and her family did. Worse, you'd probably go back and dig up your own potential match to Qoren Martell.

Funnily enough, though, the thought didn't stress him out as it used to.

"Dragons and their riders share a special bond," you continue. High Valyrian was the most beautiful language to ever exist, and even with all things considered, Aemond still thinks it's at its best when he hears it from you. "What you feel, they feel. Your friends are theirs, and your enemies, they will endeavor to crush."

"You say it like it's a bad thing," he says.

"I say it as a warning," you reply. "You must keep your emotions in check if you want to have a safe flight, without any dire consequences."

Aemond laughs humorlessly. " "Keeping emotions in check"? Is that what you did last night?"

You frown. "You don’t understand."

"I lost my eye," Aemond hisses, pointing to the bandaged side of his face. "On account of that bastard."

"Aemond.”

"You were supposed to be on my side!" He's raising his voice now, and Vhagar shakes her head in agitation. "You understood me better than anyone, you know the truth about our nephews, you were supposed to stand aside and let my mother seek justice!"

"They are our blood, regardless," you remind him gently. "We protect our own."

He stomps in frustration. "You were supposed to be happy for me," he snarls. "I have a dragon now, and all of those warlock shits that you spoke to were all wrong. I proved them wrong."

"Yes, you did," you tell him, and it takes everything in him not to pull his hair out over your patience. "But I hope you know that having one does not change who we are. Dragon or no dragon, you are still you. Still Aemond."

His fury threatens to boil over. "Go away."

"I want to help you, Aemond," you coax. "You've gotten past the first ride, yes, but with one eye, you're going into unknown territory. You will need a new saddle, too. There's still so much I can teach you."

"Go away!" he screams, running forward just to push you away. "I don't need you! Don't come near me, don't ever presume to speak my name, and don't you ever come home!"

Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, but he thinks he sees you flinch. Whatever it is, you try to maintain your composure. "You don't mean that, Aemond."

"I do," he insists, turning and hauling himself up the ropes. "I hate you. Go away."

It takes nearly forever before he finally reaches the saddle. The view from atop Vhagar with one eye certainly was disorienting, but not as bad as he'd originally thought. He looks up to see Sunfyre and Dreamfyre already up in the air, and he gains a sense of pride; he would be flying back to King's Landing with his trueborn siblings.

Out of habit, he tries to ascertain where you were. He deduces you had left just as he'd demanded you to, but pushes the guilt down to focus.

"Obey me, Vhagar," he shouts over the wind. "Fly!"

The dragon rumbles in response, and Aemond holds on tightly as Vhagar makes her way towards the edge of the cliff, before spreading her wings and taking flight. The short drop makes his stomach flutter delightfully, and he tugs on the reins to pull her higher into the sky.

He drinks in the feeling of seeing Aegon and Helaena on either side of him, and even dips Vhagar to greet his mother watching atop the same ship he'd arrived at Driftmark on.

When he finally gets the nerve to look back, Driftmark continues to disappear into the distance, but he can barely make out a familiar figure flying east.

He turns his attention back forward, thinking of nothing but the breeze in his hair and the sun washing over his skin.

The morningstar swings idly at Criston's side as he and Aemond circle each other, like mountain lions about to pounce at any given moment. Aemond twirls his sword in his hand, scanning his opponent from head to toe and watching his every move.

When Criston swings, Aemond dodges, immediately understanding what fight pattern his teacher was about to go for after years of experience. The crowd around him grows, the whispers now starting to irritate him, but he remains calm and collected.

The morningstar comes down on Aemond's other side, and he moves; he treats it as a dance, and the weapon an overeager partner (gods know how many Aemond's had to deal with at feasts).

Criston smirks, but Aemond can tell he's running out of steam. "Shall we have a respite, old man?" he teases.

His teacher opens his mouth to retort, but he's interrupted by a guard by the nearest watchtower.

"Dragon!"

Aemond looks up in confusion. All dragons go straight to the Dragonpit, he thinks. Why would they warn of a dragon, unless…

A high trilling sound, louder than what was normally heard so deep into the Red Keep, causes everyone within the vicinity to look around. Aemond's fingers slacken around his sword—he knows that call.

Silverwing soars into the courtyard, circling the area thrice before Aemond realizes she was trying to land.

"Clear the way!" His voice booms across the yard, and servants, nobles, and guards alike frantically move to open up a space for the dragon to land.

However, it did not seem to be what the silver mount had in mind; gasps ranging from those of shock to wonder echo throughout the Red Keep when you land your dragon atop the very gate, causing those on the watchtowers on either side of you to cry out in fear.

Aemond shakes his head in disbelief, watching in a near-trance as Silverwing dips down to allow you to dismount carefully. The years melt away as you walk over to where he and Criston were training, completely ignoring the stares you were receiving.

"Princess," Criston says, bowing deeply. "You know dragons aren't allowed this deep into the Red Keep."

"Really?" you ask, raising your eyebrows. "There are a whole score of them here, so I did not think it any harm to add one more."

Criston laughs, a short but genuine sound. "Welcome home, Princess."

You nod your head in response, before turning to Aemond. He remembers the last words he spoke to you as if he'd just said them yesterday, and not all those years ago. He remembers panicking after you never indeed come home, opting to resume your travels across the Free Cities.

He remembers spending six years trying to come to terms with the fact that he might never see you again.

What does he even say, now that you've proved him wrong?

Thankfully, you relieve him of that burden. "Brother," you greet amicably.

He opens and closes his mouth like a fish, trying (and failing) to piece together a sentence. Criston shoots him a sideways glance.

Aemond eventually settles for a nod, before his sword slides out of his grasp.

You look like you're about to burst into laughter.

"I hope he's better with a sword than he is with women, Ser Criston," you say wryly, before heading into the castle.

As soon as you've disappeared, Criston turns to Aemond, a single eyebrow raised.

"Be quiet," Aemond mumbles as he reaches for his sword.

Aemond doesn’t mull over the potential reasons for your arrival long, as the answer comes to him by the news that you have not left Viserys’ bedside all day, even to eat. He leaves you to it, equally because the incense in his father’s room lingers about him for hours, and equally because he has nothing to say to you.

But whatever your intentions were, they immediately took second place in favor of the news that the Sea Snake had suffered a mortal wound while fighting in the Stepstones, leaving the succession of Driftmark in doubt. Rhaenyra, along with her now-husband Daemon, all but materialize into the Red Keep, no doubt to secure Lucerys’ claim.

Aemond next sees you on the day all claims to the Driftwood Throne were made, just before the entire court had begun to settle in. In a brief stroke of madness, he makes his way over to where you were, drinking in your startled expression before changing course towards Rhaenyra and her sons. He gives them the usual courtesies, much to their bewilderment, and even strikes up a conversation with Jacaerys over their encounter in the courtyard, where he was training. His good eye flickers over to you, silently bidding you watch as he walks over to Daemon.

To his great satisfaction, he’s a couple of inches taller.

Aemond could have sworn he saw you smile.

It does occur to him that perhaps you have come to fulfill your father’s wishes and to marry at last, now that Viserys is on the brink of death and the succession (in Aemond’s mind, at least) remains unclear.

No doubt that thought weighs heavily on Alicent’s mind, also, given that she’s let slip a couple of times that she’d wished for you to marry one of Vaemond Velaryon’s sons. But that plan died on the floor of the throne room along with Vaemond himself, who destroyed his ambition by letting his pride get the best of him.

Through you, any House would have closer ties to the throne, and the various other lineages you’ve been linked to. That House would also be bound to whichever party secured that pact for, and all their strength and swords would be theirs.

Perhaps you’d be wed to Joffrey. No doubt that would keep you on Rhaenyra’s side forever, had you not already declared for her in all but writing. Qoren Martell was no longer a viable option, given that he’d taken your absence as an insult and married some other noble lady. Had Borros Baratheon not already married, you’d probably be his, owing to his House having hosted you in your youth. Cregan Stark. Whomever at the Vale had the claim after Jeyne Arryn. Some old and balding Riverlands lord.

But Aemond has a better idea.

Your serving girl answers the door, and her eyes widen at the sight of Aemond looming over her.

“Is the Princess still awake?” he asks quietly.

The serving girl swallows. “She is, my Prince, but…”

“I thank you in advance for your discretion,” he interrupts, reaching over to place a bag of gold dragons in her hand. Bribery was the oldest trick in the book, and yet it was always Aemond’s last resort; so many things, even principles and skills that people spend their whole life trying to cling to, could be traded at the mere sight of a gold dragon.

To the girl’s credit, she seems to struggle over the dilemma, and Aemond owes it to her to give her a moment. When she purses her lips and turns away, he steps back in victory.

The few times he’s entered your apartments, it’s always empty, on account of you being somewhere else. He’s never had a reason to stay long, if only to bask in the ambience of a room you’d spend a lot of your time in, before turning to other matters that require his attention.

Now that you’re there, however, he realizes it does not differ much from his own apartments. The same layout, but a different air about it. Less cold. More you.

Aemond waits for the serving girl to close the door behind her, and he keeps a respectful distance from your bed, allowing you some time to make yourself presentable.

“The hour is quite late, brother,” comes your tired tone.

“My apologies, sweet sister,” he says, walking forward. “I had to see you.”

You were indeed already in bed, putting a book aside when he stands at the edge. You regard him carefully, clearly wondering about the purpose of his visit, before you sigh and move to throw the covers off yourself.

He holds up a hand. “Please.”

“I cannot see you in this light,” you reason.

“Then allow me.”

Aemond takes the box of matches from you, moving about the room to light the candles. The room glows brighter, allowing him to see the shift you had put on for bed. Your silver hair hangs about you like spun moonlight, and he has to fight the urge to reach out and touch it.

“To what do I owe this late-night visit, then?”

Aemond sets the matchbox down, before turning to you. “I apologize, again,” he says. “I was not certain you’d stay in the Red Keep for long.”

“And why is that, do you think?”

“I regret I do not have the answer. You’ve never really explained the reasons behind your frequent absences from court.”

His direct tone surprises you, and he sees it in your face. But gone are the days where he stumbles over his words, cherry-picks through them to find the ones that would please you the most.

The boy you knew died the night his eye had been taken. And he wants to prove it to you.

“You think your little stunt this evening will not change anything?”

A smirk threatens to play on his lips. “Call it what you will, I was simply expressing how proud I am of my family.”

“Clearly, pride comes in the form of insulting your nephews’ parentage,” you shoot back.

“Is that why you’re contemplating leaving again? Leaving Father to succumb to his wounds alone over the truth?”

He’s never seen you this angry before; you were always the most patient sibling. “Did you come here to try and elicit some anger from me? Was your intention to alienate the only friend you have at court?”

His jaw clenches. “I am the Prince. I have no shortage of friends.”

You scoff. “With that tongue of yours, I am sure that’s true.”

“If you would like to bring my tongue into this matter, I can talk of more than just friends.”

“Your nocturnal activities mean little to me, Aemond,” you say, your tone getting fiercer and fiercer with every word. “If you mean to brag about your conquests, I suggest going to your brother instead of me. Now, if there is nothing else—”

“Why do you refuse to marry?”

Now that catches you off-guard. You look up at Aemond questioningly, but he stands his ground. He will not repeat it. He knows you have heard.

“I—I hardly think any of my decisions should matter—”

“But they do,” Aemond interrupts, moving forward to sit at the edge of your bed. “Had Father been anyone but who he is, you would have long been married by now, with children. Your husband and children would have been Rhaenyra’s, if you insisted on backing her claim. You know the benefits, and yet you refused. Why is that?”

You sigh, fidgeting with the covers uncomfortably. “I do not expect a man, even you, dear brother, to understand.”

“I’m smart. Try me.”

You give him a look so scathing, that if he were a lesser man, he would have backed down immediately. But the fire in your eyes sets his blood aflame, and he wants nothing more than to stoke them.

“My mother died attempting to give Father a male heir,” you say. “Laena gave her life for a son that did not live and wanted to ride Vhagar before she bled out. Helaena has to bear children for a philandering, drunken husband who shares her bed only when he’s out of whores to fuck. Rhaenyra dedicates her life to a realm who will not accept her because she has a mind of her own and not a cock between her legs. History will not give you women that are as miserable as the ones in our family.”

“And yet, you run from your duty to save your own skin.”

You elect not to respond to that.

Aemond sighs. “Qoren Martell would have cherished you. He said he’d wait forever for you.”

“If “forever” meant half a year, certainly,” you mumble. “I have no desire to marry, Aemond. No one expects me to be Queen, nor would my children ever come close to the throne. My only regret is that I never told my father the truth when he was still sound of mind.”

Aemond remains silent, letting your words sink in, while wrestling with his own. You lean forward, letting the covers fall to expose your skin. His eye widens at the sight, and he swallows thickly as you reach for his hand. As your fingers close around his, he has to wonder: were they always this small?

Against his will, his body turns towards you, and he shuffles up your bed so you don’t have to reach that far to touch him. With your other hand, you cup the side of his face, and he briefly flinches when you gingerly brush the pads of your fingers against his scar.

“May I?” you whisper.

He was never one to refuse you.

He keeps his one eye closed as the eyepatch leaves his skin, and is replaced by your curious fingers. He hears you suck in a breath.

He opens his eye to see you regarding the sapphire, your gift to him all those years ago, with a strange sort of reverence (despite the playful jab he had offered). He knows you’ve already seen his missing eye at its worst: swollen shut and stitches marring his face. Now, the scar has healed but not quite disappeared; Lucerys Velaryon had made his mark on Aemond forever.

He’s taken to putting jewels where his eye used to be so as not to scare the ladies at court, but he finds your sapphire fits the best, ironically. The parallels to his father's eye, gouged out by his illness and eaten through by maggots, is not lost on him, either.

"You haven't seen it since it happened," Aemond says. "It's healed. But it has left its mark. There are some things that just cannot be forgotten, as your sister is so often told otherwise."

"Our sister," you correct him. "And I know Rhaenyra regrets the incident, too."

"I don't need any of her regrets or apologies."

"Then why are you here?"

Aemond doesn't answer, and instead fixes you with the same chilling, weighted stare that he’s often been chided by his mother for having. Had you been a lesser being, you would have cracked under the pressure of his gaze.

But you are the blood of the dragon, fierce and proud and unafraid. No man, not even the one you share blood with, could ever make you back down. The look in your eyes ignites something in him; a feeling not unlike the one he gets every single time on dragonback. He steals a glimpse of the smooth expanse of your throat, then lower, and even lower…

Aemond pulls away sharply, leaving your hand drifting midair.

“The entire kingdom expects you to marry soon, rather than late,” he says, attempting to salvage what was left of his self-control.

You tilt your head. “The kingdom, your mother, or my sister?”

“I regret to say all of them do. But your fears will not be ignored.”

“Do you have a better idea, then?”

Aemond hesitates, testing the words on his tongue before letting them leave his lips. “You could marry me.”

Your reaction is what he expects it to be.

You withdraw your hand sharply and get out of bed, and Aemond gets to his feet, allowing you to increase your distance from him.

“Does…does no one listen to a word I say?” you ask in agitation. “I never thought to hear these words from you, brother, I—”

“This match has its merits,” Aemond says. “I will not insult your intelligence by discussing them one by one.”

“Whose idea was this?”

“…Father’s.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Father?” you ask incredulously. “Father was barely able to speak in complete sentences before today, and you expect me to believe he’s behind such a large arrangement?”

“Can you prove that he isn’t?”

All of a sudden, you’re standing inches away from him, a finger jabbed into his sternum and your eyes blazing with anger. “You are not getting away with this on a technicality,” you hiss. “Tell me the truth of it.”

“Is the thought of marrying me that repulsive to you?”

“Not if it’s born out of lies.” You clutch the collar of his shirt. “Why do you want to marry me, Aemond?”

He looks down at you, and his hands twitch by his sides, no doubt wanting to feel your warmth permeate through your clothes. He can feel your heart hammering underneath your ribs, and he’s sure that if you slide your hands lower, you could feel his racing similarly. Your body melds so perfectly to his, and you breathe in sync, as if engaged in a dance of their own. Every molecule of your body thrums to life underneath his fingers, every second that passes between you is charged with a tension that threatens to push the both of you over the precipice, and still you do not see.

He hates that, even with one eye, he does.

You await his answer with bated breath, but he sees the way your eyes briefly flicker down to his lips.

“Aemond,” you whisper.

“To…to preserve the family line,” he answers.

And your face just falls.

You gently detach yourself from him, leaving him impossibly cold despite the roar of the fireplace nearby.

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat. “I’m afraid I will have to refuse you. As I did Qoren. As I did everyone else.”

Your words echo around his mind, as if you’d shouted it to him in an empty corridor. Aemond does nothing but stare at you, and you hold his gaze with a practiced ease.

He doesn’t remember leaving your room, nor does he remember if you’d said anything to him as he did. But the next day, he breaks fast alone: his mother missing, Aegon not expected to wake until well in the afternoon, Helaena tending to the children, and Rhaenyra’s family having left for Dragonstone at first light.

When a messenger arrives to inform him that Silverwing had left the Dragonpit before dawn, he simply waves them away.

Aemond takes the death of his father in stride.

He operates exactly how logic demands him to, what he’s always been expected to do. He takes great pains to track Aegon down and forces him to face the reality that Aemond would have accepted without a fight. He keeps Jaehaerys and Jaehaera company as Helaena is prepared for her joint coronation with Aegon, sobbing the whole time her maids fit her into her dress, all the while fighting back thoughts of you donning the magnificent dress made for a future queen.

He gets through the coronation, and is momentarily forced into action when Meleys and Rhaenys disrupt the ceremony. But when the Red Queen and the Queen Who Never Was depart, he settles back into his work.

None of the things he was doing required emotion. He had no need for it. He’s gone for so long without an eye, he can live without a heart.

It’s why he can accept Borros Baratheon’s terms without batting an eye, why he can choose the first of his daughters that crosses his line of sight. He may grow to love her, he thinks, as he offers her a tight-lipped smile, and he may look at her someday without you lurking in the back of his mind.

But the gods that decreed he’d lose an eye, the gods who damned him to years of being dragon-less, are the very same gods that bring Lucerys Velaryon to Storm’s End.

“Go home, pup,” Borros spits, his voice booming like thunder all over the hall. “And tell your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog that she can whistle up and need to set against her foes.”

Lucerys keeps his head up, unwilling to show any semblance of weakness. Aemond wants to laugh; his entire body screams fear from head to toe. “I shall take your answer to the Queen,” he replies, his voice steadying at the last word. “My lord.”

Ever the consummate fighter. Had he not been born a bastard, Aemond might have actually liked him.

“Wait,” he calls out. “My Lord Strong.”

Lucerys pauses, taking a moment before looking back at Aemond. His eyes glint with a familiar fire that only eggs Aemond on.

“Did you really think,” he says. “That you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”

Lucerys scoffs. “I will not fight you,” he asserts. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

“A fight would be little challenge. No…” Aemond moves to remove his eyepatch, a burst of lightning illuminating the sapphire sitting where his eye used to be. “I want you to put out your eye. As payment for mine.”

Lucerys pales. For a moment, Aemond wonders if he recognizes the jewel in his eye socket. He presumes not, and even with you now forever out of his grasp, he can’t help but feel a sense of triumph. He had something Lucerys Velaryon had not—your favor.

“One will serve,” he continues casually, retrieving the dagger he keeps on his person and tossing it onto the ground between them. “I would not blind you. I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

What fear was in Lucerys’ face left at the sight of the blade, and was replaced by an expression of pure defiance. The adrenaline rushes through Aemond’s veins, practically begging Lucerys to make one wrong move. The looming threat of war, the despair that threatens to crush his mother, the look on Lucerys’ face that looks so much like—

“The Princess [Y/N] of House Targaryen!”

Lucerys nearly staggers in his attempt to turn to the door, and the lump in Aemond’s throat rises as you walk into the hall. You take one confused look at Lucerys, another at Aemond, then at Borros Baratheon.

“Am I to host the entirety of House Targaryen in my hall?” Borros shouts.

You raise an eyebrow. “I admit my surprise at seeing two more dragons than expected in your courtyard,” you say. “But, lest my lord forget, you invited me for the Lady Cassandra’s nameday tomorrow.”

Aemond frowns, and Lucerys looks equally confused. Was it possible that you hadn’t…

Borros gets to his feet. “I will not have this,” he snarls. “I will not be spoken to so casually by dragonspawn, and the least of them, least of all!”

Lucerys reaches for his sword, a look of great affront painted all over his face. Aemond turns his attention to Borros, ready to strike at any given second.

Silence falls over the group, interrupted only by the sounds of the storm raging outside.

You raise your eyebrows.

And Borros bursts into laughter.

Floris stifles a giggle from behind Aemond, as do all her other sisters next to Borros. Aemond and Lucerys share a quick look, all enmity momentarily forgotten in the confusion.

“You have not changed at all, Princess,” Borros continues to laugh heartily, as he settles back into his throne. “My father always told me you would have made a better Baratheon than a Targaryen.”

“And as I’ve told your father, I’d leap off one of your cliffs first before I’d give up the life of a dragonrider,” you say, entering the hall and making your way into its center as if it had been your home all this time.

And it’s then that Aemond remembers you’d been hosted at Storm’s End in your youth, and later named godmother to one of Borros’ daughters.

“But I must admit my confusion, Princess,” Borros says, as soon as he’s finished wiping the tears from his eyes. “I hardly think this is the time for celebrating.”

“I fly all the way back from Volantis to be told it isn’t the time for celebrating,” you repeat dryly.

Borros looks at Lucerys, to Aemond, then back to you. You mimic the action, and when your eyes settle on Aemond, it takes a while for you to get it.

Your lips part in shock, and he watches as your eyes slowly widen.

“I’m…I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Princess,” Borros says, his voice sounding the gentlest Aemond has ever heard all day despite the gruffness in his tone. “You know how highly my father and I held the late King in regard. If there is anything we might do…”

“You are too kind, my lord.” You clear your throat. “You are right, of course, this is not the time for celebrations. I will see the Lady Cassandra on the morrow, but first…” You walk over to Lucerys and wrap an arm around him. “I believe Prince Lucerys’ business here is finished. I ask your leave to escort him back to Dragonstone.”

“Granted,” Borros replies. “Safe travels, my friend.”

Aemond seethes as the guards follow suit, and as you press your lips to Lucerys’ ear as you turn him around. “If you leave,” he near-growls. “Then you are craven as well as a traitor.”

Your head whips around, and you meet his gaze with a fury he’s never known you to hold. “Not here,” you snarl.

