★

you are the living, breathing contradiction of the romantic rogue trope. you cultivate the image with theatrical flair, leaving a single gilded cecilia petal at the scene of your “redistributions”, wearing a tailored coat that blends fontaine elegance with mondstadt practicality, and speaking with a poet’s cadence. you are, as the bards sing, a gentle scoundrel.

“anyone could steal from you, if you’re not careful enough.”

albedo jumped and turned his head at the sound of your voice, he had been too focused on his investigation board to notice your presence; gods knew how long you had been sitting there, watching him work in his lab. judging by your comfortable position in one of his chairs, balancing on the outer legs, it must have been a while.

“thankfully, it’s just you.” he managed to say after recuperating from his initial shock. you let out a tiny chuckle at that, a sound so ephemeral yet moving to his core, you didn’t notice the tense line on his shoulders loosening up and his expression slightly growing soft.

“you think too highly of me. i’m still a treasure hoarder, am i not? ” albedo raised a questioning eyebrow at your form and turned his full body in your direction. you tilted your head in defiance. “the chances of an encounter in this environment are low. the extreme climate and looming threats hiding underneath the snow are a natural deterrent to all but the deliberately purposive. your presence here is, in itself, a statement of intent.” he trailed off matter-of-factly, turning his gaze back to you, calm and inquisitive, “was your inquiry into the nature of this place… satisfactorily resolved?”

sarcastic and characteristically methodical. his response to your implied do you think i’m not good enough to do my job? sank right into your blood, burning less than enough to upset you but sufficiently to amuse you. ergo, the purpose of your visit had nothing to do with work.

“quite resolved, indeed. my dear kreideprinz, i’ve been looking for you everywhere.” you accentuated that last word theatrically, getting up from your seat, you walked towards him slow and cautious to prevent a trigger on his mental alarms. his stance didn’t change, but curiosity washed over his expression. “i was hoping you wouldn’t mind joining me down at the tavern for a drink.”

he flashed you a small smile, quickly clearing his throat and slipping back into this dynamic you both have grown used to. he studied you, and i mean stared down at your form stopping just a few steps before him. you looked absolutely ravishing this evening and he couldn’t quite pinpoint why. maybe it was your deliberate decision on changing your hairstyle; the flowy poet shirt you usually liked to wear, devoid of any wrinkle, and the dark coat on your shoulders; perhaps it was the light in your eyes, the rosy on your cheeks, probably due to the cold, or the softness that carried your presence in contrast to the strength of your abilities.

albedo made an endearing habit out of this, looking at you without saying a word, and you had gotten used to it fairly quickly. after your first encounter, a story of the quiet beauty of a perfectly executed craft, you found comfort in being recognized by the scientist, seen. he’d appraise the art replicas you’d deliver to the hollow-minded treasure hoarders who only look for shiny and ostentatious ancient relics, the ones too rich in culture and history to be truly appreciated, and thus in need to be protected. and he’d give you answers about how dragonspine’s ecology interfered with your work, the unusual ley line disturbances and corrupted artifacts you’ve stumbled upon in your path.

it sounds like a connection born out of interests, but it was far from that. you considered albedo to be your best friend, even without this dynamic, he’d still grace you with his support and presence in your life. he no longer just saw the alchemical composition of your forgeries, he saw the minute tension in your jaw that spoke of a recent, tense negotiation. he noted the almost imperceptible trace of soot on your cuff, likely from a clandestine entrance through an old chimney flue. he saw you, the curated performance and the weary, brilliant individual behind it.

“a drink,” he repeated, his voice a low murmur. “if my memory serves me right, your last visit to the angel’s share ended with you debating the architectural influences of the cat’s tail with master diluc for two hours while i transcribed the conversation for linguistic patterns.”

you gave a half shrug, the movement elegant and fluid. “and you found it fascinating. admit it. tonight, however, i promise the topic will be less… civic. i acquired a bottle of 20-year-old dandelion wine from a collector in liyue who believed he was trading for a ‘lost’ vintage of osmanthus wine. the replica i provided him will age just as poorly as the original would have. the real prize deserves a proper tasting. with proper company.”

albedo felt a familiar, quiet shift within his chest, a sensation he had meticulously cataloged, analyzed, and yet could not fully quantify. it was warmer than satisfaction, more focused than curiosity. the specific anticipation of your company.

