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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You can't miss the way his broad shoulders flinch when you call out his name, distracting him from his task of pretending to clean the same spot on the counter over and over. He nods, stiffly, and you watch with a thinly suppressed grin as he shakily makes his way to where you're sitting on the edge of the couch, strappy heels in hand.

"How—how late are you going to be out?" His voice wavers, even as he drops to his knees before you. Large hands delicately take your heels from you, and you feel your face flush from the gentleness he cradles your ankle with.

"I don't know," You hum, thoroughly enjoying the way Asahi is on his knees and putting your heels on for you. He's so reverent, even though his face is burning red and you think he might even be sweating. "Not all night, at least. You don't have to wait up for me, though."

"Okay," He nods, probably too many times for it to be just casual. His hands are shaking as he fixes the strap on your heel and moves to your other foot.

You have half a mind to call off the whole date just by the way he’s looking at you, and he hasn't even told you hates the idea of you going like you know he so desperately wants to.

He finishes his task dutifully, and you study him in silence. The slight crease between his brows, the way his long hair has hastily been tied into a knot at the base of his neck. He's grown out the facial hair recently, just enough to be more than scruff on his chin. Your face warms the longer you watch him, heart thumping in your chest as you contemplate how you really want to spend your evening.

Definitely not with someone other than your pretty roommate that puts your shoes on for you.

"Asahi," You call out, voice quiet as he finishes closing the strap on your second heel. He glances up, face hot, but makes no move to get off his knees before you. A smile quirks your lips. "Do you want me to go on this date?"

"I-I—I would never tell you what you can and cannot do!" He squeaks, absolutely crumbling the moment you put any pressure on him. His hands are raised as if claiming innocence, and you can hear the panic in his voice. "You're free do to whatever you want! It doesn't matter what I want!"

He's so unbelievably bad at lying to you, it's honestly sweet.

"But I'm asking," You press, leaning forward on the couch. You're so unused to being taller than him, you're honestly a little drunk on the power of making him look up at you. "So, do you?"

He freezes, rugged face staring at you with a wobbly confidence you've come to expect from him. You match him head on, not backing down or letting him think you're just toying with him.

"No, I don't want you to go."

He's honest. Voice more certain than you've ever heard him. You're absolutely smirking.

"Can you take off my heels? I don't need them if I'm staying here with you."

Shohei Fukunaga is a really good roommate.

He's quiet, and kind, and makes you laugh without ever really trying to. You really had no chance against falling for him, as weird as he can be at times.

But he's a good roommate, and you can't risk losing your friendship and making your living situation unbelievably awkward, so you settle for pining from afar and agreeing to host a movie date at your apartment that you really don't want to do.

And Shohei, as good as he is, gives you your space when your date comes over. It's a shared space, so you don't expect him to be invisible, but he does spend majority of the evening in his room.

You're so not feeling the guy, so you're practically looking for any reason to urge him out the door. Luckily, you're able to send a text to Shohei, practically pleading with him to help you.

What you're not expecting, in any possible scenario, is for Shohei to come into the living room and sit uncomfortably close to your date. Wide, dark eyes are pinned on your guest overstaying his welcome, and you can only watch in vaguely amused horror as Shohei makes your date visibly uncomfortable.

"Can I... help you, dude?" He asks, watching Shohei out of the corner of his eyes and sitting much more straighter in his seat.

"Nah," Shohei tells him casually. You have to clap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing out loud, but nothing can stop the giggle that breaks free.

What follows is ten minutes of awkward silence that makes you fall even more in love with Shohei. He doesn't move an inch from his spot beside your quote unquote date, pressuring him with just his presence to leave your apartment without being overly confrontational.

Plus, you think it's really funny.

Inevitably, your date shifts in his seat and turns to face you. The palm of your hand is smushed against your lips to try and smother your grin, but you know you're doing a poor job at it.

"I'm... going to head out." Your date says, addressing you and pointedly ignoring the steady presence on his other side.

"Okay," Shohei answers before you can even think of something to say.

"I wasn't talking to you," The guy snaps, though he sounds more confused by the turn of events than angry, honestly. Shohei, predictably, just watches as the guy stands to leave.

"Well, bye!" You chirp, jumping up to walk him to the door. It's a little awkward, watching him take off so suddenly, but you've been wishing he was out of your apartment for the past half an hour. When the door shuts behind your guest, you return to the couch where your roommate is still sitting. "Thank you, Shohei."

"Don't worry about it." He's so casual, always, but he definitely looks calmer now that it's just the two of you. It's not always the easiest to tell the differences in his expressions, but you like to think you're pretty well versed in all things Shohei. "Do you want to watch a movie with me instead?"

He's already picking up the remote, and you sigh as you lean closer to him on the couch.

"I should have just asked you to hang out, instead."

Hajime Iwaizumi is horribly stubborn.

You're not used to being the subject of his stubbornness, though. Typically he lets you do what you please, smile on your face as he takes care of the minor details.

"Not happening."

"It's not a big deal, Hajime!" You groan, stomping towards the front door of your shared apartment. You can't help but feel a little bit like a petulant child, but you've been arguing with your roommate for the better part of twenty minutes. "I can just walk there! It's not even that dark out yet."

He doesn't relent, though you didn't really expect him too.

Hajime just follows dutifully after you, tugging your coat off the hook to help you put it on like it's second nature. And to him, you think it honestly might be. He's always doted on you with a silent gentleness rare others in his life get to experience.

You're trying, desperately, to hang onto the independent front you're putting up. He's not making it easy, what with the way he trails after you out the door, a low warning humming low in his throat when you act like you're not going to wait for him to lock up the apartment. Sighing, you pause, acting like his care is some big inconvenience.

"What kind of loser date isn't picking you up with flowers, anyways?" He huffs, and you choose not to respond and he positions himself on the sidewalk between you and the traffic.

Nothing of note happens on the walk to your date, save for the fact that you spend half the trek thinking about how Hajime would make the perfect boyfriend and the other half wishing he was your boyfriend.

The problem comes at the end of your date.

You barely make it three steps outside of the restaurant before Hajime appears out of nowhere, as steady as always, if not a little irritated.

"Please tell me you didn't wait out here the whole time," Your hands are shoved deep in your pockets. You really hope you're doing a good job of hiding how much you're glad he's standing before you, but you doubt you are. Hajime's always had a certain ability to tell when you're not being honest with him, and he uses it to his advantage.

"No, there's a twenty-four seven coffee shop across the street. I figured any guy that's not picking you up probably wasn't going to drop you off." He shrugs, studying your face closely. Ducking your chin, you take the first step towards your shared apartment. He falls in step immediately, crease between his masculine brows. "Short dinner."

You wince. No surprise he picked up on it, but you hadn't been counting on him waiting for your dinner to end.

"I left early." You admit, hoping that your voice sounds steadier than you feel. You hear him hum, feel his eyes studying your profile. "I just... I kept thinking about how he didn't offer to pick me up."

"'Cause he's a loser," Hajime is openly grinning, and you dig your elbow into his arm to silently chastise him. It makes him laugh, and he grabs your arm before you can deal anymore damage. "You need to have higher standards."

You frown at him, glaring openly. You don't mean it, and from the smug grin on his face, he can read between the lines to what you really mean.

Still, you're nothing if not stubborn.

"You don't have to ruin all other men for me, you know."

Kentaro Kyotani could be described as... overly protective.

He's your roommate, one of your closest friends, and the object of your affection. Except, he doesn't know that last part, and if you plan to keep your sanity, it will stay that way.

Which is why you're going on a date. A date that's not with Kentaro.

You're not sure why you thought you'd be able to sneak past him and out the front door of your shared apartment without questioning, but you had vague plans to dart really fast with a flimsy excuse that you're meeting up with friends.

But then your date shows up early. And knocks on the door.

He might actually have a death wish, you think, as you hear Kentaro's heavy footsteps thumping towards the front door. You're half ready, hair a mess and still wearing your casual clothes, but you race to try and beat your roommate to the door regardless because you know what'll happen if you don't make it.

Except, Kentaro is a professional athlete. You never had any hope of beating him, anyways, even without his head start.

The door is propped open when you arrive on the scene. Kentaro's broad frame taking up most of the space, but even with his back to you, you can still feel his murderous intent leveled on the stranger on your front step.

"Who the fuck are you?" Kentaro's rough voice asks, no pretense of niceties spared for the hopeless guy before him.

