In terms of mora we have mora

“Sugar girl~”

And what are these nicknames?? Okay, yes, it always starts tame, like you lovingly address each other as ‘darling’ or ‘beloved’, as he would expect of a couple, but as the evening progresses and transforms into the night, it gets wild and beyond his imagination. ‘Hottie Hottersen’? ‘Future Grandmaster Yummy’?? What are even those???

“Do you want a sip of my drink, my Unhinged Queen?”

“I’d be delighted, my Horseless Knight~”

Celestia above, give him patience. Yes, patience, because if the skies gave him strength, Diluc would send Kaeya flying straight to where his horses are - which is conveniently so very far away from his tavern.

You? You are good, he likes you. It’s not your fault, the redhead is convinced that the Cavalry Captain’s (horseless haha– ahem, okay, that’s actually funny) antics have long rubbed on onto you. His future sister-in-law can never do anything wrong on her own accord.

“Hey, Diluc, do you mind mixing another one for me and my Kissing King who holds the keys to the treasure chamber that is my heart?”

…maybe he should go back on his last statement. Holy church of Barbatos, and here he is trying to defend you to his own mind, could’ve helped him a little.

“...Sure.”

“What’s wrong, Diluc?” You blink, confused, but the slight worry in your voice doesn’t escape his attention. “Long shift? I don’t mean to sound offensive, but you don’t look really well.”

“Yeah, you look like you’ve swallowed something very unsavory and then saw a bunch of Fatui soldiers,” Kaeya smirks, lowering the now empty glass and sliding it to the side. Then he plants his elbow on the counter and puts his chin on the palm, half turning to you. To Diluc’s horror he opens his mouth, undoubtedly in preparation to spew another crazy nickname.

He can’t handle this anymore.

“Glad to know you classify yourself as ‘unsavory’ and ‘a bunch of Fatui soldiers’, Kaeya,” the tavern owner deadpans, but there is hardly conveyed desperation behind his blank tone. “Could you please stop?”

“Stop what?” You blink, even more confused, glancing between the two men. Your lover chuckles, reaching out his unoccupied hand and gently running the fingertips up your cheek.

“My brother means to say,” he tucks the strand of loose hair behind your ear and then boops your nose, “that he is fed up with our flirting, shmoopsie.”

“...what is even this word?”

“But it’s not our fault his sorry ass is single, right, pirate booty?”

“First of all, don’t assume things - you have no proof of whether I’m courting someone or not,” the redhead pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a brief moment, and somehow misses how Kaeya puffs up his chest and does a silly gesture with his hand, mouthing ‘courting’ mockingly, making you giggle. “Second of all,” he picks up the ingredients for your drinks, “I’m bewildered by the terms of endearment you two use, if they even can be called that. You sound like you are trying to insult each other.”

“Listen, you don’t beat your bachelor allegat– ow!”

“Silence, love,” you nudge his side with an elbow, sending your friend an apologetic look. Alright, he likes you again. “Sorry, Diluc, I tend to forget that you are used to the things that are more…”

“Old-fashioned?” Kaeya snickers and then immediately yelps, when you dig the sharp edge of your arm firmer into his ribs.

“I wanted to say chivalrous,” you roll your eyes halfheartedly. “We are not trying to insult each other, trust me. Simply testing the capability of our imagination.”

“...uh-huh,” he hums, not quite convinced, but having accepted the strange way your brain works. Then he slides your glasses forward.

For a couple minutes the air between you three is filled with a comfortable silence. You suck on the straw happily, having leaned onto your boyfriend’s shoulder, as he’s wrapped an arm around yours, sipping on his own drink. Diluc has busied himself with washing glasses and then an order for two tables on the second floor, temporarily taking off his mind from the verbal nonsense-filled duel his two patrons had minutes prior.

He doesn’t even react when they start whispering among each other.

“He’s hilarious, isn’t he?” the knight murmurs into your hair, not wasting an opportunity to kiss your temple.

“Way to tell me you’ve specifically been choosing his shifts and these exact stools to occupy,” snorting, you bring down your half-empty glass. “When did you notice his peculiar reaction to our sweet-talking?”

“Mmm… two months ago when we stopped by the winery to bring Adelinde the souvenirs we got in Sumeru and he happened to be there too. He was visibly cringing, especially when I was calling you ‘my favorite heatstroke’ and ‘the one who lives in my bones’. To the first one he looked like he was offended for your honor, and to the second he was blinking ridiculously like an owl.

“Wow, how weirdly specific. But I’m sure I said some…stuff too, so it’s on both of us.”

“You know me, always paying attention to any moment you are involved in, snowflake,” he winks - well, you think he does - and salutes you with his glass. You can’t help but smile, responding in kind.

“I’m touched, it’s like I am dating the embodiment of romance.”

“Obviously. Why else would Donna take notes every time we are exchanging our cute loving petnames?’

“What.”

Oh, looks like Diluc is back to being the participant of your conversation. And, honestly, you start to feel kinda sorry for him - you can’t say you’ve ever seen so many shades of distress on his face in the span of just one hour.

Of course, Kaeya is going to end him.

“Didn’t you know?” your boyfriend is blinking in such feigned surprise, that would’ve gone perfectly with a loud gasp. “Okay, then listen. I accidentally stumbled upon her notebook a week ago. Left it open on the bench next to the Cat’s Tail - I had to check the contents to find out to whom it belonged. And ooooh boy, she’s been diligent. Moreover, she actually upgraded some of them! For example–”

Alright, a mental note to avoid Donna if she ever gets a partner. Like, good for her, splendid even.

You took it upon yourself to sit him down and hammer it into his ‘pretty blond head’ (your words, not his) that if he wanted to keep hunting down the Abyss order, then sure, he could go ahead, you’d even gladly assist him, but you two would be taking breaks from time to time.

The word 'vacation' wasn't in his vocabulary? Now it was, and you’d make sure to spell it out to him. 

You had too little time to deal with the enemy? Dear, you both were literally cursed to keep living for eternity, and Teyvat was too big and you were just two people, cut yourself some slack.

Mora? More commissions!

He had no desire to converse with strangers for too long and spend more than one day among them? Alright, you’d do the talking, he’d do the scary dog privileges. And you could change inns every night, when money allowed.

People could recognize your heritage by the clothes and the shape of your irises and ask too many questions? …well, he was an idiot for not thinking about using different clothes for disguise in the past (how was his uniform even still intact??). As for the eyes… You’d figure it out along the way!

Any complaints? Pff, should’ve thought about it before he married you.

Dainsleif glances at the ring on his finger - a simple silver band wrapped around the base of his digit has long left an indent on his skin. In your homeland it was customary for spouses to wear the silver bracelets with all kinds of meaningful ornaments, but Khaenri’ah is gone, and the vast majority of Teyvat population use rings to demonstrate the bond; you opted to adjust.

And adjust you did, too well actually, as the man doesn’t find you in the small cozy house you rented for your stay in the Masters’ of the Night-Wind tribe. Knowing you, - and over the course of at least two centuries staying inseparable he came to know you too well, - you took another invitation to feast with the locals, to ‘shape your image of a regular couple through conversation’, as you called it.

Your husband sighs, adjusting the long glove on his arm that is hiding the darkened flesh and unnaturally bluish veins, getting ready to go and search for you. He trusts you, of course, but the residents of this tribe can be– how should he put it… well, weird (like it wasn’t the main reason why you chose the very tribe in the first place - you’d stand out even less). Their ‘shamans’ sometimes could see what’s concealed and even look into the foggy future, and it gave him an inexplicable ick.

He feels he’d be less agitated if he was close to where you are.

A burst of laughter catches his attention just as Dainsleif leaves the house. Looks like you didn’t go far (yes, he is certain that you are the cause of this unseen merit), just to one of your neighbours. Good, easier for him. Checking on his glove again, tugging the short sleeve of a local tunic lower and brushing some locks over his mask, the blond takes off in the sound’s direction.

The first thing he sees is the gleam of metal - the sunray that gets caught on your own wedding band, as you are using your hands expressively to gesticulate along the words you say. Four–no, five women are seated at the table together with you, some still giggling, some taking sips from their drinks, but all are listening attentively. He too stops in the shadow of the house to listen to you, leaning his shoulder on the wall with crossed arms.

“Soooo,” you lock your fingers together with a grin and mischief swirling in your eyes (Dainsleif can’t help but tilt his head with a ghost of a smile at the sight), “funny story, we actually agreed to get married at some point in the future if none of us would be settled by that time! Guess who’d been waiting for me~”

Another fit of giggles and coos erupts; someone whistles even, raising her glass to cheer, and everyone follows suit - you included. And your husband - the one you were undoubtedly telling these women about - closes his eyes for a moment, mulling over your ‘image-shaping’ words.

You aren’t even lying - for the first part of your claim, that is. Such a promise was indeed made half a millennium ago between two Khaenri’ahns, who couldn’t have known that they wouldn’t be reaching a point in age above their twenties. Not in a normal sense, at least.

A promise that he was reminded of a couple decades into your shared journey. It was the evening and the sun was setting at the horizon, as Dainsleif was gazing at the vast water surface surrounding the city of Fontaine. From the top of a cliff on Beryl Island, where you set your camp for the last night of that trip to the Hydro region, the view was truly breathtaking, and you didn’t even complain about not staying at the inn.

Soon he understood why.

“What is it?”

“Open and find out.”

The man stared up at the small velvet box resting on your open palm. It was square-shaped and looked new, so he quickly abandoned thoughts of some kind of treasure you’d found in the ruins nearby. Had you bought some kind of trinket for yourself? No, you wouldn’t have kept it closed then. In that case, a present?

He was still skeptical about gifts - be it giving or receiving, and yet he reached for the mysterious object. Cradling the box in his big palm, he, subconsciously, waited a few heartbeats until you lowered onto the grass and settled next to him. He noted that you were acting weird: your eyes either watched him intensely or averted with an almost shy purse of your lips; your hands were twitching, no matter how hard you were trying to press them against your thighs, and your overall posture was quite tense. If he hadn’t known better, hadn’t known you better, he would’ve found that whole situation quite concerning and suspicious.

Nevertheless, he trusted you to know that whatever was in that box - it was harmless. So he opened it.

“A…ring?”

Confused, Dainslef stared at the simple silver band with several dark blue stones. Just like his eyes.

“Well…” You cleared your throat, squaring your shoulders a little in attempts to put on a brave face. “Remember how we agreed to get married, if by the time we turned thirty we were still single? I know it’s very much overdue, but since we’ve never gotten to do that…and we are both still single…”

After that you started rambling. About rings being more common than bracelets up there and how you thought it was more proper to propose with one. About the commission you’d placed at the blacksmith’s the first time you visited the main city, and how worried you’d been about its timely completion. About the perks of getting married and stuff alike.

Somewhere halfway through your speech, Dainsleif finally tore his eyes from the ring and looked at you - truly looked at you. At the way the gentle wind played with your hair, at the gleam of vividness in your eyes he always admired, at your smile he caught himself staring at these days (and, admittedly, back then too), at the hands that always moved with familiar animosity.

He could not believe this was really happening. For a moment his brain shut down.

“...old people love young married couples! Imagine how many benefits we could–”

“But we can always pretend to be married?”

Yes, his stupid brain chose the worst time to stop functioning the way he needed it to.

“…” He saw your smile falter. Slowly, starting with the corners of your mouth lowering, it crumbled. The spark in your eyes faded, and you blinked, holding his gaze for just a moment longer and then averting yours altogether. Dainsleif immediately wanted to punch himself.