Wisely, Aemond holds his ground.

You take one last glance at the Baratheons, before tightening your grip on Lucerys and leading him out of the hall.

When the door shuts behind you, Aemond retrieves his knife, just as he hears one of the Baratheon girls scoff. He follows the sound to the lady standing closest to Borros, who had on an expression of pure contempt.

“Princess or not, she had the gall to speak to a Prince like that,” she says. “No wonder she’s not yet married. What man would take her?”

“Maris, hold your tongue,” Floris warns.

Maris ignores her sister, looking at Aemond straight in the eye. “Was it one of your eyes he took, or one of your balls?” she asks, voice sweet as honey despite the venom in her words. “I am so glad you chose my sister. I want a husband with all his parts.”

Aemond’s mouth twists in anger. “Lord Borros,” he nearly spits through his teeth. “I ask your leave to depart, as well.”

Borros harrumphed in response. “It is for me to tell you how to act whilst not under my roof.”

Aemond turns on his heels, barely sparing his betrothed a glance before disappearing out the door.

Despite the relentless rain, all Aemond’s senses were heightened as if he were the beast he rides, focused solely on the hunt. He wants to see that look on Lucerys’ face again—that look of pure fear. Pure helplessness. He wants to see all those years’ worth of misery weigh on his entire being, threatening to crush Lucerys with every second that passes.

The laugh that leaves him is one of pure glee as Lucerys and his dragon just barely dodge Vhagar, and he only urges her after them. He shouts a command, and the great she-dragon opens her jaws, closing with a sickening snap that causes Lucerys to cry out in fear.

The dragon takes Lucerys even lower, and to Aemond’s great dismay, they disappear between two cliffs. He takes Vhagar’s reins and heaves; she follows suit, albeit with great difficulty.

The fog clouds his already-compromised vision, and the only things he sees above the gorge are the tips of dragon wings as it beats up and down. “You owe a debt!” Aemond bellows, the frustration of being denied his vengeance lining every single one of his words. “Boy!”

Vhagar notices it before he does, and moves her head to the left. He barely sees it in the darkness of the storm, but there was an unmistakable flash of white that wasn’t a streak of lightning. He pulls to the left, cursing. Finally took advantage of your handiwork, Lucerys? he thinks bitterly. Flying in my blindspot…who would have thought…

Perhaps the storm had grown fiercer, or the fog had gotten thicker, but Aemond only now gets glimpses of Lucerys’ dragon, unlike the direct confrontation that had occurred just earlier. It was unlikely that it had gotten used to Vhagar’s flight pattern so easily, given its age and how inexperienced Lucerys clearly was…

“There!” he shouts, and Vhagar follows without further instruction. The new direction is one that turns the wind against them, and Aemond wonders how such a young dragon fares in such terrible conditions. But Lucerys and his dragon were now up ahead, growing bigger as Vhagar closes the gap in mere moments…he could have sworn that the dragon was a little brighter than that…

A hard gust of wind nearly blows him back in his saddle; blinking the tears out of his eye, he dodges the cloak that Lucerys had previously donned as it flies past.

Revealing a taller figure in the saddle, sporting bright silver hair…

You sense the shift in Vhagar’s disposition almost immediately.

The roar she lets out is enough to shake the entirety of Storm’s End to its very core, and Silverwing shakes her head, clearly agitated. You glance over your shoulder to see Vhagar being pulled back, and you know you have run out of time.

You could only hope that you had bought enough to allow Lucerys and Arrax to escape.

“Listen carefully, Luke,” you shout over the rain, as both you and your nephew make your way to your dragons. Lightning flashes, and you look to the east; your stomach drops when Vhagar is nowhere to be found. “Aemond will try to follow you as you leave.”

You take Lucerys’ face in your hands. “You must find him and Vhagar first. Get them to chase you, and take them to the gorge just a few miles away from here.”

“How will I—”

“It isn’t hard to miss. Fly Arrax through that gorge, go as low as you can. I will meet you there.”

“But you—”

“After that, go as high as you can and go with the wind so you can go faster.”

“What are you going to do?” he asks fearfully. “Vhagar is the largest dragon in the world, and—and Aemond’s angry, and—”

You shush him, brushing his curls out of his face as you have so many times in his youth. “Vhagar is also the oldest dragon in the world,” you remind him. “And Silverwing and Arrax will look nearly identical in this storm. I will try to stay in Aemond’s blind spot, and trust that his dragon will not know the difference.”

The tears start to well in Lucerys’ eyes. “This is my fault,” he begins to cry.

“It is not, sweet boy.” You pull him into an embrace, and Lucerys grips onto your shoulders almost painfully. When Arrax shrieks, and Silverwing hisses at the sky, you pry yourself out of Lucerys’ grasp, tilting his head up.

“I may still reason with Aemond,” you say. “But at least one of us must make it back to Rhaenyra, to tell her what has happened here. I intend it to be you.”

“But—”

“Be brave, Lucerys,” you tell him, and in High Valyrian, you command just as much as you soothe.

Your mother had told you to be brave, too, just days before she’d died on the birthing bed.

Was that the same fate that awaits you in the jaws of a dragon? You suppose that, one way or another, you would leave this world in the same manner.

You find a rocky beach, and you will Silverwing towards it. The pebbles crunch in a strange sort of symphony under her feet, as it does under yours when you dismount. The waves pummel the shore just inches away from where you stand, waiting for the inevitable.

You press your forehead against Silverwing’s head, feeling the she-dragon purr at the contact. No doubt she was feeling the same things you were feeling, after so many years of flying together, but you want to let her know how much she means to you.

A terrifying growl shakes the beach, and Silverwing hisses as Vhagar appears just above you. You hold onto her as the dragon hits the ground, her sheer size causing nearly half of her body to be submerged in the ocean.

You watch as her rider dismounts, his blade glinting in the darkness as he makes his way over to you. When you move to meet him halfway, Silverwing blocks your path, wailing. You feel a surge of affection for your dragon wash over you.

“Be calm,” you instruct her. “Obey.”

Silverwing keens in protest, but obliges, withdrawing reluctantly, only to roar in contempt when Aemond points his blade towards your neck.

Amidst the heavy rain and thick fog, Aemond Targaryen stands tall and proud, his missing eye doing little to discredit the fact that he now looks every inch a god. You could find no trace of the boy you’d known all those years ago, the one who’d followed you everywhere in the Red Keep, the only one of your half-siblings who’d managed to maintain a solid correspondence with you when you were away.

But perhaps he is still in there, somewhere hidden behind the clear wrath in his eye.

“None can stand between a dragon and its prey,” you begin. “A Conqueror’s dragon and her blood, even less.”

“And yet here you stand,” Aemond spits.

“And yet here I stand,” you repeat calmly.

Aemond studies you carefully. You keep your gaze trained on him, completely ignoring the blade he holds to your throat.

“You know the truth of Rhaenyra’s sons,” he hisses. “You’re no fool, yet you choose not to see it. Would you let the pups of House Strong sit on our father’s throne, and his grandfather before him?”

“They have just as much Targaryen blood as you do.”

“Do not—” He presses the tip of his sword directly against your skin, and Silverwing growls in warning. “Do not dare question my heritage.”

“I would never,” you say quietly. “But surely you see why I cannot let you do this.”

“Would you lay down your life for your traitor kin?”

“They are all I have left.” Your voice quivers dangerously. “You may deny their parentage all you like, but you cannot deny that they are my blood still.”

“I am your blood!” You hadn’t realized that Aemond had dropped his blade in favor of closing the distance between the two of you, looming over you like a malevolent shadow in the pouring rain. “‘Tis I who know you better than anyone else; I, who wrote back to you and sat every night by the windows of the Red Keep waiting for you to return; ‘tis I who study history and philosophy and politics to elevate myself to your level.”

Thunder rumbles overhead, and you blink the rain out of your eyes as you continue to stare up at Aemond. You think you catch a glimpse of the child he once was when he holds your gaze so defiantly, but he scoffs, and turns away from you.

“Lord Borros was right,” he spits. “I stand to destroy myself, risk my brother’s cause, worry my mother senseless, and for what? The whims of the last in line to the throne? A mere afterthought, forever in the shadow of her sister? A spoiled bitch who flees with her tail between her legs at the very thought of duty?”

You shake your head, and despite the gravity of the situation, you have to smile. The rocks crunch beneath your feet as you move towards him this time. When your hand presses against the middle of his shoulders, just opposite of his heart, you feel him jolt.

“Words hurt less to those who have heard the same all their lives,” you tell him gently. “But if it comforts you to lash out at me, I will not stop you. I daresay by the time you end, Luke will have already returned to Dragonstone.”

Aemond growls as he turns and grabs you by your arms. Silverwing hisses and snaps, but backs down when Vhagar moves forward.

“Stop acting as if I was a child,” he demands. “I can challenge the greatest knight of the Seven Kingdoms and ride the largest dragon our world has ever known. I am the closest in line to the Throne. The Aemond you knew died the night Lucerys Strong took my eye, and if you mourn him, you will step aside.”

“I cannot,” you whisper, but you might as well have screamed it in his ear. “I told you on Driftmark, didn’t I? You are still the Aemond I know. The Aemond who fought during my nameday tourney all those years ago, giving it his all despite being out of the lists earlier on. You believed that it was Alicent that put you in the lower lists, did you not?”

Aemond stares at you, clearly not following.

“You thought and acted exactly as I’d hoped. I’m sorry you were embarrassed because of it. But…if you would forgive my selfishness…I wanted you by my side in the King’s box, not injuring yourself on the jousting field for my favor. I would have always given you my favor, no matter how many you’d win against.”

You reach up to brush away the hair sticking against his face in the cold rain. “Because it’s you,” you say, running a thumb down the strap of his eyepatch before gently lifting it up. “You’re my Aemond.”

The sapphire that once sat in the brooch you gave him glints in what little light the storm permits to shine. No doubt that to many, it only serves to further unnerve those who already shift uncomfortably in his presence, but to you, it rivals the stars you’d stared at, thousands of leagues away from home, quietly wondering if Aemond was looking at them too.

The expression on his face is a mixture of surprise, admiration, and pain all into one. You know his true feelings; he’d made it known the night he asked for your hand. You would have given it to him gladly, freely, had he been honest about his reasons. A loveless marriage was the last thing you wanted for yourself in this lifetime, the very reason you’d run away from home all those years ago, causing your own father grief; you weren’t about to have it start with a blatant lie.

You think he understands everything now, by the way his shoulders slump and how Vhagar nearly purrs in content. It’s only confirmed when he reaches for your hand, still warm despite the biting cold.

“You’re not playing fair,” Aemond murmurs. “You would make me a kinslayer…every word you speak will damn me for all eternity, and yet…”

He shakes his head. “You know why I’ve come here. Baratheon’s banners for a marriage pact. You’ve scorned me once before. What makes you think I could ever give in to you now?”

“I dare not force you to choose,” you respond. “But know that I will not move from this place; how you will deny me, I leave it to you.”

Aemond’s mouth twitches. “How kind of you to make things simple for me.”

He backs away, and you close your eyes, waiting for the frigid storm to be drowned out by a shower of dragonflame. You think of Lucerys, and how you hope Arrax was able to navigate the storm all the way back to Dragonstone. You think of Rhaenyra, too, your sole full-blood sister, and the tears that you’d shared together in the Sept on your namedays. Your chest grows heavy with grief at the thought of Viserys, and how he’d begged you with his rattling breath to stay, only for you to leave the very night he’d passed.

You should think about what your death would mean; the pain that would cause your kin, the war that was bound to follow. But your last thought, ironically, might ultimately be of the man who would bring about your demise.

Seconds pass. Silverwing falls silent.

“I was just on my way home and I just wanted to see how you were doing,” he blurts, feeling the tips of his ears rapidly warming at the sight of your groggy and confused face. “And, well, I just wanted to—”

You turn your head slightly, as if to try and hear him better, and it’s only then that he sees the plugs in your ears. Diluc sighs, before motioning to his own ears to let you know.

“Oh,” you croak, and now it’s your turn to look embarrassed as you pull out your earplugs. “Sorry. You would not believe how loudly Charlie next door snores; it’s like his walls are made of paper.”

Diluc only nods, clearing his throat before he continues. “Would you like me to ask him to be a little more…”

You wave your hand dismissively, yawning as you rub your eyes. “He’s been working nights, anyway, so I doubt that asking him to sleep more quietly is going to do anything. Anyway, is there anything you need?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but the smell hits him before he could say anything. Had it not been for his years of experience as both a winery owner and a bartender, he would have instantly recoiled at the scent wafting off your figure. “Have you been drinking?”

“Just a little,” you reply, a little too quickly. “It’s really just to loosen up after work—”

“Bennett tells me you haven’t been at the Guild lately.”

“Yes, well, I took a leave of absence, so…” You pause, suddenly pouting as you fidget in place. “What about it? Am I not allowed to drink? Not everyone enjoys being perpetually sober like you, you know.”

Diluc frowns, before allowing himself a peek through the small crack in your door. “May I come in?”

You blink, taking a while to process his question before you finally relent, pushing your door wide enough to let him enter.

Diluc doesn’t remember the last time he’s been inside your house. It was most likely a time when your father had still been alive, sitting at the dining table preparing the meat he’d caught earlier in the day.

Now, all that’s on the dining table is a clutter of hunting items, empty bottles, and plates yet to be washed. Though Diluc tries to be respectful by keeping his eyes trained on you, it doesn’t help that he keeps tripping on articles of clothing and other items that had been strewn across the floor.

You collapse onto the couch in front of the empty and sooty fireplace, groaning as the sudden movement had most likely aggravated your headache. You attempt to push what seems like a heavy chest out of the way with your foot, but you struggle with the weight until Diluc steps in to help. Sure enough, the chest feels like a hundred kilograms.

“Never took you for a Treasure Hoarder,” he remarks, trying to lighten the mood.

You snort. “That’s not treasure. Well, it kind of is—open it.”

He obliges, popping open the chest to see chunks of luminous ore tucked carefully into a ragged piece of cloth. Gingerly, he lifts one up into the light, and though crudely cut, Diluc didn’t need to be a blacksmith to understand its value.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, as he examines it from every angle to admire its iridescent glow.

“The Traveler came by the other day to drop it off,” you explain, now flat on your back on the couch. “It was something they came across in The Chasm, and couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Paimon said it might strike my fancy.”

“They obviously came to the right person, then.”

“Hah.” You watch as Diluc put the ore back into the chest. “I’m not looking to turn it into jewelry, but I don’t think I’ll let it lie around there and have it oxidize into some dull lump of metal.”

“Then turn it into a weapon,” Diluc suggests. “I’m not sure how Wagner would be able to work with this kind of ore, but I’d be willing to check with some of my connections.”

You glance at Diluc, a dopey smile on your face. “What?”

“Always as reliable as ever," you say. "I thought you'd be different after all those years you were away, but you're still that eager little puppy under all that toughness, huh?"

The muscle in his jaw jumps. "I am not."

"Hehe, if you say so." You flop onto your belly, sighing as you fumble around for a pillow to shove under your head. You're barely able to make yourself comfortable before you suddenly sit up. “Sorry, did you want anything else? A cup of coffee, maybe?”

“Feels like I should be the one making you that.”

You harrumph in response and push yourself off the couch, and he keeps a respectful distance as he watches you sway from side to side on your way to the kitchen. While you rummage around in the pantry, Diluc takes it upon himself to dispose of the dishes and bottles littering your kitchen table.

The house is filled with a comfortable silence, insomuch that the fatigue that would have normally hit him later in the day makes its appearance now, as he watches you get the stove going. If he’s not going to be careful, he might as well pass out right there, on your dining table, the last thing registering in his consciousness being the way the earliest patches of sunlight casts your face in a brilliant glow…

Diluc shakes his head, ridding himself of those intrusive thoughts. You’d just gotten out of a relationship, patched up the loose ends that had unraveled during a run-in with the Fatui (and a Harbinger, to boot), and returned home after spending months in the neighboring region of Liyue. He figures you’ve had a lot on your plate since then.

He’s broken out of his inner monologue by the sound of sizzling, and he looks up to see you cracking a couple of eggs into a pan already lined with strips of bacon. He wants to insist that he prepare breakfast, or at least protest the idea of you doing it, considering the way your (rapidly paling) face scrunches up at every sudden movement. But even so, you move with such determination that one would think your life depended on making a perfectly cooked egg, sunny-side up.

Diluc instead gets up to wash the mugs sitting by your kitchen sink, finishing just in time for the kettle to start whistling. You two work in silence, with only the clattering of utensils and the chirping of birds to interrupt the small bubble of peace that had grown all around you.

“Feeling better?” he asks, as soon as you’ve both cleared your plates.

“Much, thank you,” you reply, and he doesn’t miss the way you clutch onto your cup of coffee like it was a lifeline.

“No, thank you for going through the trouble of cooking.”

“It was no trouble at all.”

Diluc lets out a breathy laugh, which you return at the sudden awkwardness of the situation. This is nice, he has to admit to himself. He decides he wouldn’t mind spending mornings just like this; it would definitely beat the extravagant—albeit lonely—breakfasts he was so used to getting.

You seem to enjoy it too, or perhaps that’s just wishful thinking on his part. But still weighing on his thoughts is a matter that he’d brought up earlier, that you’d simply brushed aside.

“You said you took a leave of absence from the Adventurer’s Guild,” he mentions. “Are you feeling ill, perhaps?”

“...you could say that,” you respond. “I just needed a break, that’s all.”

Diluc eyes you carefully. You sigh. “Out with it, Diluc. You’ve never had to worry about being frank with me before.”

“Those were different times.”

“I’m no different than before.”

“...so you say.”

You laugh, almost incredulously. “Well, I will admit that a lot of changes have happened over the past few days, but we could sit here debating about which of us has changed the most until I sober up.”

Diluc sighs, punctuating the silence that had fallen following your remark by sipping from his mug. Out of all the people he knows, you’re probably the only one who knows exactly which buttons of his to push.

No, no, you tied with Kaeya in that regard. He thinks you’re the only one who can push his buttons and get away with it, probably because he knows that you’re right—this time, at least.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. Your features instantly soften, and you seem to retract your words without saying anything at all.

“It’s just not like you to…do this.” Diluc gestures all around him. “Drinking past your normal limits, leaving the Adventurer’s Guild—”

“Not indefinitely,” you argue.

“Not indefinitely, yes, but you know what I mean.” Diluc peers at you over the rim of his mug. “[Y/N], it’s just a break-up.”

You scoff. “Please, Diluc, I’m not that shallow.”

“I would believe you if you looked me in the eye and told me that that relationship didn’t mean so much to you.”

To your credit, you do look up at him, that defiant glint in your eyes just daring him to overstep his boundaries with you. If he were a lesser man, he would have definitely backed down.

But he waits. And waits.

And you say nothing.

Diluc takes one last look at your house—in shambles, a bucket placed under a leak in the roof, items you’ve most likely strung along on your adventures littering every nook and cranny. He looks at your disheveled state, the skin around your eyes sunken and your lips now permanently pursed.

He makes up his mind, right then and there, and stands up. “Come with me,” he says, rounding the table and taking your wrist in his.

You stumble to your feet, tripping over your steps as you try to keep up with him. “Where…where to?”

“You said you needed a break,” Diluc replies. “You’re staying with me for a while.”

“What?!”

“I’ll send someone to get your stuff.” Diluc glances over his shoulder, and spots a portrait of your father sitting on top of the fireplace. He gives it a firm nod. “For now, let’s go for a ride.”

In hindsight, Diluc should have remembered that Varka had taken almost all of the horses in the city with him on his expedition.

He saves the cursing of the Knights for another day and instead focuses on the way your arms wrap around his waist as he urges the horse (that he managed to borrow from poor, sleep-deprived Charlie) forward. He handles the horse with the same ease he had as a former captain of the Knights, and though the thought brings him bitter memories, he can only wonder what thoughts were racing through your mind. Regrettably, he was at the reins facing forward, so he couldn’t really tell.

But he could only hope for the best, as the sun climbs higher and higher into the sky, bringing with it the warm winds of the incoming Mondstadtian summer. He keeps himself on high alert, open to the possibility of any trouble on your way—slimes, hilichurls, the Knights of Favonius—but he puts faith into the work he’d made last night. The way should be clear.

And despite the dark memories that had bombarded him since mounting the horse, he eases into the feeling of peace. Peace, and the feeling of your head moving to rest onto his shoulder.

The first few days, he’d really started to rethink his decision—how on earth was he going to spend time with you, ensure your well-being, in the midst of all his work with the winery? Not to mention, he had his ties to the underground intelligence network and all the time he spends protecting Mondstadt at night. No, no, he would rather feed himself to a slime than to let you get involved in all of that.

So, he spends his first few days with you in his care practically cleaving himself in multiple parts, working as much as he could at the winery and avoiding trips outside as much as he could. Try as he might, but he’d found he could not compromise at all on the threats to Mondstadt—as soon as you’d be snoring away, he would leave to take care of things.

Diluc doesn’t think he’s been this tired in years. But the sight of you padding into the winery’s library, joining him for meals, and keeping him company in his office as he works, and he feels all the fatigue dissolve into nothingness.

So imagine his joy at seeing you make remarkable progress: your face was no longer as gaunt as it had been when you’d first returned home, for one. You’d started to regain your humor, laughing a lot more even while the sun beats down mercilessly on you whenever you help out in the vineyard. To his own personal delight, you’d also started limiting your alcohol intake at his behest.

The days stretch into weeks, then into months, but time seems to slow down for you and Diluc. He catches himself staring at you a lot more often, losing himself in thought as he counts the sunspots splashed across your face. He also takes to initiating contact with you more than he used to, whether it be a hand on the small of your back as he passes, or even pulling you in for a hug after a long day at work.

He remembers the way your face feels cradled in his palm, but he could never really find the time to do it again. That is, until one night, you’d fallen asleep against his chest as he was reading to you in front of the fireplace. It was laughably ironic that he, as a wielder of a Pyro Vision, had survived the heat that would have reduced even the greatest heroes to ashes—but the mere feeling of your cheek against his hand seems to have burned away all the walls he’d painstakingly built over the years as if they were pieces of paper, taking him along with them.

In the roaring flames of what he felt for you, he should have evaporated into smoke. But there he was, letting himself slowly be consumed along with his rationality.

