𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠

Even flies find beauty in trash. Your admirer must be a maggot, by the looks of things.

But again: idiots attract more idiots. It's no wonder that you, the greatest idiot of them all, have wound up on the receiving end of some maggot's affections.

He stares at the disgustingly bright envelope—now on the floor—with your name addressed as the recipient. How pathetic, he thinks. (How audacious, the sender, for daring to write your name so clumsily, with all those stupid swirls and all! Are they even literate? This handwriting looks to be atrocious! Does the Akademiya just let anyone in?! Even scum that don't know how to use a pen?!)

Wanderer walks away. Ever so coincidentally, the envelope gets caught in between the heel of his shoe and the ground, and, even more coincidentally, his heel turns, left to right, grinding the paper into the wooden planks of the classroom's floor.

If it wasn't unreadable before, it certainly is unreadable now.

"Excuse me!"

The doors slam open, revealing a haggard figure, clad in scholarly robes, chest heaving up and down as their head turns frantically.

"Has anyone seen a letter? It has a neon yellow envelope, and it's—"

For good measure, the heel of Wanderer's shoes dig deeper into the ground, the envelope still caught in between, crumpled. Wanderer has never once seen such an ugly letter (Neon yellow? he thinks, disturbed. What a tasteless imbecile.) His shoe might have, though.

A couple seconds pass, and the tasteless imbecile's eyes grow wide, vaguely resembling that of a bug's, before approaching Wanderer with a determined look.

"Hat Guy!" the tasteless imbecile exclaims. "Hat Guy, you're stepping on my letter!"

Wanderer looks down, the envelope still caught in between his heel and the ground. What a coincidence. Even more coincidentally, his weight shifts wholly onto that foot, the heel sinking, the paper ripping from the amalgamation of abuse.

"Oh, no!" The maggot gasps. "No, no, no! That's my letter! I wrote it for [Name]!"

Even more coincidentally (there are just so many coincidences in this world, it seems), Wanderer's foot slides forward, and the paper is dragged across the planks, and, out of nowhere, a gust of wind rampages through the classroom. How odd, considering the windows are closed.

"Hat Guy! You did that on purpose!"

"Hah?" Wanderer replies, humorless. "Do you think I have so much free time as to tamper with such a measly thing?"

"You just used your Vision on my letter! And you were stepping on it!"

Wanderer smirks, the expression not reaching his eyes, the cornflower irises devoid of any mirth as an incomplete laugh escapes his lips. What a perfect use, he thinks, using the sickening power of an Archon to destroy that ugly thing. He's really outdone himself this time.

"Why would you do that, huh?! What have I ever done to you?" the imbecile continues, damn near having a conversation with themself.

"How ridiculous," Wanderer remarks plainly, voice devoid of any remorse. "You left it on my desk."

"We don't even have assigned seats!"

"Well," another scholar chimes in, "it's practically assigned. Nobody ever moves from the seat they chose."

Wanderer huffs. Misplaced or not, how could this imbecile even think to leave such an insinuating letter out in the open? Especially with your name scribed onto its front, with such ugly penmanship? If this imbecile really liked you, they would never—Whatever, he thinks, arms crossed, head cocked to the side. This is none of his business.

Idiots attract idiots. Whoever wants you can have you: the most idiotic of them all.

"Oh, [Name]!" the imbecile has the audacity to exclaim, their frustrated expression shifting instantly, as if the feeling of your name on their lips is enough to melt the anger, shaping it into adoration. They turn towards the door, lips enraptured by a smile, racing towards you with their hand held up, waving.

A gust of wind rampages through the classroom. How odd, considering the windows are closed.

Wanderer passes (read: shoves by) the imbecile, his face unreadable, its tell given only by the slight crinkle of his eyes, the way your figure is beheld so tenderly within the pupil of a puppet whose body is incapable of a flush. Wanderer's artificial skin lacks warmth, for there is no heart to pump blood towards his limbs, to give his cheeks the blossom of red.

But he looks at you, the beheld, and that is enough.

"About time," he says, arrogant. "I didn't think you could even find your way here."

You just laugh. Wanderer's artificial skin lacks warmth, he knows this, but you laugh and you look at him and the beholder is beheld, and, and the wind subsides, and—

"I'm surprised you even showed up to class at all, Wanderer!"

He scoffs. "I'm not like you."

"That's not true," you reply, pointing at him accusingly, other hand resting on your hip, "your attendance record is just like mine!"

But it's true; Wanderer could never be anything like you.

Because you're lovely.

It's not often that the Chief Justice gets a break.

In this nation full of legislation, it's only natural that its most supreme judge is at work most days, whether it be overseeing trials or sifting through paperwork, there is always a job must be done, and a creature to serve in its place.

Neuvillette has long gotten used to his role, the duty which has been entrusted to him. But, every once in a while, there is a moment of respite, where he is able to look up from the stacks of papers, to turn around, thistle eyes piercing past the panes of the window, the clouds parting to reveal the enormity of the sun, its warmth palpable despite the distance.

The beauty of such light is best appreciated from indoors.

But, he thinks, eyeing the clock, a brief walk would not hurt.

He rises from his seat, gloved hands readjusting the fabric of his cravat, fingers trailing lightly over the desk once he's done, passing by the wooden walls of his office with a steady pace.

At the reception desk, he exchanges pleasantries with Sedene; just as he's ready to depart, however, she jolts up, returning behind the desk before revealing a frilly envelope, its paper adorned by hearts and roses.

"Monsieur Neuvillette," she says, waving the letter. "I wanted to show this to you."

He raises a brow. "What is this, Miss Sedene?"

She points towards the name such romance is addressed to. You.

Neuvillette just blinks, mildly confused. "I do not believe that [Name] works here, nor are they in any position to receive such a letter. They are abroad at the moment, are they not?"

"That's right, Monsieur. I believe the sender made a mistake, but I was unable to catch a glimpse of their face before they left..." she mutters, ears drooping slightly, cradling the letter close.

Neuvillette shakes his head. "Do not worry about it, Miss Sedene. When [Name] returns, you can deliver it to them, then."

Despite telling Sedene not to worry, the letter's existence plagues Neuvillette's mind like some haunting phantom, an itch that can never be scratched.

You have always been driven by wanderlust; no land could ever contain you, and Neuvillette has long made peace with this fact. All that he can do is serve as your landing ground, to greet you at Fontaine's borders when you do—and you always—return.

And when you do return, he will lend you an ear. He will serve you your favorite desserts, he will accompany you on your long walks which you so adore, whether it be in rain or in shattering light.

And when you depart once more, he will see you off at the border, just as when you arrived, and when you arrive again, whenever they may be.

Neuvillette is satisfied with the guarantee of reunion. He does not want you to compromise your wanderlust, to shackle yourself to a single place, for your presence to be near his in any capacity that is not founded off of your own desire.

Be free to do whatever it is that you want to do, to go wherever you want to go—and when you return, he will be there. As he's always been.

Every so often, you send him letters from the nations you visit, accompanied by various trinkets which you've collected. Sometimes, you send him rocks, or swabs of sand, or entire shells that must be delivered separately.

Neuvillette gets mildly disturbed whenever you send him something that looks to be made from the cooling of molten lava, as it has happened far too often, and it makes him wonder what in the world it is you're up to.

But that's a story which you will tell him yourself, when the two of you meet again.

Neuvillette is satisfied with the guarantee of reunion. Restraint is familiar to him; being in a position such as his does not give much flexibility for anything else. But he thinks of that frilly letter, addressed to you, adorned by romance.

How straightforward, he muses, remembering the lace roses which trailed all over the envelope, the way your name was its most extravagant aspect.

Neuvillette has made peace with the stutter of his heart, the way rain falls after your departure, the way the sun reveals itself, its radiance forcing his mind to return to the fantastical image of you.

Restraint. Neuvillette has made peace with your absence, and he always thought that reunion was enough. But he thinks of you, and there it is again: the ferocity of desire, the selfishness of his blood, the way dragons hoard treasure, the way gold glimmers.