“Okay, I get it. You don’t want to. It’s fine. It’s fine!” How could it be fine when you said it twice? “It really is overdue, it’s been many lifetimes ago. We were what, fifteen?”

“I was seventeen,” he suddenly corrected you, startling and effectively crashing another of your incipient ramblings, “and you were fifteen. We actually argued immediately on whose 30th birthday we should consider the point of this promise’s implementation.”

“Oh…yes, I do remember that,” your words were careful, but he managed to hear the slight astonishment in your tone. You were definitely surprised he had any recollection of that. But how could he not? You were always very dear to him.

Yes, maybe he did not think you’d ever breach the ‘friendship’ line, but at that very moment, with a velvet box still held firmly in his hand, Dainsleif came to realize - he did not mind putting a more definite label to your relationship.

“If you truly mean it,” his voice was softer when he spoke to you again, “then I’d be honored to accept this ring.”

Your eyes brightened up immediately and your shoulders relaxed with an exhale of relief. And suddenly you were on your back on the grass, pressing your palms to your face and smiling stupidly, overwhelmed with emotions.

“Oh, whoever is listening, thank you.”

The continuation of that evening was a little bit chaotic. Eventually you calmed down, asked him again (and again, and again) if he was really sure, and after the tenth answered ‘yes’, you finally reached for the box, and he let you take a hold of his free hand and slide the cool metal band around his finger (it was surprisingly fitting, he noted with fondness). You talked: about the past, the present and the future. 

You admitted you’d liked him for a long time, but he had been so busy as a royal guard and had no time for any kind of romantic relationship… Waiting till your 30s had seemed like your safest option, though maybe kind of a potentially futile one.

He wrapped an arm around your shoulder and brought you closer, murmuring into your hair how grateful he was for your patience. And swore to never betray it.

Plans on the wedding - where? when? how? - brought you back to the tent, and you fell asleep with a sweet giggle and another life-changing suggestion.

“Since you are unable to come up with a fake name instead of your own to save your life… Once we get married…we can call each other ‘husband’ and ‘wife’ in front of strangers… Hehe, I like the sound of it…” 

He quickly grew to like it too.

“...band! Husband!”

He’s shaken from his thoughts by your voice, nearly scraping his shoulder on the house’s outer wall in attempts to steady his slackened body. Did he doze off?

Blinking owlishly a few times, Dainsleif turns his head and finds six pairs of eyes staring at him: some curiously, some creased from a giggle, and only yours are gazing at him with adoration. Looks like you noticed him ‘watching’ you from the shadow of the trees and tried to call him over albeit in vain. No wonder that upon finally getting a reaction from him, you slide on a mask of pretense indignation at his previous lack of attention.

“Oh, look at that, my dear husband finally heard me,” you huff, leaning your cheek on a fisted hand, but the smile that fights its way to your face betrays you. “Don’t just stand there, come here, join us!”

And you were telling these women that he used to be the one waiting?

The engagement ring is warm against the skin of his chest, hung there snugly on a chain, as Dainsleif removes himself from the wall and steps out of the shadows with a serene smile.

“Of course, my dear wife.”

Dottore

Despite your unique predicament, you find amusement in being the Doctor’s wife. 

Sure, you are not human, rather an engineering marvel, running on self-learning programs which teach you the way of life and emotion. You are the creation of the Seventh Harbinger - a project to test her own ability to implement the things that should be foreign to her artificial being into the ‘machine’ of her making. And for her, you turned out to be perfect - her magnum opus.

Which was stolen by the colleague of hers in the most ridiculous way possible - claimed by the right of ownership through the marriage.

You still remember the rage Sandrone overcame with, her face twisted in pure hatred and mouth shooting out a seemingly never-ending flow of curses directed at your now husband, as she was working on the last update of your inner structures before everything would’ve been handed to Dottore on the plate with a silver lining. And though you didn’t quite understand the emotion, you still catalogued the visual of it carefully in that part of your processor that was dedicated to your creator.

Because you ‘loved’ her. As much as an artificial creation could love her artificial creator, who granted her the permission to study the world around without being in her presence 24/7.

Sadly, though the decision was beautiful and gracious - it was a mistake.

Sandrone gave you the freedom that was almost immediately stripped from you.

And so one manually created presence was replaced by the several synthetic entities, excluding your husband of flesh.

His clones are…all different. 

The younger segments are more huffy than the ones who came after, and seem to entirely consist of glares and snarly curls of their mouths, as if the entirety of the world humiliated them. But still, the excitement with which each of them would tell you about their research, should you express your interest, varies with their assigned age.

You enjoy the conversations with the young ones, they are interesting and productive - learning through them about trauma and searching for the way to comfort them so it would be paying off instead of sending one of them into further spiral. And they flush so adorably when they hear other segments call you ‘wife’ and mutter quietly this word when they want you to pay attention to them.

Then come the clones from the Doctor’s time when he first joined the ranks of the Fatui and was working there for quite a number of years. These seem more composed, but…in reality they are sharp-tongued, and the most irritated when distracted. At first, they acted like you were dirt under their shoes: their lack of desire to see the purpose of your existence in their world went so far that they were the only ones who addressed you by your model’s number, assigned by Sandrone a long time ago, while you were still in development.

Luckily, with their constant need to seek approval from the people above them, these clones are usually away on missions, and you rarely interact with them. You don’t think you lose a lot - being demeaned isn't something you fancy.

Moving forward on the age scale, there are the…crazy ones. They distinctly show the exact moment the original tasted the real power entrusted to him and was overjoyed with impunity and ability to bend the rules that came before that. Their facial expressions are the richest and the eyes are the wildest - you can spend hours watching one of them go off on a tangent, gesticulating with his whole body, eyes practically rotating in their sockets, while you’re memorising the expressive ways in which he operates.

You find pushing several of those into an argument entertaining. Especially when multiple pairs of ruby red eyes stare at you and each of them tries to outshout the other with the ‘I’m the one in the right, right?? Right, wife??’, which quickly transforms into the ‘She is not your wife, she is my wife, you, imbeciles! Mine! Mine! Mine!’

Later segments are calmer. Collected. All sharp toothy polished smiles and words that they seem to dig from the depths of the interlocutor’s own brain and feed right back to them. These ones’ minds are the closest to the original, so you have the most fun learning from them.

The most important thing is, however, that they are granted permission to fix you. Your physical form needs proper maintenance and they are quite nice at handling you. Sometimes though they offer you to participate in their experiments where you - are the test subject. And, being the curious dear one, you let them unscrew your limbs, or take all your senses but one away, or blow the whole room of dynamite with you inside, or…many other things you don’t really keep count of at this point.

But they are always careful and particular in bringing you back to the original state, making you giggle when many hands run all over your body, rearranging, screwing, soldering, polishing, wiping. Plus, their fingers stuck in your wires with content murmurs of ‘good wife, you’ve done wonderfully’ is probably the closest you’ve ever felt to the pleasure humans get through the raw connection of coitus.

It’s important to note, that in your day to day life, you’ve always been by the side of at least one of Dottore’s clones. Doing research, running tests, traveling to other regions for missions, even going to the Fatui functions together, especially with Omega. You know he loves driving Sandrone mad, bringing you closer to his body by grabbing at your waist and sweetly telling another of his colleagues how lucky he is that you are here too.

“I just can’t get enough of my wife.”

You never forget to wave at your creator with a small smile, wanting to apologize for the way he acts, but she always gives you a strange look - a long look, paired with her elegant eyebrows pinching together and teeth sinking into her lower lip, before she casts her eyes to the side and turns away entirely, ordering Pulonia to move somewhere else.

Pulonia… Maybe you too should’ve agreed to accept a name from Sandrone when she offered it to you?

Even though Dottore deemed it unnecessary.

Ah, Dottore… 

As much as you find your time with the segments quite enjoyable, the original to you…it’s complicated. At first, you were curious, seeking him out on your own, and being extremely pleased if you were paired with him for whatever. But something strange has been going on for a while. 

Despite your growing understanding of human emotions and ability to utilize them, your system is running on the rules of logic, on a prewritten algorithm which is supposed to collect, process and store away the information, and yet you are unable to find the piece of data in your memory that would describe why you sometimes find your husband…unsettling. It's as if the truth was locked out somewhere in your processor, like you don’t remember the occasion, but the reaction it sparked - remained.

So, you never told him. Nor the segments. During the check-ups on your internal systems - the procedure only the Prime had the rights to do - you always said that you assessed their work acceptable.

There shouldn't be anything wrong.

[ERROR: ’ZandikNoNegative’ is suspended]

[Initiate system reboot]

[Failed to start reboot: permission denied]

Nothing is wrong with you.

[ERROR: ’OrdersZandikOnly’ is suspended]

[Initiate system reboot]

[Failed to start reboot: permission denied]

And you didn’t find him tinkering with anything that made you - you, necessary. Neither with the data of your life experience, nor your feelings, nor your mind– 

[ERROR: ’DatabaseControlZandik’ is suspended]

[Initiate system reboot]

[Failed to start reboot: permission denied]

[ERROR]

[REBOOT]

[FAIL]

[ERROR]

[REBOOT]

[FAIL]

[ERROR]

[REBOOT]

[FAIL]

[ERROR]

[REBOOT]

[FAIL]

…then why is your head practically splitting?

[ERROR]

[REBOOT]

[FAIL]

The surface of the table you had to lean onto, on the verge of a processor meltdown, is cold under your palms, but you feel like it’s seconds away from heating up to your body’s temperature. You’ve gone into overload: all you see is red, all you hear is error-reboot-fail, all you can think of is the fact it’s getting harder with every passing second not to match the notifications in their screaming.

Should’ve left him there.

You almost wince when ‘OrdersZandikOnly’ tries to restart again, but will yourself to shut it down prematurely. 

It hurts, it hurts so much. These are not my programs.

‘DatabaseControlZandik’ is shut down before the reboot command could even pass through, along with several other ones. Damn it, since when there’s been so much trash in your head???

Trash…

You have to manually remove the ’ZandikNoNegative’ as it springs in your line of vision once more. Holy crap, it's so bad - you can hardly make out the surroundings of the barely lit base–lab? no one knows about, where you brought Dottore according to his instructions after he’d failed.

Right… you brought him here after he lost the battle that should've established his divine authority. The battle he’d been preparing for for so long, and you were the prime witness of it. After all, where else would you be if not by his side, since Omega removed the majority of the segments from existence?

To this day you've been mad at Zandik for letting him do it.

Now, as the crushing realization of the prior events finally overpowers the flashing lines of warning texts running through your mind, you can no longer ignore the foreign but such a correct feeling rising in your chest. Something you once saw on your creator’s face and, not quite understanding the full meaning behind it, catalogued the visual of it carefully in that part of your processor that was dedicated to her.

Rage.

And, overtaken by it, you are not sure what you are capable of.

“...and that harridan Sandrone,” the deep voice that usually sends chills down his subordinate’s backs and brings the test subjects to panic reaches you as if through the thick fog. Ah, right, here is your survivor of a husband. “I studied her, I know all about her self-centered, haughty character. I made sure to minimize the chance of her interference with my plans, yet there she was! Sacrificing herself for the sake of distracting me from her pile of junk. I should’ve gotten rid of her long–”

“Shut up.”

The silence is immediate. It takes you five seconds to understand that the strained voice that practically spat the two words out is yours.

“What. Did you. Just say.”