"Ken!" You hiss, embarrassed that this is how your date is starting off. Though, you'd be lying if you said you were completely surprised. You had only been hoping that your date would arrive when you're ready to go so you could leave immediately after. "Be nice. He's here for me. We have a date."

And that gets Kentaro's attention. He freezes, spine going straight and rigid. You assume his expression looks downright lethal because you're pretty certain you hear your date gulp.

You don't get to hear anything else your date has to say, though, because between one breath and the next Kentaro slams the door in his face with a clipped, "Fuck off, man."

He turns to face then, only after he bolts the lock on the front door for an extra, unnecessarily petty measure. You'd think it funny, if Kentaro wasn't staring you down like you're his prey.

"You're not going out with him." He tells you, voice firm and decisive, as if the tips of his ears aren't turning pink. The sight of his faint blush shocks you back to reality, reminding you that it's only Kentaro, and he's not anything to be afraid of.

"Why can't I?" You fire back, attitude nearly doubling the moment he attempted to tell you what you can and cannot do. Even if you'd rather go out with him, you're still not going to let him think he can dictate your life.

"'Cause I don't like it. He looks weak." Kentaro doesn't waver. Not that you expected him to, honestly. He takes a step forward as you snort a laugh, arms crossing over your chest.

"Weak? What, is he going to have to fight to defend my honor?" Smirking, you fight against the warmth burning your cheeks as he stops only a few short inches away from you. He's so close, and tall, that you have to angle your chin up to meet his heavy stare.

"He'll have to fight me if he even thinks about touching you." And he's so serious, too. He's never been the most direct person, but you know you can read exactly what he's implying with such a bold declaration.

And you're not going to pass up on this opportunity.

"That's... unfairly hot of you to say, Kentaro."

Kotaro Bokuto has been laying on the floor in the center of your shared living room for the past fifteen minutes, moping.

Why? Well, he found out you have a date. One that's not happening for another three days.

"Ko, it's not that serious," You giggle at his antics from your perch on the couch, sitting cross legged and pretending to get work done on your laptop. Bokuto groans like you've shot him, covering his face with his arms to hide from you, while also making sure to stay in your line of sight on the floor.

"It is this serious!" He laments, sounding genuinely distraught. "I'm gonna lose you!"

"You're not going to lose me." Quick to assure him, you're already thinking about ways you can get out of this date. Your roommate is just too adorably goofy for you to put him through such stress, right?

"You don't know that!" He groans again, moving his arms so that he can glare accusingly at you. "What if you actually like this... this guy, and then you start spending all your time with him instead of me! What if he wants you to move in with him so you don't live with me anymore?"

If he weren't being so ridiculous, you might have actually felt bad for smiling while he was crashing out.

"You're getting ahead of yourself."

"What if—oh god—what if he asks you to marry him and you have ten kids together!" Bokuto gasps, pushing himself up on his elbows like the very idea has shocked so life into him. He looks so genuinely distraught, you're starting to have pity. "I wanted to take you out! He's stealing my idea."

And there's the confession you've been waiting for. It was only a matter of time, you knew, before Bokuto admitted to the feelings you've both been dancing around since you moved in together.

"Do you want me to cancel my date?" You ask, amused and feeling victorious. Bokuto sits up straight at your suggestion, golden eyes wide and head nodding rigorously.

"Yes. I'll take you someplace better." He sounds so serious you have to bite the inside of your cheek from laughing out loud. "I promise, just give me this chance and I'll prove it to you!"

You sigh, trying your hardest to hide your grin. You never really had a chance at denying his request, anyways.

"Get me my phone."

Wakatoshi Ushijima is a blunt personality you've somehow managed to make the core of your world.

It helps that you're roommates, spending so much downtime together. You've developed routines that surround Wakatoshi, whether you were aware of them or not.

Those steady routines built around him caused you to fall in love, even if you dread the thought of inevitable heartbreak.

Everything changes one calm night. You're in the kitchen cooking dinner for the two of you. He's been assigned dishes duty, like always when you cook, so you don't expect him to linger in the kitchen long.

Predictably, he's wandering in and out while you cook. Taking care of minute tasks, planning out what the next few weeks will look like on the shared whiteboard calendar hanging by the entrance to the kitchen. It's something you hung in effort to attempt to coordinate schedules with someone as busy as Wakatoshi Ushijima.

It's so normal, so routine, you don't think anything of it until he's calling out your name.

"What's this on the calendar?" His steady voice asks, something that sounds close to confusion ringing his tone. "You've marked a date for this Friday?"

"Uh, yeah." You hum, hoping you can get away with leaving it at that as you stir the vegetables you're in the process of cooking.

"With who?" He asks, and you should've known you'd never be able to get away with such a half-assed answer.

"This guy I met at a coffee shop. No one you know." You shrug, forcefully keeping your voice light. You're a little caught off guard by how much talking about going on a date with someone else with Wakatoshi makes your chest tighten uncontrollably.

There's a long moment of silence that follows your comment. Wakatoshi is still standing by the entrance of the kitchen, devoutly reviewing the calendar, and you're cooking in peace. You think that you might even be able to escape the conversation with minimal awkwardness.

But then you hear him clear his throat.

"Apologies, but I don't like the idea of you going out with this guy."

"Toshi, what?" His comment catches you off guard. You lower the heat on the stove and turn, body mostly moving on autopilot as you try and process what he said. "You don't even know the guy."

"I have feelings for you." He tells you straight out, voice as no nonsense as always. You think you might have gasped at his admission, but you also aren't sure you're actually breathing. "I would prefer you to not spend your time with someone else. Unless you don't have feelings for me, then disregard."

"Hold on. Disregard?" You raise a hand, as if you could physically stop him from continuing to melt your mind. "You're going to tell me that, and then tell me to disregard?"

"I'd like to keep any form of relationship with you, even it's just simply friendship. If me having feelings for you makes you uncomfortable, I will deal with it." He's so open, always, but the honesty in his tone is making you dizzy.

You're crossing the kitchen before you realize it, legs carrying you towards him while smiling wide.

"You are so unbelievable. I'm not disregarding anything."

Osamu Miya likes to pretend like he's so much more mature than his twin, but you know the truth.

You live with Osamu, spend enough time around the two of them to know that while they have plenty of differences, they're always identical twin brothers and can have a tendency to act like it.

Currently, you're all seated in the living room you share with Osamu. The boys are arguing over some minute detail in the trashy reality show you're making them watch while you're perched in the armchair, minding your own business as if Atsumu calling his brother a toilet head is normal.

Because it is.

"By the way," You interject Osamu's stammering to come up with another low-level insult to call his twin. "I won't be around tonight. I'm going out to dinner with this guy from work."

You keep your tone casual, hoping that the boys arguing will serve as enough distraction so that you can fly under the radar. There was no more putting off telling Osamu, you knew.

There's a moment of tense silence, and even though your face is turned towards the television, you're not processing anything that's happening on the screen. And then—

Atsumu opens his big fat mouth and laughs.

Briefly, you're stunned into horror. Osamu looks like he's still in shock, processing your abrupt announcement, and Atsumu is doubled over on the couch, holding his stomach from laughing so hard.

"Shaddup, ya moron!" Osamu shouts, launching himself at Atsumu. You're not unused to their wrestling, but you'd rather not be the reason they're grappling on the floor.

And yet.

Atsumu is quick to react to his brother's attack, fighting back before you really even realize what's happening. There's insults being thrown around as they wrestle, and you think you hear Atsumu shout something like 'yer gonna miss yer chance, loser!'

They tumble off the couch and onto the floor, and you lift your legs up off the ground to keep yourself from being caught in the crossfire.

"I've been tryin' to ask 'em, but yer always around, dickhead!" Comes from Osamu, though his words are almost intelligible as his brother shoves a palm into the side of his face to keep him from getting close.

"Don't let me stop ya, jackass!" Atsumu fires back. Their arguing is drowning out the catfight happening on the television, and you're worried they're about to slam into the coffee table.

"Would you two knock it off!" Now you're shouting, extending one leg out to poke Atsumu harshly in the side. It throws him off balance long enough that Osamu can get the upper hand, and with a few more moments of grappling he has his brother in a headlock.

Atsumu is cursing, loudly, but your protests about their volume dry out on your tongue when you see Osamu looking up at you. His eyes are filled with absolute determination, and if you were any less infatuated with him it might have been a little unnerving.

"Just stay in with me tonight." He tightens his hold on Atsumu, causing his brother to struggle and let out a string of curses. "I'll make ya the best dinner ya ever had."