It's raining.

Neuvillette looks up, bewildered. It was so sunny a second ago. But he looks around, and his fellow pedestrians seek shelter in nearby cafes, or huddle under umbrellas, murmuring about how unexpected this is.

How unexpected indeed.

Neuvillette continues forward, the coolness on his skin, suppressing the bloom of his ears, the way he stares at the last light of the sun before it disappears behind a grey cloud.

He wonders what you're up to right now. The last letter you sent was from Inazuma. You must be far, he thinks.

(Too far.)

But then, a voice.

"Long time no see, Neuvillette!"

His head snaps around, thistle eyes meeting yours, his mouth hanging slightly agape, a droplet of rain racing down from the duct of his eye.

"[Name]," he breathes, walking towards you with as much composure as a creature so hopelessly in love could ever afford to muster. "[Name], it has been so long."

"Right!" you say, wiping a swab of rain from your face. "You look even more miserable than when I last saw you!"

The subtlest of smiles tug at his lips.

You truly make him the most miserable thing.

"Anyway, I stopped by the Court to see you, but instead, Sedene handed me a love letter! Isn't that hilarious? I haven't gotten one of these in like, what, a couple hundred years?"

Neuvillette feels something stir within the confines of his ribs.

"Did you read it?"

"I did! It was great!"

Restraint. Neuvillette wants to ask more—he wants to know what you thought of such forwardness, what you thought of such a declaration of love. If he were to do the same, would you receive it with such mirth? Would you accept him, with all his rain, with all his misery?

"I found the sender just before seeing you here, Neuvillette!" you say, patting his shoulder, the reunion palpable. "I had to thank them for such flattery! Oh, but I did have to turn them down. I'm not really one for the immortal-mortal grief, you know? Parting with you is already a lot."

Neuvillette's breath hitches. What about the guarantee of an immortal-immortal match? What about the guarantee of reunion?

"You dislike parting with me?"

You laugh. "Nope, I absolutely love seeing your anguished face whenever I leave, and traveling alone, tasting water from nations, trying to act like I know something when really, there's no difference at all!"

The subtlest of smiles tug at his lips.

"There is a difference. Mondstadt's waters are crisp and pure, while Liyue's waters have an aftertaste, and Inazuma's water possesses a flavor unlike any other."

You elbow him roughly. He doesn't budge from the movement.

"And Fontaine's courts have the best macarons. Onwards, Neuvillette!"

The sun returns.

Neuvillette looks at you and, truly, the radiance is sublime.

There is nothing in this world that comes for free.

"So, name your price," the client says, head tilted to the side, smirking. "I'm confident I can fulfill whatever you demand, Kinich."

"I cannot take this request," Kinich states, readjusting the various bags which dangle from his shoulder, full of fruits from his most recent harvest.

"What?!" the client exclaims, their pompous expression contorting into that of utter disbelief. "It should be simple! I'm only requesting you because I know you can complete it quickly! I'll pay you double your rate, and—"

"Find someone else," Kinich interrupts. "I won't do it."

"What?!" Ajaw exclaims, floating over to the client's side, his shades of green shifting to reds and oranges, his pixelated body spasming up and down as he pouts vehemently. "Come on, man! This is such a good deal! Since when could beggars be choosers, huh, huh?!"

Kinich ignores how Ajaw just likened him to a beggar.

"Why are you rejecting this request?!" the client shouts, hand outstretched, revealing an intricate envelope, adorned by shades of reds and pinks, its romance addressed towards a single recipient. You.

"My reason doesn't matter," Kinich replies.

There are some things in this world that cannot be done, regardless of the cost.

"Don't tell me it's because you have a crush on—" Ajaw starts, but is quickly slapped away by Kinich. The Almighty Dragonlord's figure goes flying out of the atmosphere, plummeting towards the sky, the last of his silhouette dissipating with the twinkle of what looks to be a star.

"Find someone else," Kinich says, again. "I won't do it."

"You'll regret this, Kinich!" the client-no-longer exclaims, sparing one last glare at him before trudging away, love letter still in hand. Kinich returns to his hut without a single thought, hauling his harvest, the weight amounting to nothing, as he mulls over the request.

He's not the type to live with regrets.

But, maybe there is one.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Someone bursts through the door, sauntering through his hut made-for-one, forcing it to shift and fit two. Kinich, unfazed, doesn't even look up from his spot in the corner, rearranging the fruits he had harvested, organizing them with the various containers of jam and breads which he bought the day before.

Silence. Kinich continues sorting through his items, feigning ignorance to the shadow which slowly creeps up on him, the shape shifting to reveal two hands, outstretched, vaguely resembling a pitiful wolf.

Your hands jump onto his shoulders, and Kinich remains as he is: completely unmoved.

"What?!" you say, absolutely flabbergasted. "Why didn't that scare you?"

Kinich looks over his shoulder, taken aback for just a second, your nose almost meeting his, your face so close he can make out each wisp of your lashes, the way you smile, teeth and all. He swallows thickly. He blinks and then he turns back around, breathing slowly, hands fiddling mindlessly with the jars of jam.

That scared him more than your futile attempt at a surprise attack.

"You're loud," is all he says.

"That can't be!"

But it is, Kinich thinks. You're loud. And you talk a lot, and you wear your expressions so evidently on your face. Kinich turns to you, your figure matching his, crouched, hunching over various trinkets and eyeing the jams as if you were some sort of connoisseur.

"And while I was out today, I was at the market, and—"

You're loud.

"There was this guy," you say, eyes scrunched shut, brows furrowing, mind seemingly in deep thought (How uncharacteristic, is all Kinich thinks). "He was like, so awkward with me! And he was like flailing everywhere, and he asked me to dinner, but I told him I already had plans with you, but then he got so nervous, and I was so confused, like, does he want me?"

You're always sharp when it's inconvenient, he thinks.

"It must be my aura, huh?"

Nevermind, Kinich annexes that previous thought.

"Anyway, that was pretty random!" you exclaim, clapping your hands together. "But I guess it's to be expected! I'm a catch! But, you know, that's the first confession I've received in a while. I feel like my aura wards people away, or something."

Ajaw returns from purgatory.

"It's not your aura! It's because of Kinich—"

Ajaw is sent hurling into space.

"Oh," you say, watching Ajaw get launched out of the open window. "I was wondering why it was so quiet!"

It wasn't, though, Kinich thinks. How could it be, when you're so loud?

"But anyway," you continue, "I'm looking forward to the meal today, Kinich! I'm your favorite freeloader, I bet!"

There are some things in this world that should be done, regardless of the cost.

Like your loudness, like your slurred words, your random interjections, your sidetracked stories. Some things in this world should be relistened to, should last forever, should happen, again and again. Like your weekly freeloading meals, like your anecdotes, like, like you.

You're loud.

Kinich would listen to you forever if he could.

And, just like that, there'd be no room for regrets.

They say that if you're scared of thunder, it's because you've got something to hide.

Boom!

Wriothesley's hands interlace with one another, his back hunching slightly as he leans forward, lips drawn into a pursed smile, pale eyes devoid of any mirth.

"So..." he starts, your figure submerged within the center of his pupils, head craned downwards, fingers tracing over the intricacies of a misplaced letter, its subjects addressed to you despite landing on his desk.

"Are you moved?" he then asks, not-so discreetly.

Boom!

Wriothesley, in this moment, considers himself to be quite scared of thunder. He's got quite a few things to hide; a handful of those many things involve you.

"Woah," you say, almost amazed, free hand raised to your mouth, eyes wide as you trace over each word. Wriothesley wonders what you're thinking right now—do frilly niceties like this charm you? Perhaps a bouquet of roses will make their way to your door tomorrow. Let's throw in a letter, and a shared cup of tea, too.

"This is pretty impressive," you remark, glancing up, meeting his gaze. Wriothesley never once tears his gaze from yours, the scenery of the city outside paling in comparison to the well-loved features of your face. From the bridge of your nose, the curve of your lips, the ridge of your brows—your existence makes a lover of him.