Slowly, curling your fingers into fists (and accidentally scraping the table in the process), you turn to look at the man over your shoulder. He is standing ten feet away from you, clearly having been abruptly stopped in his tracks. You can see the sharp teeth peeking, since his mouth has frozen in a scowl from his previous ranting. The striking blue of his disheveled hair is not a welcome change of color in your line of vision, but at the moment it is the least of your concerns.

His mask is off; back at you are peering two unblinking ruby eyes. And despite the dark circles under them that usually make the person look tired and weakened, the all-devouring fire blazing in the vibrant orbs alone empowers him tenfold.

“You better choose your next words very carefully, dear wife.”

Your systems block another attempt of ‘OrdersZandikOnly’ to restart, and this time it came easier.

You feel your lips stretch in a smile (what kind of it? you wonder).

“Oh? Is this an order? Zandik.”

Must be quite a sight, because for a moment he looks surprised, blinking at you. Then his eyes squint and mouth presses into a tight line, as he begins to observe you. Assessing, calculating, comparing to something in his head, probably trying to predict the turns the following conversation can take.

You stay quiet, glaring at him pointedly. You summon all your knowledge, modeling simulations of similar scenes in your head to run through all possible scenarios of your next actions and their outcomes. A quick analysis shows that it’s better to try and cool down first - or else you risk running headfirst into a huge mess.

Hah, like you aren’t in one already.

Finally, the Doctor comes to some sort of a conclusion, and he doesn't delay in letting you in on it. 

“So you managed to oppose my settings somehow. How rude - those were my honeymoon presents to you. But…” he grins widely, “no less fascinating - must’ve been a strong shock. I wonder what could’ve triggered you– Ah, of course! Must be her death.”

…*beep* the cooling down. You are so much angrier now.

And it must’ve shown on your face, because Zandik lets out a raspy menacing laugh .

“There it is!” He says in triumph. “And here I thought I’ve already looked into every possible corner of you, and nothing would ever amaze me. Yet, you manage to prove me wrong - haven’t felt that in a while,” he sighs with a shake of his head. Then, pushing his fingers through the messy locks and brushing the bangs back, Dottore peers at you with those red eyes again. As if he wants to pin you down like a poor bug and take you apart limb by limb.

“I admit, I never conjectured that a machine like you could’ve established such a strong connection with my now-’deceased’ colleague and maintain it even after all those restrictions I made sure to perfect you with. Hm, Sandrone’s claims of her genius weren’t unfounded; such a pity we didn’t share views on many things. Alas, what a loss for the ranks of the Fatui–”

You lost it the moment he showed air quotes around ‘deceased’. Like he wasn’t the one to blame for her demise, like he cared so little - better would’ve been said that not at all. You can’t bear to hear it, somehow it’s so much worse than the wails of the warnings that bothered you greatly just minutes ago. Rage, betrayal and an understanding that everything happening around isn’t just a glitch in your cognitive module - all twist into a terrible knot, making your body vibrate with a heat so raw, that when you grab the front of his tattered coat and slam his back into the table, keeping him down with your weight, you wickedly hope it’ll scald him badly.

But he doesn’t give you the reaction you wanted, needed. He barely winces from the impact, but the slight discomfort is quickly replaced by annoyance on his face.

And then he rolls his eyes.

“Oh, Tsaritsa…how disappointing. I need to upload stronger protocols once I lay my hands on proper equipment.”

Ignoring multiple windows of ’ZandikNoNegative’ trying to slam into action, your hand reaches for his throat.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh,” he muses and croaks out a chuckle, not avoiding your gaze and catching your hand before it can shut off oxygen access,” but I will. Don’t forget, dear wife,” his gloved fingers slide between your, locking onto your palm, “I own you. ”

You try to pull it away, but his grip is terrifyingly strong. Fine, you have some things to tell him!

“My creator owned me first!”

“Hm? The one you did nothing to save?”

You halt. What is he– It’s because of him you could do nothing! It was his order! How dares he even–

“The one you didn’t even get a name from? Specifically refusing it to her face?”

What!? It was him who forbade you to do so!

“You are being a hypocrite here, love. You are no better than I am.”

Liar. Liar, liar, liar, liar!

He doesn’t have a right to compare you two! Or call you ‘love’, when it means nothing to him! He knows nothing about the feeling, and you are so much better than him because you, for one, actually cared for his segments.

Right. Another fit of rage. You cared for his segments.

“You let the clones be erased!” 

One more attempt to free your hand is met with a yank of his own, so powerful, that you tumble forward, hovering directly over him. And he gives you the most condescending smile you’ve ever seen on someone’s face.

“Oh, you miss them? How adorable. And a pity that you don’t have a slither of this softness towards your actual husband. Now, tell me this, the wife of mine,” his other hand snakes around your waist, pressing you closer, and now you begin to doubt that it’s still you pinning him down and not the other way around,” has it ever occurred to you that every single one of them simply played their assigned roles, so they could chain you to them? To me?”

…impossible. No human can fake a blush so accurately - and you remember vividly the redness of the younger segments’ cheeks. The crazy ones… Yeah, they sought you out for attention constantly, but what if… what if their fights over said attention were carefully set up akin to a performance? And…and the older ones…the closest to him…

No, you don’t want to believe it.

Clearly entertained by your silence, Dottore taps his fingers against the small of your back, and then slowly drags the pads up the spine.

“I admit, it certainly pleases me to know that you’ve grown to care for many versions of myself, despite the clear fact that I’ve never been a good person in the eyes of others. You truly are a special one, dear wife.” 

Wife. Dear wife. The wife of mine. You are so sick of this term.

“You have no right to call me that,” you hiss through the clenched jaws, cursing him for knowing perfectly the placements of all of your sensors. “A man who considers himself a husband wouldn’t sink so low to flirt with another.”

You realize too late how pathetic you sound. Grown sparse of arguments and so quickly that you have to resort to something that sounds like jealousy?

You probably deserve the violent laughter that boomed across the room the very moment the words left your mouth.

And that’s the last thought that manages to run through your head, because the next second his hand reaches the back of your neck. A soft click drowns in the sound of his cruel merit, and your body, grown slack, slumps onto him like a motionless pile.

“Ha-ha, don’t worry, my dearest, I’ll save you the embarrassment,” carefully Dottore shifts your switched-off body to the side, which allows him to sit up. “I intend to delete this whole conversation from your memory - the less you know, the less you oppose me, after all. I plan to keep you by my side for much longer, and to achieve that you have to be a good wife.”

That’s all that should matter to you.

Kinich

“Y/n, pass me that bag, please. Yeah, the one on the bench over there.”

“Ajaw, stop bothering Y/n with your nonsensical questions about your greatness, or I’ll put you into a timeout for a week.”

“*sigh* Yes, Mualani, Y/n and I will attend your party. She’d be ecstatic.”

“Gotcha. Not that I mind you stumbling into my arms, but I don’t want you to get hurt. You gotta be more careful, Y/n.”

“...I’ve gotten a commission that’ll take up to two weeks. Plan to begin in a couple of days, so don’t wait up on me, Y/n–”

“Can you please not?”

Kinich freezes, with the hem of his jet-black shirt gripped tightly in his hands, having dragged it almost to his chin. Paired with the lifted eyebrows, his half-green half-amber eyes peer inquiringly at you, settled on the bed cross-legged.

“Er, do you not want me to take the commission that’ll bring in a sufficient amount of mora, or keep undressing so I could prepare for bed?”

This question seems to confuse you in turn. You bat your lashes at him once, skim your gaze over his form, and, realizing that your strange unspecified request is in the way of his nightly routine, hurry to wave both your arms.

“No, no, it’s neither! Please go ahead and keep undressing– don’t give me that smirk, you know what I mean!”

“Do I?” He snorts, dragging the shirt over the head. Accidentally, his signature bandana gets caught in the process, but he doesn’t look bothered when his bangs fall back down to frame his face messily.

Unbelievable, you are trying to be righteously mad at him here (though it’s more like you’re just pouting), and he manages to effortlessly make your thoughts stray and resolve crumble by just being so damn handsome and playful, and homely cozy within the walls of your bedroom.

How did you even manage to bag all that, unwrap the emotionally tangled knot, and eventually have him as your husband?

Right, husband, marriage. Back on the track! Focus!

“What I meant was: could you please stop, or at least tone down a notch addressing me as ‘Y/n’?”

Okay, maybe you should stop dropping one gobsmacking sentence after another on your beloved. This time he halts with his thumbs hooked into the sides of his jumpsuit pants, giving you a look. A very long and eyes-not-blinking look.

“...explain.”

“Um, well… It’s just– you just call me that often…” you trail off. It occurs to you only in this moment, as the words are out and hanging in the air between you, that the notion behind them is…not as solid as it seemed to be in your head.

Well, no coming back now.

“But it’s your name..?” He squints, letting go of his pants and putting both hands on his hips instead. His whole face seems to be saying: ‘girl, what in the abyss are you talking about? Isn’t it too late for whatever personality crisis you’re having?’

To that you cast your gaze to the ceiling in a half-roll of your eyes, and then back at him with a more prominent pout. ‘The crisis, my arse, you caused it!’

“Yes, trust me, I know it’s my name. Just like probably half of the Natlan’s population does.”

“Okaaay, clearly there’s some problem, and you are not communicating it clearly. You know, that thing you used to tell me is important in a healthy relationship,” mentally reconciling to the fact that his undressing and shower have to be postponed, Kinich walks closer to you. Squatting down, he waits for you to turn to him fully, lowering your feet onto the floor, so he can rest his forearms onto your thighs and look up at you more comfortably. 

“Alright, let’s unroll it. Do you have beef with the name your parents gave you all of a sudden? Or me specifically saying it? Or, for some reason, it’s now a secret and you haven’t told me about it?”

“What?? No!” Eyes wide, you shake your head. “I definitely don’t ‘have beef’ with my name. And I like when you say it, your voice is very soothing to me,” your hand reaches out to pat his hair, but he catches it, murmuring ‘no, later, it’s dirty’. “And don’t be silly, why would I want you to keep me a secret?”

“I never said anything about keeping you a secret.”

Oops.

“Do you feel like that?” He leans back, but doesn’t release your hand, giving you a firm squeeze. You sigh, hanging your head low.

“Well, it’s not that…” you focus on the back of his palm, on the many times beaten and healed knuckles and the veins, bulging whenever his strong arm flexes. Anything but to meet his eyes.

You know he is not going to judge you. Yes, he can, and to anyone else he’d be quite blunt if not sometimes brutal, but he’d never tell you a single mean word fully intending to pass through the meaning it contains. No, he’d be playful about it, sometimes annoyed, definitely deadpanned, but never with an ill purpose.

Because you are his wife, and he cherishes you greatly.

“I don’t want it to sound like an accusation, okay? I’m aware you are not a big fan of petnames, and I don’t want to force you to alter a thing about yourself, but always being simply a ‘Y/n’...seems like nothing really changed after we got married, y’know?”

That’s it, you’ve laid it out to him - the thing that’s been bothering you for a while. Elders and scrolls always told you that marriage is a huge step, and the bond that is established by taking it is the deepest between the people who are not related by blood. You agree, because you feel it, and your husband doesn’t give you a chance to doubt it.

But outside of the life you share together, your husband is a man wearing mostly a neutral face, having few words to offer (sometimes even when dealing with business or in the tight circle of friends), still learning how to properly show PDA and receive it from you and, regrettably, not using any cute petname when talking about you.