You recover just in time for your leave of absence to expire, and you go back to work as if nothing ever happened. To celebrate, Diluc presents to you the sword he had forged out of the ores given to you by the Traveler. The blade glows with the same strange iridescence the chunks had before they were broken up. If one were to listen carefully, the blade cutting through the wind sounds akin to a segment of an unfamiliar, yet lonely-sounding song. But you handle the sword with ease, and hold your own against Diluc, and for a time, Diluc thinks everything’s going well.

In hindsight, he should have known better.

It should have been a simple operation.

Some Abyss Mages were spotted frequenting the ruins nearest Mondstadt. Even you had been complaining about the number of spooked merchants you’ve had to escort outside the city as a result of the sightings.

Thankfully, you were out on a particularly tricky mission the night he’d decided to check out the scene. The Abyss Mages weren’t anything particularly out of the ordinary, only that they were simply as annoying as ever.

As soon as he steps out of the last of the ruins, however, he finds himself—for the first time in a long, long time—ambushed.

He’s barely able to summon his claymore before the first hilichurl lunges at him, and the club misses the side of his head by the skin of his teeth. But he regroups quickly, taking the first of those who had rushed forward out.

Did the Mages call for backup? he wonders as he picks up a nearby arrow to drive into a hilichurl archer’s front. It’s nothing new, but I’m sure I wiped the rest of them out…

Diluc slams his ignited weapon into the ground, sending a wave of fire down the last line of hilichurls in sight. Now, to figure out—

“Ika yaya!”

He nearly breaks his neck swiveling around to see a hilichurl that had somehow hidden itself within the bushes, a large rock in its hand, moving quicker than he can grab his weapon—

Thump.

Diluc steps back, staring at the arrow that had gone straight through the hilichurl’s head. It gives a groan before keeling over, and dissolving into the ground.

Revealing you crouched behind it, your bow in hand.

For a minute, neither of you speak. Diluc only watches as you straighten up and stuff your bow away, brushing the leaves sticking to you, most likely from the tree that he realizes you’d been watching from.

“That was easier than I thought,” you remark. He couldn’t decipher your tone—were you angry? Relieved?

“What was?” he decides to ask.

You fish around in your pockets for a piece of paper, which you hold up in front of him. “A special commission from Donna,” you say. “She apparently really wants to extend her gratitude to the Darknight Hero, who saved her one night.”

“Hmph.” Diluc puts his claymore away. “You should have known better than to take on an impossible commission.”

“The pay was really good, and Donna makes good Moon Pies. Plus, it’s cute to hear her fawn over you and the Darknight Hero.”

At your words, Diluc clicks his tongue and walks away, ignoring the hammering of his heart. Of course, you just had to trail after him.

“Of course, we received news of the Darknight Hero a long time ago,” you continue. “Nothing more than idle chatter, as you often say. But something urged me to take on this mission…for some reason, I knew I’d come up with answers.”

“Really? How did you know?”

“Just hunter’s intuition.”

Diluc only hums, trying to remain impassive while he figures a way out of the situation. It frustrates him to no end how often it slips his mind that you had once received an offer to join the Knights—and how much it makes sense, considering your intuition was practically second to none.

“The Abyss Mages were a threat, that much was true. But it was a perfect way to draw out all those dedicated to keeping Mondstadt safe. At least, to draw out the ones that mattered.

“I’ve heard the Darknight Hero operates under the cover of darkness, hence his name. He also moves swiftly, so there's a chance I might be too slow to catch him. So, I had to figure out a way to slow him down.”

You hold up one of your arrows. “Seems it worked.”

“Except for one important thing,” Diluc says. “I’m not the Darknight Hero.”

“I had my initial thoughts,” you continue, as if he hadn’t said anything at all. “But it’s been so long since I’ve seen you in combat, I also had to check. Donna says she saw a burst of light, like fire. There aren’t many Pyro Vision wielders that I know of.”

“Sounds like a very simple thought process.”

You shrug. “I considered Klee, to be honest.”

Diluc shakes his head and picks up the pace.

“Okay, chat time’s over.” You grab his arm, and he’s stunned long enough for you to pull him towards you. He’s close enough to you that he can breathe in your scent—had you been at Good Hunter today?

Why the hell am I thinking about that at this time?

“Diluc, this is serious,” you say.

“What’s serious is the lack of expertise amongst the Knights of Favonius..”

“So you are the Darknight Hero.”

“You forced me to listen to your line of thinking as to how you tracked him down, and yet you sound so surprised,” Diluc snorts.

“I didn’t think you’d admit to it that easily,” you confess.

“I know better than to lie to you.”

You open your mouth as if to argue, but you shake your head. “No, no, that aside…Diluc, this whole “Darknight Hero” business—”

“Stop calling me that.” He turns on his heel.

“It’s dangerous!” you shout, grabbing his sleeve again.

“Again,” he says, gritting his teeth. “It will be far more dangerous if we leave all threats to Mondstadt to the Knights.”

Diluc turns to you once more. “Well? Are you going to tell them?”

“I—” You stumble over your words. “I—why would I—”

“Oh, please,” Diluc sneers, coming up to you and looking you straight in the eye. “They’ve been pressed about the Darknight Hero for ages. Can’t handle the thought that someone else is doing their job for them. So go on, go. Tell them. Provide them with intel. I’m sure that’ll send Kaeya straight back into your arms.”

You recoil as if he’d struck you. “Diluc, that’s not fair.”

He doesn’t answer, only walks away, concentrating on regulating his breathing. He’d already said too much; if he’d stuck around for too long, he might really say something he might regret.

He hears you calling out to him, and he only picks up the pace. Already, he is making plans for you to vacate the winery. Surely the workers have finished patching up your house, and if he could just locate the damned invitation he’d gotten from an establishment in Fontaine, he could take some time away from Mondsta—

“Diluc Ragnvindr,” you fume as you dart in front of his vision, blocking his path. “You listen to me right now!”

Diluc’s jaw clenches. “Move,” he snaps.

“Or what, you’re going to leave me behind again?”

His heart briefly stutters.

He did not at all miss the way your voice cracked when you said it, which had otherwise betrayed the fierce expression you were wearing. He does not miss the way your eyes shimmer in the dark of the night, and he’s seized with the sudden fear that you might start crying right in front of him. He’s only ever seen you cry twice in his life—the first, at your father’s funeral. The second, when you and Kaeya had broken up.

Both times, his resolve to build a world that would never again make you cry had grown only stronger.

(In hindsight, he should have known exactly how this world works.)

Diluc sighs, rubbing his face in frustration before finally coming up to you, working up the courage to cradle your face in his palms. Thankfully, you don’t protest; in fact, you seem to melt into his touch.

Here you both were, under the night sky, impeccably close and still so far…where has he seen this sight before?

"Everything I do," he whispers. "Is to protect the city I grew up in. The city I love. The city that you and I call home."

"There are others for that," you protest quietly as you clutch his wrists. "You're not a one-man army, Diluc."

"I've always done things alone," he declares. "So you have to trust me when I tell you this: stay out of it."

You stare up at him, your brows furrowed as you try to make sense of his words. He counts five seconds, six, seven…before your expression finally changes.

"What was that about Kaeya?"

Now it's Diluc's turn to recoil, as if your skin had suddenly scorched his hands. "Forget about it."

"I won't," you persist. "And I won't let you put yourself in danger."

"When I tell you to stay out of it, it's for your own good," Diluc growls. "I couldn't bear it if—if because of the utter incompetence of these—"

"You underestimate the number of people who would do anything for Mondstadt, and in case you've forgotten, I'm one of them!" you shout.

"And if I lose you I won't have anything else!"

Your eyes nearly pop out of your head, and you instinctively take a step back at Diluc's sudden outburst. This was the most unhinged you've ever seen him: breathing heavily, hair disheveled, his eyes looking everywhere else except into your own.

Diluc barely spares you a glance before he takes off down the road.

Foolishly, he waits, but you don't come to stop him this time.

In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have expected you to.

You move back into your house as soon as the workers give the all clear. Diluc had taken all your thanks (which sounded to him as nothing more than pleasantries at this point) with his back to you in his study, and nothing more than a curt nod and muttered well-wishes.

He doesn't move from his seat, even as Adelinde comes by to inform him that all your belongings had been cleared from the room he'd given you. He hears the curiosity in her tone, and what he thinks is an inkling of sadness. But he doesn't indulge her, and she remains silent, as of course she should.

He doesn't move from his place for a very long time.

Wolvendom was normally quite troublesome, especially with the strange wolves that often traveled its borders.

But today seems to be different, what with the forest unusually quiet save for the typical howling that wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Diluc decides to set up camp to see the area through the night, and if it would continue to be as peaceful as it was today, he decides he'll go back to the winery to catch up on work.

Just as he finishes setting up his tent, he hears the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops making a percussion out of the fabric. He pushes himself further into the cramped space, trying to keep himself as dry and as warm as possible.

Thoughts of you had consumed his every waking hour since he'd left you there on that dirt road, and in between the feeling of frustration over losing his composure so quickly and the mortification at knowing how close he had been to confessing to you, he couldn't help but wonder what you'd felt when you watched him walk away from you again.

He'd initially thought you'd left Mondstadt again. Gone back to Liyue, or took on any other project that would have taken you anywhere else. He'd feared the worst possible outcomes: that your encounter with him had driven you straight back into Kaeya's arms, as he had dared you to do. And though it makes him sick to the stomach to think it, he'd also considered the possibility that you'd tap into your surprising connections to the Fatui, and that you and the Eleventh Harbinger…

But Diluc's intel had suggested otherwise, and the news had him practically melting into his armchair in relief.

He wonders where you are now—at home, perhaps. Your home, not his. Maybe you're running some reconnaissance reports with the other Adventurers. Or perhaps you were in the library, engrossed in a book on the Seven.

A twig snaps just a few meters outside his tent, and Diluc tenses. He shifts into a crouch, ready to summon his weapon at the slightest movement.

"Diluc?"

His breath hitches. "[Y/N]?"

The front flap of his tent lifts up, and by all the gods, never in his life has he seen a face as glorious as yours, even in the pouring rain.

You shiver. "I knew y-you'd be here."

His body moves before he can think, and it isn't long before he has you in the tent with his coat over you, doing his best to start a fire as the rain outside picks up.

"Well?" he says, as soon as he'd gotten the fire going.

"W-what?"

"Are you going to talk my ear off about how you found me?"

You roll your eyes, but he senses no hostility from you. "I come from a f-family of hunters, you know."

Diluc raises an eyebrow.

You sigh. "I r-ran into Razor on the way home."

He only nods, and presses himself closer towards you—with the sole intention of trying to warm you up, of course.

You spend the next few minutes in silence, and despite what had happened just a few weeks prior, the air between you isn't as heavy as Diluc had worried it would be. He just feels the same comfortable silence that had fallen over the two of you all those months ago, eating breakfast in your house—the same silence that had given him the room to really think about what he feels for you.

You're the first to break it. "I'm sorry."

"...you don't have to be."

"But I am." You wrap his coat around your shoulders tightly. "I'm sorry I p-pushed you too far, and that I yelled at you. And I'm sorry that I couldn't understand. I also made a different story up f-for Donna."

Diluc only looks at you, and pushes the damp strands of hair away from your face. You take a couple of deep breaths, your body occasionally getting racked by shivers.

"Can I…can I ask a question?"

He only hums in reply.

"Well…I think you know what I'm about to ask."

Diluc sighs. He finds himself bold enough to lace his fingers through your hair, cradling the side of your head as if it was the most precious jewel he'd ever come across (and it could very well be the case).

But his voice seems to fail him, what with his heart pounding erratically against his ribcage and making breathing all the more difficult. He isn't sure he has the courage to risk years' worth of friendship with you, and he sure as hell knows he hasn't got the words to properly express how complicated all this was.

The answer suddenly comes to him, clearer than a beacon in the night sky: keep it simple.

"I love you," he says, and the weight of the world is lifted off his shoulders. "I have, ever since we were six. I loved you in all that time I spent away from Mondstadt. I loved you when you were Kaeya's, when you left for Liyue, even when you showed up with the Fatui."

He fiddles with the laces of his boots. "I wish things had been different," he continues. "That Father and I had never gone down that path that day. That Kaeya was never a part of a plan I couldn't save him from. That the Knights are indeed the heroes everyone believes they are to be. Above all, I wish I'd never left you waiting on the dance floor."

You gingerly reach for his hand, and lacing his fingers through yours, he finds the strength to carry on. "But we did go down that path. Kaeya is always going to be stuck between two worlds. The Knights are, well…you know. And I did leave you. I spend nights wondering what could have happened if I hadn't."

Diluc meets your eyes. "But I love you," he says. "I did then, and I do now. Always will."

Your features soften, and you reach out a trembling hand to lightly trace his cheek. For a moment, the sound of the rain is drowned out by the ringing in his ears; his senses shut down temporarily when you shift closer to him.

You were close, so close, too close. He could count each and every drop of water that had collected along the edges of your lashes, and the expression you were making was one that he had only seen in his dreams. Surely, soon, he would wake up, and the feeling of your breath fanning against his lips would only have been a manifestation of his deepest desires…

Was this okay? Was this really okay? Just months ago, you were on the verge of a breakdown, and while his intentions of taking care of you were completely pure, had he always secretly hoped that they would lead to this very moment?

Diluc swallows thickly, trying to control his breathing as he shifts to give you more access to him. You were no longer reacting to the cold now, and yet you occasionally tremble—could this mean—

Snap.

You withdraw sharply, and out of pure instinct, you both reach for your weapons. Diluc reassumes his ready stance, an arm protectively reaching across your figure.

“[Y/N].”

You relax as quickly as you had tensed up. “Razor?”

Sure enough, a mop of wild, unkempt grey hair comes into view. The boy-wolf that Lisa occasionally mentors regards you and him with mild curiosity, completely uncaring that he was soaked to the bone.

“Razor, hello,” you say weakly, your voice undoubtedly tinged with embarrassment. Diluc, for his part, wants nothing more than for the ground to snap him up right then and there.

“[Y/N]. Fischl, waiting.”

“Fischl is waiting for me?” You shrug Diluc’s coat off your shoulders.. “Did she say why?”

Razor scratches his head. “Uh…Fischl says many things. I don’t understand. But purple bird says to find you.”

“Right, right. Thank you, Razor.” You peer out from under the tent, surveying the sky above and the area outside before turning to Diluc. He’d be lying if he’d say he wasn’t disappointed at how quickly the moment dissolved, like a bubble drifting over a lake.

But even so, something changed. He could feel it, see it, even—if the look in your eyes meant anything, at least.

You bring your lip in between your teeth, sucking in a deep breath before letting it out in a breathy laugh. Diluc laughs as well, the connection he’s always felt with you seemingly humming like a tuning fork in delight.

“It’s, um…” You gesture lamely outside. “It isn’t raining as hard now, so…”

“Yes…yes, I see that.”

“I have to see what Fischl wants. Then I’ll go back to Mondstadt, I think.”

He gazes up at you. “May I escort you back?”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise, before putting on a teasing smile. “Fischl can take a while, you know.”

“Precisely.”

You shake your head, your expression as soft as the breaking dawn. “My knight in shining armor.”

Diluc snorts. You laugh, holding your hand out to him, which he gladly takes.

Fischl’s parents had been gracious enough to offer dinner, which allows you and Diluc to walk back home with full bellies and high spirits.

You regale Diluc with stories of your adventures, of your time in Liyue, in particular, as you take the road leading to Springvale. In turn, Diluc finds himself slowly opening up about his missions as the so-called “Darknight Hero”, taking great pleasure at the way you complain about the levels of danger he constantly experiences.

The summer was nearly over, but the heat radiating from the dirt path was as potent as it was in the beginning of the season. But the heat radiating from your touch, which he feels as his hand occasionally grazes yours, is not at all scorching; your touch was warm, comforting. Your touch felt like home.

He dares to link one of his fingers around yours as you near your newly-renovated house, and you indulge him, up until you have to let go to unlock your front door.

“Today was fun,” you tell him.

“It was,” he agrees.

You watch with a fond smile as he reaches for the hand he’d held just seconds prior, pressing his lips on top of your palm. “Good night,” he whispers.

“Good night.”

He turns at the same time you do, and he takes a few steps away before stopping to listen to your front door close.

He counts three seconds. Four. Five.

Silence.

You glance over your shoulder, barely halfway through the doorway. Diluc stands with his back to you, unmoving. Seemingly…unwilling to go.

As if he’d read your mind, he steals a look at you over his shoulder.

You don’t need to say anything—you only crack your door a little wider.

Diluc stares at you for a good while, before shrugging his coat off and following you inside.

“You’re in a good mood, aren’t you, Master Diluc?”

Diluc’s eyes flicker up momentarily, before he returns his concentration to the drink he was making. “Whatever do you mean, Acting Grandmaster?”

“I haven’t seen you this…lively. In forever, it seems,” Jean remarks, stirring the cup of coffee in front of her. “Did the trip to the Golden Apple Archipelago improve your mood?”

“I jumped off a dragon, took an unexpected dip in the ocean, and supervised Klee as she bombed countless fish,” Diluc says flatly.

Jean laughs. “I suppose a lot happened.” She turns to face the other side of the tavern, and Diluc follows her gaze. There you were, groaning as Kaeya gleefully takes all the bets you’d placed on the table.

Diluc sighs. “That’s the fifth drink they’ve had tonight.”

“Might have a tough time bringing them home.”

He finishes up on the orders and spends the rest of the evening slowly getting ready to close up, while making sure to keep an eye on you. Surprisingly, Jean takes her sweet time finishing her coffee; must have been a slow day for the Knights, he thinks.

Seeing as she had more time on her hands than usual, he assumes it wouldn’t hurt to ask…

“Jean, would the Deaconess happen to be free anytime within the next few months?”

“I haven’t quite kept up with the Church’s schedule recently,” Jean answers, lifting the cup to her lips. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m planning to ask [Y/N] to marry me.”

Jean all but spits out her coffee.

Diluc hands her a napkin, trying to maintain his composure despite the burning in his ears and the stares he and the Acting Grandmaster were getting. He glances at you, and sure enough, you regard the sight with a curious look in your eyes; he dismisses you with a small shake of his head.

“My…my sincerest apologies,” Jean manages, her face bright red as she dabs at her mouth. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s fine,” Diluc assures her. “I suppose I should have been more…discreet.”

“Not at all, just…” Jean takes a quick look around the room, fidgeting in her seat as she does so. “Pardon my rudeness, but don’t you think it’s too soon?”

“It’s been a year.” Diluc hands Jean another cup of coffee, to replace the one she’d spilled. “I’ve also known them forever, and…well, it just seems like the next logical step.”

“I suppose so, but…what about Kaeya?”

He fights the urge to roll his eyes. “What about him?”

“You don’t suppose there could be any sort of conflict of interest?”

“Would there be one?” Diluc narrows his eyes. “Is there something I need to know?”

Jean holds her hands up. He sighs. “I have been…thinking of letting him know. But everything between them is history now.”

Jean seems to mull the idea over. “I suppose I could ask Barbara when she’s free.”

“Oooh, you two look like you’re sharing secrets,” you say, sidling up next to Jean. “Can I get in on it?”

“Have your savings run dry already?” Diluc asks.

“I managed to redeem myself in the end, thank you very much,” you assert before sticking your tongue out at him. “Jean, make sure a portion of Kaeya’s salary this month goes straight to me.”

Jean laughs nervously. “I’m sure you two can work something out.”

Diluc looks at you. “Ready to head home?”

“Mhmm.” You hold onto Jean like an anchor of sorts as you shoot Diluc a dopey grin. “Can we go for a ride again?”

“Last time that happened you threw up on the horse,” he replies, handing Charles the rag he’d been holding on to all evening. “Jean, do stay and enjoy yourself. The rest of your orders will be on the house.”

Jean blinks in surprise. Diluc manages to turn you away long enough to give her a knowing look. “I—thank you,” she manages. “Take care on your way home, Sir Diluc. [Y/N].”

“Bye, bye, Jean,” you sing. “Bye, Kaeya! Bye, everyone!”

The entire tavern seemed to bid you goodnight as Diluc ushers you out the door, holding you around your waist.

“It’s so hot,” you complain.

“Well, summer’s almost over, so just hang in there.”

“Don’t want it to end,” you mumble. “I don’t like the cold.”

Diluc raises an eyebrow. “You just said it was so hot.”

You nod solemnly before pulling yourself out of his hold, only to loop your arms around his shoulders, waddling backwards as he continues his pace. “Will you carry me?”

“Absolutely not. You’ll thank me tomorrow morning if you sober up on the way home now.”

Your eyebrows furrow, and you suddenly dig your heels into the ground, forcing Diluc to a stop. He regards your small pout with amusement. “Yes?”

You say nothing, and for a minute he thinks you’re just going to keep pouting up a storm until he gives in. He’s about to, before your expression suddenly changes as you take his face into your hands.

He whispers your name in concern, but you only continue to run your fingers across his cheeks, occasionally tracing the slope of his Cupid’s bow. He presses his forehead against yours, paying no attention to the wine on your breath.

“Is everything alright?”

You give the most miniscule of nods. “It’s nothing. Just…nothing.”

You’d always been a good liar.

Among all the family heirlooms that had been passed down to Diluc, he believes his mother’s wedding ring is the most beautiful.

He remembers Crepus presenting it to him shortly after his mother passed. “This is yours now,” his father had said. “Someday, when you find the right one for you, you give them this. No other promise is as binding; no responsibility is greater than that of having someone’s heart in your possession.”

He had never felt the weight of his father’s words, not until he’s painfully aware of your presence just a couple of rooms away. You’d been called away for work so often recently, that he had only managed to lure you away with the promise of a candle-lit dinner “just because”. Though you’d looked at him warily at his choice of words, you’d agreed, to his immense relief.

Diluc had been sweating from the minute you’d walked into the courtyard, just barely concealing his anxiety as you take in the scene in front of you: a table set up as if for a banquet instead of a simple dinner for two, illuminated only by the candles in the middle and the nearby crystalflies floating around the vineyard.

He’d been so absorbed in his own head to notice that a troubled look had been on your face all evening, which you’d dismissed as your general worry over a concern you’d gotten at the Guild. He could only wonder what sort of problem you’d encountered at work that had you stressing over it, even when you were together. He tries to look back to the first time he’d noticed something was wrong, and only remembers you spending most of your recent time with him reading through a pamphlet you’d gotten from work—a pamphlet you’d never offered to let him read.

But Diluc takes your word for it, and the dinner progresses to its end with ease—well, with as much ease as his thrashing heartbeat would allow him to feel. He’d briefly considered putting his proposal off to a different date and whisking you away into the bedroom anyway, and at the height of the pressure he was feeling, he’d nearly caved.