That fact, though not particulary hidden, is a secret that he carries with him, revealed only with each strike of lightning, the thunder that follows thereafter.

"Impressive?" Wriothesley echoes, the hints of a smile finding his face, the expression not quite reaching his eyes, organ still beholding you. "How so, if I may ask?"

"The sender knows I'm a big fan of theater plays," you state, "and also, that I like tea."

Wriothesley snorts. "Those are not things that are well-kept secrets."

You laugh. "I suppose that's true. Still, it's quite cute."

Wriothesley has watched quite a couple theater productions with you. His favorite part is when you debrief him on the plot afterwards, as if he weren't there to witness it himself (he supposes that's half true, though, since half of his experience is witnessing the play through your own reactions).

Also, in case you didn't know, he also likes tea. It seems the two of you have lots in common. How very compatible, if he does say so himself.

Boom!

The sound vaguely mimics the beat of his heart, its enormity enough to shatter his ribs, its vigor pumping blood to the tips of his ears, the apples of his cheeks. It's pouring outside. He wonders how many more secrets he must keep, how long they must stay hidden for, how cruel it is for each strike of thunder to be felt in front of the person who it all belongs to.

His most sacred oath. You.

Boom!

"I think I'll have to decline on this, though," you say, folding the letter back into its quaint envelope, hand now reaching for the teacup, glass raised to your lips.

He stares for a long while.

"I'm surprised," he remarks. "I thought you'd enjoy that sort of thing. Don't most of your plays involve a wondrous love letter?"

You laugh.

"They also involve a mysterious Duke of the North."

Boom!

"Will the Duke of an Underground Prison work?"

"More than that, actually," you say, head tilting to the side, eyes crinkled, your smile incomparable. "It's perfect."

Looks like he has nothing to hide now.

"Care for some dinner tomorrow?" he asks, finger raised to tap on the surface of the wooden table, the action soothing.

"At the Coupon Cafeteria?"

"Your pick. I'll be at your door tomorrow, as the Duke of an Underground Prison."

"I want roses," you say, "and a wondrous love letter."

Wriothesley smiles, its shape vaguely covered by the back of his gloved hand, his devotion revealed only by the ferocious red of his ears.

"Consider it done."

the one time they did keep something harmful a secret when they were 5 while varka was away, they received a very long letter from their other father in another nation after you had informed him of what happened. safe to say they never did something like that again.

you would finally find out the reason for their actions on father’s day, a holiday you had forgotten your sons take very seriously.

“mama! papa!”

you felt the bed dip afterwards, then two more bodies pressing on top of you; making you grunt.

“wake up you two!”

it took you a second to fully register the voices, wearily blinking up at the ceiling as you pulled yourself out of slumber.

“what’s wrong?” you asked softly, sitting up in bed slowly. (as best as you could anyways, seeing as varka had an arm around your waist.)

“come down stairs, quick!” was all leviathan said before he and his twin climbed off the bed and raced downstairs, leaving you even more confused.

you turned your head to your left, bringing your hand to varka’s shoulder and shaking him.

“var, wake up.”

he hummed, rubbing his cheek into his pillow.

you shook him a little harder, “c’mon, wake up. the boys want to show us something downstairs.”

at the mention of a surprise from his sons, varka shot up in bed, making you jump lightly. he didn’t say anything as he got up, throwing a shirt on and heading downstairs.

you sighed heavily, getting out of bed yourself and slipping your house shoes on before heading downstairs as well.

as you descended the stairs, you had to stop just before the last step.

“varka? is everything okay?” you asked, noticing how your husband had stopped at the last step.

when you received no reply, you peered over his shoulder to see what he was looking at. you quickly understood why he had stopped.

your twin sons were standing in front of a cruelly made banner that said “happy father’s day!” with a cake with two lit candles on a table in front of them.

they nervously glanced at each other before speaking,

“we know uncle kaeya had said something to you mama about us hiding a secret, but we just wanted to surprise you and papa for father’s day…” lucien trailed off, clearly afraid that you and varka were going to be upset that they hid this from you.

you lightly pushed varka forward, making him realize how long he was standing there. he made his way over to where lucien and leviathan were standing, with you not far behind him.

“we love it, luci.” varka said as he affectionately ruffled lucien’s hair, then doing the same to leviathan when he pouted.

you walked behind the twins and put your hands on their shoulders, “it was very thoughtful of you two to do this for us.”

they both had proud smiles on their faces, obviously happy you two liked their surprise.

“oh! blow out the candles, then we can have cake!” leviathan said, lightly pushing you to stand next to varka in front of the table.

you and your husband looked at each other momentarily before turning to the still lit cake.

you both clapped your hands together and closed your eyes, quickly thinking of a wish as if it was your birthday.

i wish that my family is always happy and healthy…

i wish that my sons grow up to be well behaved men, unlike lohen…

you opened your eyes, looking at varka one last time before blowing out the candles together.

“can we have cake now?!” lucien excitedly asked, forgetting the time of day.

“we still have to eat breakfast, silly.”

both twins pouted at varka’s response, but knew there was no arguing with him.

as they ran into the kitchen for breakfast, varka turned to you as he wrapped an arm around your waist.

“what’d you wish for?” he asked, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“if i tell you, then it won’t come true.”

varka pouted at your answer, showing where your sons got the habit from.

“c’mon you big baby, who knows how long those two can hold off on the cake.” you said as you picked the cake up to bring it into the kitchen, varka chuckling softly as he followed.

Paint, brush, canvas… and a feverish inspiration.

What makes a masterpiece? Is it the concept, the beauty, or the reason behind? The answer to that question is one of the few mysteries upon Albedo's curious mind. It was something that alchemy's restless experiments would fail to explain; it is something out of the bounds of logic and lies on the precipice of imagination.

The white expanse of the never-ending cold Dragonspine reflects the peacefulness Albedo longs for. Inside the warmth of his campsite—lit by two simple torches, was enough to fight against the cold. Inside, there stood an easel, a canvas, and the smell of oil paint that lingers in the cold air.

Albedo carefully maneuvers his right hand while a colorful palette rests on his left hand—his brows furrowed and his eyes focused; if not because of the cold winds, he might as well be sweating already.

In all honesty, he doesn't know when he started picking up his paint brush, setting his canvas, and opening the lids of his paints. The past came like a blur and the present came as a surprise. All he knows is that he's now painting a figure taken from his observant eyes— adding intricate details he noted, noticed, and remembered.

There's no model in front of him yet he finds himself painting the exact image in that memory of his.

A figure clad in armour whose hair gently flows with the breeze, as a fierce expression lays upon their face. Albedo was able to completely paint the picture; the curve and depth of their face, the color of their skin, and the emotions that settles within. It was as if he memorized the geometry in every angle.

You… A knight free in spirit—A human that captivated this chalk prince's artistic heart.

You were the vice captain of the Investigation team, working closely with Albedo and Sucrose in solving crimes and exploring unusual phenomena. It was an experience that lasted for 2 long years— full of memories that will forever shine like gold. With you among their numbers, significant findings and achievements is what the investigation team would always accomplish. It was something that Albedo… cherished.

Unfortunately, Varka was in need of more people for the expedition. It was not as if he won't see you after a millennia, it's just the way your back would face him and leave the Investigation team left a bitter taste in his tongue.

A seeping pettiness formed within the chalk prince, thinking how Varka stole you from him and putting it under the guise of "need more knights for the expedition". It is just a triffling emotion that has yet been realized by the chief alchemist. A simple irritation he doesn't know that is blooming.

This unfamiliar feeling has occupied Albedo for months now. He would unconsciously pass the vials to the empty space that was supposed to be filled by your presence, as if you were there and supposedly take it from his fingers.

Hesitantly, Sucrose would always remind him as he maneuvers his head towards the direction and finds you not there but somewhere on the battlefield; probably decapitating an abyssal mage.