And who wouldn't want to be perceived as special in the eyes of others through the words of their partner?

“As much as I want to believe nothing changed much, at least for the worst, after we secured our bond officially - nor our feelings for each other, nor our view on the future, nor, basically, us - that’s not what you are trying to say. It’s the way we are viewed by others, yeah?”

Oh, he’s also very attentive and insightful - must’ve come from his work as a saurian hunter.

“Yeah, that too… But I also just think it’d be nice to hear something else that is not my name.”

He hums in thought, running his thumb over your knuckles. The silence that temporarily settles isn’t uncomfortable, which makes you exhale in relief. Wayob is your witness - ruining the evening, especially one before his two-week-long absence, is the last thing you’d like to do.

“Alright,” Kinich says after several heartbeats of yours, “I’ll think of something that’ll please both of us. Because I know you - if I just start producing one term of endearment after another, you’ll feel guilty for, allegedly, ‘forcing me’ to do so and will start worrying that fellow tribesmen won’t believe in my sincerity, because ‘it’s not like me at all’.”

With that he presses his palms onto his knees and straightens up to his full height, barely escaping the light halfhearted swat you wanted to land on his forehead for being so cocky and calling you out like this.

“Fine, but it better be a great solution, because you charge twenty whole kisses whenever I need something beyond my abilities!”

“I meant to fulfill this commission for free, but if you are offering…”

“You–! Go take your shower, ‘nich!”

And just like that, half an hour later, on such a peaceful evening, in the warmth of the bedroom with your hands busy drying his hair with a towel, ten kisses (you compromised!) seal the deal.

And your fate, full of happiness walking hand in hand with second-hand embarrassment.

It all begins on the third day of his commission’s trip.

“I am here to drop off something from Kinich for, and I quote, ‘my lovely wife’. Is that you?”

Stunned, you stop brushing your yumkasaurus’ fur, much to the cutie’s chagrin, and turn to glance at an energetic friend of yours. 

“Oh, hi, Mualani.”

“Hey, giiiirl!” She sing-songs, animatedly waving her free arm. The other is occupied with a pretty big basket with all sorts of carefully wrapped snacks and drinks in corked ceramic bottles - the wonderful cuisine her tribe has to offer. Plus you can see your favorite flowers be carefully tucked in-between.

“Woah, what is all of this?” You put the brush aside, grabbing the wet cloth to get rid of the stray green and yellow furs stuck to your hands.

“As I said! Ahem, ‘the delivery for my lovely wife’ from Malipo Kinich!” she repeats, albeit this time taking a serious pose and adding some pathos to her speech. It makes you giggle. “So, is that you?”

“You ask like you weren’t at the wedding ceremony,” you scoff playfully, walking up to her and reaching out for the basket. “Of course it’s me, I am Kinich’s wife.”

To your surprise, Mualani is quick to dash to the side, making you miss both the basket and her.

“Hmmmmm, no, that won’t do. I was specifically told to pass it to his ‘lovely wife’, so try again!”

You feel your cheeks heat up. From the corner of your eye you start noticing that others, who just like you came here to tend to their saurians, start paying attention to your conversation, obviously drawn by Mualani’s distinctive, loud, cheerful voice and the commotion as a whole. Two girls, not so far, make a sound of joy and emotion, immediately jumping to discussing how tooth-rottingly adorable it is that you are so cared for.

And Kinich! The ‘I don’t usually show my soft side’ Kinich!! Phrasing his request in such a way!!!

Wow, that’s all the ego boost you really needed.

“Yes, it’s me, Kinich’s lovely wife,” you finally confirm, and Mualani, grinning from ear to ear, gleefully hands you the basket. Then she leans closer, switching to whispering conspiratorially.

“I don’t know the details, but I’m still telling you this, just so you are mentally prepared: your husband placed several orders for you for the time he’d be away, and, from what I heard from Kachina, who heard it from Xilonen, who was told by– agh, doesn’t matter! All you need to know is that there is a high chance it’s far from the last time you’ll hear the ‘wife’ part!”

And oh, she wasn’t exaggerating.

Apparently, those ‘couple of days’ Kinich reserved for preparations were not only for the upcoming commission; as the week progresses, once every two-three days there is some sort of delivery for you from every single tribe.

The first is the snack a.k.a picnic a.k.a for-every-possible-event basket Mualani brought you from the People of the Springs. Which, among being cute and thoughtful, was special, because later you noticed several coupons for the hot spring self-care days tucked among the goods.

Then there was the meaningful engraving on your and his weapons, which were delivered to your doorstep by a blacksmith’s apprentice from the Children of Echoes. You remember Kinich saying he’d leave your spare ones there for a maintenance check and care - and he didn’t lie. He just strategically left unsaid the part about adding matching sets of oaths. ‘So me and my wife always have something on us to remind us of each other’.

To your joy he also took care of all the necessary meds and Ifa’s personal visit from the Flower-Feather Clan to check on your saurian friend, because the hunter made note of ‘his wife’s worry for the health of her saurian baby’ (Cacucu was not shutting up with the ‘wife worries, wife worries!’ the whole time, which, most likely, was heard by everyone nearby).

Next there were the best-quality fabrics from the Masters of the Night-Wind. Sadly you can hardly recall what your beloved's reasoning was this time, because the deliverer was Ororon, and he spooked you in the middle of the night. However he immediately apologized to you with a crate of vegetables from his own garden and showed you the magical glow of several fabrics’ patterns in the dark.

Along with the vegetables you barely managed to store away all the provisions from the Collective of Plenty, which Kinich ordered to ‘keep his wife well-fed and healthy’ and because ‘he can’t wait to taste her wonderful cooking’.

And… Apparently, the Scions of the Canopy’s surprise was supposed to be presented to you by him himself.

Awaiting his return, you can’t help but reflect on the last two weeks. They were…eventful, to say the least! Admittedly, you were considerably shocked - not by this whole campaign your husband deployed or that he even did something like this, but by how right it sounded. 

“Hi, I’m Y/n–”

“Oh! You must be Kinich’s wife! You know, the last time he came here, he was telling me all about your favorite–”

You feel like a teenage girl, smiling silly and giggling inwardly. Embarrassment was short-lived, and you quickly started to enjoy such a new form of recognition. Just how did he manage to do it in a couple of days!?

The answer is actually quite simple: Malipo Kinich really is among the best who provides all kinds of services - for the right payment he fulfills the tasks correspondingly. Well…with the exception of you - only you get to utilize huge discounts and receive more than what you agreed on.

But this is beyond your expectations.

“WHAT IS THIS???”

Yeah, you squeal. And what? What would anyone else do, if their husband came home, promised to kiss and hug them after cleaning up, went to the bathroom…

…and emerged cleaned up, fresh and wearing this.

“A shirt that says ‘I love my wife’, can’t you read?”

“No, no, I obviously can read, it’s just– you– I’m– where did you– Oh Wayob.”

And, watching your growing shyness with softness in his summer-colored eyes, he indeed hugs and kisses you (paying thorough attention to your flaming cheeks), and instead of telling you about his commission, sits on your bed, facing you and listening all about the things that occurred in his absence.

The portion of which was of his doing.

Easing!?

“It makes me glad you’ve enjoyed the presents I ordered for you, though my main goal was through them easing others into the future instances when I’m going to be calling you ‘wife’.”

“Well, we have different definitions of ‘easing’...” you murmur under your breath, still eyeing one of his signature tight black shirts. You can’t help it, when the words are literally staring at you!

“Maybe,” he shrugs. You miss the small smile that appears when he notices your gaze and where it’s directed. “But I meant it when I said I plan to call you ‘wife’ in public more often. I like the sound of it - not cheesy, but sincere and truthful.”

Aaaaand there goes your heart - speeding its rate and slamming against your ribcage.

“...do they also make shirts that say ‘I love my husband’? No, even better: ‘My husband is the best and I love him to the sun and back’?”

“Heh, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Then…” you scoot closer, settling against his side, and smile, when his arm readily wraps around you, pressing you into him, “...can I call you ‘husband’ too when we are out?”

Kinich chuckles quietly, leaning back to flop onto the mattress horizontally, tugging you to follow suit. Turning onto his side, he secures an arm around your middle, burying his face into your neck, and gently murmurs: 

“Never minded it, wife.”

Xiao

You never liked seclusion. Although you couldn’t call yourself the most sociable specimen ever, among the other illuminated beasts you were one of the few who didn’t see themselves above the mortals and even chose to wear the form resembling them. It was not a secret you dwelled among the humans and even gifted them your humble craft of stitching.

Embroidery is an art; it takes shapes and runs in marvellous patterns, laid by a thread and a needle with an addition of precious stones. However, you never thought that when Celestia plunged the world into the despair of the Archon War, the Lord of Geo would be summoning you as one of his adepti, offering the people you took care for the protection of his alliance.

The tales of your craftsmanship had reached Morax before, and he had an opportunity to appreciate it; but what he was more interested in was your other ability. To weave threads from any material and utilize them to lay out a path for luck, protection, recovery and many more with your patterns. He saw use in it, and though you had your doubts, before long your embroidery decorated the clothes of many: the Milleliths, the fellow adepti and others who fought tirelessly.

You, on the other hand, were no warrior, and you would’ve liked to wish your only purpose was to save: to make embroidered charms for soldiers, to stitch together broken bridges for mortals to flee, to create obstacles to delay the woe, to spread out your threads like a net for communication… But with time your skill started to grow, and threads were strengthening as well, with new materials at your disposal.

Soon you learnt to make them so sharp they could cut enemies’ armor and flesh.

The war was cruel. At least your fellow adepti were always there to shoulder the burden of witnessing and bringing death.

They were also there, when the horrors of it were at last over. When your sleeves and the hem of the robe were long drenched in blood beyond saving, fingers punctured and scarred, the eyesight worsened from sleepless nights and intense staring at the patterns to make them right, because you then knew your craft served a greater purpose, and you couldn’t allow yourself to let anyone down.

You were exhausted, your form grew weak, you needed rest like nobody else. And after another strategic meeting Rex-Lapis held, where several of your companions expressed their concern about your condition, not wishing to lose another of them, it was decided that Streetward Rambler would lull you into slumber with one of her melodies.

It was a long, dreamless slumber - a blessing, really.

Decades later you were awoken to the changed world: adepti settled down in the mountains of the vast land, many established their own domains (Cloud Retainer immediately urged you to do the same, and helped you quite a lot, surprisingly); battle-planning meetings transformed into friendly gatherings, slowly but surely filling with laughter, music, heated arguments, the smell of tea or wine and mouth-watering steam from lavish dishes one of your companions came up with this time. The Liyue Harbor was thriving, mortals safe and happy, glorifying Rex-Lapis and adepti in their tales, your title, the Fortune Weaver, along with everything you’d done for the people, were proudly presented in their folklore among the others…

…and then Alatus was brought to you.

Physical injuries treated, but mind and soul burdened with the karmic debt, the frowning Yaksha was trying his best not to show the state he was in. If not for the fact he was visibly torn between denying he needed any help and defying his god’s order to stay with you and get better, you bet you’d have missed out the signs (you really needed to do something with your eyesight).

Morax asked for your assistance once more: your stitched charms and embroidered clothes did wonders during the war, maybe they could help his disciple heal.

And after you learned what had happened to the other Yakshas? How could you possibly say ‘no’?