You've had Osamu's cooking more times than you can count. You know it's not an offer you can just refuse. "You didn't have to get physical with 'tsumu just to ask me out, you know."

Aran Ojiro is nothing but a devoted sweetheart.

He's smart, and kind, and totally considerate. He's also a professional athlete, which means he's beyond out of your league. You're not even sure how you managed to snag him as your roommate, let alone try to push your luck and go for requited feelings.

So, in a last ditch effort to get over your sugary sweet feelings for him, you agreed to let your friend set you up on a blind date.

"Alright, I'm heading out, Aran!" You call into your shared apartment tugging on your coat by the front door. Nerves are buzzing in your chest, and it's not at all helped when Aran comes into view.

He's dressed comfortably, clearly planning on just staying in for the evening. Immediately, you're itching to take off your nice date clothes and climb into a pair of sweats, curling up on the couch opposite him.

But that feeling is also why you absolutely need to go on this date. You can't pine away after your roommate forever.

"Have fun," Aran says, hands stuffed casually in his pockets, but the strained look on his face doesn't match his words in the slightest. You feel like there's more he wants to say, but when nothing comes, you wave once and slip out the door.

The date goes fine.

He's not a bad date at all, but he's nothing spectacular either. There's something that feels off the whole evening, and it's only when you're trekking back up to your apartment that you realize your date wasn't good because it wasn't with him.

The light is on in the living room when you unlock the front door, which catches you by surprise. Aran has a strict schedule he follows during the volleyball season, and it's past the time he usually migrates to his bedroom for the night.

But he's sitting on the couch, posture stiff and twisting to face you the moment you walk through the door.

"You're still up?" You ask, a little shocked. Aran nods, standing to slowly make his way in front of you.

"I couldn't sleep." He explains, one large hand scratching the back of his neck. "I needed to make sure you got home safe."

"You're so sweet, Aran." It's impossible not to melt immediately, so you don't fight it and smile openly up at him. God, he's ruining all other men for you without even trying.

"Can I... can I tell you something?" He sounds nervous, and instantly you're on edge. The warm feeling in your chest starts to dissipate slowly, replaced instead by a buzzing that has your palms sweating.

"Of course," You say, smiling, hope it masks the worry you're feeling well enough.

"I like you. " Aran draws in a deep breath at the same time you sharply inhale out of shock. "A lot. And I really hated seeing you walk out that door to go on a date with someone that wasn't me. Even if that makes me sound incredibly selfish."

You're quiet, processing, but you know that above all else you need to let him know he's not anywhere close to being in the wrong.

"I don't think it makes you sound selfish."

"You don't?" He sounds so hopeful, it nearly cracks your heart in two. Instead, you simply step forward, boldly capturing one of his hands between two of yours and giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Not at all. I just wish you'd said so before I left the apartment."

Kiyoomi Sakusa is a very particular roommate.

You wouldn't say it's difficult to live with him, but it definitely took some adjustment at the beginning. It helps that you also like to keep things clean, but there's some extremes he goes to that you’re not sure are absolutely necessary.

Like the way he's particular about who comes into the apartment.

Normally, it benefits you as well. You don't like strangers in your space, or even people you know after a rough day at work.

But now, you think Kiyoomi is being ridiculous.

You've had this date planned for two weeks. Kiyoomi has known about it, you're certain, but the moment your date arrived he acted like a national tragedy was occurring.

It didn't help that he was the one to open the door, his long legs beating you in an instant. You were close behind, shoes clutched in your hands, calling out for him to just let you get the door.

You watched as Kiyoomi opens the door, takes one look at your date, and slams it in his face.

"He's coming into the apartment." He's grimacing as he turns to face you, mask pulled up over his nose. It doesn't hide the way he face is pinched in disgust. Drama queen.

"I know, we're leaving, I just need a second to put on my shoes—" You don't entertain his nonsense, but he doesn't let you finish.

"No, then you'll still have his germs on you." He shakes his head, arms crossed firmly over his broad chest. You raise your brows, trying to level him with a pointed look that doesn't affect him in the slightest.

"Kiyoomi, what?" You barely stifle a laugh, fighting against the urge to giggle in his face. "You're not usually this freaked out about germs. I hang out with people all the time."

"You don't go on dates." There's something off about his tone, and it clicks in your mind the moment he uttered the word date like it personally sneezed on him.

"Are you... are you jealous?" There's no hiding the smugness from your voice after a brief bout of confusion. It's just too good of an opportunity to pass up.

"Of course not," He's quick to defend, but not even his mask can hide the red burning the tips of his ears. "I'm just precautious."

"Uh-huh." You're grinning openly, borderline smirking. "Well, I'm dressed to go out, so—"

"If you're so adamant on going out tonight, I will take you." He nods like it's decided, like your date isn't still knocking on the other side of the door in attempt to figure out what's happening. "Get rid of the other guy while I get dressed. I'll only be a minute."

You hate that this is working for you.

you blink as furina claps her hand excitedly, leaning forward to stare gleefully at the cookies that line the plate before her.

“…sorry?”

“well, i realized i actually don’t know that much about the fortress of meropide,” she smiles flippantly, completely enamored by the sweet treats in front of her, “i want you to do some routine check-ups and make sure everything’s running smoothly!”

“but i—”

“i’m sorry but i already let him know, so i’m afraid you don't have a choice in the matter.” her eyes peer up, that cat-like quality in her iris making your eye twitch; she gives you a close-eyed smile as she pushes the tray to the middle of the table, “here, take one as a gift! you can even give one to him if you’d like.”

“i’m alright, thank you.” you smile, waving your hands in front of you as the traitorous back of your mind wonders how you ended up with someone like her as your archon (seriously, your prospects in sumeru would fare far better), but you attempt to shush it as best as you can as your back sinks onto the plush pillows on the edge of the couch, your fingers unconsciously picking at the loose fuzz.

she studies your stature closely, barely disguising the glint of suspicion in her eyes.

“why do you look so flustered? does the duke make you nervous?” her grin shifts from virtuous to a more mischievous flavor as she daintily plucks a cookie off the tier, “hot and bothered, even?”

“no!” you protest quickly, shooting up from your position; her smile is teasing at best and almost evil at worst, making your face feel even more aflame as she chews on the cookie thoughtfully, patiently waiting for you to defend yourself more.

“i just…” you grimace under her stare, “don’t think he likes me is all.”

her eyes widen in surprise — real surprise, from what can you tell (a rarity from your archon). “whatever do you mean?”

“i mean, he’s always so…” you pause, biting the inside of your lip as you try to think of the word, “cold? he avoids me at every event he’s forced to come to, and when i think he’s just in a bad mood or something, i see him chatting up neuvillette or clorinde five minutes later! i haven’t done anything to him and he finds every excuse not to talk to me!”

“it doesn't seem like that big of a deal to me, maybe he’s just nervous?” she shrugs, her feet rocking back and forth as her heels hit the back of the couch.

you wrinkle your nose. “why would he be?”

your archon thinks for a moment, and for once, you think she might actually be genuine.

as soon as her mask slips, though, her playful smile is back on her face, and she bounds off her lounging position, grabbing a small cake to bring to her table.

“anyways, just check in with me once you’re done visiting down there, okay? i’ll get you access and everything so you don’t need to worry about that!” she sets the plate on the wooden desk — you stand up, knowing that this is her way of ushering you out.

“goodbye now!” she waves cheerfully as you make your way to the door, “i’ll have neuvillette send you the schedule later!”

you hope later means never.

(unfortunately for you, neuvillette has the schedule at your doorstep by sunset.)

I.) MUSCLES FOR DAYS (HARD-ROCK ABS, REALLY?)

“and this is where the inmates live,” wriothesley holds his hand out, helping you up the stairs, “the dormitories are all here; every person has their own bed, room, and bathroom, and although curfew is strict, it’s not unreasonable. so, are we done here?”

you look around the hallways leading to the rooms, split off into four clusters across multiple levels. furina and her insatiable curiosity for the deep fortress of meropide will be the death of you.

“i’ll be down here again if we're not,” you turn to him, showing him the crude map you’ve drawn of the fortress layout, “does this look right to you?”

he tilts his head, his pale eyes squinting at the rough sketch you’ve made before he lifts his right eyebrow, “i’m not sure why you put “gross food” in the cafeteria section, but other than that, it looks about right.”

you used to think wriothesley could actually be quite handsome if he talked to you more, but that was before his tactic switched from avoiding you to subtly pissing you off (the eye candy definitely helps, though).