Awkwardness would settle between him and Sucrose. He's not embarrassed one bit, just... confused...and troubled.

He would often accidentally ask Sucrose something he would always ask you; updates, findings, advice, information…

His habits that revolve around you is something he can't force himself to control—An unconscious drive within him that automatically clicks. It was as if your mere existence altered his entire brain chemistry—the haywire that was once only devoted to alchemy.

It just feels like something is missing…

Perhaps his restlessness led him to paint. His hands itching to express something he can't logically explain. He took the liberty to take his precious time—giving the painting a life, like an alchemist creating a homunculus.

The sun sets as it waves the world goodbye; the moon starts to climb the night sky.

How many hours has it been? Albedo's still stuck in the same place, his position never changed and his focus never faltered. He doesn't even notice how the sky dims and a snow storm forms.

Paints scattered on the floor and somehow also even made it to his face, smudged across his white skin and ash-blonde hair—his gloves and coat both not spared from the smudges.

He let out a breathy sigh as the last detailing stroke of the paint brush left the canvas. His eyes fixated on his artwork—unmoving and dumbfounded.

He just finished the painting.

The skillful rendering and the nifty blending of the colors captured the picture he once thought about. A scene from his memories, etched at all corners of his mind. He scanned the painting—maneuvering his eyes at the figure.

Your face, hair, eyes, smile… lips…

The last remaining strength on his body dissipated more quickly than anticipated. Hours of painting nonstop with no rest pushed his body as if he was just on the battlefield, causing him to tumble down onto the floor. His fingers trembled and his brush met the cold ground.

A sigh of relief escaped his cold lips while he combed his messy hair.

The cold winds started to pick up as it blew its breath inside Albedo's camp—chills ran down his spine. He diverted his gaze towards the dark snowy sky, beyond there was a dark column of clouds.

"Blizard huh…"

Albedo was finally able to collect himself, pushing his body to stand. He slowly picked up the paints and brushes scattered recklessly on the floor as he safely put them on his tool box.

It is unfortunate that he's forced to wait hours until the storm stops or worse stay in for the night. He quite remembered how he abruptly left his laboratory in the city this morning.

I presume Sucrose wouldn't wonder where else I could be.

He took one last glance at his painting as he reached for a rag wide enough to cover the canvas. Hesitantly, he remembered the paint hadn't dried yet and resorted to turning the easel—making it face the wall.

Despite being an alchemical creation, Albedo can still feel the heavy fatigue that humans normally do.

He sluggishly settled down to his chair and let his body fall on the backrest. The torches that grew dim after the passing hours of being lit made Albedo drowsy—resting his head on the edge of the backrest and covering his eyes with his right forearm. His breathing softened and his body relaxed.

Silence… it echoed in the steep corners of his camp alongside the harsh whispers of the cold winds.

It was supposed to be just him in Dragon spine.

Albedo was about to doze off when a cold finger prodded the tip of his nose. Alertness spread in his veins and he jolted warily. While his eyes slowly adjusted to the brightness, a blurry figure stood in front of him.

And for a moment his heart ran thousands of kilometres leaving his mouth gaped as his eyes widened.

The chalk prince that was deemed quick witted was overrun by a single person. Taking his ability to speak with them… how cruel.

Albedo couldn't understand what he was feeling right now. It's as if different types of ingredients were put directly at the same time to the potion he is concocting.

He wonders whether he's hallucinating after painting for hours. He briefly thought he imagined your face for too long to actually manifest it to life.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Your voice came as a whisper as if scared to disturb the quiet atmosphere. A mischievous laugh followed the silence.

"Sorry for disturbing your rest, my dear chalk prince."

The dumbfounded chief alchemist couldn't fathom the scene in front of him while you cheekily smiled at the look of someone clearly surprised.

Seeing the Keidiprinz so shocked like that is such an honour.

Curiously, you stride around the area—carefully avoiding the dried and wet paint spilled on the floor. Your eyes maneuvered to the easel standing firmly near the wall. Making you raise a slight smirk.

"So… I heard the chief alchemist mysteriously disappeared this morning. I wonder what made him cooped up in this place for hours."

Albedo swallowed the forming pool in his throat as he gazed towards the outside; it was still heavily snowing. Then his eyes followed back to your form; your coat covered in snow.

In order to nonchalantly calm his beating heart, he forcefully unfurrowed his face. He fixed his posture and sat properly, his bright teal eyes now meeting yours.

"I see that you have returned…" his voice suddenly fading out. Barely uttering your name. As if it was so weird to say it—like it's something forbidden and uncomfortable.

Perhaps the chalk prince is just… shy? Whatever it is, he couldn't understand this foreign feeling.

You earnestly smiled as you stood in front of him. You maintained eye contact, unknowingly making him slightly shiver.

"Why do you look so shocked? Did you miss me that much?" You said teasingly while idly folding your arms.

You swear it was just a harmless tease but it seems Albedo was too flustered to rationally think. Maybe it was just your sudden appearance that made him this troubled.

"Perhaps." His voice came indifferently yet felt agitated.

It was enough to make you giggle.

Albedo slightly shifted in his seat, adjusting his tight gloves as he casually tried to elongate the conversation.

"The blizzard is harsh, I'm curious why you would trek the mountain, especially when it's dusk."

"How silly, of course, to see you."

His fair lips formed a thin smile and coughed as though trying to not make it obvious.

"Well, I believe that's not necessary. I could've gone down sooner or later. There's no need for you to dangerously travel while there's a blizzard."

The defensive Albedo only made you smile ear-to-ear. Whilst removing your warm coat that is wet from the pouring snow, you glanced once again towards the canvas resting near the wall.

Albedo followed your eyes and where you were staring—his body involuntarily panicked. He tried diverting your attention but you got the best of him again.

"Were you painting the whole day?" You said, intrigued by the very thought of him painting again.

"I was merely trying to pass the time… anyways, how was the–"

Before he could finish his sentence, he saw you heading towards the easel. Nervousness swarmed in his body, giving him cold sweat. He hastily stood up to stop you—the vials on his table accidentally fell and shattered on the solid ground. Luckily, he was fast enough to grasp your arm and stop you from even holding the canvas.

His face fumed in distress, panicked to the point of breathing heavily.

You were confused, surprised even.

"I never thought the chief alchemist would be this secretive of his paintings. You're making me even more curious."

Albedo quickly collected himself, his fingers softly rested in your arms yet had no intention of letting you go.

"How was the expedition? I didn't expect you to come back so early." His voice came desperately.

You looked at the back surface of the canvas once more before finally moving away from it. The chief alchemist clearly doesn't want his painting to be known. Is it something shameful? Your imagination ran through a hammock.

You both settled far from the easel. His hand let go of its grip as he tried to cough the awkward atmosphere away.

Seeing as though he doesn't want to talk about the painting, you went along with his previous question.

"I'm back, Sir. Varka's orders. He told me to give updates to Jean and vice versa." Your voice came softly, calming Albedo's troubled mind.

"I see… I presume you're going to leave after a few days of stay?" His voice is now steady.

Albedo took a moment before moving towards his table and dropped to his knees— picking up the broken glass vials.

"Unfortunately…"

You gracefully paced towards him and reached your hands to pick up the small shards, careful not to accidentally hurt yourself. Albedo was inappreciably startled by your sudden presence, his eyes slowly drifted to the side of your face.

“...but I have a week to spend in Mondstadt." You smiled at him.

He then hummed in response, turning his face as he felt a burning sensation on his cheeks. The soil quickly absorbed the spilled liquid from the glass vials, leaving only a colorful residue. Albedo placed the glass shards outside the campsite and buried it in the deep snow.

It was just a short trip outside but his mind raced long distances. The very thought of you here at the same place with him is beginning to sink in. He dug his fingers to his chest, trying to ease an uncomfortable sensation.

His steps grew slower and his fingers trembled at the gentlest touch of the cold wind.

Yes, it's only because of the wind.