Helping him, however, was easier as a concept than an actual action. Yes, Alatus promised to stay in your domain and attempt to heal. He also swore not to cause you any harm, which brought you to a problem: he was avoiding you, not letting you get quite close. You understood it was caused by his fear to attack you accidentally under the influence of his mind’s corruption, so you let him be for the time being, busying your hands with adding extra protective patterns to your robes (for the peace of his mind more than yours), and, since above everything you’ve been determined to help, weaving him a huge blanket.

…Xiao always recalls it in embarrassment, but you did have to chase him with it like a wild cat all over your domain eventually. Was he hissing and glaring his huge golden eyes with slitted pupils at you at some point? 

…yes.

Did you, once fed up (and you were oh so patient for the longest time, he admits it himself), actually use your threads to capture and tie him up?

…is he allowed not to answer this one?

So the more flabbergasted your fellow adepti were when decades later, during one of the friendly meetings everyone grew fond of, you and the vigilant Yaksha brought exciting news: you were going to tie the knot!

Metaphorically and literally.

Xiao glances at the bow tied on his ring finger. The red string of fate - a tale of true love and a firm belief of the people of Liyue in soulmates. A concept he never gave thought to, couldn’t dare to dream of, yet one you turned into reality with your own two hands. To make your union special. To give him a reminder that he is no longer alone, that he is loved, that there is a person who sincerely worries for him and cares enough to drop everything and appear next to him the moment he needs you. This was what you promised him when you tied the knot on his finger, and, by wrapping the other end around yours, he swore to repay you in kind (even though in his heart he knew he would’ve paid it tenfold for everything you’ve ever done for him).

Through this bond - invisible to anyone but you and him - he could easily sense you wherever you are, no matter how far. For example, for the past couple of months you’ve been away, in another nation, visiting your dear disciple and her partner, and the Yaksha could still lightly tug on the thread, and receive a gentle tug in response. And, as you began your journey back, the distance to which the string had stretched started to shorten.

Come to think of it… You are on your way home. That’s a fact, he considered it a simple fact. But after that training a week ago when Ganyu caught him staring at his finger and sweetly asked if he was excited for his wife’s return… He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

You’ve been away for two months. That’s not long for immortal beings such as yourselves. Yet here he is, wrapped in a realization that he misses his wife, her caring smile, her slight squint, the quiet evenings together filled with walks across the vast rocky land or staying inside her domain doing whatever, and so much more things that makes his life whole. And that he has been staring at the cute bow tied with her own hands every spare moment he had, like it could tell him the exact day and time he’d see her.

Just like now, sitting at the table on the top balcony at the Wangshu Inn with the adepti and their disciples, - something about Ganyu treating everyone, he was too caught up in his thoughts when Shenhe came to retrieve him, that he didn’t listen attentively, - Xiao keeps glancing at the thread every couple of minutes. He knows you are close to the Liyue harbour, the connection is growing stronger and steadier, and he finds himself restless, despite the neutral expression plastered on his face as usual.

Which he doesn’t realize until Rex-Lapis– No, Zhongli takes notice.

“Is everything alright, Xiao? I don’t mean to shame you, but you are fidgeting, and it worries me. Is the chair uncomfortable? Should we ask to replace it?”

The Yaksha whips his head up, tearing his gaze from his hand, and finds everyone at the table staring at him: some with curiosity, some with concern, and the elders - hiding their knowing smiles behind the cups of tea or food.

Blood rushes to his pale cheeks.

“N-no, I am fine. Thank you for your concern–and I deeply apologize.”

“Someone can’t wait to see his beloved wife and is tormented by the yearning,” the Cloud Retainer declares bluntly and fixes her glasses giving Xiao a look - not of disapproval, but of hardly veiled merit. “One means to say it’s admirable - loving your partner so resolutely and wholeheartedly.”

“Now, now, let’s not tease our friend, Xianyun,” Madame Ping says softly, turning to the said friend, whose blush has spread all the way to his ears. “Is she close?”

Fighting the inner demons that urge him to flee the scene (Xiao, these are just your thoughts, your inner demons are gnawing at the stitched protective patterns on your clothes), he glances at his hand again and then gives a small nod.

“Must disembark soon…”

Huh, now leaving and rushing to meet you half way doesn’t sound so bad anymore.

Suddenly Ganyu perks up.

“Do you think she’ll hear you if you call for her? It’ll be nice if she joins us!”

“She will,” this time he nods firmly, “if you don’t mind."

Words of reassurance immediately pour in from all sides, full of ‘can’t wait to hear the stories from her travel’ and ‘how can we deny two loving souls their reunion’, chairs scrape against the floor to make some space next to him, dishes clink quietly, being rearranged too. Shenhe stands up to go and grab an extra chair, Ganyu runs off to warn the inn’s staff of a possible incoming order, and Yao Yao turns to her mentor with questions.

Amidst this little chaotic scene Xiao exhales - with attention redirected from him he can gather his so easily shattered resolve and force the heat and flush off his face - he doubts he’ll survive if you join in with the teasing, and he is not passing up an opportunity to see you now.

Bringing his hand to his lips, he exhales again and kisses the bow.

“I need you, wife.”

In a moment he hears the familiar swish of teleportation, and then two arms enter his field of view, wrapping around his shoulders. Something lightly hits his chest (he’ll later realize it’s your enchanted bead-embroidered handbag), and familiar weight presses to his back. Warm breath fans against his cheek, and a gentle, adoring murmur caresses his ear, making his heart languish.

“I am here, husband.”

Oh.

…oh no, he is not going to survive this after all.

Just in time Shenhe is back with the chair and Ganyu on her tail, serving as a distraction, and Morax knows how much Xiao needs that (oh, he indeed does, watching the interaction and savoring his tea). You lean back, letting him out of your loving embrace, and the man is immediately torn between the prior need to compose himself and missing your arms and wanting them to return. 

But before he can make any decision for his next action, you sit down and reach for his hand under the table.

The mental tossing halts. Right, you are here, you are back - that’s what is important.

And when you smile at him warmly and mouth a quiet ‘I missed you’ and ‘can’t wait to go home with you later’, he lets his lips stretch into a small smile too and links your pinkies together.

‘Yeah, me too.’

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Thus, a carefully wrapped gramophone record is currently practically cradled in his left arm. The record itself isn’t that old, but the song on it is from the times of his youth, which, by human standards, is ancient, and the fae was quite grateful for the merchant’s lack of understanding how priceless this thing was. Though his companion’s already big eyes went even wider and jaw slack when Flins paid the hefty sum of money the seller demanded.

It was quite disappointing there was no record players in stock, since he knew for the fact that neither you nor him owned a gramophone, but how fortunate and, once again benevolent of young master Illuga to have cleared his evening and night, that Flins could bid him goodbye and make a haste walk to the the Clink-Clank Krumkake Craftshop.

Now, the fae admits he was a tiny bit dishonest when he said he got twice as lucky. Because it was thrice, since Miss Aino not only had all the details to build the suitable record player and understanding how to do so, but even was quick to stop pouting at the prospect of making something so boring when he ‘let her on a little secret’ that it was to bring you joy tonight.

How sweet it is - you, being loved by the young ones. Miss Aino, Miss Jahoda, Master Illuga… Probably some other younglings back at the Piramida too…if you actually interacted with anyone besides the supervisors on the rare occasions you did the delivery yourself. 

The genius was done just before the sun began to set. Alas, it took him some time to understand the way her creation operated (despite its overall simple construction, lacking her usual…inventiveness) and even test the record itself (just the prelude though, he didn’t want to spoil the excitement that he was sure to ignite insides of his very being), but in the end he was finally sent off with a new packed machine and a taken promise that he would treat her to the desserts of her choice later.

Flins picks up his pace when the lighthouse emerges from the mist that surrounds the area. With practiced ease he travels the distance in record time and then navigates around the tombstones, avoiding the spirits. One can’t really blame him for the lack of desire to converse this fine evening - his being is overcome with jubilation after all.

The routine is pushed through with an incipient little flame in his chest: leave the spear against the wall at the lighthouse, lose the coat, enter the Realm Within, change clothes and footwear, let the fire of his wings crackle happily, go wash hands and at last set off on a journey of searching for his beloved.

By the time he locates you in the kitchen of your abode’s house, the azure flickers in his chest seem to become more tangible. Big hands with elegant fingers settle on your waist, and he is careful to press his front to your behind, mindful of your wings. Leaning down he brushes his cold lips against your cheek and higher, to the shell of your pointy ear.

“The magnificent evening to my resplendent darling,” he murmurs quietly, relishing in the way your body shivers in both surprise and the deep intimate tone of his voice.

“Good evening to you too, my absolutely not weirdly touchy lantern,” you huff out half a laugh, half a playful scowl at his lips that leave a kiss on the tip of your ear and travel down your neck, and the long arms, that quickly slither around your middle to stay locked there. “For how long we’ve been together now I hoped you would’ve known I could never be neither sorrowful nor mad at you shall your duty call,” your own fingers gently brush over his knuckles and you lean back by the shoulder blades, letting his chest support you. “Is that why you are so, dare I say, clingy? Do we have to reschedule?”

“And you, my treasure, should know better,”  oh, how the tables have turned - how come you are the one being reprimanded? “Should I weep for your assumption that the only idea you get from my affection is that I am attempting to appease and placate you for some sort of wrongdoing on my behalf?”

“Weep?” You chuckle, turning your head to him and meeting the lovely eyes of acid yellow that peer at you not just without a drop of salty water in sight, but not even a blink. “I suppose it’s something you could resort to, given it’s me who’s going to console you and wipe the tears of a hurt, miserable fae.”

“You must jest,” another kiss to your cheek, but this time you dip your head further back to capture his lips in a fleeting peck, “this fae can never be miserable as long as his loved one is in his arms. And I can only hope to have her so once more tonight, enjoying a slow dance after the dinner.”

“Oh?” Intrigue is evident in your voice, and he can feel the delicate planes of your wings twitch against him. “Are you inviting me, Sir Flins?”

“It would be an honor if you accepted, My Lady.”

Oh how his very being yearns for you. As you've said, it's been a while since you settled together and came to share a life, yet it still feels surreal when he closes his eyes and upon opening them you still are here. 

With burning passion his flame longs to leave the confines of a mortal flesh and embrace you. But he resorts to just the lingering touches and a content smile that stretches his lips and refuses to leave as the two of you get busy with preparations for the date night. 

The gramophone and the record were left in the entrance room for the time being, and Kyryll is making sure you do not so much as walk next to it. You, of course, notice it, and teasingly step into that direction whenever you need to bring something from the kitchen to the dining room, giggling to yourself when an arm wraps around your waist and beckons you to your lover’s side. 

“You make it so easy to tease you, Kyryll.”

“Oh, don’t get it wrong, I’m simply letting you.”

“Of course you are.”

And with a kiss on his nose you skip to the dining room with another dish in your hands, leaving him standing on the threshold with a dazed gaze. Entranced, one would ask? Certainly, he’d answer, but also making sure my sneaky little minx doesn’t proceed with her teasing further, for nothing would please me more than being the witness of her…whatever exciting emotion this gift will elicit when the right time comes.

The table is served with foods you both can digest, the fine wine he was saving for the occasion is brought out and poured into glasses. You are radiant in the dim room, illuminated by the little flames from the candles - the azure ones, his. One time when you turned away to adjust the curtains and let the flares dance on the surface of your wings, Kyryll felt his fingers twitch. Oh how he wished to draw you closer and press his mouth to the naked skin in between your shoulder blades and lay out the path of kisses down to the small of your back where the skirts of your dress began. Oh how would your back arch deliciously, wings tremble and mouth go slack in a pleased sigh and a quiet moan of his name.

