cass

The fact that neither you nor Kazuha are used to this kind of love is the bittersweet truth hidden behind each tender embrace.

You can see his hesitation, oh so easy to find when it mirrors your own in the wake of sweet nothings, in linked fingers that stop just short of intertwined and ignoring the fitful nightmares you take turns waking for.

Silent tears stream down his cheeks, a quiet kind of sorrow that only grows as time passes. Your thumbs brush the mourning dew away as it sparkles in the sunlight - something picturesque yet ill-fitting for two wanderers.

Kazuha is bound by his wanderlust; it is his yearning to see the expanse of the world at his fingertips that attracted you to him on that fateful day, and it is that same feeling that splits you into two.

Now, he rests deeply in his cot on the Alcor, breath after breath fading away with the sway of the ship and flickering lamplight. Your fingers card through his loose hair as he slumbers, smoothing the streaks of red and pale blonde across the blanket you share.

(“If you’re still planning on going, you should do it while you still can.” Beidou whispers in your ear, inclining her head at the faraway Kazuha. “You’ll always have a spot on the Alcor, if that’s what you want.”)

…What do you want?

Shouldn’t it be this? This momentary lapse in time, this spare break in the turning wheel where you can simply rest in the hold of someone you-

Ah. That’s it.

You’re scared, aren’t you?

Your hands retract from Kazuha’s, tracing the space as if his touch has burned you.

He’s just as aware of it as you are, and yet this facsimile still persists.

(“You are what appears when the word ‘serendipity’ comes to mind.” He murmurs, tracing patterns and letters into your skin that he has yet to speak aloud.)

He’s still in your grasp, and yet he’s already gone.

You shouldn’t have to convince yourself that this is for the best.

But, before your heart can speak, your head has already made way to mark the end.

———

“For my dear Kazuha,” He reads, ruby eyes stinging at their corners. “I’m sorry.”

Fingers that once stopped just short trace the lines of your script, following line after line of harsh strokes and wrinkled dots in the ink.

“You, of all, understand the quandaries that plague wanderers, no? To follow the wind, and to be truly free, is to understand and release the burdens that haunt you first.”

He finds it within himself to curse those words, letters that fell from his tongue with little thought.

“I despise the fact that I couldn’t say this in person,” Your voice echoes in his ears. “But if I saw you, I don’t think I’d be able to leave.”

He can feel your hands against his face, yet the tears still carve their path.

“Neither of us are at the point where we can stop searching, traveling, yearning for the answers to the questions that follow us to every port.”

How did he not see? How could he be so blind?

“I know you well enough that you must be beating yourself up about this, but the answer is plain and simple; you would regret it for the rest of your life if you found yourself settled right now.”

A sob escapes his throat, stifled with the hand you rewrapped only last night.

“Now, I can’t linger too long-“ He has to blink away the haze, begging your words to last until he can find you again. “-But I do want you to know that our paths are sure to meet again. If not, I’ll make sure of it.”

Kazuha’s voice echoes your final line - “To you, my hope, be well and stay true.”

The fact that neither you nor Kazuha are used to this kind of love is the bittersweet truth hidden behind each tender embrace.

You can see his hesitation, oh so easy to find when it mirrors your own in the wake of sweet nothings, in linked fingers that stop just short of intertwined and ignoring the fitful nightmares you take turns waking for.

Silent tears stream down his cheeks, a quiet kind of sorrow that only grows as time passes. Your thumbs brush the mourning dew away as it sparkles in the sunlight - something picturesque yet ill-fitting for two wanderers.

Kazuha is bound by his wanderlust; it is his yearning to see the expanse of the world at his fingertips that attracted you to him on that fateful day, and it is that same feeling that splits you into two.

Now, he rests deeply in his cot on the Alcor, breath after breath fading away with the sway of the ship and flickering lamplight. Your fingers card through his loose hair as he slumbers, smoothing the streaks of red and pale blonde across the blanket you share.

(“If you’re still planning on going, you should do it while you still can.” Beidou whispers in your ear, inclining her head at the faraway Kazuha. “You’ll always have a spot on the Alcor, if that’s what you want.”)

…What do you want?

Shouldn’t it be this? This momentary lapse in time, this spare break in the turning wheel where you can simply rest in the hold of someone you-

Ah. That’s it.

You’re scared, aren’t you?