“for furina,” you smile noncommittally, “she wouldn’t enjoy the food down here, it’s too heavy.”

his nods in acknowledgment. “it’s good that she can have you do her dirty work every time she wants to check up on this place, then.”

your eye twitches as you fold the map back into your pocket distastefully, biting your lip as your shoes clack against the steel floor, the iron lanterns providing some very much-needed warmth to the lack of it.

he's not wrong, she’s sent you down here multiple times for the past few weeks for “research” that the warden could easily provide her, but she's been insistent on sending you instead; today and the past three days have been about her pushing you to create a personalized map for her (as if she would ever go down there willingly). wriothesley’s comment definitely wasn't needed, but as long as you can get out of here as quickly as possible and return to where the sunlight actually shines, your day is still redeemable.

that is, until sigewinne ruins everything.

“your grace, your grace!” she runs up the other side of the steps as the two of you are making your way down — you quickly turn around at her panicked tone only to be met with wriothesley's abdomen, his ruffled black dress shirt tucked into his pants and his startled expression only a single step behind you.

you make a noise and take a step back out of surprise, only to have your foot trip on the step below you.

it all happens too fast for you to perceive, because one moment your heart drops in preparation for some inevitable head injury from the metal that makes up the damned place, and in the next, you feel someone's arm pull yours back, harshly stalling your fall as a blur of black and red envelops your body; your chin bumps painfully against his as you crash onto the floor, the pricking stinging at your skin and fuck, did you just—

wriothesley’s eyes are screwed shut in pain as his shoulder rams into the floor, a soft groan leaving his lips as you feel your face heat up, too flustered to move — his adam’s apple bobs as your warm exhales fan his neck, and archons, it feels like you’re lying against a wall. a soft wall, but a wall nonetheless; your arms grip at his biceps as you push yourself off of him after half a minute, his forearms sliding lax off of your back, grimacing. did he just take the brunt of the fall for you?

you stare down at him in horror, the heat from your hands contrasting the cold metal, the faint red on his lips contrasting his pale skin; his eyes open, dazedly staring at the ceiling instead of you.

it’s almost funny how he still somehow manages to avoid your gaze even when he’s injured.

you scramble off of him in the next moment, moving to extend a hand to his, helping him up with as much strength as you can muster (it is your fault anyway), trying to cover up the faltering mess you are.

it doesn’t help that you hang your face down low, avoiding eye contact as the heat creeps into your ears.

his lips are parted ever so slightly, a shaky breath escaping them before he heaves out a heavy sigh. “what hit me?” his fingers gingerly touch his chin as sigewinne bounds over to his side, calling his name out worriedly.

he didn’t feel your lips on his—? “my forehead,” you blurt out quickly, swallowing, patting your forehead, “i must’ve bumped your chin, i’m sorry.”

he blinks in confusion before he sighs for the umpteenth time (it really does seem like he's always sighing when you're around), straightening his back.

“be more aware of your surroundings next time,” he says stiffly, “i'll have deakin escort you back up, i apologize for not doing it myself.”

your expression sours at the thought of deakin before you remember that the warden is in front of you, and you flash a fake smile. “i'll see him up there, then,” your eyes flit to the melusine who stares innocently at you, biting the inside of your lip, “it was nice running into you, sigewinne.”

she offers to give you a small check-up with apologetic eyes but you refuse quickly; you can’t be down here for another second, not the way wriothesley’s pale eyes burn holes into the back of your head as you leave.

deakin is as rude and boring as ever, your interaction with wriothesley has rendered any ability to ever make eye contact with him again useless, and you’re a little bit more than pissed at furina for sending you down there in the first place, so when you see her waiting with hearts in her eyes and an excited grin on her face when you step out of the elevator, you have to mentally prepare yourself.

“so,” furina smiles innocently, “how did it go?”

you swallow, your cheeks warm under her gaze.

“…i think i accidentally kissed him,” your chin throbs, but not as fast as your heart is, “and i don't think he noticed.”

II.) THAT SPECIFIC HAIRSTYLE (WHY DOES HIS NEW HAIRCUT LOOK THE SAME?)

despite how incessantly you plead, furina insists on sending you back. you think she's been reading too many isekai novels that yae’s publishing house has been pushing out recently — not that they're bad, but because it's impossible to be blind to her motives.

“let me guess,” you shoot him a playful look, “they call you a demon on the battlefield.”

wriothesley raises an eyebrow. “i’ve never touched a battlefield in my life.”

to your surprise, the man didn't mention your embarrassing mishap that occurred on that very first day, which either means that he's just as mortified as you are or that you’d misjudged his character from the beginning, and he's actually a saint in disguise.

you think it might be the latter because even with your constant badgering over these past few weeks, he's never once complained; he just hangs back, letting you explore the nooks and crannies in the fortress without much grievance.

the excuse is a safety check this time, which is infinitely worse than the past days because you actually don't have many qualifications to decide what is safe and what isn't.

“are you good with a sword?”

“i prefer my fists.”

“i think swords are cooler.”

“keep talking and i can show you first-hand just how much cooler my gauntlets are.”

you laugh to yourself, your fingers trailing against the rusty pipes of the fortress and your snickers echoing against the hollow copper.

you glance at the man next to you as sneakily as you can, taking a moment to admire his stoic features. his words may have seemed to be mean-spirited, but he remains as aloof as he’s always been; his eyes shift to yours before you immediately turn away, staring up at the screws and bolts that line the area. you swallow, feeling your face heat up in embarrassment.

you and wriothesley aren't particularly best friends, no, but there are times — certain hours of the day and depth carved into your short allotments with him — when you feel a small connection buzzing between your fingertips and his, or when you catch him looking at you just a little bit longer than he’s supposed to. it gives you a childish sense of hope, the kind that lights giddy fires in your heart when he turns his head in your direction.

“so what’s up there?”

“hm?” wriothesley stops in his tracks at the sound of your voice, following your finger to the dark edges of the hallway. the tube you stand in is supposed to be empty, save for the random crab that stumbles its way in through the large pipes or overgrown flora covering certain areas, but you’re not lying, something is sparkling in the distance up ahead from you.

it’s dim enough that he can’t make it out until the two of you get closer, and through tentative steps, the two of you slowly approach it.

it’s a pool, he realizes, stopping no more than a few centimeters away from the platform's edge, barely inches above the still water that lies flat below him. you’re right behind him, peeking shyly from behind his shoulder to the clear blue under you (he feels your breath on his jacket for just a moment, your eyes peering at the water as if you're staring right past his skin).

“…this doesn’t bode well.” his voice doesn’t echo as much as it should, not with the swamped area and the sound of the fortress’s money practically going down the flooded pipe drain in front of him.

“wait, what do you mean?” you come up from behind him, kneeling down on the pavement. the loose rock digs into your knees and your hands grip the edges as you lean down as far as you can, practically bringing your chin to the water’s surface — you can’t help the wide smile that appears on your face as you turn to peer up at the man; from this angle, it’s beautiful, with seaweed and sand caved into the pool just a few feet away with shells and crustaceans alike, “can’t you use this to swim or something? i’m sure the inmates would love to stretch their limbs!”

“unlikely.” his face is grim, “this was supposed to be a drainage tube that also blocked water from entering, the fact that it’s broken down this much and for this long…i can’t even imagine the damage it’s done to the metal surrounding the area. it's already surprising enough that the left wing of the fortress hasn't been affected yet.”

it’s around this moment that you realize that you don’t like this expression on wriothesley’s face.

it's too similar to the cold and unfeeling appearance he used to parade around you, but it's worse because the way his eyebrows furrow and the way he bites his bottom lip shows something unnatural for wriothesley, something you've never quite noticed.

you know that realistically, he's probably worn “worry” before from deep within the shadows of his office and far from the blue sky that you know, but in all your years of knowing him, you've never seen it, the sullen gray that pools in his iris, the tense in his shoulders. it doesn't feel like him — a powerful and handsome warden such as himself should be gallivanting around with sly grins and open arms, not beating himself up over a mistake that no one's noticed before this.

“hey, did you get a haircut?” you ask randomly, swinging your fingers mindlessly across the still water.

he seems to shake out of his brooding stupor at your words, shifting his eyes to look down at you. “you’ve noticed?”

no.