You made him feel raw, revealed and positively destroyed.

And he let you with an adoring smile.

“To our union,” he lifts his glass, extending it to you. With a grin and a tender look that surely mirrors his own, you bring your glass till the soft clink of the mountain crystal echoes in the room.

“To our love.”

Love… Yes, you both came to acknowledge it at last. The feeling he feared was long-forgotten. The deepest bond of your souls he could only tirelessly, step by step, aim for after your reunion. The affections you wholeheartedly returned, bearing the same intentions with the passion that reflected his own.

Finally, after an eternity of separation, things are just the way they were always supposed to be (though, with pride evident in his voice, your lover declares it a much more meaningful experience, that lit up your love akin to a life-saving torch in the ever-lasting night).

Flins catches the look of curiosity you give the things he carries into the room after you’ve dined and wined. He doesn’t stop you when you stand from the chair and walk closer, wrapping your fingers around his bicep and peeking from behind his shoulder at the device he is carefully setting on the small table to the side.

“You got us a gramophone?” You wonder in awe, eyes tracing the easily recognizable design on an overall pretty normal record player. “From the Clink-Clank Krumkake Craftshop no less. Let me guess, do I have something to do with the fact Aino agreed to build it in such an old fashion and not into some sort of sentient mechanism?”

“You make it easy for the young ones to adore you,” he says evasively, which earns him a hand creeping up his neck, but instead of digging your nails slightly into the sides of it, you bury the fingers into the untied luscious locks, scratching the back of his scalp. Flins lets out a content noise, his own hands stilling just before he almost took the record out of its case.

“You should be grateful, my dear, since this adoration gains you favors on my behalf.”

“Oh, I am,” he puts the record down and turns fully to you. Your fingers flex in his hair. “Allow me to show just how much I am grateful for you being here…”

Cold lips are on yours, in a second moving back (but not far) for a chuckle at your enthusiasm, only to be drawn close by the push of your hand on his head again. He holds you close, both arms wrapped tightly around your body, the puffy sleeves of his shirt brushing underneath your wings. Sensitive wings.

You gasp, and then again as he dips you lower, and then again as his cold fingers sneak under the fabric of your dress through the gap on the back, touching your ribs. He is doing it on purpose! Keeping his body’s temperature low even though you both know about the blazing fire underneath.

What a sly man you’ve fallen in love with.

Kyryll releases your mouth with a chuckle when your free hand finally unlatches from his elbow and reaches behind him to dig the nails right between the two points from which his wings protrude.

“Careful, my light,” he brings his forehead to yours, smiling. “Or instead of waltzing we are going to be dancing the…mmm, what did they call it… Ah, yes, the horizontal tango.”

“Oh gods,” you sound horrified by the phrasing, which raises another chuckle to his throat. “You are so unapologetically mean, Kyryll.”

“Unapologetically?” He widens his eyes in pretense bewilderment and leans down again, his breath - warm, scorching in contrast to his lips - fans across your chin. “Goodness, don’t you know how masterful I am at delivering apologies–”

“No, no, no!” Utilizing the fact he’s supporting your whole weight with his arms, you bring a palm to his mouth, pressing the second one right over the first, sealing his lips shut. “Later! Waltz first!”

“Mmh,” he starts straightening his back, bringing you up in the process and making your hands fall to his chest. “Are you inviting, my lady?”

“Accepting your prior invitation, my lord.”

“Then the honor is mine.”

With a gentle squeeze to your waist, the fae releases you, turning back to the gramophone. He drops his playful antics, and his gaze immediately softens, when you once again attach yourself to his arm and press your cheek to his shoulder. And he can’t help but cast his eyes to the side, to watch your reaction when the song’s name, written on the record’s middle, will be revealed to you.

Arhons, what he sees doesn’t disappoint him in the slightest.

With a soft sound - one full of recognition, disbelief, wonder, nostalgia, - you stare at the two words written in the language of the Cryo nation. He knew you’d remember, he hoped you still kept it as a precious memento of your feelings for him, he can only trust you to understand how deeply to the core he was shaken when he recalled its words and how they seemed to tell your and his story.

“‘Ekho lyubvi’?*”

“Yes, dearest.”

“The song we danced to when we first met..?”

“To which we danced indeed…and to which then a brilliant fae lady ignited my flame.”

And he puts the needle down on the black surface of the record.

The sky will be covered in dust from a star, And branches will arch as winds wuther.

The candles leave their designated places and float into the air around your twirling pair. Your feet seem to have a mind of their own - effortlessly remembering all the steps, even though the practice was null.

Your voice - I will hear, does not matter how far. We echo We echo For long one will echo the other.

You see it clear as a day. The ballroom, the orchestra of the royal palace, the fae nobles dressed in the finest fabrics and adorned in the most precious gems, moving across the polished floors with the lightness of the snowflakes swirling in the Snezhnayan wind. And the man with a gaze like wildfire and a polite smile inviting you for the dance.

I can and I will reach your heart with my own, It bothers me not if there’s distance.

You watch with a bated breath as his lips shape into the song's words. No sound leaves them, not even a whisper, but by the intense stare he’s looking at you with, by the minute draw of your body to his during another turn and the heat that scorches your chest through his, you know - he means to deliver them as they are.

Again and again love will usher us home. This fondness, This fondness, It is our very existence.

It took time. Long nights of slow conversations, quiet evenings of soft touches that grew bolder as the months had passed, excruciating afternoons that tested you both every day, lessening the fear of separation as the weeks went by, and the mornings that inevitably came, first as the point of parting, later as the moment of reunion.

It took time. But love became the name of your bond once more.

Should darkness spread over this land even more, Should death come and get us whenever, My light, we will never part - this much I know. The memories,  Our memories, In stars will engrave us together.

“We echo…” you murmur softly your vow, slowing down with the melody.

“We echo…” Kyryll sings along in confirmation, squeezing your hand tighter and pressing you closer.

“For long one will echo the other,” is shared by two voices, and nothing else seems to exist.

“We echo…” 

The candleflames are dimming.

“We echo…” 

Two breaths become just one.

“For long one will echo the other.”

*’The echo of love’ in Russian - the name of the song, the translation of which I made for this specific work. If you wish to listen to it - search Эхо любви - Анна Герман, Лев Лещенко on Youtube. The translation is as accurate and melody-fitting as I could possibly make.

A lone weasel jumps out of the tall grass on his left and immediately leaps away with a startled, borderline scared squeak. Watching its urgent escape, the man can’t help but let out a low chuckle behind his tall collar - it always amused him how skittish animals got around his persona, sensing what people couldn’t, as if the beady eyes peered into his very non-human soul. Well, it sparks fear in the remnants of the hearts of the foe just as strongly, so he has nothing to complain about.

The ghosts however welcome him; appearing above the gravestones they float in the forms of translucent blobs, only several shaping into the images of the people they once were, silently following his figure’s every step with unblinking eyes, as if making sure their living companion has truly returned. How lovely, he’s been awaited. 

Pulling out a pocket watch he became the owner of recently, the man clicks the lid open. Ah, yes, he’s gotten ‘home’ much earlier than planned, he supposes he could spare this time for interaction. Maybe tonight he’ll be able to ease another poor soul’s pain.

‘The happy folks don’t check their clocks’ they used to say in Snezhnaya, but Flins could claim the same about the long-livers in general. ’One hour earlier’ became ‘one hour later’ somewhen among the graves, with the two siblings, burried close, having a fight about the most meaningless thing ever. And the fae was quite engaged to simply leave the scene.

He steps into the lighthouse with the first rays of sunshine. Placing his lantern onto the table with a soft clank, Flins notices a couple of bones laid out on a piece of grey felt - the bones that most definitely weren’t there when he left this evening. Though it can wait, he decides, reaching for the cloth and wrapping some animal’s (if he had to guess from just one fleeting glance, he’d assume it once belonged to a mole) remnants and then carrying the bundle to a set of drawers in another room.

Emerging back in what used to be a visiting officer’s room - now turned into the ‘treasure chamber’ - the man moves to one of the racks of shelves, undoing the clasps of his long coat in the process. Tonight - this morning - he barely pays attention to the locked cases with gems, coins and jewelry inside. What he seeks is an intricately crafted teapot, originated from Liyue and having been gifted to one of his own kind a long-long time ago to aid on the journeys.

Crafted from the Clearwater Jade and Cor Lapis it looks like a new addition to his vast collection. And if it really was? Well, Flins thinks with a chuckle, shaking off the long garment from his shoulders to leave it over the back of the armchair and manifesting a golden seal between his gloved fingers.

In that case, he’d call it his most treasured item.

Stepping foot inside your domain, or, as you called it, 'the Realm Within', is…an experience the Ratnik can’t get used to even two and a half months later. First you feel a pull, and your feet lose the ground. Then it’s like the sun breathes warm air into your face (and the first couple of times, he, who’d been accustomed to the cold nights, got an unwelcomed feeling of unease). And then suddenly you find your footing again, heavy boots planted securely on the wooden boards of the house’s first floor room.

With the feeling of spatial awareness returning, Flins registers the tingling that starts in his ears and then goes down his body, and the sudden tightness of his shirt on the back. Now he hardly even flinches, but the first time you brought him here, the fae was, well, shocked. Despite your words of warning, he could not quite believe that the energy of the adepti might be so potent that it would easily unveil his carefully crafted disguise.

Yet, here he is, taking off his gloves and unbuttoning the long-sleeved shirt with steady fingers, sliding it slowly down one arm then another and bending over the bed to lay it out next to the one you’ve prepared for him. One with an opening on the shoulder blades.

The wings - shimmering, cerulean just like his flames - flutter freely, excitedly, when he rolls his shoulders and flexes his back muscles with a sigh that seems to escape from the depths of his being he’s forgotten existed. The delicate things catch on his untied long hair, and he has to reach behind, dividing the luscious locks in two parts and moving them to the front. The strands next to his face are pushed behind the pointy ears.

With the shirt changed, boots replaced by slippers and hands washed, the man tosses his hair over just one shoulder and, threading fingers through the myriad of thick tresses, making three equal ones, begins twisting them. He works fast and, despite the length, in a matter of minutes finishes a neatly done braid. Now he needs a ribbon, and he knows where to find one.

He locates you effortlessly in one of the rooms - bless the sharpened senses (and the closeness of one of his kind). Sitting on the padded stool next to the window, you lift your gaze when he enters. Your eyes sparkle like the most precious gems, and none in his collection can rival the radiance (he’d know, as he attempted to search for one back then when you two were noble). Your hair, so soft and pretty (he still remembers taking a lock in his fingers and giving it a reverent kiss a long-long time ago), is held back with an intricate pin; the beaded extensions sway gently in sync with the stray locks when you move your head. Your lips– oh, your lips are pressed together in a ghost of a peaceful smile (the memory of them twisting in a shape of hopelessness still haunts him sometimes).

Your clothes are comfortable, but still can be called ‘modest’ - old habits die hard, and the lightkeeper would be dishonest, if he claimed he didn’t like the familiarity of the sight. It feels like you weren’t apart for centuries. He can almost trick himself into thinking you both are exactly the same as you were the last time you held his hand as his darling. 

Chasing the unpleasant memory like he would sometimes shoo the phantoms away, Flins spots the embroidery frame in your hands, which you lower onto your lap, securing the needle in the piece of cloth. Your eyebrow, however, lifts as your eyes fixate on the untied braid, held firmly by the ends in his hands.