Albedo is indeed happy that you're back but he can't help himself from questioning this stubborn feeling. It was vexing yet gratifying at the same time— keeping his lungs barely breathing and his heart restless.

His mind circles around the question “why” at every turn. This chalk prince is far from understanding something so unfamiliar and alien. However, this feeling is a breath of fresh air he is unconsciously savouring. It is something he deemed harmless yet dangerous at the same time.

“Oh– By the way, I came across a unique spider during the expedition.” Your voice was loud enough to disrupt Albedo’s trance.

He made his way back to the campsite again, his boots leaving footprints accompanied by snow.

“What’s with the sudden interest in spiders?” He replied while trying to dust off the snowflakes that fell on his shoulders.

“Hmmm… I don't know. I just remembered that a certain alchemist loves eating spiders.” You playfully said, folding your arms while trying to suppress a grin.

“I… well they just simply have a fragrant and unforgettable taste.” He muttered and bashfully laughed it off.

“It is still quite bizarre to know you eat spiders.”

You started moving towards him. His pace quickens, mustering all of his remaining strength to be calm. You reached for something inside the pockets of your coat and revealed a large jar.

Inside the jar, a big spider rests steadily on the cylindrical wall. You presented it proudly in front of him, making the spider’s 8 red eyes stare back to Albedo's.

The chief alchemist couldn't stop his eyes from lighting up. It is indeed a unique spider.

“It's still alive…” he blurted— his eyes moving to meet yours.

“I want you to see it alive first before you cruelly bring it to its demise.” You lightheartedly replied.

You rested the jar on his table, earning a light thud from the wooded surface.

“I genuinely appreciate your thoughtfulness. I didn't expect you would carry a spider all the way from Nod Krai to Mondstadt.” He teasingly chuckled.

“I will surely cook it properly so that you will also realize its delightful taste.” He continued.

“No, thank you.” You laughed.

He moved the jar to a near cabinet, alongside glass vials and concoctions—the spider moving inside to ease its discomfort from the sudden movement. He felt at ease after turning his back from you, to break free from being so conscious of himself.

Minutes have passed and the blizzard shows no signs of stopping. Albedo sighed not out of stress but out of relief. The longer the blizzard stays, the longer you and him can be alone.

“huh… I guess we have to camp in for the night.” you huffed, leaving messages to the wind.

“I apologise, I don't have any camp bed of any sorts. I usually don't stay here at night.” He said as he slowly faced you.

“It's fine, I can rest on the floor.” You said while eagerly smiling.

“No. If it won't bother you, you should slump over the desk. It's way better than resting on the floor, it is clearly cold.” He responded almost immediately.

You looked over his wooden table, on top of it were books and some of his research files scattered all over it.

“It's… quite busy over there.” You chuckled.

Albedo then looked at the table and was awkwardly embarrassed. He scoffed, walking towards the table to reach for his clipboard and a pencil.

He stood there silently as he sketched something, focused on drawing. Dumbfounded, you stood in front of him unmoving and clueless to what he is doing. Your eyes glued to his form, intently watching him work.

Albedo suddenly felt you staring, consciously speeding up his drawing. He dropped his pencil on the table and started manifesting his drawing.

A blinding light emerges from his clipboard, causing you to cover your eyes. After seconds, you were amazed to see a pair of camp beds on Albedo's arms.

“Right, you're the chief alchemist.” You mischievously teased.

“Are you that impressed?” He smirked.

“Hmm…I would be lying if I said I was.”

“How witty…” he laughed as he placed the camp beds on the floor— he knelt and fixed the bedding to make it look more comfortable.

“Are you that impressed?” You added.

“Yes, yes, I'm impressed.” His voice was laced with sarcasm.

“Thank you for your genuine compliment.” You then stared at him quite longer than you expected. Noticing the few paints sticking to his hair. It was a contrast to the usual clean Albedo.

While he was distracted in fixing the bed, you unhurriedly tried to remove the dried paints sticking to his ash blonde hair. Your touch was subtle but determined to remove it without hurting him.

The chalk prince halted, his body forgets to move— to breath. He can feel your warm flesh inching closer to his cold body, which is growing hotter and flustered.

He tried to collect himself, to gather his consciousness yet all he could do is draw ragged breaths. For a moment, he was thankful of his hair for blocking your view to his face. He felt conscious… embarrassed… agitated.

“You're rather clumsy with paints.” You voice came soft and gentle. You continued.

“I wonder what you painted to get you acting like a stressed painter trying to paint their lover.”

It was a moment Albedo could hear his heart—loud and thundering. He was silent, silenced by the sheer gravity of the thought of you finding out his painting.

Lover… it was a word he never thought about once— rather, avoided the very thought of it. He was not even your lover. With one last pinch, you successfully removed all of the paint sticking on his hair.

“Alright, shall we get some rest?” you cooed, smiling at his face.

Albedo thought about rest and the absurd possibility he would actually fall asleep after that.

“My… are you sick? Why are you so red?” You extended your palm to his forehead, feeling his warm skin.

Perhaps he did become feverish after being fed by countless emotions he couldn't understand. He grasped your hands and playfully disregarded the impending concern.

“I think I caught the fever you brought back from Nod Krai.” He sheepishly laughed. He then gently pushed you to your bed.

“Go to sleep, you're probably tired from your travels.” He stood up, walking towards his table, trying to ease his beating heart. You couldn't muster to make anymore debate as he quickly left your side. A breathy sigh was all you can make.

Your eyes linger across the whole campsite, the dim light flickers as it slowly pulls you to sleep. Seeing as though the blizzard was still blowing stronger, the camp bed was enough to warm your body.

After minutes of silence, Albedo sat speechless.

His eyes maneuvered to the easel he faced to the wall, his gaze lingered longer than it should be.

By all means it should be a masterpiece, after his rendering, countless seconds he spent to finish it.

Then looked at your sleeping figure, the clear sight of that burning inspiration. His eyes glued to your resting form, astonished by the way your chest would rise and fall calmly. It was a simple view yet it is the most interesting view he has seen after months of dread.

You were there emitting a presence that no careful brush strokes can replicate. Your existence sparked something inside the chalk prince.

“...I see”

A realization dawned to him— after countless thoughts leading to a single point. He deemed his painting completed, finished, worthy of a title masterpiece yet he doesn't feel that sweet torment he feels whenever you're around.

The canvas was filled with your image…

But not you.

He can never make a masterpiece, he can only feel it. The pressure of your presence is masterpiece itself. No amount of forbidden knowledge can ever make this mere alchemist— painter to ever replicate you.

“So this is the discrepancy…”

He sighed heavily as the cold wind invaded his lingering thoughts.

And by then, Albedo didn't desire to look at the painting again.

──────────────────────

Lately, the Kamisato estate was quiet—too quiet for your liking. You stride towards the room you forbid yourself a year ago. Your body moving as if it has its own thoughts, disregarding the promise you breath to yourself almost everyday. Your soft steps, along with your tabi that fit perfectly to your feet, made a subtle sound from the wooden floor as it echoed in the empty hallway. With few more steps, you reached your destination.

You took a deep breath, smoothing the blimeshes of your kimono before digging your fingers into the hikite— sliding the fusuma to the side without asking for any permission to do so. The sliding door completely opened, earning a light thud from the impact of the wooden frame. Inside the room, a weary atmosphere seeps from the presence in front of you.

A group of individuals gathered, presenting themselves to the Master of this estate whom sits on the front desk.

You remained standing, waiting for them to sense your arrival. The others raised their voice desperately, some tried to explain calmly— too focused and heated to even know you were there. A loud sigh can be heard beyond the crowd, silencing the arguments with the sheer authority of it. The man in front placed their elbow on the desk, hands supporting his tired head.

For a painstaking second, behind the group, pair of lavender eyes—beautiful lavender eyes met yours. And for that single moment you felt the intense gravity of his gaze. You blinked, urgently cutting the connection.

The group of individuals followed his eyes and see you standing firmly in the entrance. They cleared their throat and started fixing their stiff and stressed postures.