“of course i did!” you lie through your teeth, creating ripples around your skin as you stare up at him. he nods in acknowledgment, his small frown still pulling at his lips as he contemplates his new problem.

there's much to do after all, the plumbers, builders, and conservationists will all cost a hefty amount of mora he doesn't know he can spare, not with the leaks in the right wing and the upgraded dorm construction that's already underway (it's not as if this isn't urgent, though, it's most certainly one of the more dire cases, however time-sensitive it is). it's been a while since he's applied for a loan, but maybe neuvillette could help him out, or maybe furina would even give him a free pass and tap into the treasury—

a splash.

“wrio?” his head quirks up again, this time because of the sudden nickname (unexpected, but not unwelcome), only to be met with the sound of a flick and something wet and salty on his face. he closes his eyes out of instinct, letting out a noise akin to a strangled gasp, spluttering on the water that sits on his skin as he hears you practically snort next to him.

your head is leaning against your free hand, brazenly smiling at the shocked look on his face — not the normal guilty look of a prankster, but the fact that your other hand still has water dripping off of it and that no playful seals are rippling underneath the blue leads him to the simplest conclusion he can think of.

“what was that for?”

to distract you, to make you feel better, because i wanted to — the explanations flood your head, but you respond by flicking him again, spraying small drops of saltwater back onto his face.

“your hair was just a bit messy, new haircuts tend to do that,” you stand up, reaching your hands up to fix his hair, ruffling your fingers where the black roots part on his scalp, swiping his cheek with the dry part of your wrist afterwards. your palm feels warm, despite how cold the water that settled on his skin felt, your nails grazing ever so softly against his temple, brushing one last time against the damp hair that lies on his forehead.

you step back, happy to see that his frown is indeed turned upside down (more like in complete shock, but you still count it), gently tapping his shoulder before you begin to make your way back through the hallway. “c’mon, let’s go talk to furina and neuvillette about this, i'm sure they'll get it fixed in no time if i'm there!”

his heart thumps loudly against his chest.

“why would it matter if you were there?”

the golden light from the lanterns reflects off of your jewelry as you turn back, a playful smile on your face. “they like me more, obviously.”

you lead the way, and after a moment of hesitation, he follows.

(he's not sure why, but in that moment, he thinks he might follow you anywhere you go.)

III.) COMMUNICATION ISSUES (SERIOUSLY, IS HIS FACE STUCK ON THE SAME SETTING?)

if there was one word you have to describe wriothesley, it'd be cold.

“hey, are you sure you’re not talking about yourself?”

his prison is far deep down in the sea where the sunlight doesn't touch, to say his personality is mysterious would be an understatement, and his cryo vision only seems to be a physical representation of his attitude.

“i feel like i could freeze in these temperatures myself.”

your nail leaves your mouth after the girl oh-so-rudely interrupts your musing — you turn your head to look at her — she’s being rather sarcastic for being someone who’s supposed to be here and comfort you, but you suppose that’s always been the way furina’s acted.

“you’re an archon,” the words escape your lips unceremoniously, “it’d be rather disappointing if you froze by a humble mortal’s stare.”

she both looks and behaves the same way you’ve known her ever since you walked into her palace at five years old, your eyes filled with wonderment at the destiny that awaited you if you chose to serve the archon the same way your parents and theirs had.

she has the decency to look worried, though, with her eyebrows furrowed in distress and the cerulean mixing with teal in both of her irises widening in concern. wriothesley’s eyes don’t look like hers, you think, hers are prettier by far, who would ever think—

“humble mortal’s glare.” she gives you a pointed look; you stick out your tongue before turning your head to face the copper that’s on your right.

you really wish you were looking out a window right now, perhaps a flower pot would be on the windowsill, with navy blue curtains tied neatly on the side? perhaps a bird would come to feed on the seed that lies outside, or a pretty nurse would be here to help tend to your wounds, but as much as you try to imagine it, the ugly red-orange of the metal stands out like a freak of nature in your eyes, reminding you just where you are.

“wriothesley and sigewinne should be here any moment,” furina places a hand on your shoulder, her gloves daintily patting it, “i think i’ll see myself around here — to check if your map is as correct as it could’ve been. i could fire you if it’s wrong, y’know!”

“don’t go near the cafeteria,” you sigh, staring forlornly at the wall, “you’d hate it.”

she blows a raspberry in your face, and you manage a snort, as much as you can without your stomach killing you.

knock knock.

your laughter halts immediately, and furina glances momentarily at the door; it swings open (rather rudely, you think, without much delay nor care) as wriothesley and sigewinne step through. his hair has grown ever so slightly since the last time you saw him, and the eyebags under his eyes are more prominent than usual, but still, he looks as handsome as ever.

“focalors,” wriothesley bows slightly in respect at his archon, sigewinne following his lead as furina curtsies back. the man spares a glance at you, only to be met with a bone-chilling glare that sends him facing furina immediately, a hospitable smile on his face.

“i’ll have deakin — not deakin—” he immediately corrects himself, “i’ll have chambodouc escort you through the fortress; sigewinne, i have something to discuss with the patient, are you free to take furina to the shop? wait outside when you’re done.”

sigewinne agrees happily, none the wiser to the daggers you pierce into wriothesley’s back with your eyes (either that, or she doesn’t care), skipping her merry way to chambodouc as your archon abandons you, trailing not too far behind. wriothesley sighs as he closes the door after them — your eyes watch consciously as he drags his body to pull the chair next to you out to sit down.

“are you alright?” he doesn't take the time to get comfortable, immediately on the edge of the seat with his back hunched, “do you feel too hurt anywhere?”

the stingrays that attacked you are far more forgiving than he is.

“no,” you say simply, “it aches, but sigewinne is masterful at her craft.”

he nods, rubbing his thumb against the ring on his pointer finger. there’s a second of silence that passes through, and for once, you think you might be able to enjoy a moment of peace to yourself, but the hunk of black and red decides to open his mouth again.

“…you really shouldn’t have been out there—”

you groan. “oh my god—”

“diving near here has always been known to be dangerous, something worse could’ve happened.”

“really? it’s almost like i was willing to take the risk, have you ever thought about that?”

he bristles. “you are in no position to be satirical right now—”

“and you are in no position to be here right now!”

the beat of silence comes again, but it’s heavier this time, too heavy for you to pretend that you could ever be at peace in your tawdry hospital bed in the fortress of meropide. you exhale, fluttering your eyelids closed as you muster up as much courage as you can before you ask him, “why are you here?”

at first, you thought you might’ve been looking into it too much — your ability to overthink is one of the reasons that furina hired you after all — and it honestly seemed like your relationship was fine before furina changed your schedule to something useful (in fact, it felt like you might even get closer to him), but he had gone radio silent ever since you stopped coming to the fortress regularly.

that’s why you’re surprised, you think.

you find yourself wondering if he’ll actually respond to your question, but by the way he remains silent, you’re afraid he might just get up from his seat and walk out. you shift, tilting your head down so that you meet his eyes; he almost jumps at the sudden movement, but he remains seated.

what kind of person do you have to be to ignore someone’s letters for weeks and show up at their injured bedside in the same breath?

how can he sit next to you with furrowed brows and concerned eyes when he asked neuvillette for your timetable so that you wouldn’t be in the palace when he went up there, not knowing you were just outside the office?

how could he practically reduce your relationship to what it was before furina assigned you down here?

“hey, did i do something to you?” you ask him bluntly, and his face falls in horror, “did i say something wrong? because if i did, you really should’ve just told me instead of—”

“no, no!” he waves his hands in a sort of protest, and he pauses, his lips wringing in hesitation, “you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“so what’s going on?”

the duke looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here, but he stays anyways. “i’m not avoiding you because of anything you did,” he utters his words slowly and meticulously, as if his entire reputation depends on them, “it’s my own shortcomings that are at fault.”

you blink.

“i don't have many…acquaintances outside the fortress, so i'm not exactly sure how to keep up with others,” his tone sounds strange — timid, even, “so when i got your letters, i kept holding it off because i wasn't confident i could say what i wanted to correctly.”

he continues, his posture unfitting of a duke, his shoulders hunched with shame. “it'd always be at the back of my mind as i did my duties, but it'd be far too late at that point to send one back without an excuse, which i didn't have. i never meant to make you wait for so long, it was just difficult for me to reply.”

your eye twitches. how has anything ever gotten done in the prison?

“so you thought it'd be better to just avoid me altogether?”

“i knew you'd be angry, rightfully, of course.” he tacks that last part as an offering of peace, a point of understanding he hopes you can connect.