“I’ll soon run out of those, Kyryll,” while taunting, your tone lacks malice; a wider, more tangible smile stretches the corners of your mouth, and you shake your head. 

The fae before you smiles too, unapologetically so. He can’t help but to keep and never return each ribbon you give him, desiring to get a new one every time he ‘visits’. To have something of yours, a trinket you offer just to him, the reminder that you were– are next to him and still have fondness in your heart to keep entertaining his whims.

Maybe one day he’ll tie them together and the length will be enough to wrap around your and his wrist and be indissoluble no matter how far away from each other you’ll end up.

“Ah, how unfortunate - to be scolded by a fair lady before even saying the words of greetings, I must’ve enraged you terribly. Accept my sincerest apologies.”

“Sincerest?” You repeat, smiling wider, tilting your head with a huff. “Mmm I do not believe you, Kyryll, but you know that I am benevolent. You are forgiven.”

Putting the embroidery set face down onto the windowsill, you stand up gracefully, brushing non-existent dust from the spotless clothes. The man - kindly excused - watches you not daring to blink, with those haunting yellow eyes you once were ready to submerge in and stay in their depths forever. Were..? Oh, right, the past tense no longer outlines your union.

The thought stirs something deep in your chest, and your wings flutter lightly.

“Good morning, my heart’s intended,” your voice drops to a softer tone, making the man shudder and almost close his eyes. You seize the opportunity, seeing his distraction as a chance to be bold, and lean up on your toes. A chaste kiss burns Flins’s cheek much stronger than a biting lick of Snezhnayan blizzard, but instead of chills wrecking his body, heat shoots through it in the form of azure fire that was stirred by your affection. He is sure, his ears lack the usual paleness right now, and it’s safe to bet that had he not left his lantern behind - it would’ve ignited.

Strangely, he doesn’t even want to curse the domain for stripping him from all of his concealing tricks and defenses.

“Good morning to you too, the flame of my soul,” He eventually hums, transferring the end of the braid to his left hand and lowering the right one to graze your elbow with just the fingertips in reverence. “It’s true, I am indeed aware that your benevolence knows no bounds,” huh, how skilled this man is with his words, especially twisting them to his benefit, you think with a chuckle you do not let out, “thus I dare to ask for the honor to hold your hands and lay kisses to them. But, alas, I need both my hands for that.”

“I haven’t even granted you this honor, and you are already making demands. What a greedy man,” you say that, but still step back to turn and walk to the broad chest of drawers by the opposite wall.

He opens his mouth to retort with a ‘you love me after all’... but no sound leaves it.

You loved him. Tenderly, having woven affection into each hushed murmur of his name; profoundly, yet having been forced to share a loving embrace in the dim corridors behind the heavy curtains, outside the ballrooms, just so the other nobles didn’t chew at you for the lack of reserve; desperately, holding onto his hands, swooning with happiness as he promised to propose to you properly and make the engagement official once he’d return from an urgent trip to the land he owned…

A promise he failed to fulfill, because His Majesty married you off to another like a trophy.

He knows you love him still. It’s in the way you recognized him instantly upon stumbling into each other at the Nashatown market centuries later. It’s in your eyes that lit up and welled up with tears the first time he whispered your name in disbelief. It’s the embrace you enveloped him in tightly the moment you were away from prying eyes, crying quietly into his chest, so-so happy he was alive. It’s his touch that you didn’t shy away from, letting your past lover cup your cheeks to have a better look at your lovely face, tuck stray strands of hair behind your ears - human like his, adorned with the earrings he gifted you back then, caress your hands, noting the roughness of the skin there where used to be softness of the silk, but bringing them to his lips the same manner he always knew how to.

It’s remarkable how quickly you two fell into some of your old habits, into the dynamic you once had, rekindling the flame of your relationship. It happened in a blur - your decision to settle in Nod-Krai, 'moving in' together, exchanging your life stories, picking up where your courting was cut off cruelly, building your way of life together…

It’s like our souls knew they’d eventually be reunited, you said one morning, standing on top of the lighthouse, shoulder to shoulder, his hand on top of yours on the railing, watching the sunrise, and Flins couldn’t agree more.

He knows you love him, and he is aware it’s hard for you to say it out loud after…well, everything. He understands, for he too can’t utter the exact words just yet. It’s been so long, and while he doesn’t doubt his own feelings, it’s painful. The memory of your somber expression and precious gems of eyes stripped from their sparkle as the noble, whose name and face he didn’t bother to remember, introduced you as his wife. The guilt that overtook him for betraying your hopes by being so tardy. The weight of the ring in his chest pocket, the ring that he got to propose, to match the earrings you were not wearing, the ring he had to get rid of, as he had no purpose for it, only to torture himself.

Because the word of the Belyi Tsar was the law to the fae. Because the ‘I love you’ wasn’t enough.

“It is impossible not to be greedy with you,” he whispers softly instead, but he is sure you caught that and smiled. You understand.

While your back is turned to him, his gaze travels to your wings. They are long - longer than his, resting against your back like a shimmering veil when inactive in contrast to his own which are always upwards unless he forces them to flatten. He could trace the patterns on the left wing forever with his eyes and still find a new pretty curl of a line. Doing the same with your right one… Inevitably brings attention to the fact that the three quarters of it are replaced by the canvas of the moon-illumnated midnight sky beauty.

You told him your story - how you used the stir caused by the ruler and regime change in the nation of Cryo to get out of the marriage you were forced into, how you lost your wing in an unfortunate turn of events following your fleeing from Snezhnaya, how last bits of strength left you in the land of Liyue, and how a kind-hearted adeptus found your unconscious body, took you in and nursed you back to health. 

The Fortune Weaver became a friend, a mentor, a familial figure you’d never had. She taught you one of her arts - embroidery, turning threads and beads and gems alike into marvelous patterns and images. She showed how to use a needle and a thread to lay out a path for luck, protection, recovery and many more. She gave you something to occupy your hands with, and it became everything for your shaken self, for your awfully depressed mind. Where he, exhausted and disappointed, chose to fall into slumber, you were gently guided to keep dwelling.

She bore the title of the Fortune Weaver not for nothing - possessing the ability to weave thread from anything precious, she worked tirelessly to find a suitable material to repair your poor wing. When none of the fabrics known to adeptus managed to replicate the delicate glow, the crystalline beauty and tangible firmness with their fibers, she turned to the local ores. 

The ‘original’ wing is light and trembles with every movement you make, while the other one… Of course it’s thin and translucent too, however the keen eye sees foreign weight in it. Kyryll can’t help but be enchanted by the chatoyant blue of the Noctilucous Jade. It’s perfect, even though it differs from your original color. The shimmering surface catches the light, letting it travel in every direction across the paths of patterns the adeptus so lovingly crafted for you, and he knows for the fact it glimmers in the dark.

Unique and precious - just like you.

“Choose.”

The fae blinks, belatedly realizing his mind has wandered off again, and he hasn’t noticed when you stopped rummaging through one of the drawers and returned to stand in front of him. He shifts the focus of wide-open eyes to you; they are so ridiculously big and round right now, that you can’t hold back a chuckle.

“What?” He blinks again, eyelids finally lowering enough to hide half of the haunting yellow disks.

“My, my, I wonder what’s on your mind,” musing, you lift the carved wooden box that’s gotten noticeably emptier since you arrived in Nod-Krai. “Come on, pick one, so I can tie your braid and offer you my hands for those kisses you promised.”

The man perks up instantly, being reminded of his own bargain, and glances down at the box’s contents. He doesn’t think twice before reaching for the ribbon that is matching your current outfit most. You notice, you always do, having recognized the pattern of his choice early in this peculiar arrangement. You think it’s adorable; it reminds you of his past habit to match the gem brooches on his cravat to your colors.

With the box put back to its rightful place, you return to the stool and lower yourself onto it. Flins follows suit: down onto one knee in front of you and offering you the end of his braid. Your fingers, roughened by hardships and pricked by the needle, brush against his lightly, and quickly undo some of the braided length, enough to insert the middle of the ribbon and weave it along the strands you begin twisting again. He settles his palms on your knees, waiting, watching you work on his hair with precision.

“Your four-legged friend stopped by,” the man shifts his gaze from your hands to your face, “He followed me all the way to the island from where I stumbled into him– or him into me? No matter. I gave him that meat you showed me, retrieved the bones and laid them out in your treasure room.”

“Ah, yes, I indeed saw those earlier,” he nods, lifting one hand to help you hold the end of the braid so you could tie a pretty bow, “and for that I’m most grateful.”

Before you can even think of retreating your hands, Kyryll catches both wrists in a gentle yet firm hold. The braid falls, smacking his chest and stomach, but he doesn’t care. Still standing on one knee before you, the lightkeeper brings both your hands closer, turning them so the palms are facing him, and plants a gentle kiss to each wrist. Thumbs smooth over the plains of your palms and slide further up to uncurl your fingers. He stares at the palmar creases, at the veins that are seen through the skin, at the small scars - he wants to kiss every single one. Again.

Your gaze has softened the moment Flins’s hands wrapped around yours. You watch him examine them closely, choosing where to plant the next kiss. The first time he did that, here, in your domain, it made you nervous; a memory of him leaning his cheek into your palm with a soft murmur of a praise for their delicateness resurfaced, and you got acutely aware that despite the creams and lotions you could no longer bring your skin to the perfect state. All the defects were out in the open, no longer concealed by your magic. But Kyryll paid attention to every single one, telling you that every small cut and callus told a story (he couldn’t wait to hear them all) and served as proof of your skill. Weren’t you proud of yourself?

You stopped covering your hands with magic when mingling with humans.

The lightkeeper meanwhile has showered both your palms with a series of small pecks, making the nerve endings there tingle and your wings tremble in response to affection. Next he switches to your fingers. Starting from where they meet with a palm he lays a path of kisses all the way to the fingertips, from the pinkie of your right hand to the pinkie of your left. He is slow and intimate, brushing his cold, slightly chapped lips over your hands in an act of quiet devotion, dedication. His own wings twitch slightly whenever a soft breath passes your lips and fans across his forehead.

As he turns your palms downwards to show his admiration to your knuckles, you suddenly stop him. Lifting his gaze, Kyryll peers at you inquiringly; if you didn’t know him so well, you would’ve missed the telltale signs of his pouting. How charming.

Twisting your hands, you free them from his hold and bring them to his face, cupping both cheeks. Your dearest immediately closes his eyes, leaning into the left palm and locking his fingers around your wrists loosely. The sigh that leaves his throat is one of adoration and relief, but your keen ear also recognizes lassitude.

Your thumb smoothes the darkened skin under his eye. Up close, with soft light cast upon his features, the tiredness etched into them is so much more evident. You can see his long lashes tremble and eyelids twitch from the movement behind them; his shoulders dropped just when you touched him, and the weight of his head - now more supported than simply held - is quite tangible.

“You need rest,” you tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, playfully grazing a pointy tip with the pad of your finger. Male’s lips tug into a small content smile, and he turns his face even more into your palm, rubbing his nose against it. You decide to keep caressing the sensitive ridge in gratitude for his earlier affection (and definitely not because he is melting under your ministrations like a chunk of ice under the scorching sun). “I know for a fact that yesterday and the day before that, you spent the whole time filling out the reports, while I was out in the city.”

“They were piling up…” is his answer, murmured into your hand.