But one smile was all it took from you; one smile, and a brief brush over the top of his hand. He’s been on the receiving side of your touch multiple times before, and even in much more lascivious situations. Immediately after, however, he’d excused himself, rushing off to grab his mother’s ring from his study.

And there he was, shivering despite the warmth radiating from the fireplace, the box in his hand about to make a permanent dent into his skin. He could stop here, really. Perhaps Jean was right, and it is too early…

But who else would he ever want by his side for the rest of his life? He could finally keep his promise to your father’s spirit, save you from the heartbreak that had brought about a tumultuous turn of events. He could see his father now, nodding in approval, telling him how he’d always known this day would come…

“[Y/N]?”

You jerk your head around at the sound of his voice, following it all the way up to the top of the stairs where he was currently standing. Diluc takes one look at you, the tension practically oozing off your figure, and he’s temporarily brought back to earth.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“I…” You clear your throat. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Tell me, please,” he says, coming down the stairs. “There’s nothing we can’t fix together.”

You seem to be in even more of a dilemma than he was, and he wonders just what could be more serious than him about to ask you for your hand in marriage. It couldn’t be that serious, he thinks. The Guild’s never in real danger, and there’s never been an issue you’d never been able to resolve…

He watches as you finally make your move, fishing around in your pockets and finally pulling out a hastily folded piece of paper. When you hand it to him, he realizes it’s a pamphlet—the same pamphlet that you’d been so conflicted over these past few days.

He only needs to read the first line to understand what was happening.

“The Guild has proposed permanently stationing me in Liyue to prepare for a higher position in the Intelligence Department,” you say, your voice now starting to ring in his ears. “I’m quite familiar with the region now, and the pay is much better, so there’s really no reason for me to turn it down.”

Diluc, for the first time in a long time, finds himself speechless. Mouth dry, thoughts racing, heart about to implode. You seem to notice his predicament, and you come over to run your hands over his chest, as if to smooth over the crater that had formed at your words.

“When were you going to tell me?”

You look up at him guiltily. “I tried to,” you reply. “But your head’s been in the clouds lately. When I saw the dinner you’d put up outside, I…well, I panicked a little.”

“Panicked…why?” The ring in his pocket seems to weigh him down like an anchor.

“I—well, I thought you’d figured me out.” You wring your hand helplessly. “When you said you wanted to have dinner, I thought it was to celebrate this. Even though I hadn’t told you yet. Even though…I’m leaving.”

Permanently, he finishes for you, as he wordlessly hands you the pamphlet back. Time, which had always seemed to slow down for him and you, seemed to kick back into the speed that it had always been associated with—uncaring, unmerciful, trampling over plans and visions that even he thought set in stone. All he can feel is the whiplash from the sudden shift in atmosphere, all he can hear are his father’s words echoing in his head, and all he can think about is how Jean and Kaeya and Fischl and all the people you both cared about are waiting in the tavern, expecting the best of news—

“Well,” he manages, reaching over to cup your face in his palm. “I suppose some congratulations are in order.”

You finally break into a smile, the most genuine one he’s seen on you all evening, and his battered heart stutters pitifully in his chest. Despite the chaos in his head, one thought makes itself known to him: that adventuring has all you’ve ever dreamt of doing, and any advance in your career means more opportunities to explore the world.

“I couldn’t have gotten here without you,” you whisper. “If you hadn’t gotten me out of that slump I was in…if you hadn’t taken me out on that ride that day, or if you hadn’t taken me in until I felt better…”

You shake your head, a short laugh escaping your lips. “Who knows? I probably would have been stuck here forever.”

He remains silent as you lean over to press your lips against his cheek, and the action feels more familial than anything else. It was absurd of him to think so, considering you’ve both done so much more, and surely at one point you’d have felt the same way he did…

…to be fair, he never really got to ask.

In hindsight, you’d never really said anything.

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Like he'd suddenly been hooked onto a fishing line, his head turns towards you just as he's about to board the boat, and the smile he gives you is gentler than the morning wind. He gives you a silly little salute, which you laugh at before practically sprinting down the steps to meet him halfway.

"Permission to come aboard?" Kazuha teases you as he sets his bag down to the side.

"Permission denied," you say, but there's no mistaking the grin on your face and the lack of malice in your tone. "You've kept me waiting a long time, Kaedehara."

"So I have." Kazuha reaches into one of his many pockets and pulls out a single red maple leaf, holding it up in front of you. "Here, my love. Your souvenir."

You gingerly take it by the stem and raise it into the air, admiring its radiance as you twirl it between your fingers.

"It was so pretty when it fell in front of me," he explains. "Felt as if the wind wanted to remind me that someone was oceans away waiting for me to return."

As you lower your hand, you meet his eyes, which hold the wistfulness that you've long grown accustomed to. You wonder if your own eyes had looked the same when he temporarily decided to part ways with Beidou; if that longing expression had, as he'd said, stretched out across oceans in constant and eternal search of him.

"Well." You take a step closer. "I think the wind this time is sorely mistaken."

Kazuha laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling delightfully as he does so. You wonder if those laugh lines would etch into his skin well into his older years. There would be no getting rid of the scars he keeps under his bandages, nor would he be able to keep them hidden forever. But wherever he goes, whoever he'll end up meeting, the wrinkles by his eyes would tell anyone he'd lived a life worth living.

You've decided long ago that whatever he was—fugitive, wanderer, lover—you'd be by his side for as long as he'll let you.

He takes your hand in his, lifting it to press a whisper of a kiss onto the skin.

"I'm home," he says.

And so are you.

When he calls me pretty, I feel like somebody

Being with Ayato feels very much like walking on thin ice, very much unlike the Vision hanging from his belt. There are oceans of secrets that make up his eyes, and his deceivingly pleasant smile hides a calculating persona—one that most people would much rather not see if they wanted to hold a civil conversation with him.

This façade carries well into your relationship, so to say you'd started off rocky was the understatement of a century. It was, in the eyes of the public, a scandal; no one could have expected the head of the illustrious Kamisato Clan and the Yashiro Commission, no less, to actively start pursuing a virtually unknown owner of a modest shop in Inazuma City. Some had chalked it up to the (not totally unfounded) rumors of Ayato being an eccentric, but others were not as kind. You've had your fair share of rumors—those that were true were horribly exaggerated, and those that weren't took slander to a whole new level.

But you've since come to realize that it's only the circumstances that make your relationship difficult, and that loving Ayato in itself was incredibly easy. His permanently serene expression—which always seems to unnerve people, intentionally or not—never fails to put you at ease, knowing he has a plan for whatever life throws his way. Those who have looked into his eyes and saw only the secrets in his keeping have no idea that they're nothing but a façade, too; deep beneath that is a realm of mischief accessible only by his closest friends and family, and an eternal fondness reserved only for you.

That very fondness is manifested in the way Ayato looks at you as he makes his way through the crowd, utterly oblivious (or uncaring) of the stares he was attracting. His gaze is unwavering enough to make your cheeks heat up, but you can't help feeling like—the rumor mill be damned—the most beautiful person in the world.

Still, you hold his gaze as if your heart wasn't currently pounding in your chest, even when he walks up to you and you catch a whiff of his perfume.

"What a surprise," you purr. "And what can this humble shopkeeper do for you, Commissioner?"

"I was hoping I could coax you away from your duties for a quick walk." Ayato offers you the small bouquet he had cleverly stashed away within his sleeves. "Consider these flowers your alternative compensation for the day."

You snort, but you take the flowers anyway. "You have no respect for the working class."

The whispers, though quieter than what you hear on the daily on account of Ayato's presence, echo in the silence that had fallen as you unwrap the flowers and put them in a vase.

But with the way Ayato waits patiently for you to finish closing up shop, and with how he reaches out to pluck a stray petal out of your hair as you finally join him outside, you couldn't care less about what people would say about you.

Why would you, when he makes you feel like the only person in the world that matters?

Even when we fade eventually to nothing...

Sal Terrae is far from the paradise it once was, nor is it now in a state to welcome regular visitors.

Still, Zhongli insists on bringing your children there to play most days—if not there, then at the ruins of Guili Plains. Not once have you doubted your husband's intentions, but you'd be lying if you'd say it doesn't bother you in the least.

Of course you want your children to grow up knowing Liyue's history; this war was too hard fought to easily be forgotten. But you look out at what used to be a good friend's dwelling, and you can't help but think that the peace you've purchased for your people demanded too high a price.

You cradle your youngest close to your chest as Zhongli offers your eldest son a Glaze Lily he'd found nearby. Centuries ago, you would have never imagined the mighty Rex Lapis would let go of his duties as the Geo Archon, nor would he ever resign himself to be a mere spectator to Liyue's progress.

But he'd cradled your head so gently in his hands—the same hands that had crushed entire mountains and sent eons-old monsters to their graves—and said to you, "We've done all that we can. Now, we can leave it up to them."

Laying your spear to rest had surprisingly been difficult for you. The years have yet to take out the tension in your shoulders, and every sudden movement out in the wild has you destroying every boulder within a five-meter radius. Your jaw constantly hurts from you clenching it tightly every now and then, as if your muscles cannot remember that they are no longer in battle.

A sudden cry breaks you out of your thoughts, and you shush the child in your arms until they quiet down once more. "I'm sorry," you whisper. "Did I wake you?"

Had the child sensed that you were in distress? Were their abilities so finely tuned that even a slight shift in your mood would get their attention?

You stare down at them, and you can't help but see so much of Zhongli in such a little body. Even at the height of the Archon War—a war he was very much intending on winning—he'd always been your source of comfort. Even with the loss of Guizhong, from whom he'd learned so much about being human, the first thing he did was to hold you as you shed bitter tears over the Lord of Dust.

To Rex Lapis, you would always be a beloved comrade, a skilled fighter who’d driven away all those who would dare defile Liyue. It had taken a while—and also involved him taking on the name of “Zhongli”—before you’d realized that you were something more to him. More than a fellow adeptus. More than a fellow survivor.

Of course, your feelings towards him have never changed over the years, no matter what name he would take on. He was the lord you’d forever sworn to serve, the general you’d always follow into battle…even if that battle meant living as humans for the rest of time.

Once the dust had settled, Zhongli had kept your hand in his for as long as you could remember. Like him, you’d taken on many names, many forms, and many occupations. With him, you’d watched from the sidelines as Liyue Harbor grew to be the center of trade that it is now. For him, you’d decided to form a family, as unconventional as it might be.

But the nightmares would always come. Sometimes, you’d wake up in cold sweat in the middle of the night, an irrational fear that someone—or something—would take your children away causing you to sprint to the nursery, only to relax when you find them snoring away. Zhongli has them too, but he’s much more discreet about it; muttering names in his sleep, or holding on to the arms of his chair like they were lifelines, closing his eyes as he did so.

Every single time without fail, you pry his fingers off the wood and kiss them, one by one, over and over again, until he lets out a shaky exhale and pats your cheek to let you know the worst is over. Similarly, whenever you break down in the nursery after a particularly nasty dream, he would pick you up, bring you to the kitchen, and hold you quietly as he prepares tea to help you go back to sleep. When circumstances allow, you go to tea houses together, both as a form of entertainment and as a way to fill the sudden gaps in your memories.

Both you and Zhongli know what’s to come. You’ve seen how erosion works—nearly falling into its clutches more times than you’d care to count—and its inevitability still scares you. But you cast your fears aside for the sake of the child in your arms, whom you now know understands you…perhaps just as well as Zhongli does.

You press your lips against the child’s forehead, filling your thoughts with all the good things you know in this world: the scent of Glaze Lilies, the sound of Hu Tao’s laughter, the chaotic clanging of pans at Wanmin Restaurant. You push the bad memories down, deep down, until all that’s left are the ones you’d always treasure: the books in Guizhong’s collection, the night sky illuminated by Skybracer’s antlers, the warm smiles of the people of Liyue. You think about Zhongli’s extended hand, on the day he’d invited you to live the rest of your lives together.

“No harm will come to you, my beloved,” you whisper. “I will make sure of it. Until the very end.”

When you glance up, you find Zhongli already looking at you, a small crease between his brows. When you smile and shake your head, he visibly relaxes, offering you a warm smile in return. Your eldest jumps into his arms without warning, and Zhongli laughs.

Eventually, this day, along with the others, will fade into dust, as you and Zhongli will. But you’re certain that it will happen with your hand in his—as it has always been.

...you will always be my favorite form of loving

“Diluc, come on,” you complain. “It’s not that cold.”

“Absolutely not.” He shakes his head, not once removing his attention from cleaning the claymore in his hands.

“You’ve already killed off all the slimes in the area, I’m not in any immediate danger of freezing over.”  You submerge your head briefly, letting the waters of the lake run over your hair, and you sigh at the sensation.

“You can tell me that after you’ve left the front of the fireplace at home.”

“Aww.” You pout as you swim closer to Diluc. His eyes flicker upwards to you for a split second before he scrubs at a particularly stubborn stain. “Just ten minutes, Diluc.”

“No.”

“Even if it’s just your toes?” You ponder for a second. “Or do I actually have to strip—”

Diluc sighs loudly, setting his claymore aside to let his head fall between his knees. You could actually see the gears in his head turning, carefully weighing out the pros and cons of jumping into the lake late at night. You could also see the exact moment when he’d decided that the risk of anyone seeing you butt naked far outweighed the questioning looks he’d probably get, and you laugh at how quickly he submits.

You disappear under the water and resurface a little further away, floating on your back to admire the glittering night sky. You raise your hand, as if to pluck a couple of stars from the void, letting the moonlight filter through your fingers.

A splash sounds from the banks, and you pull yourself upwards to see Diluc, shirtless as he wades through the water. “Happy?” he asks, but his tone is far from displeased.

“Very,” you answer, beaming as you swim towards each other.

“It’s cold,” he complains as he brings you into his arms.

“No, you’re just warm.” You push away the locks of hair sticking to his face. He watches you as you trace his features: the bridge of his nose, the smooth expanse of his cheeks, the gentle slope of his Cupid’s bow. You regard him as one would a priceless sculpture, and he may as well be; in the glow of the moon, partially submerged in clear blue waters, it wouldn’t surprise you at all to learn that the man in your arms is a god.

But sculptures are built to be perfect, and as you skim your fingers down to his arms and chest, they run into scars that would suggest otherwise. You know that he’s not proud of them, that they come from some of the darkest days of his life, and you would be foolish to say it isn’t so. Nevertheless, they are a part of him, and you can’t imagine not loving him in his entirety.

In fact, it was terrifying to imagine a world where you are not in love with Diluc Ragnvindr. You think of the stars twinkling above you and wonder if beyond them, there’s a universe where you aren’t together; the thought alone makes you cling closer to him. Loving him is addicting, destructive, even, if taken in the wrong direction. But you’re far from perfect, too.

You’re much too focused on your ministrations to notice that Diluc is touching you, too; swiping the callused pads of his fingers across your lips, tilting your chin up slightly to get a better look at your face.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs.

His ability kicks in when he sees a younger Diluc lying on your lap, a content smile on his face as you blow dandelion seeds out over Starsnatch Cliff. A figure approaches the two of you from the side, and Diluc immediately sits up—his Knights of Favonius armor creaking and groaning in protest—with reddening ears.

Your laugh rings out, infectious and joyous as always. It’s clearer than the sky above and as crisp as the autumn air, just like how he remembers it. The figure joins you, evidently amused by Diluc’s sudden bashfulness. When they turn in his direction, Kaeya sucks in a breath.

“Kaeya,” Crepus Ragnvindr says, a warm smile on his face as he extends a hand to him. “Come join us, son.”

Oh. Kaeya could feel the tears threatening to spill over. It’s this kind of dream.

You turn to look at him—an action Diluc mimics—and bright smiles spread over your faces. You wave enthusiastically at him, the remaining dandelion seeds scattering all over the place at the sudden movement.

His legs move before his brain has a chance to register it, and he’s practically sprinting across the field to get to you. To you, to Crepus, to Diluc…to the life that, regardless of what he says, he will continue to long for for eternity.

But as soon as his fingers brush Crepus’, he disappears under a whirlwind of flowers, and the scene changes.

He’s standing in an open field now, with miles and miles of nothing but asphodels, hyacinths, and dandelions. He hears your laughter yet again, and he follows it to a clearing, where you had laid out what seemed to be a full-blown feast on a picnic blanket. You’re wearing your scarf again.

Kaeya begins to call your name, but his voice quickly dies in his throat when a toddler barrels into the scene, giggling as they flatten entire bunches of flowers beneath their tiny feet.

He can’t make heads or tails of whose child it was; the dream doesn’t give him that satisfaction. But you regard them as if they were your own, your voice ringing in his ears as you chide them for getting their outfit dirty.

You finally crane your head up to meet his eyes, and the smile you give him is warmer than the sun above.

“I love you, Kaeya,” you say, and all Kaeya can do is stare, while his heart bangs mercilessly in his chest.

The toddler turns to see who you were talking to, and he musters the nerve to meet their gaze. They look at him, tilting their head as any curious child would. Kaeya mirrors the action.

Then, tears begin welling up in their eyes.

They stumble forward, heartbreaking sobs reverberating throughout the entire field and shaking Kaeya to his core. As if everything had gone into slow motion, Kaeya sees them about to trip; out of instinct, he moves to catch them.

That is, until he himself topples over.

He looks back to see flowers creeping around his ankles, anchoring him in place. He tugs and tugs, but to no avail. If only I had my sword, he curses.

The child indeed falls over in front of him, and the cry they let out pierces him more than any blade ever could. Kaeya pulls himself up, about to beg you for your help, but his eyes meet the child’s once more.

The flowers continue to crawl up his legs, snapping them shut and rendering him immobile.

He smells something vaguely floral and earthy in the air. Then, the smell of petrichor. A shiver runs down his spine.

This is your chance. You are our last hope.

“Papa!” the child screams, and Kaeya sees familiar blue eyes. “Don’t leave me!”

The sky above begins to darken like a festering wound, and thunder rumbles across the clouds. The flowers burn to ash, and so does the sight in front of him. The atmosphere shifts again; this time, he finds himself in Mondstadt.

Well, in the place where Mondstadt used to be, at least.

The Church of Favonius, once the pride of the City of Freedom, was now in complete ruins. The statue of the Anemo Archon was in a sorrier state, almost completely gone save for what looked like its feet.

The Knights of Favonius Headquarters had most of its structure intact, but Kaeya surmises it would not hold for long, not with it being used as a makeshift area for keeping the dead and injured. He sees Jean, her once-beautiful blonde hair singed and covered with soot, continuing to bark orders despite the clear distress in her voice. In her hand was an empty Vision, tied to a set of chimes that jingled gently.

All around him, buildings burned and crumbled to the ground. Angel’s Share had been all but obliterated, and Katheryne from the Adventurer’s Guild was nowhere to be seen. Even more terrifying was the presence of the cube-like ropes wrapping themselves around the city like vicious serpents. The bleeding sky covers the former City of Freedom in a thick blanket of grief and horror.

Despite all this, Kaeya walks through the ruins calmly. He sees his fellow Knights—those who were still alive, or injured at best—making their way through the streets in a panic. Over the wreckage that used to be the Adventurer’s Guild, he watches as Huffman and Cyrus mobilize the rest of the Adventurers that could still move; Fischl stares straight ahead, her once-animated eyes empty and bleak.

He hears crying, and he stops in his tracks. He strains his ears to listen, and amidst the crying comes the uncharacteristically distressed Albedo calling for Klee.

He’s facing the entrance to the city, now left completely unguarded. Normally, that would have been a source of great concern for him, but his mind is wiped completely blank. He feels nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Yet somehow, that scared him the most.

He sees figures occupying the bridge, and he walks forward. The rain comes down in torrents now, and lightning strikes with every step he takes, as if Celestia itself had come to wreak havoc on what was left of Mondstadt.

He sees Diluc, his wild and unkempt vermillion hair sticking to his face. His claymore lies next to him, completely off his mind in favor of what he was holding in his arms.

No, Kaeya thinks, stopping in front of the sight. Not what—who.

Diluc cups your face as he cradles your limp form in his arms. His voice is lost under the wailing of the wind, but Kaeya’s not sure if he wanted to hear it anyway. He instead focuses on the stain on your front, as dark as the crumbling sky above. He instead thinks about how he’ll never hear you laugh again.

Diluc looks up, fear flickering in his eyes. For a minute, all Kaeya sees is the boy from his childhood—painfully shy but always eager to please, always desperately trying to hide the fact that he’d been pining after you for so long. Kaeya had always been able to figure him out.

But now, all he can think about is how he’s completely unguarded.

Diluc shouts something at him, the fear completely gone from his system now. Kaeya doesn’t hear him. When he looks down, however, he sees his sword in his hand.

Diluc gives it a long, hard look, before resignation causes his shoulders to sag. He lays your lifeless form to the side, taking time to brush the hair out of your face before standing up.

“I don’t want to do this,” Kaeya says. It was Diluc’s turn not to hear him, judging by the way he walks over to his claymore, a noticeable limp in his step.

“Diluc,” Kaeya calls again. Diluc raises his weapon, the expression painted on his face reminding Kaeya of a wounded animal.

An animal that had nothing left to lose.

Against his own will, Kaeya lifts his blade.

When Diluc swings, he takes the entire fabric of reality with him.

Kaeya pries his eyes open, and the first thing he feels is a massive headache.

His mouth feels drier than the Mare Jivari, and he just knows that his voice will be scraping heavily against his throat for the rest of the day. He turns his head—trying to ignore the flash of pain the movement causes him—and sees a glass of water on his bedside table.

His bedside table, which was surprisingly free of the clutter that normally adorned its surface.

He’s drawn to some quiet shuffling around his room, and the bleariness in his eyes clears just as they zero onto a figure tucking the last of his clothes into a basket.

It’s almost laughable how quickly he recognizes you.

“A dream?” he mumbles. You look over your shoulder, and he nearly forgets everything that had happened prior to this moment for a hot second—if not for the somber expression on your face.

You walk over to his bedside, offering him the glass of water. When Kaeya sits up, his muscles scream in pain.

You must have noticed his brief pause, and out of instinct, your arm shoots out to support him as he sits up; before it could connect, however, you freeze.

He notices that, too.

Hesitantly, you pull your arm back. “Sorry,” you say quietly. “Just…take it easy, you had a lot to drink.”

Kaeya accepts the glass quietly, and keeps his eyes trained on the wall in front of him as you sit on the edge of his bed. The water helps clear his head and mouth a little, and he sits there with you in silence as he tries to get his bearings.