“you do understand that i'd actually get angrier as you went longer with no reply, right?” you cross your arms, leaning back on the metal headboard of the hospital bed.

the man cocks his head to the side. “well, it makes sense now that you've said it.”

…okay, well now you feel bad. the cold warden of an even more unforgiving prison more resembles a man kicked to the side of the road, a solemn pout unconsciously playing on his lips as he practically sulks in his seat, and your heart melts for him just a little bit.

“so you were actually worried?”

“yes.”

“about me?”

“yes.”

“and you weren't avoiding me because you despise my presence?”

“of course not.” his answer is firm and definitive before he quickly adds, “but that doesn't mean you must forgive me, truly, i completely understand if you feel uncomfortable here, and we'll be sure to get you out as soon as—”

“it's okay, you don't have to keep apologizing.” the words escape your lips as you sigh in consolation, the relief washing over your body as you shift forward.

he nods, “…i really am sorry—”

“oh,” you joke, “be quiet.”

what you don't expect is for him to do exactly that, closing his mouth immediately as he stares at you in earnest.

if you weren't already so smitten with his eyes, you might find it creepy how bright they are — the wholeheartedness practically seeping into the pale hues. you feel heat crawl to the back of your neck, a heat that really only makes it's appearance when wriothesley gets close to you.

“let’s just start over and completely reset everything,” you fight back the incessant warmth, pulling your lips back into a tight smile, “clean slates.”

“…everything?” he echoes blankly, his eyes blinking in some sort of astonishment. he doesn’t want to reset everything, but he supposes he’s in no position to refuse if you want to, so he straightens his back, attempting to fix the frown that pulls from his lips. “alright, if that’s what you want.”

the seriousness in his expression makes your heart melt again, punching through it as if the past couple of minutes of your messy attempt to build your walls up again were mere seconds with toy blocks. 

yeah, you think, maybe gauntlets are better.

“…are you going to the chasse this year?” you tilt your head.

his eyebrows furrow. “i typically don't attend those types of events.”

“it would be wonderful if you did,” you smile; you've only been this close to wriothesley once, but his face shrouded by the dark lighting of the broken-down corridor could hardly compete with the sight you see before you, “rumor has it that a rather lonely official would appreciate your presence.”

“oh?” a hesitant, faint smile appears on his lips (you wonder just how wide his grin could be—if it's a toothy smile you can imagine in your head, if his canines are as sharp as you think they might be), and he glances up at your eyes again, “and would you consider this rumor to be true?”

“you'd have to be there to validate my answer anyways, wouldn't you?”

his expression cracks again, his mouth curving up as a chuckle escapes his lips. “i guess i would.” his head naturally tilts as he laughs, but you can barely think of a response to the sound of his laughter echoing in your ear, your face surely hot enough to boil the ocean around you.

his laugh is so cute.

“your smile suits you well, monsieur.” you end up blurting out the words without thinking, a wavering lilt in your tone as you gaze up at him in some awestruck stupor.

his lips are so cute.

he seems to freeze at the compliment for just a moment, before he bows his head. “thank you.”

he’s so cute.

the man suddenly gets out of his chair, keeping his head low before he turns around, practically making a beeline for the door, “i think i hear sigewinne outside, actually, so i probably shouldn't keep her waiting — i'll see you at the chasse!”

with that, he slams the door behind him, leaving you staring wide-eyed in the empty room.

…did you offend him somehow? you blink back your confusion, hesitating for just a moment before you clear your throat in the silent air, deciding that waiting for the fortress’s nurse to tend to your wounds is probably the best course of action. your face is hot and your fingers burn as you move to smooth out the wrinkled sheets that lie on top of you before folding the edges back neatly, leaning back onto your pillows with a strangled sigh.

how embarrassing.

on the other side of the door, sigewinne curiously peers up at her duke. he hasn't moved since he barged out of the room, his back as stiff as a line, one of his hands still on the metal handle and the other attempting to cover the lower half of his face.

“wriothesley,” she asks innocently, “why are you so red?”

IV. ASSET JEWELRY (OH, A BROOCH? FOR ME?)

out of all of fontaine's cultural festivals, the chasse is probably your least favorite. you don't really find hunting all that appealing nor do you like fraternizing with rich nobles who’ve never worked a day in their life, so the entire event is pretty boring for the most part.

“are you looking for somebody?”

neuvillette peers curiously at you as you sigh, flopping back into the seat next to him.

”no,” you grumble delicately, the dejected pout on your face a clear indicator that you’re lying, “i’m just bored is all.”

“well, please let me know if there’s anything i can do to pique your interest,” the man smiles softly as he rests his head back on the seat, somewhat of a knowing glint in the purple of his eyes, “or if there’s somebody that i can point to help you out.”

your eye twitches.

you make an embarrassed noise at his comment, and he continues to smile as the two of you overlook the stragglers that trickle into the open forest.

there are lot of familiar faces that you can see socializing with each other amongst the crowd; lynette and emilie, for example, are sipping on tea on the east side with many of the other ladies, conversing amongst the buttered biscuits and board games.

navia and clorinde are in a different corner, dressed in pantsuits and equipping their hunting gear as they talk, and you can even see charlotte bouncing around lyney and the rest of the crowd with her trusty camera at her side — all of these familiar faces, and still, the one that had promised to show up hasn’t yet.

“i’ll be right back,” you announce as you stand up again, and your head swivels to the man sitting beside you, “you’re fine to announce the event without me, right?”

“please, go ahead,” neuvillette gives you a close-eyed smile (it’s almost suspicious how agreeable he’s being), taking another sip of his tea, “furina will be here any moment, so we’ll be fine without you.”

the sun glares in your eyes and the leaves from the trees barely make enough shadow to provide shade against the relentless heat, but there are less people back here, so you’re quite positive that no one will disturb you on your quick break—

you give him a swift nod before you make your way down the steps before immediately turning to head back towards the exit.

you contemplate making an honest run for the gate and leaving before anyone can stop you, but your duty to fontaine is important, even if it caters to a hunting competition you’ve never appreciated since your youth. so, you branch off, turning to an open clearing nearby instead.

a hand grabs your arm, pulling you back.

a barely disguised shriek leaves your lips as your elbow hits the chest of your attacker, and they let out a grunt in response. you come to a horrifying conclusion that that particular wall of a chest feels far more familiar than you’d like to admit.

“wriothesley?” you quickly turn around, your feet tangling themselves against the soft dirt, and he catches your shoulder quickly, your body steadying against his palm. you look up, and your eyes sparkle.

“hi,” he gives you a wry smile, “fancy seeing you here.”

the suit he wears is far more fitting for a rich duke than his usual dress uniform — a long hunting coat drapes over his broad shoulders, buckled at the very middle with gold accents, a red dress shirt peeking out from behind the fur. his hair is styled differently too, swept back to reveal his forehead, a few rebellious strands sitting near his eyebrow.

you feel warm, and you're acutely aware that it's not because of the sun.

your eyes make the mistake of darting to his palm, zeroing in on the rings that line his knuckles, the veins that run on his skin, his fingertips on the edge of your shoulder. he seems to notice, because he quickly releases you from his grasp.

“um,” you clear your throat, ducking your head down just a bit, “yeah, you too! i honestly didn’t think you’d show up.”

his eyes dart to the side. “of course i did,” he says casually, “you asked me to come, didn't you?”

your cheeks flush.

“i'm glad you did.” you bite the inside of your cheek, and your eyes fall on the sword by his hip. “will you be competing?”

“i will,” he nods, his hand resting on the hilt; it looks new sheathed behind it’s cover, like it’s never been used before, “are you?”

you laugh, the smile breaking through your lips, “no, i’ll just be spectating today. i’ve never been into hunting, even if they are just robots.”

his eyebrows raise in surprise, and he falters, shifting with something in the pocket beside his sword. “a-ah, well,” he almost looks embarrassed underneath the sweltering sun, a sheepish grin on his face, “i guess that makes this useless, then.”

he pulls a small jewelry box from his pocket before carefully clicking it open, revealing a beautiful brooch in the middle. it’s the same deep red that’s the color of his suit, cut and polished, pinned and soldered to a golden casing, an intricate floral pattern fanning out past the gem. “i had hoped to wish you luck,” he admits, “i hope you still accept it.”

if you weren’t warm before, you surely are now.

giving jewelry to someone during the chasse was never just a tradition of good luck, no, it signified interest too. the novels that furina reads flood back into your head ー multiple women begging the crown prince to accept their charms, one girl accepting her lover’s and going on to win ー the flush on your face gets deeper, it’s so hot you might burn.