“your timing, as ever, is… perceptive,” he said, turning to carefully cap the vial of shimmering solution. his movements deliberate, giving him time to arrange his thoughts. “i was approaching a point of diminishing returns for tonight’s observations anyway.” a lie by omission, he could have worked until dawn. he chose not to.

the walk to the city was quiet, but not silent. you spoke of inconsequential things, a novel you’d read set in sumeru, the peculiar behavior of the crystalflies near starsnatch cliff this season. he listened, interjecting with precise, analytical comments that you received not as coldness, but as his unique form of engagement. under the blanket of stars, the performance of the ‘phantom rogue’ faded, leaving just you. and ‘albedo’ found he did not need to be the chief alchemist, just himself.

inside of the tavern, the ambience was warm and lively; customers that spoke a little too loud, bards that broke out on spontaneous songs that added additional context to the conversations, the ever persistent round of cheers and clinks of tankards against each other, followed shortly by the thuds of them against the tables. it was rowdy, messy, and all too familiar.

thankfully, you saved albedo from the difficulty of navigating a conversation over the loudness. diluc, polishing a glass behind the bar, gave you both a slow, appraising nod. the exchange was silent but eloquent: i see you. behave. with that, you both headed to the back of the tavern. very few patrons were aware of the more private rooms the establishment had to offer, not like they were open to just anyone. these were rooms master diluc intended to use for the more discreet meetings with some of his associates, and by being his close friends, you were more than grateful you could enjoy the privilege of using them whenever they were disoccupied.

you clinked glasses, silently toasting. albedo didn’t sip it immediately, he observed it, swirling the liquid, watching the legs trail down the glass. you observed the flicker of his thoughts and you anticipated he’d voice them out. “the color suggests excellent oak cask aging. the aroma has top notes of sun-dried wheat and a faint, earthy undertone… likely from the specific terroir of the older vineyards near stone gate.”

you watched him, your heart performing a peculiar, rhythmic flutter. this was his version of poetry. “you’re avoiding the taste.”

he directed his eyes at you again, catching you in a trance. you noticed his head tipping down slightly, bringing his lips to the edge of the glass. you watched the crystal press down on the sultry, seemingly fixated on the slow motion of the liquid meeting them harmoniously and his tongue peeking out to collect the aftertaste. glistening. he didn’t look away once. “exceptional.” he said.

you gulped down the sip you just took with a little more effort before nodding once, agreeing with him, although you weren’t sure on what anymore.

the conversation meandered, as it often did with him, from the adaptive biology of whopperflowers to the philosophical implications of restoring a shattered vase. is it the same vase, or a new entity born of the same materials? you argued, you debated, you fell into companionable silences, watching the fire dance.

the wine was half-way gone, its warmth now a shared ember in your veins. as a homunculus created through alchemy, albedo’s body doesn’t function exactly as a human’s. and you knew, from a past, carefully documented, and mildly alarming experiment, that he had a very specific amount of sips he could take before systematically collapsing. you noted in your head, tracking the subtle signs with a protector’s focus. his eighteenth sip was when the shift began.

he looked at you, his head tilting a degree too far. “your eyes.” he said, the word a bare fact dropped into the quiet.

“what about them?” you asked, your voice soft.

“they are performing a complex interaction with the lowlight. they create radial patterns of absorption of the lamplight, like rings. or a catalyst crystal.” he leaned forward, the motion a fraction slower than usual. he said your eyes are shining despite the low light in the room. “it must have a purpose.”

“and what purpose is that?” you couldn’t help but smile, the fluttering in your chest now a steady, warm hum.

“to distract me.” he said, utterly serious. you swallowed the giggle blossoming in your chest with another sip of the wine, raising an eyebrow at him. he matched your action, this was sip nineteenth, his internal counter was ticking down.

he reached out for the bottle to refill his glass again, his movements still elegant but now operating on a deliberate programmed grace. you gently placed your hand over his on the table, stilling him. “perhaps we should let the wine breathe a little longer,” you suggested, your thumb brushing his knuckles.

he looked at your joined hands, then back at your face. the analytical fortress was visibly, beautifully crumbling. the wall between his internal monologue and his speech was dissolving.

“i have an issue.” he announced, his voice lower, intimate.

“oh?”