"Ah… My Lady, we apologized for the unruly sight." A seemingly middle-aged man wearing glasses, drapped in a dark greenish-grey kimono bowed in front of you as the others followed suit.

You lightly smiled at their acknowledgement— ignoring the creepy feeling of eyes following your every movement.

"I hope I'am not interupting a direly important meeting." You said as you slowly moved your eyes to meet his as if daring and testing the waters. He didn't move from his seat nor scoffed at the sound of your voice. He stared—observing the scene you are playing with a undoubtedly tired yet unreadable look.

"W-well… You see, My lady, it is quite an important meeting actu-" A young lady with short hair wearing a light green uniform spoke up but was quickly nudged by the person next to her.

You plastered a gentle smile, it was rehearsed, an act… a smile that lack genuinity; established from countless social events. It was a mask you skillfully rendered from the desperate need to hide your emotions.

"Would you all be so kind to give me and my hus…" You stopped for a moment, realizing the mistake you almost commit. "… me and the clan head some moment alone?".

They all looked at each other—hesitant, before admitting defeat with a subtle sigh.

"Of course, My lady." They bowed once again and unhurriedly made their way outside the room. You gently moved to the side to give them enough space for exit, you stood there and watched their retreating forms—releasing the controlled breath you didn't know you were holding after the soft sound of the sliding door shutting. You didn't spare him a glance and glued your eyes to the fusuma, the sliding door becomes interesting all of the sudden.

Quietness settled uncomfortably between you and him. The room remained still, unmoving from the awkwardness that is painfully obvious.

He didn't move as well, his gaze lingered and silent as if scared to disturb the thick and heavy air.

Your fingers desperately fiddled with the smooth fabric of your kimono. Your nails—in a hushed manner, clung to the threads skillfully sewn together. It was a hopeless attempt to ease the panic arising within you.

A dry cough erupted from your throat and finally brought yourself to face him.

Him.

The master of this estate.

The head of this clan.

The Yashiro commissioner.

Your… husband.

Kamisato Ayato.

A man filled with responsibilities, his back bearing countless duties that seems endless. Despite of it all, he was a man with a calm yet sharp mind. A man whose words felt gentle like the hues of blooming cherry blossoms but powerful like the raging thunders in the skies of Tatarasuna.

He was someone deemed impressive—a young master whose intelligence surpasses any of his political enemies. He was the perfect candidate to bear the burdens of the Kamisato clan. He was born to carry it, to shoulder the hardship it may bring.

However, a perfect heir he is—he could never dare himself to sacrifice the clan's future for a mere emotion he so earnestly avoid.

Love, oh what a lovely word to waste for a man who couldn't give it back to you.

You're aware of it, that you couldn't plant this to a marriage binded for the sake of power. For the sole purpose of their so-called "peace" between clans. A decision you have no right to put your own words to the table but to accept the fate handed to you by men greedily seeking power and influence.

You know that this marriage was just out of convenience, that it was no more else than an agreement settled on papers.

Yet… you foolishly hoped. That maybe—just maybe, you can find affection within the bounds of this marriage.

What's more foolish and laughable was the fact that your stupid heart fell for a man more sturdy than any stone wall.

Kamisato Ayato was truly someone that can make any woman smitten with him. His existence was greedy enough to enrupt the hearts of most of the women in Inazuma.

His charms works wonders but remains a mystery you couldn't put your finger on. He was gentle with impeccable manners, his looks striking and dashing. His voice handsome compared to any other men.

And that birthmark beneath the left side of his lips elevated his already exemplary face.

You didn't know when you began to fall for him, your feelings for him just became more bare and known. It became noticeable in acts you couldn't stop yourself from doing. You cared, you became conscious, and became more restless in nights he wasn't home.

Your nervous system screamed to love him.

You knew that somewhere in the depths of your heart hoped for him to acknowledge those. It started in simple service such as personally preparing his meals and eagerly delivering it to his office. Your smile would reach your ears and greet him with stubborn feelings attached.

You would tend for his clothing, accompany his sister, care for all of his needs and take care of his well-being.

You held your ground properly during festivals, during polital talks, during meetings you desperately despise—all of it for the sake of him conceding to your affection.

It was a cycle you found yourself starting to develop, a paradigm you foolishly can't escape.

alas, were you too much for a man so cold and unromantic?

You securely held the warm porridge on the hakozen as you walked towards Ayato's office. The path was familiar, etched in your memories and memorized like the back of your hands.

You gently pried open the sliding door and entered quietly. Ayato stayed busy on his table, his hands drifting from one document to another as the sound of flipping papers echoes in the room. He slightly raised his head from the sound of your entrance, his eyes darted to your form and to the food you prepared. He then closed his eyes and returned to the stacks of paper on his table.

Carefully, you placed the hakozen in front of his table as you sat next to it. You hesitated for a moment before muttering your thoughts.

"Dear…Ayato, you are not getting enough rest these days. Perhaps you should take this opportunity to relax."

Stubbornly, Ayato didn't say anything. His mind stuck on the document he's currently reading. The porridge steamed, its warmth reaching the side of your cheeks. You looked down on it.

"I made you something warm and light tonight, in hopes it will fill your stomach at the very least." You said while smiling, staring at the porridge's swaying steams—slowly fading and leaving the porridge grow cold. Your stomach unconsciously churned at the sight.

The office was hushed, occupied by only the soft sound of scribbling. And for a moment, Ayato finally spoke.

"Thank you for… your consideration." He paused and arranged the stacks of paper on his table.

"…However, it won't be necessary. I have to finish this till daytime. Eating will delay my schedule so I won't eat." He said while releasing a heavy sigh, his head didn't even move an inch to meet you and continued his paperworks.

You were silent for seconds, habitly fiddling with the hem of your kimono. Your fingers dug into the fabric as you bit the insides of your cheeks. It stung, you can taste the blood in your mouth, but it was certainly soothing something you didn't know where hurts.

You swallowed the forming pool of saliva in your throat before finding the courage to speak.

"Your well-being is non-negotiable, Ayato."

He maneuvered his eyes to meet yours, his fingers that was once busy came into a halt as he poured his attention to you. His face is of that of a surprise, bewildered by your proclimation.

"…"

"I've prepared something for you, I would appreciate it if you find the time to at least eat. Moreover, it's for your health."

Ayato looked at you dumbfoundend for a moment before tiredly putting down the fude and unleashed a breath of fatigue. He fixed his posture as he looked at you, silently giving non-verbal consent to place the porridge on his table.

Without hesitation, you moved to prepare the porridge to him. The bowl hitting the wooden surface of Ayato's table, earning a light thud. You then moved to sit next to his table, gracefully folding your feet as you held your place. You looked at him, watching for any sight of contempt or slight disgust to your food.

There was no change in his expression, no wrinkles, no squint, no smiles…

He simply took a mouthful of the porridge—succumbing to the silent atmosphere. He was not eating too fast nor eating to slow, he remained someone you can't read and whose emotions you can't decipher.

You mentally celebrated making him eat what you prepared. After so many days he have been skipping meals, you remained restless. Relief washed over you after he took another mouthful of it, your face failing to hide the ease you felt.

Ayato briefly glanced at you, before going back to eat the porridge. The room was incredibly awkward, the silence was accompanied by the sole sound of him eating.

"Dear… I hope the festivities will go smoothly." You hopelessly murmured, the first word faltered in your tounge as you fiddled with your kimono. Ayato swallowed the porridge before sighing.

"I hope so…" He replied and the conversation died right there and then. His tone was not cold nor it was warm either.

You scarcely thought of topics to converse but to no vain he's not someone you can be overly affectionate. It's been months ever since the both of you got married and yet he stayed a stranger in your eyes.

The bowl that was once full of porridge is now halved by Ayato's appetite.

"How is Ayaka these days?" His voice suddenly stirred the silent room.

"Our relationship have improved so far, we just had tea yesterday, talking mindlessly of certain things." You smiled as you looked at him—meeting those lavender eyes. It stared back to you, neither lightened or dimmed.