“this is how i know that you’re supposed to go outside more,” your voice comes out unnaturally high-pitched, “nobody has been trading jewelry for many years now.”

he hums. “i know,” he delicately takes the brooch out, clicking the box shut. he puts it back in his pocket, before he delicately grabs your hand, placing the jewel on your palm. it’s cool against the fire you feel on your skin at his touch, and he gently closes your fingers over it, making a fist. “i’m a romantic at heart. and, furina’s recommended your favorite books to me.”

of course furina is behind this.

you can hear a horn blaring from a distance, a sign that the event is about to start.

“can i confess something?”

you blink, and you look at him curiously. “sure?”

it blares again.

with the swift rush of the breeze that wafts past you, he leans down, his lips right next to your ear, his jaw tilted towards yours. “i’m only competing because i thought you would be as well,” his tone is soft and deep, “secretly, i hoped that i’d be receiving a piece of jewelry from you too.”

he steps back, and he gives you another smile. that’s two, you think. “since i’m not, though, please take care of that for me — if you cheer me on, i’ll be sure to win!”

with that, he walks away, the horn sounding a final time with a thunderous roar of applause. there’s a faint sound of neuvillette welcoming the diplomats, but if you’re being completely honest, you can’t hear a single thing behind the hot ringing in your ears. as wriothesley walks away, your thumb brushes against the jewel.

the forests of fontaine have always been beautiful, despite the random treasure hunter group or fatui members here or there, so you’re glad to be able to reconnect with the greenery after spending so much time in the city.

you think he might be prettier.

V.) A SOFT SPOT FOR THE FEMALE LEAD (WAIT, WHAT?)

if there was one word you could use to describe wriothesley, it’d be cold.

he’s aloof on good days and almost mean on bad days, his reputation is lower than the ground where the fortress of meropide resides, and his undoubtedly dark past leaves him closed off from the rest of the world.

he is…sweet, though.

“madame,” he taps on your shoulder, and you’re greeted with a different suit than the one he bore during the competition. it still looks exquisite on him, the long cape trailing past his tall legs, a tight navy vest hugging his chest, “what are you doing out here?”

“monsieur,” you smile teasingly as you set your wine glass down on the edge of the balcony. the moon is high in the sky now, the cold chill of fontaine’s atmosphere clear against the breeze, “i just needed a break from the festivities is all.”

he nods. “it’s pretty hectic in there, you made a good decision coming out here.” he exhales softly, closing his eyes, “...it did make it harder to find you, though. i was looking for you all night.”

when did wriothesley become such a natural flirt?

“i apologize,” you smile sheepishly, shifting your body to the side to allow more space, “here, feel free to join me!”

he accepts your invitation with a small smile, resting his arms against the stone, his head lying close to yours.

“congratulations on winning the hunt, by the way,” you play with your fingers, “seriously, i don’t think anyone stood a chance against you.”

“i admit that the sword was pretty cool.” his smile grows wider as he stares at the trees in the garden of the palais mermonia.

“i knew it!” you exclaim, nudging his shoulder in excitement, “gauntlets couldn’t have scored half of the points you got with a sword.”

“half is pushing it,” he snorts, and he looks down, his arm moving just a bit closer to yours, “besides, i had some motivation.”

you flush, becoming increasingly hyperaware of the brooch that you wear proudly on your dress. “i’m pretty good with a sword, y’know,” you inhale, “i could always teach you more sometime.”

“i’d like that,” he glances up at you, his blue eyes staring holes into you, half-lidded against the brightness of the moon, “it’d be nice to meet with you outside of official business.”

“we can call it non-official, then,” you smile innocently, “as long as furina doesn’t know.”

he chuckles lowly, and you can’t help but follow him, copying his movements. 

it’s silent for a moment with both of your heads rested on your arms, a cool breeze ruffling through your clothing as the party rages on inside. your voice comes out soft, almost a whisper that gets carried on with the rest of the night, “can i confess something?”

he perks up. “sure.”

“i would’ve accepted your brooch in a heartbeat if i wasn’t so shocked,” the embarrassment crawls up your neck, onto the tips of your nose, “even so, the only thing that i was thinking about was rushing back home and finding one to give to you.”

it’s like the atmosphere warms up with the way his eyes light up, and if you look closely, you can see a faint red that brushes against his cheeks. 

“i’m happy that you reciprocate,” his smile is smug, despite the blush that threatens fire on his body as he leans in closer, a teasing look in his eyes, “if you’d like, we can rush right back to your home right now.”

“why, youー!” you gasp in mock offense, hitting his shoulder. he practically cackles at his joke, and you glower, “you’re dangerous.”

“for you, i’ll try not to be.” 

his finger interlocks with yours absentmindedly, and he grins as the music begins again, “would you spare a dance with me tonight?”

the live orchestra plays live in the background warms up their instruments as guests begin to get into their places in the middle ー he leads you easily from your spot on the balcony, one hand on your shoulder, the other on your waist. 

the duke may be cold, but he makes you feel a fervor unknown to anybody else.

 “it would be my honor.”

wriothesley grew up around danger; his childhood was constantly filled with the fear of people who lurked behind dark corners, his teenage years spent fighting to reverse the system that was once used to punish him. he’ll try to be the least dangerous that he can be (although he’s pretty sure that’s not the danger you were talking about), and for you, he’ll endeavor to do his best.

much like the letters that he’ll continue to send you, he seals his pledge it with a kiss.

"what are you still doing here?" he says bluntly. "i thought you went home."

you shrugged. "couldn't leave without my all-star setter," you teased, stepping closer. "besides, i was bored." you pout up at him and it doesn't go unnoticed the blush that creeps up to his ears.

"wanna walk home with me?"

kageyama looks to you, putting the last volley ball away. pretty. y/n is so pretty. "yes," he mutters a little too quickly, as he slings his gym bag over his shoulder and approaches you. "i mean. fine yeah whatever."

stepping directly in front of him, you look up at his much taller frame, your fingers unconsciously finding their way to the strings of his hoodie. you tug on them gently, rolling the worn fabric between your fingers. you twirl one string around your right digit, giving him a mischievous smile.

"you know," you begin, "you were really intense out there today. it was kinda hot."

kageyama stares down at you, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red. "w-what are you talking about?" he stammers, his eyes flickering away from yours. he hated the affect you had on him, how hot his cheeks felt and how he felt like he was gunna swallow his tongue. but he's good at playing it cool. "i was just practicing."

you let out a soft giggle. "yeah, but seeing you practice is hot," you say, giving the string another gentle tug. "the way you set is like, sexy."

he huffs again, trying to regain his composure. he thinks he's gunna melt onto the floor this very second, it's almost impossible for him not to show his embarrassment clear as day on his cheeks at your close proximity and the way you're hands fiddle with the strings of his hoodie.

"you're weird," he retorts, though his voice lacks its usual bite.

"maybe a little," you laugh, your smile widening as you lean a little closer, still rolling the strings between your fingers one last time before reaching up and poking his nose. "you like it."

kageyama's ears turn even more impossibly red, if that was possible, and he averts his gaze, grumbling. "whatever. let's just go." though he does not move to push you away, in fact it's almost as though he unconsciously leans just a bit closer, relishing in the scent of your perfume.

"you're cute when you're all flustered," you whisper.

"you can be so annoying," he grumbles, narrowing his eyes. you don't miss the slight pout that forms on his lips at all your teasing. why do you always do this to him?

"and yet, you can't seem to get rid of me."

but the mind thinks what it thinks, and his can’t help but think how wonderful it would be if the only shirtless man you had to cleans wounds of was himself. not that he gets many wounds—he prides himself in his ability to knock an opponent out before they land a hit, but if someone were to be shirtless on the examination table with your delicate hands dabbing at small cuts, it should be him.

he stares daggers into the small gash his gauntlets seem to have made in his former opponent, watching as you gently clean the blood with careful precision. a part of him faintly registers that he should feel bad—as the duke, it’s his responsibility to make sure he never injures anyone in a good natured tournament, but this time was an accident. and he does feel bad. just not worse than the unexplainable weight at the bottom of his stomach that makes him feel almost nauseous. why does he feel nauseous?

“you’re all good to go,” you hum softly, “i would tell you to be careful next time, but i don’t think this has much to do with you as it does with other factors.”

you shoot wriothesley a pointed look as the man shrugs on his shirt, a dazed look on his features as he thanks you over stumbled words. wriothesley’s jaw tightens—it’s clear as day this patient of yours appreciates much more than your talents as a professional.