Your hands retract from Kazuha’s, tracing the space as if his touch has burned you.

He’s just as aware of it as you are, and yet this facsimile still persists.

(“You are what appears when the word ‘serendipity’ comes to mind.” He murmurs, tracing patterns and letters into your skin that he has yet to speak aloud.)

He’s still in your grasp, and yet he’s already gone.

You shouldn’t have to convince yourself that this is for the best.

But, before your heart can speak, your head has already made way to mark the end.

———

“For my dear Kazuha,” He reads, ruby eyes stinging at their corners. “I’m sorry.”

Fingers that once stopped just short trace the lines of your script, following line after line of harsh strokes and wrinkled dots in the ink.

“You, of all, understand the quandaries that plague wanderers, no? To follow the wind, and to be truly free, is to understand and release the burdens that haunt you first.”

He finds it within himself to curse those words, letters that fell from his tongue with little thought.

“I despise the fact that I couldn’t say this in person,” Your voice echoes in his ears. “But if I saw you, I don’t think I’d be able to leave.”

He can feel your hands against his face, yet the tears still carve their path.

“Neither of us are at the point where we can stop searching, traveling, yearning for the answers to the questions that follow us to every port.”

How did he not see? How could he be so blind?

“I know you well enough that you must be beating yourself up about this, but the answer is plain and simple; you would regret it for the rest of your life if you found yourself settled right now.”

A sob escapes his throat, stifled with the hand you rewrapped only last night.

“Now, I can’t linger too long-“ He has to blink away the haze, begging your words to last until he can find you again. “-But I do want you to know that our paths are sure to meet again. If not, I’ll make sure of it.”

Kazuha’s voice echoes your final line - “To you, my hope, be well and stay true.”

The fact that neither you nor Kazuha are used to this kind of love is the bittersweet truth hidden behind each tender embrace.

You can see his hesitation, oh so easy to find when it mirrors your own in the wake of sweet nothings, in linked fingers that stop just short of intertwined and ignoring the fitful nightmares you take turns waking for.

Silent tears stream down his cheeks, a quiet kind of sorrow that only grows as time passes. Your thumbs brush the mourning dew away as it sparkles in the sunlight - something picturesque yet ill-fitting for two wanderers.

Kazuha is bound by his wanderlust; it is his yearning to see the expanse of the world at his fingertips that attracted you to him on that fateful day, and it is that same feeling that splits you into two.

Now, he rests deeply in his cot on the Alcor, breath after breath fading away with the sway of the ship and flickering lamplight. Your fingers card through his loose hair as he slumbers, smoothing the streaks of red and pale blonde across the blanket you share.

(“If you’re still planning on going, you should do it while you still can.” Beidou whispers in your ear, inclining her head at the faraway Kazuha. “You’ll always have a spot on the Alcor, if that’s what you want.”)

…What do you want?

Shouldn’t it be this? This momentary lapse in time, this spare break in the turning wheel where you can simply rest in the hold of someone you-

Ah. That’s it.

You’re scared, aren’t you?

Your hands retract from Kazuha’s, tracing the space as if his touch has burned you.

He’s just as aware of it as you are, and yet this facsimile still persists.

(“You are what appears when the word ‘serendipity’ comes to mind.” He murmurs, tracing patterns and letters into your skin that he has yet to speak aloud.)

He’s still in your grasp, and yet he’s already gone.

You shouldn’t have to convince yourself that this is for the best.

But, before your heart can speak, your head has already made way to mark the end.

———

“For my dear Kazuha,” He reads, ruby eyes stinging at their corners. “I’m sorry.”

Fingers that once stopped just short trace the lines of your script, following line after line of harsh strokes and wrinkled dots in the ink.

“You, of all, understand the quandaries that plague wanderers, no? To follow the wind, and to be truly free, is to understand and release the burdens that haunt you first.”

He finds it within himself to curse those words, letters that fell from his tongue with little thought.

“I despise the fact that I couldn’t say this in person,” Your voice echoes in his ears. “But if I saw you, I don’t think I’d be able to leave.”

He can feel your hands against his face, yet the tears still carve their path.

“Neither of us are at the point where we can stop searching, traveling, yearning for the answers to the questions that follow us to every port.”

How did he not see? How could he be so blind?

“I know you well enough that you must be beating yourself up about this, but the answer is plain and simple; you would regret it for the rest of your life if you found yourself settled right now.”