“for 247 days, i have meticulously logged our memories together. time, duration, topic, resultant hypotheses. all in view of the fact that, while the data set is vast, it is incomplete. it describes the phenomenon of you with the precision of a star chart. mapping the ‘what’ and the ‘when’ and the ‘how’, yet it fails to entirely describe the ‘why’.”

you held your breath, the tavern falling into a distant murmur.

“the… why?” you prompted gently. he slowly turned his hand under yours, yearning to feel the contact of your bare palms together. he held onto it, transfixed in the way his own fingers shook under the softness.

“why,” he said, his voice dropped to a hushed, confessional tone, his eyes still avoiding yours. he gave you a light squeeze. “the pressure in my laboratory feels altered even after you leave. why the chemical formula for a stable compound sucrose asked me to revise becomes impossible to focus on when your particular shade of hair is backlit by the afternoon sun. why the pursuit that once defined my purpose, now registers as a secondary objective. a footnote.”

he took a shaky breath, a human reflex you rarely saw in him. “i… i lack the terminology to establish the cause.” he was adrift, the greatest mind in mondstadt humbled by a simple, human mystery. he was trying to hand you his research notes, hoping you could translate them. he looked utterly lost, and utterly beautiful in his vulnerability.

“i know that the ‘why’ is that my system prioritizes you. it seeks you. yearns and longs for you. it defines its own function in relation to your presence. it is inefficient and illogical, and yet…” a faint, helpless fond smile touched his lips. “it is the most significant discovery i have ever made. i believe… i believe the human term for this is ‘love’. i believe i am malfunctioning… according to love.”

the confession hung in the air, quiet and monumental. he had not said i love you, but he had deconstructed his own being and found your name written in its programming. “albedo,” you whispered, your breath caught inside your own lungs.

“yes,” he said, as if answering a much larger question. he didn’t reach for the wine. he used his free hand to reach for you, fingers grazing your jawline with a reverence usually reserved for ancient, fragile manuscripts. his hand coming to rest atop your cheek, letting you lean onto it. he felt the urge, once his brain couldn’t form a single coherent thought anymore, to press his body against yours, an attempt to convey a deeper feeling that words wouldn’t make justice to. let you feel the yearn he’s been holding close to his chest all this time, oblivious to just how much of that yearning you mirrored yourself.

he leaned slowly, in question, and you were there to bridge the distance, in response. you pressed your lips against his, the calculated grace of his movements dissolved into something infinitely softer, yet no less precise. his taste the ghost of the wine’s oak and faint chalk dust. it was alchemy of a different nature.

his hand, still interlaced with yours on the table, tightened its grip to anchor for a grounding wire of the electric current suddenly completing a circuit between you. his thumb on your cheekbone mapping you, as a man memorizing the feeling of your skin against his.

the kiss deepened in the angle you tilted your head into, the last of his analytical detachment burned away. it was as if he had spent a lifetime observing the theory of combustion and was now, finally, allowing himself to be consumed by the flame. there was a quiet, surrendered sigh against your mouth. he moved his hand to the back of your neck once your tongue accepted his invitation and they danced slowly, each drag of your lips a compass in the melody of your beating heart, as if wanting to carve this moment into every crevice of your brain.

you parted for a second to finally allow your lungs the mercy of oxygen, albedo followed your lips, as if they were the only sustenance he ever needed instead. a smile formed on your face along with an idea on your head, you relocated your affection to his jaw, trailing down his neck towards the four-pointed star at the base. your grip on his shirt, that you hadn’t noticed, moving up to bury your fingers in his hair. albedo let out a sound far too encouraging for you to suck in a particularly sensitive spot. his breath was interrupted by the sensation.

“hey…” he whispered, becoming putty in your hands. “my non-essential functions are… dimming.”

with a last, soft kiss to his cheek, you stopped. understanding what that meant. the specific, calculated number of sips had been reached. the brilliant, relentless engine of his mind was powering down from a conscious, final command to feel rather than think. he was letting go, trusting you to be the steady ground as he surrendered to the simple, overwhelming reality of you.

“come on, my prince.” you whispered, helping him to his feet. he was pliant, coordinated enough to walk but ultimately leaning into you, “let’s get you home.”

“home.” his words slurred in echo against your shoulder, the concept seeming to please him. leading him out into the cool night, you knew the phantom rogue had stolen nothing tonight. instead, you had been entrusted with the most precious thing in all of teyvat: the unguarded, quiet collapse of a prince of chalk, who chose your arms as the only laboratory in which he wished to be, blissfully, undone.

you are the living, breathing contradiction of the romantic rogue trope. you cultivate the image with theatrical flair, leaving a single gilded cecilia petal at the scene of your “redistributions”, wearing a tailored coat that blends fontaine elegance with mondstadt practicality, and speaking with a poet’s cadence. you are, as the bards sing, a gentle scoundrel.