"I see, that's good." He said while picking up a spoonful of porridge again and continued. "What did you both talked about?"

You were slightly taken back by his sudden curiosity. Days would fly by without even a pinch of his interest, you thought that perhaps he's having a change of heart and your mind foolishly read unto it more than what he truly meant.

"Hmm, the estate, the weather, Thoma's embarrassing moments…" you paused, seconds ticked for a while.

"…and children."

Ayato stopped eating, his fingers ceased from reaching the porridge and slowly maneuvered his head to peer at you. Surely, there's nothing wrong with two woman talking about little ones but Ayato seem so curious about it despite of it.

He cleared his throat before finding the confidence to ask.

"What do you think of them? Of children, I mean."

"Well, I believe they are endearing…" your face softened as you absentmindedly moved your fingers to caress your stomach as though imagining something.

"…and hoped to have one myself." You beamed, facing him in hopes to let your intentions to be known.

But facing him was something you deeply regretted.

Ayato's face contorted, brows furrowed and devoid of his usual gentleness. His lips shut tight, straightened into a line. His gaze was not of anger nor it was of dissapointment. but at this point, you are not sure what it was.

He wiped his lips that was stained by the porridge with his palm without any regard of etiquette and slightly pushed the bowl away.

"I… had enough." he said.

"You… you have not even finished it yet." Your voice quavered, it trembles at the slightest pitch making your predicament quite obvious. Your hold to the hem of your kimono tightened as panic somehow arises within.

Ayato ran a hand over his face, eager to brush the matter aside.

"I'm full. You can take it and leave now."

"What…?"

"Also, there's no need for you to personally prepare and deliver my meals. Thoma can do it himself." Ayato let his shoulders drop and looked away from you, quickly moving his attention to the stack of papers upon his table. His profile promptly regained composure as if you were only imagining what just saw.

"What? Is there something wrong with the porridge?" You breathe disbelief.

"No, it is simply not to my taste." He uttered dismissively.

In that moment, you feel the heavy incrudelity—its weight dragging down your already fragile heart. You looked at him eagerly.

"You were just eating it fine earlier!" Your voice hardened, tempted to snap if not because of your patience.

Ayato on the other hand felt the immense pressure of your words. He truly can't understand what he is feeling. It's as if he is hanging on a thin rope of being utterly confused and scared of something he couldn't pinpoint.

"Do you not get it? Must I explain it further?" His voice pierced sharply.

"Are you implying that I'm an idiot who can't understand something so… obvious for you?" You replied, your voice laced with thinning tension.

"You are twisting my words."

You quickly stood from your seat. Your stance open and frustration seeps from you. He followed your movement, watching you from below.

"This is about what I just said earlier, isn't it?"

You found yourself glaring at him and you never expected you would ever do.

"I…don't know what you are talking about. I simply said it is not to my taste." He returned your gaze with patience running thin.

"Just say you don't like it! Why do you always have to twist and manipulate your words?!"

"You are making a big deal out of this." He continued.

You scoffed loudly. He looked frustrated, yes, but the fact he's not bursting makes your blood boil. It's as if it seems you're only overreacting.

"Why did you even eat it if you don't like it? I wouldn't offer it to you in the first place if it's "not to your taste""

Ayato completely snapped and slammed his right hand to the table. Fighting himself, hoping to collect his senses.

"You insisted it! I was being polite. Now I am starting to regret that I did!"

You gasped, the heavy air suddenly shifted and formed an irreversible consequence. You couldn't help yourself fuming as the countless surpressed emotions bursting uncontrollable.

"This is because I mentioned my desire to have children, isn't it?"

He looked at you for a moment before grunting, rubbing his temples to ease his headache.

"I have not said such a thing."

"No! But you acted like this because of it!" You exclaimed, your voice came with no tremble nor hesitation. It was hard, overwhelming—tired and frustrated.

Ayato sat stiff on his seat like a statue. Your words shook him and petrified him at the same time. He was heated earlier but now he is unmoving and scared to even breathe.

A shrieking and noisy ringing pierced his ears, invading his spiraling thoughts. It took him moments to gather his wrecked mind until you looked at him through shattered rose-tinted glasses.

You stood dumbfoundend as if you just discovered something that was already painfully obvious. Of something that was already laid bare for you to digest and yet you still looked and craved for something else. You stared at him, of him silent from the sheer confrontation.

Of course, who would want to bed a woman who only served as a pawn to a man's board.

"I never thought that the mere mention of children will disgust you…" you took the initiative to break the silence, accompanied by a descending confidence. Your tone heavy, laced with indescribable grief. You couldn't bring yourself to even look at him, two pair of eyes glued to the sight of your feet.

Tears tempted to pour as you squint your eyes to prevent its eagerness to glide down your cheek. You bit your lips hard to muffle the sob daring leave your mouth.

Ayato looked at you, his eyes widden and a sudden pang hit his chest at the view plastered upon him. Somewhere beneath his ribs aches, he reached for it but he couldn't scratch the feeling off.

"No… I- mean-" He tried to reach for you, his hands desperately hanging in the air; but he was seconds late until you cut him off.

"I do not wish to waste any of your time. As you ordered, I'll surely infom Thoma about it." Your voice came steady and you didn't shrink back in sadness. You swiftly took the bowl on his table before looking at him dead in the eye.

"I am sure not to offer you anything unpleasant in the future. I shall take my leave." You bowed in front of him. Your back bent and unwavering with your intentions. Ayato was dead silent, his hands retreating and fingers curling into a fist as he watched our leaving form. He kept his eyes on the fusuma gliding shut.

His lips unconsciously agape, making space to release the breath he is holding. A harsh and killing headache intruded him. The pain was fast and cruel but he still hopelessly think of you, he is not sure if the thought of you were causing his headache or if it is the hunger and fatigue eating him alive. Perhaps both.

He was stressed because of his paperwork and yet he added fuel to the fire and made everything worse. The deadlines are near and now the boundary and your relationship with him is dead.

He rested his head with both of his hands on the table, silently cursing to himself. It was rather out of character of him— he was known as a composed gentleman and yet crumbling from a mere argument or quarell.

Minutes later, the sound of the sliding door opening startled him. He jerked from his seat as his eyes widened in surprise, quickly looking upon the fusuma. He was anxious, expecting your face to appear for even a second. But he was more heartbroken to see his younger sister scowling at him. Ayaka stared at him, eyes burning with anger. It was stern, as if it is about to nag him with her gaze alone.

"I believe I don't have to tell my foolish of a brother what he just did." she started, slowly walking towards him.

Ayato can only sigh both in relief and frustration.

Seconds, minutes, and days have passed ever since your last visit to Ayato's office. The guilt was burning him alive, gnawing at every fiber of his skin— it was a brutal punishment he can never escape. He couldn't even find the time to look for you, his duties pulling him away from any human interaction. What's worse is that whenever he is alone in his office, his thoughts will fly high towards that night. Occasionally, he would lightly slap his head whenever he think of it.

He would discretely ask Thoma about you, shyly making it silent as possible. Thoma would simply just tell him you are in your room or you are tending to your personal matters and whatnot. Thoma would find himself smilling and grinning from the fact the Yashiro commissioner being overly concerned ever since that night.

You on the other hand refuses to even see a strand of his hair. You stayed in your room for a few days, setting your mind straight. Ayaka would now and then visit you, taking care of your well-being at the best of her ability but still gives you space whenever she feels you still need time. She was rather understanding and sweet the whole time.

You only smiled at the big difference between the two sibling as you shook your head, trying to forget unpleasant memories.

The festival arranged by the Kamisato estate finally passed without any mishap. The night were filled with lights, illuminating the moonless sky. Kids were playing, running around the streets and laughing along the festivities. The stalls are standing tall with fervor— foods plastered on layers and layers of tables side by side. Inazuma that night smelled like enthusiam, crammed by people enjoying the events.