“How bad is it?” he finally asks after a while.

“Not so that it couldn’t be reversible,” you reply. “You passed out just as you left the place, so…nothing really happened. Childe…said that you two were just horsing around.”

Childe. Even in his hungover state, the name brings out an unexplainable anger in him. Of course, he’d never tell you that.

So, he changes the subject. “Jean?”

“Trying to talk the Fatui down.” At your response, Kaeya sighs.

“Like I said, it’s not as bad,” you quickly add. “Likely because Childe did say that there was no harm done, so really, it’s just the disruption that’s being addressed, and Jean said that…”

Your ramblings turn to white noise in his ears, and all he could think about was how easily the Harbinger’s name rolls off your lips. The events of the previous night are starting to come back to him, and he remembers the blinding rage that came over him when he saw you dancing with Childe. He remembers the way your eyes fluttered shut when Childe pressed his lips against your neck.

And now, Kaeya has to deal with the thought that it was the same man who’d cleared his name, and inadvertently helped smooth things out with the Fatui.

He realizes that you’ve gone quiet, and he spares you a reluctant glance, only now coming to terms with the fact that it was the first time he’d properly been alone with you since the breakup. You’re wearing a shirt that he knows isn’t yours, and you seem more tense than usual—like your body can’t not remember that it isn’t facing the perils of a new journey.

Still, it could have just been because of him. How he hates that he’s taken away the ease in your shoulders, hates that he’s the reason why there are additional lines on your forehead when you frown.

But he glances at your face, and he knows that if he were to be bold enough to touch it, he would feel the warmth spreading across the skin. He’d feel the life thrumming underneath his fingertips, and that beats having to look at your ashen, limp, and empty figure.

That beats having to see his dreams play out in real life.

To your credit, you hold his gaze longer than he thought you would. He’s known you for so long that he knows what you look like when you’re about to apologize, and he recognizes it in your eyes.

He’s not sure he wants to hear it, so he stops you. “Are you and…”

You look up at him, lip trapped between your teeth, and you shake your head.

“Good.” Kaeya finishes the rest of his drink, and sets it aside.

“Would you have been upset if we were?” you blurt out, like you’ve been itching to ask all this time.

Yes. “No.”

“I—I see.” The sheets crumple in your hands, but Kaeya doesn’t trust himself to look at you. “I just thought that…you know. Last night, when you—”

“Precautionary measures, that’s all,” he responds flatly, the way he’s programmed himself to do. “Can’t have anyone who might be used as leverage against me fall into the wrong hands.”

He cuts you off before you can speak. “It could be anyone, really. Jean, Barbara, Rosaria. Even dear darling Diluc, who I understand will be more than disappointed with the current turn of events.”

“Would you have risked the Knights’ reputation for just anyone, then?” Your tone was sharp, borderline menacing. Good, Kaeya thinks. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand your sudden submissive, timid attitude.

If breaking things off with you like that would make you stronger, push you further away from the fate that awaits you in his dreams, he’s really starting to believe that he was—and still is—doing the right thing.

But since there was no ignoring the lump in his throat, he continues to lie. “Of course I would. I’d always pick myself over even the Knights.”

“Even over me?”

That makes him hesitate, if only for a split second. “Even over you.”

You laugh, and it does not sound at all like what he’s been dreaming about for weeks now. It’s hollow, dry, fake. Dead.

“If that’s all,” Kaeya says, slowly lowering himself back onto his pillow and turning on his side. “I need a couple more hours before I offer my head to Jean in repentance.”

You don’t answer. Truth be told, he doesn’t expect you to.

What seems like entire years pass by before the weight on the other side of the bed lifts, and he listens to you pad across his floor and reach for your belongings. He’s heard the sounds before, but it was always when you’d come to visit, or leave for work. Either way, he’d always be guaranteed that you’d come home soon.

Part of him wants to shoot out of bed and grab your hand, and explain to you why he did what he did. That part of him that had committed himself to get his knuckles bloody for you last night, the Knights of Favonius be damned, wants to grovel in front of you, while admitting that he’s dreamt about you every night since you left. Part of him craves your love, your laughter, your forgiveness, for everything he was and everything he was going to be.

You had sat there, guiltily twiddling your thumbs over the entire incident, which all but confirmed to him that the entire event had been staged. Surely some part of you had known he still wanted you, despite all he’d put you through. How quickly and easily you rubbed it in his face that he was replaceable, that he was not as special as he was brought up to believe, that there were people out there who could treat you better than he ever could; how quickly and easily you’d shoved in his face the fact that you were the embodiment of everything good in his world, that your own will keep turning long after he’s gone, that despite his well-built persona, he’s bound to end up alone and he doesn’t want you to leave and he doesn’t want you to go—

“You’re a good person, Kaeya,” you suddenly say, breaking him out of his thoughts. “And you’ve always made the right decisions when it counts. When the time comes, you’ll make the right decision yet again.”

Another pause. “So, I won’t question this one.”

His hand shoots out to grab yours, your name falling from his lips, a confession threatening to make an appearance—

“S-sir Kaeya?”

Kaeya opens his eyes, blinking to get rid of the spots in his vision. He looks to the side to see Noelle, whose face had turned the color of the roses she had on her person. Looking down, he sees that he’d grabbed her hand.

He lets go, frowning in confusion.

“M-master Jean asked me to check on you,” Noelle says hastily, her back now turned to him, presumably to hide her embarrassment. “If you were still feeling unwell before noon, I was to call Barbara in, but, er…”

He sits up, expecting the full strength of his hangover to hit him at full force, only to be greeted with a relatively mild nauseating feeling. He watches Noelle busy herself with the clutter in his room, picking up the books strewn across the carpet and the articles of clothing hiding underneath them.

“Did you just come in, Noelle?” Kaeya asks.

“Yes,” she answers. “I just came in to check on you, as instructed, and…well…”

Kaeya rubs his forehead, partially to soothe the throbbing in his head and partially to try and make sense of the situation. “Was…was anyone in my room before you came in?”

“Not anyone I know of, no. Only the Knights of Favonius and I have access to this wing of the building.”

Not true, he thinks. You have the keys to his room. You’ve been in here more than once. “A…dream?” he mumbles.

He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. “Please take it easy, Sir Kaeya,” Noelle tells him. “You’ve had quite a lot to drink.”

Had you actually been in his room? Had you actually sat and listened as he struck you down all over again, all while looking at him with a sadness in your eyes that he’d never seen before? Had he actually almost confessed that he wanted to take it all back?

He glances at his bedside table, finding the empty glass, and the tattered scarf next to it.

Noelle, now back to her usual chipper self, continued talking. “Klee requested that I bring you some fish she caught in Starfell Lake…of course, I took the liberty of cutting out the burnt parts—”

Kaeya interrupts her by saying your name. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud in a while, and archons, could he ever forget the way it balances so delightfully on his tongue? “Where are they?”

“They attended the party last night, and—”

“As in, where are they right now?”

“They apparently left Angel’s Share with Master Jean this morning. Before I came here, I heard Huffman say something about Master Diluc arranging for a ride to take them back to Liyue—Sir Kaeya!”

Before Noelle had finished her sentence, Kaeya had tumbled out of bed, ignoring the way the ground swayed dangerously underneath him as he did so. She barely manages to catch him before he sprints out the door unceremoniously, barrelling down the stairs like a madman.

Jean, who was still in her clothes from the previous night, looks up to see Kaeya with a crazed and definitely not sober look on his face, being pursued by Noelle. She steps in front of the door with her arms outstretched, fixing Kaeya with a glare that had him skidding in his tracks.

“Kaeya,” she warns.

“Just this once,” he pants. “Just this once, and I swear that I’ll take on all administrative tasks for the next two weeks.”

“No,” Jean says firmly. “The Fatui are still in the area, and we’d just wrapped up talks—”

“I’m not looking for the goddamn Fatui or that stupid ginger,” Kaeya snaps, cursing the way Jean seems to triple in his vision. “It’s (Y/N). Did…did they already…”

“They’ve already decided they won’t stay any longer, so Diluc’s arranged for a ride…”

“Where? Where is the carriage picking them up?”

“In front of the bridge, but Kaeya, for Barbatos’ sake!” Jean blocks his path again, while waving off Noelle and the other Knights’ attempts to intervene. “Why are you—”

“I screwed up, Jean,” he says, in a voice so quiet it could have been a whisper. “It’s…I can’t let them leave without telling them that, at least.”

Jean sighs in resignation. Kaeya can feel the gazes from his fellow Knights boring into his back, no doubt utterly bemused at their captain’s sudden change in character. But he’s since entrusted the repercussions of his recent actions to the future him; the present, on the other hand, would never be able to rest easy if he gives up on you now.

“I think it’s okay to let him go,” a soft voice sounds from behind them. Kaeya and Jean turn to see Albedo, Klee’s little hand grasped in his.

“Albedo,” Jean says, unable to keep the surprise out of her tone, and Kaeya can’t blame her; the Chief Alchemist in the Knights of Favonius headquarters has always been a rare sight.

“(Y/N) should be by the bridge waiting for a carriage to take them back to Liyue,” Albedo says. “You should be able to make it if you hurry.”

“Kaeya can run the fastest!” Klee agrees wholeheartedly. “But it’s beginning to snow…maybe Klee could clear the path so Kaeya doesn’t slip?”

While Albedo patiently explains to Klee the consequences of throwing her bombs willy-nilly, Kaeya looks up at Jean. “I won’t be long,” he promises. “I won’t talk to anyone but them. I just need to come clean.”

Jean sighs for what seems like the umpteenth time, but reluctantly steps out of the way.

“Careful on your way down,” she says.

Kaeya nods in gratitude, and pushes the doors open.

Mondstadt is always known for having clear skies year-round, but clearly, Barbatos had other ideas today.

Had it not been for Kaeya’s years of experience with his Vision, he would have backed down as soon as the cold hit him with a vengeance. Instead he persists, taking only a second to wish he’d grabbed a coat.

He makes his way down, past the courtyard where Fischl was helping the kids build snowmen, and past the Cat’s Tail where Barbara was nursing a hot cup of tea. He barely spares Katheryne a glance, keeping his eyes fixed on the bridge right in front of him.

It somehow feels like a dream, with the way the snow glistens as it falls, bathing the world in a soft glow. This time, though, he’s not sure if it’s real or not; as a result, he does not know how it ends. But all Kaeya thinks about is how he’s still able to put one foot in front of the other, without fear of tripping or being rooted to the ground. He’s still able to move quickly, hear clearly, form words—and be honest with them this time.

For now, that’s all I need, he thinks.

Kaeya makes it to the bridge, and his heart drops upon seeing it empty. Even Timmie wasn’t at his usual spot with his birds; his mother must have kept him inside today on account of the weather.

Before he knows it, he’s sprinting across the bridge, shouting your name like it was the last time he’d ever get to say it (and it very well might be). He swivels around madly, scanning the areas for a glimpse of you.

Kaeya’s breath steams in the cold, frigid air. It didn’t take him long at all to reach the bridge from the Knights of Favonius headquarters, and both Albedo and Noelle had stated that you were still around.

But was he actually too late this time?

He shouts your name one more time, the fatigue from running at full speed now starting to manifest in his legs. He’s not going to give up, he’s not letting you go until he explains everything to you, even if he has to go to Liyue on foot—

“Kaeya?”

All of a sudden, the world is thrown into slow motion.

There you were, trudging up the path from Cider Lake, visibly shivering despite having what was clearly Diluc’s coat draped over your figure, snowflakes seemingly suspended in mid-air all around you.

For a minute, there’s nothing but dead silence, as he meets your eyes, willing his brain to form words—only for it to grind to a halt at the sight of you. The situation didn’t matter; he hates not knowing what to say.

“Kaeya,” you repeat, surprise painted all over your face. “What are you—”

“You…” He swallows thickly. “I thought you’d…”

You gesture to the lake behind you. “Timmie posted a commission to feed the ducks so his pigeons could eat without their interference,” you explain. “I take commissions from Liyue at the moment, but seeing as the carriage hasn’t arrived yet…”

Your voice trails off, as if you had only just realized the situation you were in. Kaeya sucks in a breath, and suddenly a shiver rocks his entire body.

“Oh, Kaeya,” you say, moving to shrug your coat off. “You’re going to catch a co—”

“I had a dream,” he blurts, and you halt in your movements. “Of you. Of Master Crepus, of Diluc.”

“...I see.” He looks up to see your eyes cast downwards. “It’s that kind of dream, huh?”

Curse you for knowing him so well.

“And I dreamt that I lost all of you.”

“That’s not going to happen,” you tell him gently.

“It already has,” he insists, gritting his teeth. He’s lost Master Crepus, the closest to a father that he’d ever gotten to have. He’s lost Diluc, the man he used to call a brother. He’d lost them, largely due to who he was and the place he used to call home.

His pride tries to rein his heart in, but if he loses you now, what else will he have left?

“I thought I was doing you a favor,” he admits. “I thought leaving you would be the kindest thing I could do for you. You know who I am. You know where I come from. For all we know, they could take you away for just knowing.”

You remain silent.

“I thought I knew how everything ends,” he continues. “And I never liked how it goes. Some part of me still thinks I did the right thing, and you deserve so much better. But if I’m being honest…”

He takes a deep breath, and finds the courage to look you square in the eye. “Seeing you with someone else somehow feels worse than the fate you’d have with me in your life.”

He hates how selfish he sounds, how utterly absurd his words were to any rational person. But he doesn’t deny the weight that’s lifted off his shoulders, how lighter he feels now that he’s given in to the deepest desires of his heart. He wonders, if it feels this good to come clean with you, how would it be like with Diluc?

“But you left me anyway,” you say quietly.

“It was the only thing I could think of at the time,” he replies truthfully. “We always walked a very thin line—”

“You didn’t even hear me out.” At the sound of your voice wobbling dangerously, Kaeya looks up at you again. “You didn’t even tell me why, you knew you owed it to me to give me an explanation. Or did all the years we spent together mean nothing to you?”

They meant everything to me, he wants to say, but he lets you continue.

And so you do—now with nothing holding you back. “You promised me, Kaeya. You promised me you’d never go away, and that we wouldn’t—I wouldn’t end up—”

You turn away, pinching the bridge of your nose in a desperate attempt to keep yourself from losing control. Kaeya watches as you make your way over to the end of the bridge, sitting yourself down on the concrete as you try to steady your breath. Hesitantly, he follows, keeping himself an arm’s distance away.

“I was wrong,” you admit. “I was wrong to use someone else to make you jealous, and I’m sorry. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t think I was justified in those actions.”

He knows that feeling. He knows it all too well.

Kaeya moves closer, kneeling until he’s at eye level with you. His inner self wants to laugh at the sight, and at the same time it makes him want to cry—had circumstances been different, he would have been down on one knee for a very different reason.

Part of him knows deep down that that future was lost forever. Still, he thinks, as he offers you his hand, he’d be damned if he didn’t at least give it a try.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the words feel like freedom.

You nod in response, sniffling. “I’m sorry, too.”

Kaeya reaches out to wipe the tears streaming down your face, hot against the pads of his fingers, only to turn cold just seconds later. And when mere tears turn to sobs, when you stop finally trying to deny yourself the chance to feel, he lets you fall apart.

He lets you cry—for your sake, and for his.

“I don’t know if I can say this,” he whispers. “But I still want you. Always have, always will. I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again, but…I just wanted you to know that before you leave.”

Forever, he adds in his head.

You raise your head, your eyes slightly puffy. “I’m not dying, you know.”

Kaeya chokes out a laugh, and the watery giggle you give in return makes his heart swell. “I mean…I heard you’re having a lot of fun in Liyue, so I thought you were considering settling down there.”

You sniffle and shake your head, clearing your throat before you continue. “No, my contract with the Guild there ends in a couple of weeks. I’ll be back home by next month.”

Kaeya’s spirits rise. “So, you’re staying here?”

“For the meantime.”

His head spins. It isn’t until that moment that he realizes that he’d forgone a proper recovery for his hangover, treated the Acting Grandmaster with unknightly behavior, and nearly busted his lungs running around in the cold winter air with the assumption that he’d never see you again—only for you to say you wouldn’t be going anywhere. He wants nothing more than to collapse on the ground right then and there, but he figures he would be breaking whatever trust he’d painstakingly built with you in a span of a few minutes by letting you drag him back to headquarters.

But the revelation brings him an even stronger surge of confidence. “With that being said, I don’t suppose it would hurt for us to…you know.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate further. The expression on your face is confirmation enough for him that you’d understood.

To your credit, you look like you’re actually giving it some thought. But Kaeya knows you well enough to know the face behind the mask. It takes one to know one, he supposes.

He sees it in the sunken circles around your eyes and the tight set of your jaw. Though your hand is in his, and you’re looking at him gently, he doesn’t kid himself—neither hold the warmth that they used to have.

He knows the answer when you gently untangle your fingers from his, lifting your now free hand to brush a lock of hair away from his exposed eye. He takes your hand again, gently pressing his lips against it before getting up.

“It was worth a shot,” he tells you. All you do is nod in response.

The sound of wheels bumping against the snow-covered road catches his attention, and he turns his head. Sure enough, the long-awaited carriage comes into view.

You take a deep breath and get up, shrugging Diluc’s coat off your shoulders and offering it to Kaeya. “Would you please give it back to Diluc?” After a brief pause, you add, “Think of it as your punishment.”

Kaeya snorts, but takes the coat anyway. “I’ll make sure to put in a word about his driver’s poor scheduling.”

He finally hears you laugh genuinely, and he knows he’ll rest easy tonight.

The carriage grinds to a stop in front of you, and after mercilessly teasing the poor driver (who’d been up all morning to shovel the snow out of his usual road), Kaeya helps you into the carriage.

You pull down the window. “Thank you, Kaeya,” you say, smiling. “This is for the best.”

“I always make the right decisions in the end, right?”

He expects a witty remark in reply, but to his surprise, you smile warmly at him. “Always,” you whisper.

Kaeya knows then and there that he’ll never get over you.

“Have a safe trip,” he says, feeling the lump in his throat rise. “See you around, (Y/N).”

“See you, Kaeya.” And with that, you put the window back up, settling back for the long journey ahead.

The whip cracks through the air, and Kaeya steps back as the carriage lurches forward. He keeps his gaze fixed on it until it disappears from view, and only then does he exhale slowly.

It’s okay, he reassures himself. This is enough.

“Kaeya?”

He turns to see Diluc, his permanent grimace seemingly deeper than usual. Kaeya guesses he’d been camping out at Angel’s Share, hopefully until the weather became more agreeable.

“Hey, Master Diluc,” he says, handing Diluc his coat. “What a shame, I was thinking of grabbing a drink to help warm me up.”

“You had enough of that last night,” Diluc grumbles, wasting no time slipping into the thick fabric. “And? Has the carriage left?”

“Just now.”

“Good. Now get back indoors, you’re going to catch a cold. What are you still doing here, anyway?”

Kaeya tucks his hands in his pockets and looks up at the grey sky, admiring the snow for the first time today.

“Nothing, I just…had a really good dream.”

taglist ( those in italics, I can't tag you :< ):

You stare at the text with your thumb between your teeth, wondering why it fills you with a strange sense of dread. To anyone else, it would have been strange to see you visibly panicking over a message sent by your “Uber Driver”, which was why you had immediately darted to a secluded corner of the dressing room to open it.

“Bye, (Y/N),” one of the senior ballerinas says to you as they pass, their sports bag slung over their shoulder. “You sure you can’t make it later?”

Your eyes flicker up from your phone and smile apologetically. “Sorry, something came up at the last minute.”

“You mean someone came up at the last minute,” another friend teases, prodding you playfully with their water bottle. “Darling (Y/N) has a boyfriend.”

“No way, really?”

“I’m so jealous!”

You laugh and wave them off, pocketing your phone before packing the rest of your equipment into your bag. You can’t swallow the lump that had risen in your throat as soon as your phone buzzed with the notification, nor were you able to shake off the tension in your shoulders all throughout class.

It was unsettling, really, how you could never read the enigmatic Albedo—even with the nature of your…relationship.

You down the rest of your sports drink before leaving the room, saying goodbye to the receptionist as you pass her by in the lobby. With practiced ease, you throw your hood on, making sure your face is completely obscured by the fabric, before hopping into a cab.

The key is exactly where you know it would be, and you swiftly unlock the front door of the studio before disappearing inside. It’s only when you turn the lock again that you let yourself relax; you’ve learned never to let your guard down until you’ve safely hidden behind the studio door.

Something brushes against your ankles. You place your bag down on the floor and crouch, letting your fingers run through the cat’s midnight black fur. “Hello, Durin,” you whisper.

Durin trills and flops onto his belly, only to bat at your hand when it gets too close.

You straighten after a while, scanning the studio for any sign of Albedo. The backdrop was the same one he’d used last time, so you assume that he hadn’t been around since then.

“Albedo?” you call.

“In here,” he responds, and your eyes and ears trace his voice to the door leading to the darkroom. You make your way towards it, tapping lightly before letting yourself in.

You hadn’t known many academics before meeting Albedo, and so your initial impression of their group were people who devoted every waking hour immersing themselves in information regarding their field of study. It had obviously come as a surprise to you when Albedo first brought you to his studio, and told you about his ventures into painting and photography.

When you’d confessed all this, Albedo had burst into laughter.

(“What do you think we are, robots?”)

Even after years of knowing him, seeing his photos still takes your breath away. Landscape photography was his thing; disappearing for months on end in the deepest forests or in the coldest mountains seemed to be right up his alley. When you’d voiced your concerns about his work potentially being left unfinished, he only smiled, and asked why you thought his work would ever be unfinished.

But it wasn’t until he’d met you and until you two fell into this…arrangement, that he shifted to portraits and candid photography—or so he tells you. He’s been known to snap photos of his colleagues in the laboratory he spearheads, and it’s not unusual to see Polaroids of kids eating ice cream on the street scattered all over his floor.

Even less unusual were the photos he’d taken of you, his self-professed muse. You’d pour over them together on the floor, picking out shots that stood out and laughing over those that captured weird expressions and awkward photo-bombers.

Piqués and grand jetés, forever frozen in time, litter the walls of his shabby studio, and hang from meticulously placed clotheslines in the darkroom you now stand in. But they’re not what your eyes were drawn to at the moment; they went straight to the figure standing a few meters away, hunched over a tray.

You surmise that Albedo came straight from the laboratory, if the white long-sleeved polo and khaki pants meant anything. You knock lightly on the door again, and he glances over his shoulder briefly before gesturing for you to come in.