A sob escapes his throat, stifled with the hand you rewrapped only last night.

“Now, I can’t linger too long-“ He has to blink away the haze, begging your words to last until he can find you again. “-But I do want you to know that our paths are sure to meet again. If not, I’ll make sure of it.”

Kazuha’s voice echoes your final line - “To you, my hope, be well and stay true.”

The fact that neither you nor Kazuha are used to this kind of love is the bittersweet truth hidden behind each tender embrace.

You can see his hesitation, oh so easy to find when it mirrors your own in the wake of sweet nothings, in linked fingers that stop just short of intertwined and ignoring the fitful nightmares you take turns waking for.

Silent tears stream down his cheeks, a quiet kind of sorrow that only grows as time passes. Your thumbs brush the mourning dew away as it sparkles in the sunlight - something picturesque yet ill-fitting for two wanderers.

Kazuha is bound by his wanderlust; it is his yearning to see the expanse of the world at his fingertips that attracted you to him on that fateful day, and it is that same feeling that splits you into two.

Now, he rests deeply in his cot on the Alcor, breath after breath fading away with the sway of the ship and flickering lamplight. Your fingers card through his loose hair as he slumbers, smoothing the streaks of red and pale blonde across the blanket you share.

(“If you’re still planning on going, you should do it while you still can.” Beidou whispers in your ear, inclining her head at the faraway Kazuha. “You’ll always have a spot on the Alcor, if that’s what you want.”)

…What do you want?

Shouldn’t it be this? This momentary lapse in time, this spare break in the turning wheel where you can simply rest in the hold of someone you-

Ah. That’s it.

You’re scared, aren’t you?

Your hands retract from Kazuha’s, tracing the space as if his touch has burned you.

He’s just as aware of it as you are, and yet this facsimile still persists.

(“You are what appears when the word ‘serendipity’ comes to mind.” He murmurs, tracing patterns and letters into your skin that he has yet to speak aloud.)

He’s still in your grasp, and yet he’s already gone.

You shouldn’t have to convince yourself that this is for the best.

But, before your heart can speak, your head has already made way to mark the end.

———

“For my dear Kazuha,” He reads, ruby eyes stinging at their corners. “I’m sorry.”

Fingers that once stopped just short trace the lines of your script, following line after line of harsh strokes and wrinkled dots in the ink.

“You, of all, understand the quandaries that plague wanderers, no? To follow the wind, and to be truly free, is to understand and release the burdens that haunt you first.”

He finds it within himself to curse those words, letters that fell from his tongue with little thought.

“I despise the fact that I couldn’t say this in person,” Your voice echoes in his ears. “But if I saw you, I don’t think I’d be able to leave.”

He can feel your hands against his face, yet the tears still carve their path.

“Neither of us are at the point where we can stop searching, traveling, yearning for the answers to the questions that follow us to every port.”

How did he not see? How could he be so blind?

“I know you well enough that you must be beating yourself up about this, but the answer is plain and simple; you would regret it for the rest of your life if you found yourself settled right now.”

A sob escapes his throat, stifled with the hand you rewrapped only last night.

“Now, I can’t linger too long-“ He has to blink away the haze, begging your words to last until he can find you again. “-But I do want you to know that our paths are sure to meet again. If not, I’ll make sure of it.”

Kazuha’s voice echoes your final line - “To you, my hope, be well and stay true.”

“Detestable.”

A hand comes to rest on Dottore’s shoulder, indigo gems embedded in silver that glint in the ballroom light. The Regrator smirks at his fellow harbinger’s discomfort, inclining his head to the floor below of glitz and glamor.

“A great many things in this world are. But tonight,” He flourishes, winking at a nearby group of lingering women. “We have a captive audience, and a script to follow.”

The others are already mingling along; The Captain and The Puppet, The Knave and the Maiden, all those fools with masks of their own in this mock of a wake.

(If only Rosalyne could see us now.)

(I - as a visitor from afar.)

Your outfit seems ill-fitting in comparison to the fine silks and bespoke suits scattered around the ballroom. Silently sipping on a glass of champagne (that surely costs more than your yearly salary), you find the nightly snowfall outside the windows more entertaining than the poor soul trying to chat you up.