Ayato stood near the window of his bedroom, leaning against the frame. He stared at the lively and glowing city from afar, seeing the blooming success of his hardwork. However, the longer he looked at the festival, the longer his thoughts linger— haunting him to the bone.

It's been weeks ever since he last saw you or rather, be drunk in the sight of you. He remembers that you used to attend festivals he hosted and arranged. You would always do but today is an exception, he guessed.

The festival was a success but at what cost?

No… the citizens are happy, he convinced himself there's no need to be concerned with a single person's happiness. Right, of course.

How stubborn indeed.

He scoffed as he gazed towards the stars—flickering despite the dark sky. His heart shudders, it was impossible but he swears he felt it. He is the clan head thus he should act like one.

"How troublesome…"

A heavy silence erupted in the room as you both held gazes. It was suffocating and intense as if it's a challange that no surrender will ever happen. You faced him somber before breaking the awkward atmosphere.

"Thoma has come to me…" You muttered against the growing cold room.

"…and what of it?" He said sarcastically as he fixed his slightly slumping posture.

You rolled your eyes and folded your arms. Returning his sarcastic look as though what your intention is not already obvious.

"Your housekeeper was speaking to me out of concern, telling me his master was being unreasonable and refuses to eat." You scoffed loudly, making it apparent that talking to him is draining your whole energy.

It took a lot of time before he was able to respond—eyeing your whole form. It's been so long since you both have seen each other and yet both of you are already on each other's throat.

And despite of that, Ayato privately indulged himself with your presence. His heart burning, beating too much from excitement. He was both frustrated and flustered as his breathing fails him, staggering between seconds. His eyes falling to your plump lips, bending along the curve of your pout… or scorn(?). Then to your eyes behind the layer of your lashes. Staring down at him with passionate dislike.

"Ahh…that." His voice came uninterested, making you more frustrated.

"Do you plan to starve? Beggars are more healthier than you at this point."

"I am simply busy with my duties." He sighed, looking at his messy table before looking back to you.

You glanced at him in disbelief, stunned to witness pure idiocrasy in front of you.

"You do know that you can't do your so-called duties once you're sick either way, right?" You unfolded your arms as you let your left hand rest on your waist.

Ayato hummed in response, his gaze fixated upon you. For a second, an idea struck him making him shiver in anxiety and excitement.

Sensing that he is taking his time before replying, you took matters in your hands and hastily moved towards the sliding door.

"Then starve." You proclaimed, facing your back to him. Seeing that you are about to leave, he quickly opened his mouth.

"On the second thought, I'm quite craving something." His voice suddenly cutting through, making you stop in your tracks.

You turned to gawk at him, your face contorting to a questioning look. Ayato can't identify whether it is sarcasm or it is just the way you are. Nevertheless, he's relieved you stopped.

"Porridge."

"…"

You were silent, stuck and unmoving from where you are standing. You looked at him properly this time. Your eyes somehow—slightly softening. It's not even his favourite food nor it is even going to make him full and yet…

"Warm porridge. I'm craving porridge." He repeated. His gaze stern, purposeful, and etched with feelings you can not understand or dare to even guess.

Ayato didn't placed his eyes anywhere else but to yours. He held it firmly as if it is trying to tell you something his cowardly mouth could never say. Striving against his apprehenssion and fears. He unconsciously swallowed whatever shame he have in his throat, leaving you quite stunned at the sudden situation.

If Ayato was stubborn, somewhere deep in you was the same.

You shook the looming thoughts and your dwellings that is trying to burry you alive. You stopped hoping. It is no use. It is just your delusions pulling you away from reality.

"I will tell Thoma right away." You said, monotone and with emotions that was long discarded.

You abruptly left, afraid of what could possibly happen if you did not. Your feet anxiously stomping in the hallways.

Ayato, despite of not getting the expression he hoped, stared at the fusuma for a long time after you left. Foolishly anticipating that you would come back and say that you will prepare what he is craving instead.

Of course, you would not. He was far too late to expect the same exact treatment a year ago.

He exhaled, his breath coming out hot from dissapointment. He combed his hair as he closed his eyes to relax his eyelids that are slowly growing heavy. Amidst the silence of the room, his stomach growled hungrily which annoyed him more.

"How troublesome…"

“i’d sleep well if you’d let me sleep in a little longer, phainon,” you groan out, turning away from him so that your face stayed out of his reach. 

you’ll get your kisses later. but first, sleep.

he hums. “let me think about it,” he says as he settles behind you.  you feel him pull you closer and pause, like he’s deep in thought, and when he stills, you think you’ve won the battle.

well, good.

 it is far too early for such antics, in your opinion.  

but just as his warmth lures you back into the arms of sleep, your eyes fluttering shut, soothed by the pace of his breathing, you feel a sneaky kiss on the back of your neck.  “i thought about it.” he whispers, smiling against your skin. “sorry, darling, the answer's no.”

oh. oh, no.

he teasingly drags his lips down to where your neck meets your back, ghosting over like the brush of a butterfly's wings, leaving goosebumps in his wake. he lingers there for a minute, his breath tickling your sensitive skin, before he retraces his path to reach the base of your ear. he kisses there gently, once, twice, and then— he bites. 

gently, of course, but it still has your eyes flying wide open.

“phainon!” you gasp, electricity running down the length of your spine. you turn around to glare at him.

“bet you’re awake after that, aren’t you?” he murmurs into your ear. you whack him playfully on the shoulder.

his bright laughter in answer is infectious, and you can’t help but crack a smile begrudgingly.

“yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” you huff, moving to hide your face in his shoulder as he still shakes with laughter. “you always wake me up too early.”

“sorry, sorry.” he says in return, not sounding even the least bit apologetic, and you pull away to give him a look.

"you don't sound very sorry," you huff indignantly.

his lips form into the slightest of pouts and you swear to kephale above that you could see faint dog ears drooping in his fluffy white hair.

“we haven’t seen each other since last night.” he says, blue eyes never leaving your own. they're wide, and they blink innocently. “i missed you,” he finishes, his voice dropping to a small whisper as he looks away, and your heart melts at the sight of him.

well.

you can’t exactly argue with that, can you?

you sigh in defeat, sitting up. “alright, alright, you win.”

the effect is instant. 

his pout disappears and his whole face lights up, eyes sparkling with joy, a dimple peeking out as he grins brightly.

he pushes himself upright, and with all the enthusiasm of a puppy, he pulls you on top of him, both arms wrapped around your face, and kisses you over and over and over, from your lips to your nose to your eyelids and to your cheek until you’re giggling in his embrace.

“there we go. not so grumpy anymore, are we, darling?”’ he murmurs, pressing one final kiss to your nose. 

you hum, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from your eyes. “i’m awake, that’s for sure.”

his grin never leaves his face, and he nudges your cheek with his nose. “have i ever told you that you have a beautiful laugh?”

“yes, a million times already,” you respond, smiling affectionately at him.

“well, then i’ll say it again. i love the way you laugh.”

“even when i sound like a hyena?”

“especially when you sound like a hyena.”

it is right then— cradled in his arms, watching him with a smile so dazzling, when the morning’s just begun and the whole day lies in wait for the two of you— that you find your answer. 

why does the sun rise so early? 

just so it can see you smile, of course.

(“so you’re saying i do sound like a hyena?”

“huh- what?! that is not what i meant and you know it.” he groans, resting his forehead on your shoulder.

“i’m just kidding.” you respond, running your hands through his soft, pale hair. “consider that payback for waking me up.” 

“would it help if i had breakfast ready next time?” his voice is muffled, but you can still make out the words.

“yes, yes it would.”)

✦ ending notes: first phainon drabble!! hehe this was a quicker piece but i thoroughly enjoyed every second of writing this (i know a very popular characterization is that he's needy WHICH I AGREE WITH but he's also excellent at executing a plan and setting it in motion ykwim? he contains multitudes jsjsjsj therefore, needy and sneaky)

✦ taglist: @maopll (taglist form is linked. send an ask to be removed!)