“Did you run into any trouble on your way here?” he asks.

“I nearly slipped on the stairs when Mrs. Fray called out to me,” you say sheepishly. “She told me to ask you if you wanted cookies, she accidentally made too much.”

Albedo laughs quietly. “That would be nice. But nothing else?”

“No.” Your footsteps sounded like entire mountains crashing together in the small space. You could never really shake off the feeling that Albedo’s landlady could tell exactly what you were here for.

When you finally brush up against Albedo’s side, he shifts a little to wrap his arm around your waist. You spot a glass of whiskey placed by the corner of the table, looking more like water than alcohol.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

“I’m sorry, darling.” Albedo presses his lips to your temple, and fisting the ends of your jacket is all you can do to keep yourself from keeling over. “Sucrose thought she was onto something with her thesis, but she eventually hit a dead end after a couple of weeks. Then there was Timaeus and his journal club…I’m not too keen on boring you with the details.”

“Oh no, please tell me,” you say playfully, tucking your head into the crook of his neck. “You know how much I enjoy hearing about what new ideas Timaeus comes up with.”

Albedo only chuckles. The silence that follows is broken only by water dripping from the photos that he’d presumably hung up just recently, as well as the quiet hum of the space’s air conditioning.

“My mother was in town last week, too,” Albedo says, his voice low and taut as a bowstring.

Albedo’s mother—whose name you couldn’t pronounce to save your life—was a prominent figure in the international chemistry community, who’d taught Albedo her craft and essentially raised him to be the star chemist he was today.

You’d never actually met her, given that she was either always sitting at some scientific conference in an obscure part of the world, or hosting one with her colleagues (whom Albedo jokingly referred to as a coven more than once).

But from what you knew, she was a bit of an absentee mother, judging from the cracks her work had driven between Albedo and his siblings. This was a touchy subject for him to talk about, which was why he almost always strayed from it whenever it was brought up in conversation. There was no doubting, though, that Albedo was the favorite—the firstborn, the best, and the brightest. Otherwise, his mother wouldn’t have poured so much effort into helping him set up the laboratory he now runs.

Albedo lets his arm drop from your side, only to bring your hand to his lips. “How does takeout sound to you?”

“It sounds like the best thing in the world right now,” you answer truthfully, and Albedo flashes you one of his crooked smiles. You couldn’t help but sense a tinge of sadness behind his expression—but how could you ever know, really?

You later take refuge on the floor of the main studio, sitting with a bottle of wine on one of the spare backdrops stashed in the corner of the room. You’re already a couple of drinks in when Albedo finally gets up to meet the delivery person, and you admire the toned expanse of his back while the world spins around you.

“So why did you call me out here?” you ask as he hands you the kitchen towels. “Your text was so incredibly cryptic, I thought you were going to confess to a murder or something.”

He doesn’t answer, and for a minute you watch as he busies himself with refilling your glasses. There’s a tension in the air that you’d mildly felt as soon as you walked into the darkroom, dispelled only during your conversation earlier. Now, it seems to have fallen on the two of you once again, making your heart crawl into your throat.

“I just wanted to see you,” he finally says, with the nonchalance that you’ve grown so accustomed to. “Do I need any other reason to call you out here?”

“No, but…” You chew on your bottom lip. “Just…well…”

“How was class?” Albedo interrupts. “How’s the preparation for the production going?”

You blink, momentarily stunned by the change in topic before answering. “It’s doing well, I guess. I’ve given up on vying for the senior roles; I’ve just not been myself lately.”

“It’s just a momentary lapse,” Albedo reassures you. “I have them all the time. Better to sit and ride it out.”

You wonder how to tell him that your mind had been so consumed by the thought of him these days, intensified only by his previous absence and the invisible weight bearing on your shoulders at this very moment.

You’d known that your relationship with Albedo was far from conventional. Back then, you were fairly certain that you were just some girl who’d caught his eye, a ballerina who’d done more than entertain at an acquaintance’s birthday party. You’d thought that you existed only to fill up the pages in his albums, another passion project that would end as soon as the exhibit does—until one day, when he looked at you a certain way that lit all of your senses on fire.

Anyone in their right mind would have called it a romantic relationship and left it at that, but the situation wasn’t exactly that simple. One look at Albedo and his high standing in the chemistry community, the privileged family he will forever be tied to, and the future expected of him, and you were well aware of your place.

And for a while, you were content. Content to have a wonderful conversation partner to brighten up the driest of days, content to bask in the presence of a true genius…content to keep his bed warm and sweeten up his lonely days.

You give up on trying to explain and sigh, dusting off the crumbs from your lap and washing everything down with the rest of your drink. With the way your cheeks were warming and the way your head was spinning, you were certain that you’d feel one hell of a hangover tomorrow—but if it keeps your jitters down to just an occasional jolt, you’d take it.

The studio is once again filled with nothing but some old-timey music playing from the phonograph in the corner, which you understood was a gift from a family friend. Durin was enjoying his own dinner next to the couch, where he would later jump up on and fall asleep as soon as his bowl was clean.

“Right. I also wanted to ask you.” Albedo grabs a couple of kitchen towels. “Are you still looking for an apartment to rent?”

“I…yes, I am,” you reply. “I didn’t think you’d remember that.”

Albedo looks mildly offended. “I have a rather good memory, you know.”

“Yes, but…” You stop as soon as you realize you were about to fall into the same loop again, and shake your head to snap yourself out of it. “Why do you ask?”

Albedo gestures all around him. “You can have this if you want.”

“This piece of crap? Looks like it’s been rotting from the inside out since before the Second World War.”

“I assure you, it has a lot of personality.”

“Oh, ha-ha, very funny, Albedo.”

Albedo looks at you again, and it takes you a while to process it. The realization hits you like a wall of bricks.

“Albedo,” you whisper in shock. “You love this studio.”

“You just called it a piece of crap.”

“Yes, but that’s exactly how you like it!” You sit up a little straighter, ignoring how Albedo seems to triple in your vision. “You said you were never going to give it up, no matter how busy your work would get or how difficult your mother would be! Is she the reason why you’re giving it up?”

“She is,” Albedo replies. “And I didn’t agree without a bargain.”

“What could have possibly incentivized you to give all of this away?”

Once again, Albedo’s response is cool and collected. “You.”

That shuts you up.

He waves his hand, gesturing all around the room. “I bought this studio.”

He points to the right wall. “And the apartments next to it.”

Then to the floor. “And all the apartments below it.”

He leans back on his hands, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You’re right, this building needs some work. But it’s in an ideal location; a shopping center nearby, offices just down the block, a café just within walking distance. Even if the repair costs are going to be hefty, I’d be willing to bet you’d turn a profit in no time as long as you market it correctly. Of course, I wouldn’t be opposed to chipping in until you’ve got the money wheels turning.”

Albedo finally looks at you, and it astounds you yet again that he was acting as if he hadn’t just dropped the biggest bombshell in your life. He even has the nerve to chuckle. “I like that expression. Have I surprised you?”

“I…I don’t know what to say,” you stumble over your words. “Your mother…you…why?”

Albedo reaches for your hand, but says nothing in reply as he toys with your fingers. You don’t realize that you were holding your breath when, after a while, he presses his lips to your digits, and you let out a shaky exhale.

You can’t hold it back anymore.

“Albedo, what’s wrong?” You swallow thickly. “Why did you call me out today…and why are you abandoning the studio? What did your mother say to you?”

He takes a sudden interest in the empty pizza box in front of him, and his prolonged silence is starting to irk you. Couldn’t he see how much the tension was crushing you? Couldn’t he tell that it was taking all that you had to not break right then and there, or how much you’re holding back, out of fear of misreading the situation?

When he finally looks up, he offers you a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll tell you later, okay?” he says, and his voice sounds strained, in pain, even. “I’ll tell you if you indulge me with something.”

You tilt your head in confusion when Albedo gets up and disappears into a different room, coming back with a camera in his hands. You recognize it immediately as one of his favorites: a vintage film camera gifted to him by the child he occasionally minds. Despite the fact that very few shops in the city were able to develop the photos he took with it, Albedo’s love for all things antique surpassed the inconveniences that came with them.

Yet another entry on the long list of things you would never come to understand about him—why someone like him, whose profession relied on bright and shiny new equipment, would take a liking to items that looked like they might disintegrate at any second.

Still, at the mere sight of the camera, you know what he’s asking for. You sigh, resigning yourself to the fact that your suffering was not quite over yet, and head over to where he was standing.

“My portfolio’s not quite complete yet,” Albedo murmurs, as he fiddles around with the lights around the backdrop. “If you would…and as a way to say goodbye to this little studio…”

“Albedo,” you whisper.

He tucks the camera away in favor of pulling you to his chest, and letting his lips ghost just centimeters over yours. You’re rendered immobile by the proximity alone, by the feeling of his breath dancing against your tender skin. When he pulls away, he does so only to press his lips against your pounding jugular, sending tendrils of lightning down your spine.

Once he’s done marking the smooth expanse of your neck, he leaves a lingering kiss on your collarbone before making his way to your cheek, nestling his mouth just near your ear.

“Dance for me,” he breathes.

Your eyes flutter close, and you feel like buckling. Oh, how easy it would be to fall in love with him. Some part deep inside of you weeps, grieves for the person that you were before you’d met him—knowing that you’d never be truly the same afterwards. Who would you be after his touch, his scent, his kisses?

But with the way he gently pats your ass to get you moving, and the borderline arrogant smirk that appears on his face as you whine at the touch, could you really blame yourself?

With practiced ease, you make your way over to the small set-up. The lights aren’t at all different from the ones you’re used to on stage, and if you concentrate hard enough, you could hear the crackling of rosin under pointe shoes, as well as the murmuring of the crowd. Although you were performing for an audience of one this time, it doesn’t make you any less nervous.

Picking up on the beat of the faint tune emanating from the nearby phonograph, you move with a fluidness that would put rivers to shame. In the glare of the studio lights, your dress spins as you do, fabric whipping around like tongues of fire.

As the minutes pass, and you continue to dance, you feel the tension that was weighing heavily on your shoulders marginally ease, allowing you to lose yourself in your movements. That was one of the many reasons why your love of dance has persisted despite the arduous classes and injuries you’d sustained; it calms you right down. Perhaps that was one of the reasons that had drawn Albedo to you—the way he loves photography is not at all different from how you love dance.

That being said, you wonder why you don’t hear the familiar clicking of the camera, which would have normally overpowered the violin. Its absence continues for a couple more minutes, until you break your concentration to see just what Albedo was doing.

Albedo had all but abandoned his camera, letting it sit idly on his lap as he leaned back in his revolving chair. His eyes never leave you even for a minute, and they follow the movement of your limbs almost hungrily.

But what makes your skin prickle is the sight of his erection straining against his slacks, and the fact that he makes no effort to hide it. He instead sits with his legs spread, almost as if he was beckoning you over. You swallow, feeling yourself grow wetter and wetter by the second, but you persevere.

Your efforts are later rewarded when Albedo finally stands, walking over to point the camera at you. He snaps away, but you continue your movements, trusting his skills in capturing you in motion.

Albedo continues to take pictures, knowing exactly which angles suited you best. You bat your eyelashes and occasionally make expressions that make you seem too over-the-top, which earns you annoyed glances, much to your own amusement.

When you turn to face the backdrop, you immediately feel him behind you, yanking out the pins out of your hair with the desperation of a man starved. He captures the way the strands fall around your face, and the way they sweep over your skin as you extend your arms.

And when you peer into the lens through your lashes, not bothering to hide the pure need behind them, he finally cracks.

Wrapping a hand around your throat, he pulls you backwards into his chest once more, claiming your lips. His tongue slips past them, and engages in a dance of its own with yours. You pull his hand away from your neck so you could face him fully, and you shudder at the sheer lust in Albedo’s eyes before he kisses you again.

Your fingers work at his polo, popping the buttons until you could slide the fabric off him, marveling at the feeling of his bare skin against your hands. He gently pushes your shoulders down, and you oblige, thinking he wanted you on your knees.

But he follows you, all the way down to the floor, letting his hands slide into yours over your head. The intensity of his kisses suddenly begin to wane, going from desperate to something that almost felt romantic.

Of course, that could have just been you.

His warm breath fans against the skin right above your heaving chest. You can’t help but fidget in anticipation, but your movements are limited by the hold his hands have on yours.

“No one,” he murmurs, so quietly you barely catch it. “No one understands me like you.”

Albedo looks at you, and this time, you see the lust in his eyes had diminished slightly. To your surprise, it’s been replaced by a mix of affection and longing…

…and something else. Something you couldn’t quite read.

He leans down to kiss you, long and deep, and it snatches the air out of your lungs. He lets go of your hands, and you let them run through his hair. He kisses you as if his life depended on it, and judging by his grip on your waist, he was holding you with the same desperation, too.

“‘Bedo,” you mumble.

“I’ve got you,” he assures you, just as his hand travels up your dress. You hear a quiet laugh when his fingers brush against the damp spot on your underwear, but you’re much too lost in the feeling to tell him off for it.

You don’t put it past Albedo to be a tease, but this night seemed to be full of surprises; he pushes your underwear aside to plunge two of his fingers into your soaking core. Your back arches at the sudden intrusion, a moan falling from your lips at the same time.

Your nails raise red streaks down his back, and the hiss he lets out is one of pleasure as he quickens the pace of his fingers in retaliation. His lips find the spot behind your ear again, forcing you to bite down on your lip to keep your moans down.

“God,” he groans. “You’re squeezin’ around my fingers. Don’t wanna let me go, hmm? Is that it?”

Yes, yes, yes, you want to cry out. In more ways than one, yes.

He curls his fingers, hitting that spot that makes you see stars with expert accuracy. He props himself up with his free hand and knees, cooing at the sight of you writhing underneath him. When you force your eyes open—not wanting to miss a single opportunity to see his face—you’re greeted with an expression so fond, you nearly shy away.

Albedo pulls his fingers out, but keeps his eyes on you, holding your gaze as he brings them up to his mouth and sucks. They linger there, as if he’s savoring the taste of you, while his free hand works at his pants. You smile at him, reaching behind you to unzip your dress, until you’re completely bare on the floor of his studio.

He suddenly stops just as he pops the button of his pants.

“‘Bedo?” you murmur questioningly.

Albedo touches your face, tracing the gentle slope of your Cupid’s bow before letting his fingers drag down your swollen lips. They continue downward, past your marked neck, until they brush against one of your nipples.

He seems entranced, in awe, almost, as if it was the first time he’d ever seen your naked body (which certainly wasn’t the case). He touches you with a reverence reserved for statues of deities, blissfully unaware of the goosebumps his fingers left in their wake. You think he says something, but it’s lost under the ringing in your ears.

In the midst of your pleasure, the question of what exactly Albedo’s mother had told him still wriggles around in the back of your mind. Whatever it was, it was enough to get him to sell the studio, and enough to unearth this side of him that you hadn’t seen before.

You’re momentarily broken out of your thoughts when the lens hovers just inches away from your face. While you were busy mulling things over, Albedo had grabbed the camera he’d set aside, and was now waving it in front of you.

“It won’t be for the portfolio, of course,” he assures you. “Just…for my personal use.”

“Pervert.”

Albedo takes your teasing as approval, and breaks into a smile. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this beautiful, completely topless with your hair spread all around you, in the middle of fucking the most gorgeous man on the planet.

He keeps his eye glued to the eyepiece, but his other hand moves to free his cock out of his pants, stroking it as he continues to take pictures. After a while, you sit up, knocking his hand out of the way to replace it with yours.

“That’s it. That’s it…God,” he moans out the last word as you wrap your lips around the tip. Still, he keeps his composure, leaning backwards to get a better angle of you sucking him off. You throw the camera a wink as his free hand comes down to the back of your head, guiding you as you work up a rhythm.

“Pretty, pretty,” he whispers, and you see his fingers over the shutter tremble. “So pretty. My pretty little whore.”

You take him as far down as you can, letting your hand work on the areas you can’t reach. You feel like you could stay this way forever, letting him praise you and call you filthy names while you bring him closer and closer to the brink.

You’d let him use you forever, you think.

Albedo finally sets the camera down, his head falling back and gasps escaping his lips. His grip on the back of your head tightens marginally, barely letting you go back up to the tip.

“Can’t, can’t, can’t,” he whines.

You peer up at him in confusion, only to have him pull you back by the hair. “Lie back down,” he pants, the pink dusting the top of his nose and cheeks.

As soon as your back meets the floor, he kisses you, and links your hands together with his. The gesture is no longer an unspoken rule to keep them above your head, not with the way he squeezes them gently as he rocks his hips against yours.

He takes your lower lip in between his teeth, pulling back gently and releasing it just as his nose brushes against the tip of yours. You raise your head to kiss him again, and it’s slow. Deep. Passionate.

Oh, how easy it would be indeed to fall in love with him. How easy it would be to delude yourself into thinking he’d fallen in love with you too, and that was why he was acting so out of character today.

But you couldn’t, no. There was too much at stake. Your paths were always meant to diverge; it was a miracle you’d both known each other at all. You lie awake most nights, thinking about how that invitation to perform at his acquaintance’s birthday was meant for one of your seniors, not you—only, she’d caught the flu days before, and turned to you, the only one available on that date.

You think about how Albedo’s mother had his entire life planned out for him, and what deviating from her dreams of turning him into the most respected chemist in your community would mean for him. You think about one of Albedo’s brothers, whom she callously referred to as “a failed experiment”, and the life of hate and resentment he leads now.

So, no matter what you felt for him, you preferred not to stick any labels on what he and you shared. It wasn’t friendship, nor was it love. God, it couldn’t be. It was just…you and him.

And yet, when he kisses you like that…

“Ready?” he asks, after pulling your underwear off to line his cock up in front of your sopping entrance. You nod.

You wrap your legs around his waist as he slowly enters, and later bottoms out, letting out a whine at the same time he bites down on your shoulder. Raking your fingers through his hair, you pepper kisses down the side of his neck, silently letting him know it was okay to move.

The drag of his cock against your walls instantly makes you groan, while your fingers turn to fists in his hair. When he picks up the pace, your head lolls back, wanton moans escaping your lips. But Albedo keeps you from hitting the ground, supporting your head by pressing it against your shoulder, pushing you even closer together.

“Tight…so tight…” he hisses. “God, you’re so perfect. So beautiful.”

Stop, you want to tell him. If you do that…say things like that…

But your arms wrap around him, like you’re trying to meld the two of you together, and you feel the words you’ve always been dying to say bubble up to your lips. It doesn’t help that Albedo angles his hips until his cock brushes up against your G-spot again, and the music playing on phonograph is quickly replaced by the symphony of your moans.

“Gonna come?” he grunts. “I’ll let you come, pretty baby. I’ll let you come all over my cock. How’s that?”

“‘Bedo,” you sob. “‘Bedo, I can’t!”

“You can,” he insists, and he seals his point by wrapping a hand around your throat. “You can and you will.”

Albedo claims your lips once more, tangling his tongue with yours, and giving your neck a quick squeeze. The combination makes you squeal and tighten around him, and he retaliates by slamming his hips against yours.

You’re close, and you know he feels it. He pushes himself up, letting your head rest gently against the floor so he can balance his weight on his forearms, all while never missing a beat.

“Look at me when you come,” he orders you. You want to tell him that he’s all you can see.

He’s all you want to see.

“‘Bedo…” you whimper.

He’s all you want.

His eyes bore into yours, and the cord snaps.

Your back arches as you cry out, and your body twitches like you’ve been possessed. It seems to go on forever, and it doesn’t help that Albedo’s rubbing at your clit to work you through your orgasm, nor does he stop moving his hips.

“Well done,” he tells you, and there’s genuine praise in his tone. “That’s my girl.”

He hovers over you as you come down from your high, pressing kisses to your collarbones. “I wanna come, pretty girl. Where do you want me?”

Your reply comes out garbled, and he laughs as he taps at your cheek to get your attention. “Where do you want me to come?”

“In..side…”

If you weren’t so fucked out, it would have been your turn to laugh at Albedo’s surprised expression. He’s never finished inside of you before; like the artist that he is, he was partial to doing so on your tits or on your stomach.

He leans over you, letting his nose brush against yours. You struggle to catch your breath, but you’re quickly caught under cerulean waves hidden behind lidded eyes. Albedo catches your bottom lip between his teeth, nipping gently to warn you that he was about to move again.

He grabs the fat behind your thighs and pushes them forward, and another sinful moan pours out of your lips as the angle drives his cock further upwards, nearly nudging against your cervix. Your eyes roll back just as the muscles in your jaw freeze up, and when Albedo starts pounding into you again, you vaguely feel drool trailing down your cheek.

“God.” You’re momentarily brought back to consciousness when you register a faint stinging on your cheek, and the sight of a flushed and sweaty Albedo slowly reveals itself in your line of sight. “You ask me to come inside you, then you make that face. It’s like you’re begging me to make you mine.”

“Yes, yes,” you babble, all coherent thoughts flying out the window with every thrust. “Wanna be yours, ‘Bedo, I—hngh—”

Albedo curses, then drops his head into the crook of your neck. You brace yourself for the sting, the indelible feeling of his teeth sinking into your skin, but it doesn’t come. All you hear are pants mixed with grunts, and what you think are small whines.

You think, until you feel something wet trickle down the side of your neck. Your eyes widen.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders in response, running a hand back into his disheveled hair. Albedo responds by picking up the pace, hissing as he finally tips over the edge. The unfamiliar, but not unwelcome feeling of him painting your walls white has your insides seizing up again, and it’s when he lazily snakes a hand between your legs and rubs at your clit that you come for the second time.

You stay like that for a while, with Albedo panting heavily on top of you and you trembling under him. He doesn’t remove himself from the crook of your neck, and the sheer wetness staining the skin there is starting to make you worry.

“Albedo,” you whisper hoarsely.

He sniffles, before taking a deep breath and pulling himself up. Sure enough, tears stain his wonderfully flushed cheeks, and a few more remain balanced on the edges of his eyelashes. He reaches down to cup one of your cheeks in his hand, staring at you like he’s trying to put his thoughts together.

You swallow, the old hopeful feeling rising up in your chest again. Why was he crying? Had he come to the same conclusion that you did earlier (months ago, really)? Was he thinking the same thing?

Could you finally say it?

“I’ll tell you now,” Albedo says.

Your spirits rise. Your heart hammers so loudly, you barely hear the record playing on the phonograph screech to a stop.