“anyone could steal from you, if you’re not careful enough.”

albedo jumped and turned his head at the sound of your voice, he had been too focused on his investigation board to notice your presence; gods knew how long you had been sitting there, watching him work in his lab. judging by your comfortable position in one of his chairs, balancing on the outer legs, it must have been a while.

“thankfully, it’s just you.” he managed to say after recuperating from his initial shock. you let out a tiny chuckle at that, a sound so ephemeral yet moving to his core, you didn’t notice the tense line on his shoulders loosening up and his expression slightly growing soft.

“you think too highly of me. i’m still a treasure hoarder, am i not? ” albedo raised a questioning eyebrow at your form and turned his full body in your direction. you tilted your head in defiance. “the chances of an encounter in this environment are low. the extreme climate and looming threats hiding underneath the snow are a natural deterrent to all but the deliberately purposive. your presence here is, in itself, a statement of intent.” he trailed off matter-of-factly, turning his gaze back to you, calm and inquisitive, “was your inquiry into the nature of this place… satisfactorily resolved?”

sarcastic and characteristically methodical. his response to your implied do you think i’m not good enough to do my job? sank right into your blood, burning less than enough to upset you but sufficiently to amuse you. ergo, the purpose of your visit had nothing to do with work.

“quite resolved, indeed. my dear kreideprinz, i’ve been looking for you everywhere.” you accentuated that last word theatrically, getting up from your seat, you walked towards him slow and cautious to prevent a trigger on his mental alarms. his stance didn’t change, but curiosity washed over his expression. “i was hoping you wouldn’t mind joining me down at the tavern for a drink.”

he flashed you a small smile, quickly clearing his throat and slipping back into this dynamic you both have grown used to. he studied you, and i mean stared down at your form stopping just a few steps before him. you looked absolutely ravishing this evening and he couldn’t quite pinpoint why. maybe it was your deliberate decision on changing your hairstyle; the flowy poet shirt you usually liked to wear, devoid of any wrinkle, and the dark coat on your shoulders; perhaps it was the light in your eyes, the rosy on your cheeks, probably due to the cold, or the softness that carried your presence in contrast to the strength of your abilities.

albedo made an endearing habit out of this, looking at you without saying a word, and you had gotten used to it fairly quickly. after your first encounter, a story of the quiet beauty of a perfectly executed craft, you found comfort in being recognized by the scientist, seen. he’d appraise the art replicas you’d deliver to the hollow-minded treasure hoarders who only look for shiny and ostentatious ancient relics, the ones too rich in culture and history to be truly appreciated, and thus in need to be protected. and he’d give you answers about how dragonspine’s ecology interfered with your work, the unusual ley line disturbances and corrupted artifacts you’ve stumbled upon in your path.

it sounds like a connection born out of interests, but it was far from that. you considered albedo to be your best friend, even without this dynamic, he’d still grace you with his support and presence in your life. he no longer just saw the alchemical composition of your forgeries, he saw the minute tension in your jaw that spoke of a recent, tense negotiation. he noted the almost imperceptible trace of soot on your cuff, likely from a clandestine entrance through an old chimney flue. he saw you, the curated performance and the weary, brilliant individual behind it.

“a drink,” he repeated, his voice a low murmur. “if my memory serves me right, your last visit to the angel’s share ended with you debating the architectural influences of the cat’s tail with master diluc for two hours while i transcribed the conversation for linguistic patterns.”

you gave a half shrug, the movement elegant and fluid. “and you found it fascinating. admit it. tonight, however, i promise the topic will be less… civic. i acquired a bottle of 20-year-old dandelion wine from a collector in liyue who believed he was trading for a ‘lost’ vintage of osmanthus wine. the replica i provided him will age just as poorly as the original would have. the real prize deserves a proper tasting. with proper company.”

albedo felt a familiar, quiet shift within his chest, a sensation he had meticulously cataloged, analyzed, and yet could not fully quantify. it was warmer than satisfaction, more focused than curiosity. the specific anticipation of your company.