“And whose fault is that?” You can’t help but huff, poking his cheek.

Slowly, purposefully leisurely Kyryll peeks at you with half-lidded eyes. He is looking at you long and without blinking, as if committing your half-worried half-annoyed expression to his memory (he is), before shifting his weight from the bent leg and tucking it under himself too. Now, kneeling like a worshipper, not a gentleman, the fae releases your wrists and wraps both arms around your legs; his head falls onto your lap, cheek pressing to your thigh, allowing him to look at you with one eye.

“Mmm, definitely yours, dearest.”

“Of course,” you sigh with a shake of your head, expecting something along such lines. Oh how cheeky and shameless this man is. “Is it because any other time you’re off your Ratnik duty you can’t help but be attached to me?”

“I am but a moth drawn to your radiant light,” Flins doesn’t deny your little jab, but he can feel his ears heating up again, especially since you resume your caresses. “However, as you are sooo concerned for my health, is it soon that you plan to retire to bed?”

“I probably should...” he sees you turning your head to glance at the clock on the wall, and he turns his head too, but to face the window, offering his neglected ear to your soft brushes, “...but I wanted to finish my work first. It will not take too much time.” 

That’s when his gaze fixates on the embroidery set you left on the windowsill minutes earlier (minutes? Ah, it feels like he’s been here for hours).

“What marvelous piece are you working on today, my crafty lady? Another commission?”

“Actually it’s something for you,” he doesn’t jolt, or crane his neck to look at you, but his arms hug your legs tighter and two tiny flickers of flame bolt from the bases to the tips of his wings. “I want it to be a surprise, so if you are patient and do not peek, I’ll let you stay.”

To that Kyryll demonstratively shuts his eyes close and buries his face into the fabric on your thighs. Well, not exactly what you meant, but it’ll do. It’s not like you are about to make him spell the words of a promise to you out loud (though you definitely could). Besides you never specified he needed to make one, so it shouldn’t surprise you that this man, your dear cunning man, interpreted it to his advantage.

“Are you comfortable?” Your fingers thread through the thick locks at the back of his head, giving his scalp a few scratches. After hearing a muffled purr of an ’incredibly so’, you pat his head one more time and then reach for your tools.

Truth be told, you were only half honest when you said you were making something for him. It’s for the both of you - a pair of handkerchiefs, a belated sign that you officially accept his courting, an offering to solidify your union– reunion even.

Yours is already finished and tucked away safely, and his needs just a couple more stitches, so you can’t help but feel giddy at the prospect of presenting the matching set on the next date Kyryll has already asked you out to.

And something tells you he’ll love it.

”My gem, who is this charming little one in your arms?”

“That’s, my lovely husband, is our child now. Come on, sweety, say hi to papa.”

Your ‘child’ is now crawling around the domain of the Mountain Shaper with happy little roars, digging into the rocks, leaving behind the trail of amber-colored stones that soon turn gray again. You awe and giggle at your beloved’s side, hiding your grin behind an open palm. Zhongli can’t help but let the corners of his lips quirk up too, before he takes a sip from his cup.

“Pray tell, how did lady Mavuika approve of this?”

“Trust me, I’m not lying when I say that he clung to my leg and refused to let go no matter how hard she tried to coax him. After the Children of Echoes were unsuccessful, that is. I attempted as well, but it seems that he sensed my reluctance to part ways with him, so, eventually the Pyro Archon had no other choice but to let us go together. With the oath that I’ll assure his comfortable life, of course.”

Oh, the little one is as cared for and comfy as a Tepetlisaurus can be away from Natlan. Surprisingly, the energy of Geo became a fulfilling alternative for phlogiston - though you doubt it would’ve worked that smoothly, had Zhongli not been the Rex-Lapis. Nevertheless, just to be safe, there is an everflame seed planted in your personal Realm Within - which actually housed your saurian when you traveled back home.

Unfortunately, it is quite difficult, not to mention cruel to keep the poor creature confined in your house in the city. Yes, it could work on occasion, but he was not a regular ‘pet’ you could keep inside during the day, five days a week while you both were away at work. But you were ready to accommodate! Your own domain on top of the mountain was suddenly very much habitable again, the nest was arranged and multiple geo constructions - pillars: some straight, some weirdly twisted - were created. The first time you watched the saurian climb those with the agility of a cat and the excitement rivaling that of three tail-wiggling puppies, you wanted to cry on your husband’s shoulder.

”You look exactly like that when a new shipment of tea arrives at our doorstep!”

”Darling, please.”

Moreover, within the first week of his new life in Liyue, your baby (‘He looks just like you, my dear. Yes, yes, your eyes, my personality’) gained aunties and uncles, as well as gramps and grannies, and younger and elder siblings. Everyone - from the most youthful to the ancient - was absolutely smitten and ready to watch and entertain the saurian.

The Moon Carver claimed he was above the silly games, but you, having come earlier than agreed to retrieve your baby from his domain, were the prime witness of the two playing a strange version of tag. The old adeptus was prancing and jumping around akin to a young fawn, encouraging a very energetic Tepetlisaurus to chase after him in attempts to latch onto one of his hooves. You decided not to mention it to him. Or to anyone. Well, save for your husband, of course.

The Cloud Retainer immediately claimed the spot of the saurian’s aunt. It had been a while since you saw her so excited about creating something for someone. It’s safe to say that a huge portion of toys and constructions on his playground in your domain are her creation. She practically preens when she brings something new for the Tepetlisaurus to test and he appears to like it. And, just because perplexing your husband greatly entertains her, the creative adeptus designed and made a baby carrier. 

“It’s for when you decide to bring him to the harbour. One came to the conclusion that a harness and a leash won’t prevent the little one from digging into the ground.”

Zhongli politely declined trying it on there and then, but nevertheless accepted the gift.

Shenhe… Well, the first encounter was something else. She held him in her outstretched arms, blinking at him with an expressionless face, while the baby was blinking back at her with clear interest manifested in a cock of his head and a sweet little half-coo half-roar. And then Xianyun’s disciple brought him closer to her chest and claimed that even though she’d known him for less than an hour, she would still make sure that anyone who would’ve caused him harm, would perish. (Yes, you gave the Cloud Retainer the look, as Zhongli simply smiled in amusement. You know he praised her for diligence later.)

Xiao usually gets paired with someone - in case he has to promptly leave to fend off monsters and save an unfortunate mortal. When he is there though, he follows the saurian’s movements with the eyes of a hawk. At first, the Yaksha didn’t really know what to do with himself when the creature approached him, having chosen to disappear into a thin air the first several interactions (the baby was releasing little squeals and flapping his paws in elation at the flashes of dark green energy Xiao left in the process). Though recently, with the coaxing from you and Ganyu he’s begun to stay, albeit stiffly, and let the little one run around him.

Ganyu… Oh the horned adeptus is a blessing - you never saw your ‘son’ fall asleep so quickly as he does with her. And you are also comforted, knowing that she is resting too - it is hard to resist the opportunity to nap with his warm, full of inner energy body pressed close.

Yaoyao is still a child, so it’s not big of a surprise that she was the loudest about this addition to your family. That’s the kind of energy the baby saurian needed, so, with your permission granted, her training is sometimes moved to your domain, so the little one can watch (and, you suspect, he is even learning something, because Zhongli mentioned a couple of times to you how some of his attacks to the rock monuments looked like clumsily executed adepti techniques) and then have fun with a playmate.

“QIQI, LET'S GO, LET’S GO, LET’S GO–”

Of course, she dragged Qiqi into this too. Which you didn’t think too hard about. Until the next friendly gathering in the Jueyun Karst, where you were stunned by your fellow adepti asking for your permission to have pictures of the very brown-scaled baby curled onto your lap at that moment. As it turned out the zombie girl, having been worried that she would’ve forgotten about the encounter, asked the Cloud Retainer, who was watching over the two youngsters, to take a photo of the saurian, so she could attach it to her writings in a notebook. Later Xianyun mentioned it to Shenhe and Ganyu, Ganyu told Xiao and the Moon Carver, who came to bring some food, overheard it…

Let’s just say, the permission was eventually granted, and there is a half-full photo album in your house too. Probably the first of the many others to come.

Madame Ping stepped into the role of a loving grandma with a natural charm. Being Yaoyao’s mentor she is the one training her in your domain - looking after her and Qiqi most of the time as a result. She is the softly firm hand that stops the girls from going overboard and teaching them how such a young creature should be handled and tended to properly. Moreover, she became the one responsible for his ‘artistic education’. After learning that the tribe in Tepetlisaurs’ habitat honors music and dancing, she began bringing guqin with her. Yes, the gentle, mellow sound of the plucked strings can’t be compared to the booming energy of the Natlan instruments, but the saurian still loves it, quickly waddling closer the moment he sees the old woman sit down and place the long instrument across her lap. He dances adorably when the accompanying music is fast and the rhythm is upbeat, and he coos and rumbles in attempts to match melodies that are more slow-flowing. Your little one is so talented!

If there is one place he loves just as much as your domain - it’s Mountain Shaper’s one. The saurian grew obsessed with the amber rocks that grow from the karst crawlers. These soft Geo constructs exude a little bit of warmth that he loves basking in, but most importantly he loves the sound they make whenever he crashes them and the surprises they managed to trap inside. Madam Ping gladly agreed to help the fellow adeptus plant more seeds - both for the baby’s entertainment and for the sake of not losing them all.

You smile as your ‘son’ is happily patting his belly, watching the Geo crystal flies taking off into the air from the small trap of amber he’s just broken with his tail.

“This full body spin for the attack holds resemblance to the young pupil of the Streetward Rambler,” with the flash of orange feathers, the crane lands a few steps away from the jade-carved table where you and Zhongli are savoring tea.

“I assume One means Yaoyao,” your husband puts his cup down, eyes not straying from the brown-scaled conqueror of the amber prison. “However her style is more smooth, gliding. This looked faster, sharper. I would guess our friend was showing the young one what her other mentee Xianling’s training entails. What do you think, my gem?”

“I,” you chuckle, putting your cup down too and reaching for the plate of snacks to compliment the brew, “can tell you for the fact that he copies Xiao. The other day when we had a sparring match Alatus requested from me, he was watching us so intensely, I was beginning to fear he forgot how to blink.” 

A rich sound of male laughter fills the autumn air. As if sensing that you are talking about him, the Tepetlisaurus turned to you three, tilting his head to the side curiously. The crystal flies are quickly discarded from his mind, and a second later he plunges into the ground, quickly ploughing his way to you.

“Grrrah!” You barely have time to push the treat into your mouth, when a familiar weight plops into your lap with the force of a little goat’s head-first attack. Immediately your hands shoot down to stabilize his body, carefully brushing away the earth crumbs.

With the warmth that truly turns his eyes to liquid gold, Zhongli looks at you gesticulating to the squirmy saurian, while trying to chew and swallow as fast as you could. Witnessing your bond grow stronger with each passing day is a gift the retired Archon is most thankful for. Admittedly, he personally finds great joy in the presence of this little dragon from Natlan in his life. He grew attached, to the point that the thought of leaving him here again while you two go on a weekly date tomorrow disappoints him.

You lower your head to rub your nose against the brown snoot, bringing the scaly body closer to your chest. Zhongli blinks. Lowers his gaze in thought. Then glances at you again, looking for a good couple of seconds, considering something. And eventually sighs, picking up his cup again.

“My friend, it appears your help won’t be required tomorrow. I think we should try taking the little one with us to the harbour.”