“Albedo, I lo—”

“(Y/N), I’m getting married soon.”

🍡 headcanons 🍡

→ fluffy: kageyama tobio

→ relationship: nishinoya yuu

→ nsfw: matsukawa issei, hanamaki takahiro, akaashi keiji❕

→ studying: akaashi keiji ❕

→ relationship: asahi azumane

→ relationship: kozume kenma

🍡 seijoh’s #1, setter, oikawa tōru 🍡

→ i’m proud of you (oikawa x reader)❕

→ tired? (oikawa x reader)

→ lipstick (oikawa x reader) ❕

→ opposites (oikawa x reader) ❕

→ lipstick (oikawa x reader) ❕

→ lipstick (oikawa x reader) ❕

→ opposites (oikawa x reader) ❕

→ the same (oikawa x reader)

→ maps (oikawa x reader) ❕

→ animals (oikawa x reader) ❕

→ killer style (oikawa x reader)

→ insufferable (oikawa x reader) ❕

→ stagnant (oikawa x reader)

→ pretty boy (oikawa x reader) ❕

→ golds and diamonds (oikawa x reader)

→ a dash of red (oikawa x reader)

🍡 seijoh’s #4, wing spiker, iwaizumi hajime 🍡

→ endgame (iwaizumi x reader) ❕

→ he/she (iwaizumi x reader)

→ hit it (iwaizumi x reader) ❕

→ get out! (iwaizumi x reader) ❕

→ whoops (iwaizumi x reader) ❕

🍡 nekoma’s #1, middle blocker, kuroo tetsurō 🍡

→ hey, buddy (kuroo x reader) ❕

→ distraction (kuroo x reader) ❕

→ temperature (kuroo x reader) ❕

→ never again (kuroo x reader) ❕

→ the dorks go to prom! (kuroo x reader)

🍡 karasuno’s #2, setter, sugawara kōshi 🍡

→ guard (sugawara x reader) ❕

→ slaves (sugawara x reader)

→ royal pain (sugawara x reader) ❕

🍡 karasuno’s #9, setter, kageyama tobio 🍡

→ legend (kageyama x reader)

→ stars, in their multitude (kageyama x reader)

🍡 karasuno’s #5, wing spiker, tanaka ryūnosuke 🍡

→ dependence (tanaka x reader)

🍡 karasuno’s #4, libero, nishinoya yū 🍡

→ wrong (nishinoya x reader)

🍡 karasuno’s #10, middle blocker, hinata shoyō  🍡

→ touch it (hinata x reader)

🍡 fukurodani’s #5, setter, akaashi keiji  🍡

→ nice receive (akaashi x reader)

🍡 nekoma’s #5, setter, kozume kenma  🍡

Angst has always been my favorite genre to write, and the ode to heartbreak series is sort of my tribute to that and to my love for sad songs. I think the reason why romantic stories and sad stories are equally popular is because love and grief are two of the most palpable emotions, and everyone's experienced them in some way or another at least once.

forever and always (zhongli's version) was about looking back and reminiscing over a past, and how it was so much better than the present. We have the Reader thinking about all that's happened between them and Zhongli: how wonderful it was, how they'd just started to tear down their walls, how full of promise a relationship with him originally was. Then you smash cut to the present time and there's a hole where he should be, and even though they're still together, there's that feeling of loneliness that otherwise should not exist in a relatively healthy relationship. That's what I tried to go for in this particular fic—feeling alone in a relationship, and trying to compensate for that loss by reliving happier times in the past. Though honestly speaking, I find Zhongli the hardest to write for, so I do think I missed some marks here! I'll do my best to improve more on this.

The last bit of forever and always has Zhongli essentially asking the Reader if they believe Rex Lapis is dead or not. To those who've played through the Liyue Archon Quest, the answer is clear, and (I believe) so are Zhongli's intentions in asking that question! 😉

For the longest time, he’d reveled in the expressions of shock and disbelief that he could draw from the people he worked with as a result of his rather unconventional means of doing things, and only chuckled at the dressing-down he often got from Jean. He’d waved it off as nothing but harmless fun; something he did to stave off the boredom of doing the same thing every day.

You’d thought it all hilarious, which was, he believes, the one thing that had pushed him off the edge and made him fall hopelessly in love with you. You had a devilish sense of humor, not too unlike his own, and your laughter occasionally had a tinge of malice that would have rubbed people the wrong way (had they not known the person who practically fed its existence).

One day, that’ll come back to bite you in the butt, Jean had told him sternly once, and he once more laughed it off and assured Jean he would not pull the same maneuver twice—if that was enough to make the Acting Grandmaster swear like a sailor.

But Kaeya should have known better than to wave off Jean’s warnings, which always had a funny way of coming back to people in the end.

“The Acting Grandmaster’s pranks have improved of late,” he says, leaning on one elbow on top of the bar as Jean approaches him. “Tell me, was it the thing I did with the Ruin Guard the other week that had the recruits wetting their breeches? Or was it the time I told Albert that Barbara took a detour during one of her afternoon walks and he ended up walking into a hilichurl camp?”

“No and no.”

“Did Eula tell you about the cavern I’d collapsed, trapping most of her men inside while they dealt with Treasure Hoarders?”

Jean snaps her head towards him so quickly, he was sure that a ligament had popped. “You what?”

“Nothing,” Kaeya sings, taking a leisurely swig of his beer as he surveys the scene in front of him. “I just wanted to know what I did to make you so mad that you conveniently left out the fact that my ex is here.”

“I didn’t know,” Jean protests. “Well, there was a last-minute change in the guest list, but I didn’t think it was a big deal...had I known, I would have—”

“—told me not to come? Ha. That’s even funnier.”

“Sir Kaeya.”

“ ‘M sorry.” He takes another gulp, setting the now-empty glass down and immediately asking for another one. Try as he may, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of you on the Eleventh of the Fatui Harbinger’s arm, looking completely at home with his colleagues. As if you hadn’t been on the other side—his side—just months prior.

He’d initially thought it a mistake to see Tartaglia fawning over you like a kid with a shiny new toy; after all, since when did you deal with the Fatui? What had happened to you all those months after he’d watched you disappear into thin air at Mondstadt?

Diluc would be livid, he thinks.

For a moment, he believes in what his eyes tell him, which was that you were slightly overwhelmed (and even annoyed) at the Harbinger’s attempts to strike up a conversation. He holds on to the thought that you were now simply one of Tartaglia’s victims, and he would have stepped in to save you—the memories of your horrendous break-up be damned—had he not noticed a ghost of a smile on your face.

That had stopped him in his tracks.

Then came the drinks. Kaeya had kept a close eye on Tartaglia as he filled your glass, over and over again, until the faintest of smiles had stretched into dopey grins, and until you could barely put one foot in front of the other. That had sparked the fire that made his blood boil. Hadn’t he warned you against drinking with strangers, much less Fatui members? Didn’t you know any better?

If things had been different, he would have marched over to you, smoothly knock Tartaglia to the side, and take you home. But he’d realized that Jean wouldn’t appreciate any forms of confrontation, especially with tensions so high, so he’d all but shackled himself to the bar.

Besides, he chides himself. It’s none of my business. Not anymore.

Jean sighs and scratches the back of her neck. “I hadn’t counted on seeing one of the Harbingers tonight, either. This is a miss on my part; I should have checked to see who was in the updated guest list—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kaeya says lightly, clutching onto his beer mug like a lifeline. “You’re not what’s on his mind right now. Neither is diplomacy.”

Jean follows his gaze to the sight of you perched on Tartaglia’s lap, cackling wildly as you chuck your cards onto the table, earning a collective groan from the Fatui members you were playing with. Neither Jean nor Kaeya miss the glass of champagne in your hand, swirling around madly and threatening to douse you and those within your vicinity. If you cared, you didn’t let it show.

Kaeya could feel Jean’s eyes boring into the side of his head, and he tries to ease their weight by staring into the froth of his drink as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. I don’t care, he says to himself. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care. They can date whoever they want. I don’t care.

Your laughter rings out again, mixed this time with Tartaglia’s. Kaeya turns on his heel to face the bar.

“I don’t understand why they’re here,” Jean murmurs. “It couldn’t be that (Y/N)’s—”

“A part of the Fatui?” Kaeya’s tone is colder and sharper than he’d expected. “No. There’s only one reason they’re here, and it’s to piss me off. A poor attempt at trying to make me jealous.”

“How do you know?”

Kaeya sets his glass down and starts ticking points off his fingers. “Well, let’s see...we broke up months ago, then (Y/N) disappears to heaven knows where...then they show up to a party that they know I would attend, and seeing as they really have no reason to be here, how else would they be able to pull that off?”

He jerks his head in Tartaglia’s direction. “A brand spanking new toy, who happens to weasel his way through anything, that they can dangle under my nose.”

“That doesn’t rule out the fact that they might have joined the Fatui.”

“Trust me. I know them.” Kaeya’s eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches. “More than anyone.”

The strings and the flutes come to life, and the drums all but shake the building from top to bottom, nearly causing Jean to spit out her drink. The change in music had drawn in more partners who clearly had been waiting for a more upbeat tune to dance to. Kaeya glances over his shoulder to see Tartaglia hauling you to your feet, urging you towards the dance floor.

He clicks his tongue in annoyance, tapping his fingers on top of the bar counter.

“Perhaps we should take our leave,” Jean suggests. “It’s getting late, anyway, and if the guest of honor isn’t going to make any negotiation attempts, then we can call it a night.”

“You go.” Kaeya takes one last sip of his beer. “I’ll stay here a little longer.”

“Kaeya,” Jean warns, and the drop of his honorific manages to break him out of his thoughts, but not completely. “I’ve said this a million times before, but don’t do anything stupid.”

“I won’t.”

“Never mind. I’m not leaving you alone here.”

“Go on.” He draws out the last syllable for longer than usual. “I’m not going to do anything.”

“And who’s going to take care of you once you’re completely inebriated?” Jean sighs as she watches him take a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, pausing, and calling them back over to take the entire tray.

Kaeya’s attention had long turned away from Jean, and his traitor eyes went straight to the sight of you dancing with Tartaglia, with your head tipped back in a way that was both careless and flawless. You were earning more than just a couple of eyes, and who could blame anyone; you’d always had this magnetic aura, a whirlpool of a presence, that pulled unsuspecting hearts under the surface before they could even blink. Tartaglia spins you around, and your smile easily becomes the brightest thing in the room.

A smile that you always used to reserve for him, and him alone.

He goes through the rest of the flutes and slams the last one down on the counter, before sighing and dropping his head.

“‘M sorry, Jean,” he mumbles.

“What?”

Kaeya pushes himself off the counter and, once he had gotten his balance, offers his hand to her. The Acting Grandmaster raises her eyebrows.

“Let’s dance.”

“What? I—Kaeya!” Kaeya practically drags her out onto the dance floor, ignoring the way the room spins around him and how the sudden entry into the crowd takes his breath away.

Wordlessly, and with barely a smile on his face, he whisks Jean into his arms, stepping into the dance without missing a beat. He had to give Jean credit; even though he’d put her on the spot, she made blending into the crowd almost effortless.

Immediately, he realizes that jumping straight into an upbeat dance while drunk off his ass was a bad idea. The dance involved spins, jumps, and turns galore, all of which had started to make his stomach turn.

Just spot, he tells himself. Focus on one thing. Just one thing.

For a minute, he stares at nothing but the bow in Jean’s hair. Then, when that grew boring, he turns his eyes towards a poster over by the far side of the room. And when that grew boring, he continues to scan the room for something to keep his dinner from making a reappearance.

That’s when he remembers.

It takes him only a couple of seconds, but his eyes finally land on you. This time, you were looking back at him.

And in that moment, everything clears.

For a moment, he forgets everything that had happened between the two of you. He rages against his harsh words towards you that night, despises the way he just left you when you’d crumpled to the ground, and despairs over the fact that he never even gave you a reason why.

You had been the one real thing he’d ever known, and like the fool that he is, he’d given you away. You with a personality so similar to his, you who understood everything that made him him, and you who accepted him and his past when his own sworn brother couldn’t.

It infuriates him to no end that this is what makes him realize it, and how this time, he had been the one falling victim to someone else’s schemes. He hates that you know him so well that you know this was the one thing that would make him crack. The thought that you were now in someone else’s arms—arms that he knows have snuffed entire lives away—makes him unbearably sick.

For a moment, he forgets all the excuses he’s made, and all the attempts to make him look and feel fine. He was not fine. He is not fine.

He’s filled with a sudden urge to run away from the scene, like Jean had suggested earlier. He doesn’t deserve you; no matter how much he tells himself that everything leading to this point was solely for your benefit, it was his own insecurities that had bypassed normal communication and ran straight towards the end. A clean strike, but not a clean break. An agonizing death.

He’ll only make you cry when he shows up in your life again. He knows that. But despite that, despite everything, he wants you back.

And his throat closes, when he sees a single teardrop falling from your eye.

You suddenly disappear behind a broad back, and Kaeya snaps back to reality to see Tartaglia blocking his view of you entirely. He’s forced to watch as the Harbinger, who clearly has had one too many drinks, leans down towards you to whisper something in your ear, getting a little too close for comfort.

He finally stops dancing as Tartaglia presses his lips behind your ear, and your hazy eyes flutter at the contact.

Jean notices the shift in atmosphere, and immediately places a warning hand on his chest. But there’s no stopping the rush of adrenaline in his veins, accompanied by the sheer rage that darkens the edges of his vision, as he watches Tartaglia crowd you into the nearest wall.

As if in a trance, Kaeya pushes past Jean, teeth chattering as he practically barrels through the crowd towards you. He briefly stumbles backward when she grabs hold of his shoulder, but even the feeling of her nails digging into his skin does nothing to calm the fire in his system. All he sees is Tartaglia’s hands wandering down your back, sees your own clutching his biceps; and all he sees is red, red, red.

Kaeya reaches the scene and practically yanks Tartaglia back by his collar with a strength that surprises even him. His sky blue eyes were dull, but filled with a terrifying amount of bloodlust; when they’re accompanied by a knowing smirk, all Kaeya’s wits leave him.

He shoves Tartaglia backwards, but the Harbinger lives up to his reputation by bouncing back almost immediately, barely looking disheveled.

“So it’s you,” he says triumphantly.

“Me,” Kaeya repeats flatly. “Sorry, but I must respectfully ask you to leave.”

“Tell me again, whose party is this?”

“Kaeya!” Jean makes another attempt at grabbing Kaeya’s arm, but he shakes her off.

“Nice to meet you, Acting Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius,” Tartaglia mocks. “I’m afraid you have some internal issues; some of your subordinates clearly don’t know their manners.”

“Childe, that’s enough,” you say firmly.

“Come now, I’m more than just “Childe” to you.” Tartaglia reaches for you again, and Kaeya pushes him back once more, with even more force.

“Don’t touch them,” he growls.

Tartaglia’s brow twitches as he swats Kaeya’s hand away. “Bit too late for that now, buddy.”

Kaeya falters, and his eyes flicker momentarily towards you. When you refuse to meet his eyes, and instead try to pull Tartaglia away, his mouth goes dry.

Had you...did you…

He glances back at Tartaglia, looking as if his face was about to split open from the width of his grin. With a start, Kaeya realizes he’d let his guard down, and Tartaglia had found the chink in his armor.

The world nearly slides out from beneath his feet when the Harbinger knocks him backwards, straight into a startled group of Knights. Kaeya regains his balance and lunges forward to grab Tartaglia by the collar, ignoring your pleading and your futile attempts to separate the two of them.

“I’m warning you,” Kaeya snarls, breathing heavily.

“Go ahead.” Tartaglia’s voice drops to a low rumble. “Warn me.”

You were starting to think that Childe had permanently moved to Liyue after he’d invited you out for lunch on that fateful day, promising to make up for what had happened at the diplomatic ball all those months ago. Begrudgingly, you’d agreed, solely for the fact that you were starting to enjoy finding ways to rile the Harbinger up.

“Ah, I’ve invited a friend over, if you don’t mind,” you heard him say behind the partition of the Liuli Pavilion. You raised an eyebrow, surprised that Childe had other friends besides you (if you could even call yourself his friend at all).

“Master Childe, your guest is here,” the waiter announced, and you nod in thanks as you make your way over to the reserved table. You raised your eyes, first to meet Childe’s in greeting, and second to look at his other visitor.

(Dear Celestia, he’s beautiful.)

You’d fought the urge to gape at the tall stranger enjoying a cup of tea adjacent to where you were standing. His eyes had peered over the rim to give you a quick once-over, which normally you would have found rude, but there wasn’t a hint of disrespect emanating from him—just pure curiosity.

Actually, you weren’t sure if he had the capacity to be anything negative, despite having just laid eyes on him for the very first time.

“Allow me to introduce (Y/N),” Childe said, breaking you out of your thoughts. “A very dear comrade of mine.”

“We only just met a few months ago,” you corrected him rather curtly, taking a seat and trying not to overwhelm yourself with the eyes you could feel practically boring into your soul.

“Yes, but all circumstances considered, I feel like I’ve known you forever by now.” Childe waggled his eyebrows in the most unattractive way possible, pulling a snort from you. “(Y/N), this is Mr. Zhongli, a consultant for the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the man named Zhongli finally spoke, and you nearly wanted to keel over from the deep timbre of his voice. His voice sounded like entire mountains moving, and all you’d managed was a small smile and a polite nod.

“(Y/N) here’s from the Adventurer’s Guild,” Childe continued. “All the way from Mondstadt.”

“Interesting.” Zhongli set his cup down. “What do you specialize in?”

“Specialize—” you squeaked, before clearing your throat and shaking your head in embarrassment. “Well, I take on commissions like any other Adventurer, really. But I’m a...a scholar of sorts, so it’s my job to learn as much as I can about a region to add to the Guild’s intel. Help Adventurers know the lay of the land and the culture that surrounds it.”

“Impressive,” Zhongli mused, and you could tell that he meant it, by the way his eyes softened marginally. “And what made you move to Liyue?”

Childe snickered as he dug into his food. “Funny you should ask, because—”

You crushed his foot under yours. “Well, I’ve already learned much about Mondstadt, so I’ve decided to move on to different nations to expand my research. And the, er, pay is marginally better here, so it was a rather easy decision to make.”

You didn't explain any further, having already learned the dire consequences of running your mouth willy-nilly from no less than the person struggling with chopsticks sitting next to you. 

The memories of your last visit to Mondstadt didn’t help either, with their endless picking at your heart and at your conscience.

Thankfully, Zhongli had only nodded, murmuring “That sounds practical” before turning his attention back to his food. You’d taken it as a sign to start preparing your own dish, picking steamed buns and vegetables from the revolving center of the table.

As much as you had wanted to hear from Zhongli a little more, you couldn’t find the words to speak. Thankfully, Childe was happy to fill the void with anecdotes from his travels, as well as some other remarks that kept the lunch from being uncomfortably silent. It was jarring to see someone as rambunctious as him converse so easily with someone as serene as Zhongli, who acted as if it was the most normal thing in the world. 

An image came to you then, of an orange-haired dog sprinting around in circles, its tail occasionally smacking into a black cat trying to sleep. A giggle slipped past your lips before you could stop it, and your cheeks burned when Zhongli and Childe turned to look at you.

But all good things come to an end, and it came in the form of a Fatui member coming over to whisper in Childe’s ear. The Harbinger’s face fell briefly, before sighing and waving his subordinate away. "There goes the rest of my afternoon plans," he complained, setting his chopsticks down and standing up.

"You're leaving?" Zhongli asked.

"Some new members thought it would be funny to mess around with some lawachurls, and now they've lost most of their supplies for the month." Childe pinched the gap between his eyebrows in annoyance. "I'd reckon some bone-breaking is in order—if they aren't already broken, that is."

You shook your head, knowing all too well what lawachurls were capable of, and wondered how they would compare against one of Childe's harsh reprimands. 

"The bill's covered, so please stay as long as you like." He bowed slightly to Zhongli, before turning to you with a grin. "I'll be seeing you around, lovely."

His gloved hand reached out to swipe lightly against your cheek, and you smacked it away, hearing nothing but an amused chuckle as he left.

As soon as Childe had left, it took you a while to realize the situation you were in.

Your breath stuttered.

Zhongli sighed. "I'm not opposed to punishment in response to reckless behavior, but Childe does have some interesting ideas in that department." He looked at you, and his eyes seemed to be smiling. "How long have the two of you been together?"

You choked on your drink, spitting it out rather unattractively before coughing the rest of the liquid out of your lungs. You accepted the napkin that Zhongli passed to you, cheeks warming uncomfortably as you patted your mouth dry.

"We aren't together," you finally said. "Not in that way. I just owe him something."

"In that case, you have my deepest sympathies," Zhongli replied, raising his glass to you with a humorous look on his face.

You elected to say no more beyond that, believing your character to be as good as ruined in the eyes of such a dignified gentleman, and instead focusing on the slice of pie you'd taken for dessert.

For better or for worse, it seemed Zhongli wasn't keen on letting you off so easily. "So, a scholar at the Adventurer's Guild," he started again. "It seems like a very interesting job indeed. Were your parents Adventurers, too?"

"My mother was, yes," you replied, and your throat tightened a little at the mention of her. "My father was a hunter at Springvale."

Zhongli hummed. "I'm sure your mother is proud of you for having progressed so far in your career."

"I doubt it."

Zhongli only looked up at you in confusion.

"My mother left me to go on an adventure and never came back." The words had come out as a spit, as if the words mixed horribly with the crumbs in your mouth and your natural reflexes had kicked in.

"My apologies," Zhongli said. "I was not aware."

"It's alright," you'd replied, wanting nothing more than to change the subject.

"Forgive me, but...your father?"

"He passed away a few years ago."

"I…" Whatever Zhongli had to say, it quickly died in his throat. "I am deeply sorry for your loss, (Y/N)."

You smiled at him, partially to assure him that he'd done no harm and partially to lift the heavy atmosphere that had settled over the two of you. You didn't want your first encounter with this man to be over your deceased father and absentee mother.

"You're right, though," you told him. "I have progressed quite a lot. And there's nothing I love more than learning about new things. The true spirit of adventure lies in the knowledge that you gain, the enemies you defeat, and the friendships formed along the way."

Zhongli nodded solemnly, a faint smile on his lips. "I couldn't agree more."

"There's so much more to see, so many sights and sounds to experience. And Liyue…" You sighed dreamily. "I stuck around for a couple of months for some commissions prior to my moving here, but I feel like I've yet to scratch the surface. The land is just teeming with stories and rich in history; some of the libraries here hold scrolls dating from even before the Archon War!"