“your timing, as ever, is… perceptive,” he said, turning to carefully cap the vial of shimmering solution. his movements deliberate, giving him time to arrange his thoughts. “i was approaching a point of diminishing returns for tonight’s observations anyway.” a lie by omission, he could have worked until dawn. he chose not to.

the walk to the city was quiet, but not silent. you spoke of inconsequential things, a novel you’d read set in sumeru, the peculiar behavior of the crystalflies near starsnatch cliff this season. he listened, interjecting with precise, analytical comments that you received not as coldness, but as his unique form of engagement. under the blanket of stars, the performance of the ‘phantom rogue’ faded, leaving just you. and ‘albedo’ found he did not need to be the chief alchemist, just himself.

inside of the tavern, the ambience was warm and lively; customers that spoke a little too loud, bards that broke out on spontaneous songs that added additional context to the conversations, the ever persistent round of cheers and clinks of tankards against each other, followed shortly by the thuds of them against the tables. it was rowdy, messy, and all too familiar.

thankfully, you saved albedo from the difficulty of navigating a conversation over the loudness. diluc, polishing a glass behind the bar, gave you both a slow, appraising nod. the exchange was silent but eloquent: i see you. behave. with that, you both headed to the back of the tavern. very few patrons were aware of the more private rooms the establishment had to offer, not like they were open to just anyone. these were rooms master diluc intended to use for the more discreet meetings with some of his associates, and by being his close friends, you were more than grateful you could enjoy the privilege of using them whenever they were disoccupied.

you clinked glasses, silently toasting. albedo didn’t sip it immediately, he observed it, swirling the liquid, watching the legs trail down the glass. you observed the flicker of his thoughts and you anticipated he’d voice them out. “the color suggests excellent oak cask aging. the aroma has top notes of sun-dried wheat and a faint, earthy undertone… likely from the specific terroir of the older vineyards near stone gate.”

you watched him, your heart performing a peculiar, rhythmic flutter. this was his version of poetry. “you’re avoiding the taste.”

he directed his eyes at you again, catching you in a trance. you noticed his head tipping down slightly, bringing his lips to the edge of the glass. you watched the crystal press down on the sultry, seemingly fixated on the slow motion of the liquid meeting them harmoniously and his tongue peeking out to collect the aftertaste. glistening. he didn’t look away once. “exceptional.” he said.

you gulped down the sip you just took with a little more effort before nodding once, agreeing with him, although you weren’t sure on what anymore.

the conversation meandered, as it often did with him, from the adaptive biology of whopperflowers to the philosophical implications of restoring a shattered vase. is it the same vase, or a new entity born of the same materials? you argued, you debated, you fell into companionable silences, watching the fire dance.

the wine was half-way gone, its warmth now a shared ember in your veins. as a homunculus created through alchemy, albedo’s body doesn’t function exactly as a human’s. and you knew, from a past, carefully documented, and mildly alarming experiment, that he had a very specific amount of sips he could take before systematically collapsing. you noted in your head, tracking the subtle signs with a protector’s focus. his eighteenth sip was when the shift began.

he looked at you, his head tilting a degree too far. “your eyes.” he said, the word a bare fact dropped into the quiet.

“what about them?” you asked, your voice soft.

“they are performing a complex interaction with the lowlight. they create radial patterns of absorption of the lamplight, like rings. or a catalyst crystal.” he leaned forward, the motion a fraction slower than usual. he said your eyes are shining despite the low light in the room. “it must have a purpose.”

“and what purpose is that?” you couldn’t help but smile, the fluttering in your chest now a steady, warm hum.

“to distract me.” he said, utterly serious. you swallowed the giggle blossoming in your chest with another sip of the wine, raising an eyebrow at him. he matched your action, this was sip nineteenth, his internal counter was ticking down.

he reached out for the bottle to refill his glass again, his movements still elegant but now operating on a deliberate programmed grace. you gently placed your hand over his on the table, stilling him. “perhaps we should let the wine breathe a little longer,” you suggested, your thumb brushing his knuckles.

he looked at your joined hands, then back at your face. the analytical fortress was visibly, beautifully crumbling. the wall between his internal monologue and his speech was dissolving.

“i have an issue.” he announced, his voice lower, intimate.

“oh?”