Admittedly, you feel a bit bad for tuning him out for so long - but when you start a conversation about money with probably one of the least-rich people in the room, it’s kind of anticipated. His tangent about work has gone on for so long, you’re starting to miss your own work. And bed. Archons above, it’s cold here.

“That uh, that sounds interesting!” You finally interrupt, stopping him quick before he gets into his grievances with lukewarm water on his many travels. “Unfortunately, it seems that someone else is calling for me, so….have a good day!”

Your steps are frantic as he tries to follow your movements in his stupor, nearly catching your wrist when-

“Oh? What’s this, hm?”

Black, elegantly crafted gloves enter your vision, a gentle yet freezing hand on each of your shoulders. The voice behind you is close, almost deceptively charming. The man in front of you almost blends in with the snow outside at how pale he turns.

“M- My lord, I-“

The voice tuts disapprovingly.

“The Fair Lady would disapprove of such behavior, especially coming from one of her subordinates, no?” You brace yourself when a hand drifts across to your drink, lifting the bubbling amber out of your fingers with little resistance. “Remember your lady with the dignity and grace she carried in life.”

The Regrator steps into his spotlight, ready for a show.

“Fire and ice still burn, you know.”

It comes to your realization that the man in front of you wears the traditional mourning black, with a differing charm at his suit to signify his allegiance to Lady Signora.

It also comes to your realization, as the man slinks away and another takes his place, that your “savior” is at an entirely different level than the opulence that decorates the halls.

He takes your hand gently, the long-forgotten cup of champagne already gone in favor of your knuckles to his lips. The rings on his fingers shine, pale silver and aubergine against his midnight black and blue suit.

“It seems we have yet to be acquainted.”

Your words are tentative, step by step as you peer into the newfound abyss that grins so strangely at you.

“Well….I can fix that.”

May the Tsaritsa save your soul.

(II - as an ever-loyal servant.)

The children at your feet beg for more stories, more tales of faraway lands and endless oceans where the sun is everlasting. You laugh at their enthusiasm in their tiny suits and little skirts.

“Settle down, now.” Your eyes travel from each eager face, unable to suppress your own grin. “First, I want you all to go get something to eat, alright? It’s quite late, and I know you’re all a bit bored.”

Their heads nod in unison. So cute!

“Pair up, and be polite!” You call after their scuttling shoes and bubbly giggles.

A new pair of shoes enters your vision, ruby-jeweled and black and white heels that automatically make you drop to a bow.

“My lady, I-“

“It is no fault of yours for dealing with rambunctious children. Rise.”

Before you can blink, you’re eye-to-eye with Lady Arlecchino, red-crossed pupils studying your face curiously. You squirm under her scrutiny, but stand your ground in front of the harbinger you swore allegiance to so many years ago.

“I’m not familiar with you.”

The statement is blasé, bitingly plain and a shot through your pride as a servant of Arlecchino. “Not many people choose to seek those who busy themselves with children and their fantasies.”

She laughs at your retort. “Most of them will go their entire lives having never met The Fair Lady.”

“Yet,” You begin, breaking her stare to gaze after their faces. “They will remember what she achieved and what she sacrificed in the name of the nation. A lady of poise and intelligence to emulate as they devote their hope to our land.”

Your hands find purchase in her grasp, making you almost stumble into her arms with her ferocity.

A new brightness in her eyes appears, a frightening beauty in the everlasting blizzard.

“Thank you,” She whispers. “For remembering her right.”

(III - as a crack in the lens.)

You sit back in your chair, a fresh glass of sparkling…something in your hand and a keen ear out to the busy businessmen that whisper furtively between each other at the next table over.

All this buzz over a dead woman, hm? A new pecking order moves up…yet another mistress…failed experiments- utterly useless information like the last party.

Your eyes scan the crowds and schmoozers, following the glamorous patrons with a bored expression until you meet that oh-so stubborn sapphire blue smirk that makes you choke on your drink.

The Eleventh Harbinger is a demon of his own design, but archons above does he look remarkably tempting in his dark suit.

He leans back in his own chair, giving your disguise of the evening a careful appraisal. His nod of approval is greeted by your gaze of disdain as you turn to keep him in your peripheral. Of course he would be here…but why did he have to be so dammed observant?

You can practically hear his teasing tone, feel his curiosity creeping up your arms like spiders - even with the distance.

This waltz of yours is much more dangerous under the knife.