Zhongli set his cup down yet again, lacing his hands together and propping his chin up against them. For the briefest of moments, you'd noticed his deviance from basic table manners, but all you were thinking about was what you've learned so far from the Nation of Contracts.

You were practically vomiting words at this point. "I even got myself into a little tiffy with some scholars at one of the tea houses...they were waxing poetic about how the first Mora ever created by Rex Lapis was something extra special, and it should be stored away in a museum.”

“And what did you say to that?”

“I said it wasn’t anything special. Just your average Mora, much like the ones we use every day.” You spun one of the coins Childe had left on the table. “I believe Rex Lapis would rather every single Mora be used in the way it was intended to be used.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Zhongli took another sip of his tea. “I have been making the same argument for quite some time now.”

“Oh, you must not be popular at tea houses now, either.”

Zhongli laughed with you, and it was a warm, fluttery feeling that spread throughout your entire chest.

Soon, you'd made your way out of Liuli Pavillion, having eaten your fill and having exhausted all of your stories with Zhongli.

"I can help with your research, if you'd allow me," he suddenly said, before you parted ways. "I do not wish to flatter myself, but I do know a thing or two about Liyue."

"You certainly do, judging from our conversations earlier," you agreed. "That would be very helpful, thank you. But how is it that you know so much, Mr. Zhongli? Did your father teach you?"

"Just Zhongli is fine." His eyes seemed to glow like molten gold. "And yes, my dear. My father taught me."

And so began a new chapter in your life in Liyue, one that had you spending your days with the educated—if not a little eccentric—consultant of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. He made good on his promise, freely offering you his aid and declining any attempts of yours to pay for it. You were getting worried that you were practically taking advantage of him, as you found that you needed his help quite a lot, but he would always simply wave off any of your protests with a fond smile on his face, assuring you that your understanding of the city was enough compensation.

The only consolation that you got from never being able to repay him in kind was the fact that he seemed more than happy to talk about anything with you. You were an eager student, and it helped that Zhongli was a wonderful teacher, never once dismissing any of your thoughts as foolish or far-fetched. He spoke with a refinement that most men could only dream of having, his patience seemingly stretched all the way to the heavens, and his wisdom seemed beyond what was expected of anyone his age (which, you never really got to ask about).

His line of work was more than enough material to work with, as he constantly dabbled in different ceremonies for the dead, one of the key practices in Liyue’s culture. Initially, he’d been a little reluctant to let you in on some of the more morbid aspects of the job. He later relented, after you assured him that you were able to handle them, though he still kept you out of the room during the more “hands-on” moments.

When you weren’t out on commissions, you could always be found in one of Liyue’s many libraries, your nose buried in a book or a scroll you’d dug out of the deepest recesses of the bookshelves. Zhongli sometimes joined you, offering explanations on articles you didn’t understand and deciphering characters you found difficult. On days that work called his focus away, he would write some recommendations and leave it at the Guild for you to find. Other times, he would catch up with you over dinner, speaking about Liyue and debating historical facts until the night melted into the morning.

Though Mondstadt was forever in your heart, despite the memories attached to it, it was incredibly easy to fall in love with Liyue. You loved watching the sun rise above the harbor, painting the city with vibrant shades of red and gold. You’d remarked that perhaps this was the reason why Rex Lapis had moved his people here, of all places.

(“Aside from it being an ideal place for trade, yes,” he’d replied, sounding oddly wistful. “That might be one of the reasons.”)

You enjoyed milling through the market, hearing the merchants inviting people to look over their wares and the exchanging of gossip (which you admittedly indulged in on your many grocery trips). But the marketplace, apparently, was not the best place for Zhongli; your eyes had nearly popped out of their sockets when he told you that he’d given over a month’s worth of his salary to a gentleman who promised him a tenfold return in six months.

(“He was rather persuasive, you know,” he later told you.)

Days stretched into months, and it seemed like you knew Liyue as well as you knew the back of your hand. Your expertise eventually got you a promotion at the Guild: a top spot in the Intelligence Department, which allowed you access to more of the Guild’s files detailing experiences from other Adventurers. You were over the moon when you told Zhongli the good news, and though he didn’t squeal and jump up and down as you did, his smile was worth a million Mora. Childe was also in town then, and the three of you celebrated over a lavish dinner and some drinks on the side.

Even with Childe constantly getting on your nerves, Zhongli acted like a balm of sorts to ease the tension in the air. You found your bond with the Harbinger slowly turning into a real friendship, taking his constant challenges and snide remarks as harmless jokes that you easily passed back to him. Zhongli was only too happy to be a spectator, occasionally laughing whenever you and Childe exchanged playful jabs.

He looks so much better when he laughs, you thought.

As if he’d heard your thoughts, Zhongli tilted his head in your direction. You dropped your gaze as soon as it met his, and forced a laugh at one of Childe’s stories.

(You pray he doesn’t hear the hammering of your heart in your chest, either, as he walks your drunk asses home.)

“Xiangling!”

“Ah, (Y/N)!” The Wanmin Restaurant’s youngest and most talented chef returned your call just as she served a steaming bowl of black-back perch stew to a delighted customer. “Come in, come in.”

“Please excuse the intrusion,” you announced, waving at Chef Mao with a smile before taking a seat at your usual table. Chongyun and Xingqiu, two of Xiangling’s closest friends, sent you a friendly wave before going back to whatever novel Xingqiu had with him.

“Here you are,” Xiangling said, setting your order down in front of you. “Careful, it’s still hot!”

“Anything else I should be careful about?” you teased, alluding to the time she had served you an experimental dish that had your stomach in knots all afternoon.

Xiangling’s cheeks turned pink. “That was the first time I used a combination of Dendro and Pyro slimes. I thought it would give a little more of a kick.”

“I’m kidding, Xiangling. It looks great.”

Xiangling finally beamed, and seeing as there were no customers to serve at the present time, she allowed herself to sit in front of you as you ate. “So, what have you got for me this time?”

As soon as you’d swallowed your first bite, you dug around in your bag and brought out your notebook, the one reserved for recipes you’ve discovered around Liyue. Most of them were from the library, others from restaurants seeking to preserve their cuisine, and a small percentage were from locals who were willing to sit down and chat about some of their favorite recipes. You weren’t a bad cook, but you needed the input of a local chef, which Xiangling was only happy to fulfill.

It had surprised Zhongli when you’d told him of your intention to document Liyue’s cuisine, with the idea that food was just as important as buildings, attitudes, and language when it came to culture. Liyue, the center of trade and divided into two warring cuisines, was practically a holy grail for culinary enthusiasts. He of course agreed wholeheartedly, and handed over his own specialty, a slow-cooked bamboo shoot soup.

“Hmm.” Xiangling scanned your notes. “I’ve heard about some of these, but the techniques are pretty dated. You could probably make do with some modern supplies, like using cuihua wood instead of rosewood...aw, but it isn’t going to have that sweet tangy note to the soup...well, unless you add an extra teaspoon of sugar…”

“Hey, (Y/N),” Chongyun came over and sat at your table, all smiles as he bit off a part of his popsicle. “Lost Xiangling already?”

“Yeah,” you sigh in amusement, watching Xiangling mutter to herself, fully engrossed in your notes. “Liyue’s cuisine is a lot more complicated than I thought. Where’s Xingqiu?”

“He was called back home. Something about the cor lapis supply...I have no idea how he’s involved in that.”

“Cor lapis!” Xiangling snapped her fingers. “Have you considered stone boiling, but with cor lapis instead of your normal everyday rock?”

Chongyun sighed.

“Ah, well, if it works…” You weren’t too enthusiastic about going all the way to Mt. Aocang to harvest some cor lapis on a whim, but who were you to know? “In any case, I feel I need a little more hands-on help. How about a barbecue on Saturday night? I’ll bring all the supplies you need.”

“Ooh, that sounds—ack!” Xiangling yelped, her hand darting down to massage the foot that Chongyun had crushed under his heel. If you hadn’t checked to see what happened under the table, you would have seen Chongyun gesture sharply at the entrance of the restaurant, causing Xiangling to cough loudly.

“I—I mean, I’m sorry, (Y/N), I just remembered I have a large delivery on Sunday! Yeah, lots of spicy chop suey…maybe Mr. Zhongli can go instead!”

“Zhongli?”

“Me?” A smooth baritone voice cut through the conversation, and you turned in your seat to see the man himself, the director of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor peeking from behind his arm.

“Right, Hu Tao?” If you hadn’t again been so distracted by Zhongli’s mere presence, you would have definitely seen Chongyun and Xiangling frantically gesturing for Hu Tao to play along. “A barbecue to help (Y/N) figure out how to create this recipe!”

“Hmm.” Hu Tao crossed her arms, her usual devilish smirk playing across her features. “I don’t know…”

“Hu Tao!” Chongyun hissed.

“Hehe, of course!” Hu Tao patted Zhongli’s arm like they were best buddies, and you had to laugh at the way Zhongli stiffened at the contact. “You’ll go, Mr. Zhongli, right? It wouldn’t be nice to keep (Y/N) all alone in the dark at this time of the year.”

“Whatever do you mean, director?”

“Aiya, I’m just saying, a gentleman as refined as yourself should be able to keep (Y/N) company and keep them safe at the same time, right?”

“R-really, it’s fine,” you laughed weakly, waving your arms. “Zhongli’s busy, and he’s probably tired after all the work he’s done today, so…”

“Not entirely,” Zhongli said. “I always have time for you, (Y/N).”

Silence fell. With rapidly warming cheeks, you turned to see Xiangling pursing her lips, evidently trying not to laugh, and Hu Tao’s signature shit-eating grin lighting up her entire expression.

“Well, then,” Chongyun coughed, trying to break the tension. “That settles it! Ah, Xiangling, you have a customer waiting…”

“That—that’s right!” Xiangling finally said, in between giggles. “Hu Tao—right this—hehe—right this way, please!”

You had no other choice but to watch Xiangling, Chongyun, and Hu Tao dash out of the restaurant’s premises, giggling up a storm and slapping each other’s arms.

Zhongli turned to you. “Have I said something?” he asked.

“...and...there!” You stabbed the last of the vegetables through the stick, and held it up to the glow of the moonlight. “How are you doing, Zhongli?”

Zhongli hummed in response, clicking the tongs as he flipped the meat he was grilling to its other side. “This is almost done,” he replied. “How do you like your meat? Well done?”

“A little on the rare side, please.”

“Alright.”

You placed the last skewer onto the plate, before leaning back and stretching. You’d figured that the best you can do in exchange for Zhongli agreeing to your little getaway was to let him pick the location, and you were so glad that you did—he’d picked out a spot on Mt. Tianheng that overlooked Liyue Harbor, letting you see the city in all its gilded splendor. Admittedly, it was a little difficult getting all the way up to it (even more so for Zhongli, who insisted on carrying the brazier that Xiangling had lent you), but the view at the top was completely worth it.

Soon enough, you had set down the basket and spread out a large table cloth (that you’d unceremoniously yanked from your dinner table when Zhongli came to pick you up) onto the grass, and you began grilling away, with no regard whatsoever for the recipes that you were supposed to be following.

Zhongli set the tongs down, and leaned over to check the skewers. He nodded in satisfaction. “Excellent work,” he noted. “I suppose we can grill half of these and leave the other half for you to grill by yourself at home.”

“Don’t be silly, Zhongli,” you said, nudging his arm playfully. “You’re getting a portion to take home, too.”

“Of course, of course.” Zhongli held up one of the first sticks you’d skewered with a slight grin, remarking without words the haphazard way you’d cut up the vegetables. You scowled and attempted to snatch it away, but he held it out of your reach—which, even as he was sitting down, was practically miles away from your arm’s length.

“Zhongli.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re being mean.”

Zhongli chuckled. “My apologies. You’re adorable when you’re angry.”

You snatched the failed skewer away from him and quickly turned away. “You...you shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know what.”

“I truly don’t.”

(Is he being serious?)

You snuck a look at him over your shoulder, and when you found the amused smirk still on his face, you huffed and crawled over to the grill, retrieving the meat that was about to go up in smoke.

“Oh?” You glanced over to see Zhongli flipping through one of your notebooks. “I know this song.”

“Seriously? Archons, just how old are you, Zhongli?”

Zhongli just smiled, as he’s always done when faced with the question of his age, and instead began to sing one of the lyrics off the page.

You didn’t expect to hear his singing voice now, of all times, under the glow of the moon and surrounded by the smell of barbecue and osmanthus wine. It was just as smooth and velvety as his normal speaking voice, washing over your entire figure like water over stones.

Before you knew it, you were singing along with him, as if you’d known the song all this time. The alcohol in your veins occasionally kicked your voice off-key, which only sent the two of you into hysterics; paired with full bellies and the cool winds of spring, you felt as if you were flying.

You weren’t sure if Zhongli was riding the same high as you were, given his typical reserved nature, but all doubts were dispelled when he leaned towards you, right as you were about to hit the chorus.

You wondered then, why those words sounded louder than the notes bouncing off the walls of Mt. Tianheng.

When you glanced over at him, your breath hitched; his eyes looked just like the setting sun.

The rising sun bathes the entire room in a soft light, but you feel none of its warmth.

The coldest area was, in fact, next to you; the only indicator that someone had occupied the space was a cup that had not been there the night before present on the nightstand. That aside, Zhongli’s side of the bed was pristine, clean, and—ultimately—empty.

You sit up with a tired grunt, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and letting the dawn of a new day settle on you. You stare at the cup on the nightstand and sigh, the initial hope that this morning would be different from all the mornings prior to today quickly turning to resignation.

Still, it would not do for you to mull in your sadness, so you push the covers off you and make your way to the kitchen. It all seemed predetermined to you, the way that you just knew that there would already be breakfast on the table, covered with a net to keep the flies away. You also knew beforehand that the house would be, just like his side of the bed, free of dirt and grime (only for them to accumulate once more, given that neither of you were ever truly home all the time).

If he has time to clean the house and make breakfast, he has time to kill in the mornings, you think bitterly.

Instead of sucking it up and eating anyway, you sit at the table, refusing to touch a single ceramic—in a quiet sort of defiance.

You sit there for seemingly hours, watching the sunlight filter through the broken window in the kitchen, illuminating the dust particles dancing in the air like snowflakes. The house is quiet, except for the chirping of birds, sweeping in the streets, and the occasional idle chatter. It was the noise you were used to, having lived alone for months prior to when he came along, but for some reason, it was different this time.

This silence was louder, more deafening. Void. Empty. Like the hole that’s made its home in your heart, festering and growing in size over the weeks. If you listened closely, you could hear the wind whistling through the gap, like a canyon void of all life; as a child of freedom, a child of Mondstadt, the wind had always been your source of comfort. Now, all it did was remind you of just how much you’d carved yourself out for the people you held most dear.

Wordlessly, and as if guided by some unknown force, you place your hand over your heart. It beats, as of course it must, but the crater presses against your lungs; now, you no longer wonder why it’s been so difficult to breathe lately.

It was perfect. Everything had been so perfect, but looking back, you had most likely baited yourself into it. But who could blame you, with a lover that felt like the first spring after eons of winter?

You would cry, but no tears spring to your eyes. They must have fallen into the abyss, too.

Your eyes flicker to the sitting room instead, and try as you may, you see no signs of Zhongli having occupied any of the cushions. You scoff—in scorn or in sadness, you no longer know.

But something else catches your eye: the book sitting dangerously at the edge of the coffee table. Usually, stray books lying around are a common occurrence in your house, but you know why this one piques your attention.

“Who’s Guizhong?”

When you received no immediate reply, you glanced over your shoulder in questioning. Your lover stood in the kitchen with his back to you, shoulders taut and back stiff, even more so than usual.

“I would have thought you’d come across that name sooner,” he replied. “It’s basic Liyue history.”

“Mm.” You returned your attention to the book that one of the older scholars had recommended to you. “I just never really went in depth with the subject. Who better to ask than—”

“I’ve forgotten.”

You glanced at him again, this time in surprise. For a moment, you hear nothing but the sound of the kettle clinking over the fire.. The silence that had fallen over you felt as heavy as mountains, and you opened and closed your mouth, trying to find the words to shake them off you.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” Zhongli turned on his heel sharply, patting his hands dry on his pants before walking over to you to kiss the top of your head. “I’m going out.”

You scrambled to your feet, tossing the book back on the table as you watched Zhongli pull his coat on. “Zhongli, please, I’m sorry—”

“No, my darling, that’s not it. I just remembered I’d be meeting a client today.”

“At this hour?” Your throat was rapidly closing, sending you into tunnel vision as Zhongli stepped down to slip into his shoes.

(Where have you seen this scenario before?)

“It can wait until tomorrow, surely…”

“I’m afraid not. I just remembered at the last second, and I don’t want to risk the director spiking my afternoon tea with Jueyun Chili again.”

That drew a small laugh from you, but that was all it took for Zhongli’s features to soften. He gathered your face in his hands and kissed you gently, reverently, so much so that your knees felt as if they were about to give out at any time.

When he finally pulled away, he studied your face for a minute, before closing his eyes again and sighing.

“Don’t wait up,” he whispered, before pecking your nose and disappearing out the door.

You stared as the door closed in your face, the sound of the kettle screeching fading to white noise in the background.

Two days.

He’d been gone two days after that.

“Don’t wait up,” he’d told you. And he had the audacity to look surprised, when he finally came home, to see you nursing a cup of tea in the sitting room, with heavy bags under your eyes.

And so the cycle had begun. He’d disappear for days on end, under a new excuse every single time, though the work-related ones had quickly disappeared under a concerned Hu Tao’s thumb. When you had spoken to the director, you prayed she wouldn’t notice the quiver in your voice, nor the slight panic that had taken over your expression when she’d disclosed the truth—Zhongli had suddenly picked up the habit of skipping work.

But of course, he denied it all when you’d confronted him.

He’d come home every now and then, and though it left a bitter taste in your mouth, you attempted to check for signs that he’d been with someone else—lingering perfume, marks on his immaculate skin, anything—alas, there were none. For now, at least.

Zhongli, in his infinite wisdom, honestly believed that keeping the house neat and tidy and leaving food on the table would be enough to make up for his frequent absences. You would’ve told him that a single conversation would be enough to help you make sense of things—if he was ever home whenever you were.

It had gotten so bad that you yourself had lagged behind on your own work, instead spending the nights as you had when you first arrived at Liyue all those years ago: drowning your sorrows in bottles of wine. And then you’d stumble home alone, the lanterns hanging around swirling like comets in the sky as you attempted to navigate through the streets.

If only finding him was as easy as making your way home after one too many drinks…

...you slowly sit up straight.

You didn’t need to wait for him—not when you could just go out and find him yourself.

How simple. You chuckle to yourself, feeling light-headed at the utter absurdity of the whole situation. You know Zhongli wouldn’t question it this time. You’ve been known to follow him around, after all, knowing you were bound to learn something new from your encyclopedia of a lover when you were out in the open.

When your hands finally find themselves around the now cold teapot, you wonder what you would learn from him this time around.

And if it was something worth learning about, you wonder again, when you find him all by his lonesome in Guili Plains, your front covered in blood from clearing the hilichurl camp you’d come across on your way.

You grunted as you hauled yourself up, marking the end of your arduous journey to the spot Zhongli had requested to meet at. Liyue sprawled out beneath you, glittering under the blanket of night, but you barely spared it a glance—not when the person you were aching to see stood right in front of it.

Standing there, you found yourself at a loss for words. The weeks following the incident on Mt. Tianheng had you avoiding Zhongli like he was the plague, which he did in return. For a while, you attributed it to the sudden increase in commissions as a result of the events of the Rite of Descension; the assassination of the Prime Adeptus, Lord of Geo, Rex Lapis himself had shaken the entirety of Liyue to its core. But once the dust had cleared, and Zhongli finally came knocking on your door this morning, you couldn’t kid yourself any longer.

Your thoughts had been a mess; the weight of Zhongli’s words that night lurked in the deepest recesses of your mind, and you couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was true. Had love, which left you crying by the front door grasping at tailcoats, come back for you once more? Had it finally settled in your life, after years of skirting around the edges and endless promises of never falling prey to its clutches forevermore?

The questions disappeared, seemingly into thin air, when Zhongli finally turned around.

For a minute, you two just stood there, as if time had stilled and all that was left in the world was the weight of his gaze.

“(Y/N).” He spoke your name with a reverence that one typically reserves for prayer.

You only stared at him in response, heart hammering in your throat.

“I don’t think I’ve ever really tested just how much you know about Liyue.” The wind picked up, and you caught the faint scent of Glaze Lilies. “Are you in the mood for some questions?”

You finally found the courage to speak. “Ask away.”

Zhongli turned back to the sight of Liyue beneath him, and to you, he looked like a god turning his divine gaze on the people below. “The amber on Mt. Hulao is said to be the work of the adepti, intended to trap intruders, monsters, and humans alike. True or false?”

You frowned. “It’s not an adeptus power. Amber is created by karst crawlers, most probably as a defense mechanism when something steps on it; the exploration team I sent out came back with a sample.”

Zhongli only hummed, and you worked up the nerve to walk over by his side. The familiar scent of incense quickly overpowered the sickly sweet aroma of Glaze Lilies, and you relaxed in its embrace.

“The goddess of salt, Havria,” he continued. “The gentle and kind deity who ruled over Sal Terrae who was said to be murdered by Morax at the height of the Archon War. Any thoughts on how this might have come about?”

“I…” You blinked in confusion. “I don’t...Zhongli, what is all this about?”

Zhongli remained silent, seemingly unaware of your bemused state.

You waved your hands helplessly. “The Archon War was a power struggle between deities of great ability. Fatalities were inevitable.”

“So you don’t believe that Morax, who slew countless other gods, gods that he once considered friends, had it in him to cast down another one if it meant clearing the way to becoming one of the Seven?”

“It may not have been Morax at all. Everyone was fighting against someone or something. What does the Lord of Geo have against salt?”

Zhongli chuckled, though it sounded a little distant. When he finally turned to you again, his expression was equal parts warm and wistful. He offered you his hands, and you placed your shaking ones in them.

“Last question.” He ran his thumbs over your skin. “You were there when you saw the Exuvia fall out of the sky at the Rite of Descension, yes?”

You nodded.

“Then Rex Lapis is dead.”

You felt your skin crawl, like lightning had started coursing through your system from your interconnected hands.

“True…” Zhongli cupped the side of your face, cradling it gently. “...or false?”

Looking into his eyes, you already knew the answer.