“for 247 days, i have meticulously logged our memories together. time, duration, topic, resultant hypotheses. all in view of the fact that, while the data set is vast, it is incomplete. it describes the phenomenon of you with the precision of a star chart. mapping the ‘what’ and the ‘when’ and the ‘how’, yet it fails to entirely describe the ‘why’.”

you held your breath, the tavern falling into a distant murmur.

“the… why?” you prompted gently. he slowly turned his hand under yours, yearning to feel the contact of your bare palms together. he held onto it, transfixed in the way his own fingers shook under the softness.

“why,” he said, his voice dropped to a hushed, confessional tone, his eyes still avoiding yours. he gave you a light squeeze. “the pressure in my laboratory feels altered even after you leave. why the chemical formula for a stable compound sucrose asked me to revise becomes impossible to focus on when your particular shade of hair is backlit by the afternoon sun. why the pursuit that once defined my purpose, now registers as a secondary objective. a footnote.”

he took a shaky breath, a human reflex you rarely saw in him. “i… i lack the terminology to establish the cause.” he was adrift, the greatest mind in mondstadt humbled by a simple, human mystery. he was trying to hand you his research notes, hoping you could translate them. he looked utterly lost, and utterly beautiful in his vulnerability.

“i know that the ‘why’ is that my system prioritizes you. it seeks you. yearns and longs for you. it defines its own function in relation to your presence. it is inefficient and illogical, and yet…” a faint, helpless fond smile touched his lips. “it is the most significant discovery i have ever made. i believe… i believe the human term for this is ‘love’. i believe i am malfunctioning… according to love.”

the confession hung in the air, quiet and monumental. he had not said i love you, but he had deconstructed his own being and found your name written in its programming. “albedo,” you whispered, your breath caught inside your own lungs.

“yes,” he said, as if answering a much larger question. he didn’t reach for the wine. he used his free hand to reach for you, fingers grazing your jawline with a reverence usually reserved for ancient, fragile manuscripts. his hand coming to rest atop your cheek, letting you lean onto it. he felt the urge, once his brain couldn’t form a single coherent thought anymore, to press his body against yours, an attempt to convey a deeper feeling that words wouldn’t make justice to. let you feel the yearn he’s been holding close to his chest all this time, oblivious to just how much of that yearning you mirrored yourself.

he leaned slowly, in question, and you were there to bridge the distance, in response. you pressed your lips against his, the calculated grace of his movements dissolved into something infinitely softer, yet no less precise. his taste the ghost of the wine’s oak and faint chalk dust. it was alchemy of a different nature.

his hand, still interlaced with yours on the table, tightened its grip to anchor for a grounding wire of the electric current suddenly completing a circuit between you. his thumb on your cheekbone mapping you, as a man memorizing the feeling of your skin against his.

the kiss deepened in the angle you tilted your head into, the last of his analytical detachment burned away. it was as if he had spent a lifetime observing the theory of combustion and was now, finally, allowing himself to be consumed by the flame. there was a quiet, surrendered sigh against your mouth. he moved his hand to the back of your neck once your tongue accepted his invitation and they danced slowly, each drag of your lips a compass in the melody of your beating heart, as if wanting to carve this moment into every crevice of your brain.

you parted for a second to finally allow your lungs the mercy of oxygen, albedo followed your lips, as if they were the only sustenance he ever needed instead. a smile formed on your face along with an idea on your head, you relocated your affection to his jaw, trailing down his neck towards the four-pointed star at the base. your grip on his shirt, that you hadn’t noticed, moving up to bury your fingers in his hair. albedo let out a sound far too encouraging for you to suck in a particularly sensitive spot. his breath was interrupted by the sensation.

“hey…” he whispered, becoming putty in your hands. “my non-essential functions are… dimming.”

with a last, soft kiss to his cheek, you stopped. understanding what that meant. the specific, calculated number of sips had been reached. the brilliant, relentless engine of his mind was powering down from a conscious, final command to feel rather than think. he was letting go, trusting you to be the steady ground as he surrendered to the simple, overwhelming reality of you.

“come on, my prince.” you whispered, helping him to his feet. he was pliant, coordinated enough to walk but ultimately leaning into you, “let’s get you home.”

“home.” his words slurred in echo against your shoulder, the concept seeming to please him. leading him out into the cool night, you knew the phantom rogue had stolen nothing tonight. instead, you had been entrusted with the most precious thing in all of teyvat: the unguarded, quiet collapse of a prince of chalk, who chose your arms as the only laboratory in which he wished to be, blissfully, undone.