“it was an unfortunate accident,” wriothesley mumbles, “i’ll have to be more cautious next time, my apologies.”

“all good, boss,” the man waves off, and with a polite nod to you, he’s off. finally—wriothesley doesn’t think he could’ve left any faster.

“how can you hope to lessen patients in here if you’re the one sending them over?” you turn to him, making wriothesley fight back a small frown.

it must show anyway, because you giggle and poke his cheek as you walk over, speaking in between those melodious laughs as you tell him to stop pouting.

“i’m not pouting,” he scoffs, like the sentiment is preposterous, “and it was an accident. honest.”

“yes i know, your grace,” you tease. hearing such a title doesn’t usually do anything to him, but hearing it from you makes his heart flutter a tiny bit, in a way that makes the ends of his nerves tingle and the palms of his hands sweat just a bit. “but you should be more careful with those gauntlets next time, you know.”

and then, against his every expectation, there’s a gentle and steady hand on his face, cradling it ever so slightly as you tilt his head and inspect the small bruise forming on his jawline.

“you’re hurt too,” you say in concern.

wriothesley, if he wasn’t so busy trying to still his beating heart, would have laughed at the way your face seems devastatingly worried. he would have teased you at the way the sight of blood didn’t manage to crack your steady and firm composure, but somehow, the sight of a small patch of discolored skin has.

“nah, it’s just a small thing,” he waves off, “he caught me off guard after i noticed the blood. nothing i can’t handle.”

“let me ice it,” you insist, “i don’t want it swelling.”

“i’ll be fine, doc,” he chuckles—but he finds himself pausing when you look at him almost upset. has he really upset you? he’d never want to, especially not over something so trivial.

so he sighs, walking over to the table before letting himself take a seat.

“you should take care of yourself more,” you sigh, “i see now what sigewinne means when she says you don’t look after yourself like you should.”

“ah,” he grins, trying to avoid your knowing look when he winces a little at the action when a dull ache builds in his jaw, “i suppose my refusal to drink her…unique beverages have caught up to me.”

you laugh, a sweet and innocent sound that makes something under his ribcage tickle. your hand is back to gently cradling his cheek as you tilt his head again, angling it to hold a small ice pack to the small bruise.

“you seem tense,” you say thoughtfully, “don’t feel so bad. i’m sure those guys give themselves worse in the ring here and there.”

wriothesley feels bad, he really does. he would never purposely injure someone when he’s meant to be the warden that keeps things peaceful. the memory of you tending to the man sitting in his place just a few moments ago brings back another wave of bitterness, one that’s much more fleeting this time when he tells himself that now that he’s replaced the man with himself, things aren’t so bad.

it hits him then—with your hand on his cheek and an ice pack to a comically small bruise that you fuss over, that something in him craves more than just your touch when he’s injured. it hits him that anyone can be in his position, sat in front of you as you treat minor wounds with delicate care. he doesn’t want to be like anyone, he thinks.

he wants more—something he can only have for himself. something that’s crossing the line of this comfortable friendship you’ve seemed to build.

“hey,” you say softly, pulling him from his thoughts. your thumb traces the scar under his eye as if to ground him. something tells him you don’t do that for other patients, something a bit more intimate than a doctor would be with a normal patient. “what’s wrong?”

“it’s nothing, doc,” he hums lowly, eyeing you softly before he closes his eyes and lets out a soft breath. “you think my injury will be okay?” he asks with exaggerated concern.

you snort, shaking your head as you quip, “you’ll live. i hope.”

he chuckles at that. one of these days, when he’s a bit braver and a touch more in tune with his emotions about you, he’ll tell you how he feels. maybe he’ll have your touch outside of the clinic that way, something more personal, something more intimate.

“we’re just friends, but she makes me wonder what it’s like to have my own family with her. is that normal?” — NEUVILLETTE

melusines are beautiful creatures. innocent and kind by nature, and certainly small enough that it only makes them seem that much more fragile. neuvillette has always had a soft spot for the species, from the way they cheerily call him monsieur neuvillette, to the way they happily skip over to him each time they approach him.

the people of fontaine are fond of melusines too. he’s happy with the sentiment—he knows more than anyone else that things weren’t always this way. but somehow, watching you like this, smiling endearingly at the melusines in front of you as you let them pour more water into your cup, he can’t help but find more solace in this moment than any other one.

“madame,” sedene calls, “it’s lovely you could have joined us today.”

you chuckle, sweetly petting her head and taking a sip from your glass as you murmur, “it’s certainly a pleasure. though, i hope i’m not intruding, monsieur,” you look at neuvillette with a polite smile.

“no, of course not,” he returns the gesture, “on the contrary, we’re delighted to have you today.”

neuvillette regularly allows the melusines in his office in the afternoon. it starts one day when they insist he take a break, entering his office and pulling out sweets and tea to enjoy (he only drinks water, but they happily finish what he does not have.) the tradition is born ever since, a daily routine to allow himself a short break, one filled with the excited chatter of small creatures he so fondly looks over as they snack away surrounding his desk.

you happen to walk in today, with files in your hand meant to be dropped off to the iudex, pausing as you take in the sight of tiny paws reaching over his desk to grab madeleines as they chat happily. suddenly, there are one too many small voices insisting you join among the chief justice himself, and soon, you find yourself with a chair pulled over for you, sitting between sedene and neuvillette.

it’s nice, he thinks, having you join. your company is refreshing to witness as you happily indulge the melusines in their chatter.

“madame?” blathine calls, pulling a soft hum from you as you turn your gaze to her, “would you join us tomorrow as well?”

you giggle fondly, taking a small bite from a madeleine as you think for a moment. “perhaps if my schedule is free and monsieur neuvillette is not too busy…”

“i assure you it’s of no trouble to me,” he insists, “this is a bit of a…routine activity,” he chuckles as he eyes the gathered crowd around his desk.

“then i’ll certainly make time,” you grin. he feels himself soften, an unrecognizable twinge of excitement settling into his bones at the words. of course, neuvillette looks forward to the company of the melusines daily, but the added news of you joining seems to make his heart swell in a way he doesn’t normally find happening.

before he can ponder why that is, another voice captures his attention.

“madame, will you make macarons again if you join us? it’s been a while since we’ve last tried them,” kiara asks excitedly.

neuvillette watches as something brightens in you at the question, your lips tugging into a wide grin as your eyes crinkle at the edges. you nod, looking affectionately at the little heads surrounding you as they stare at you hopefully.

“if you would like, of course. i’m happy you enjoyed them.”

“you’ve baked for them before?” neuvillette asks curiously.

you open your mouth to speak, but it’s hardly possible to utter a word when so many excited voices cut in before you can.

“oh yes, madame brings us sweets whenever she makes them!” aeval chirps.

“the strawberry ones are simply divine!” he turns to elphane as she tugs his sleeve, “you must try them, monsieur.”

“the chocolate ones are my favorite. madame, would you bring those too?” liath looks hopeful, brightening as you nod sweetly.

“i hope it’s not too much trouble,” sedene looks up at you, and with another chuckle, you pat her head once more as you shake your head.

“of course not,” you say fondly, “it’s a wonderful pastime, in fact. i’ll certainly bring them tomorrow.”

“be sure not to bring too many sweets yourselves then,” neuvillette says seriously, taking a sip of his water, “you don’t want to have too much sugar and make yourselves sick. and drink plenty of water. it’s good for you.”

you look at him amusedly at his words, tips tugging wider as you say, “it seems as though you’ve taken over a fatherly figure, monsieur. it’s unexpectedly endearing, i must admit.”

“madame! madame! would that make you like a mother figure too, then?” veleda’s words make you choke on the sip of water from your own glass, pulling a surprised blink from neuvillette himself.

you both fleetingly stare at each other from the corner of your eyes before you look down, chuckling nervously as he clears his throat, hoping the flush he seems to feel coating his cheeks is not too apparent.

“well, if you would like to consider me as such, i don’t mind,” you say carefully.

the melusines giggle—for such endearing creatures, neuvillette finds they can be mischievous in their own right as well.

“monsieur, what do you think of madame being a mother figure?” blathine asks innocently, blinking up at him through doe eyes.

“i, well…it’s certainly wonderful you find comfort in her to feel—”

“does that make madame your wife?” aeval squeals, “oh, monsieur, i thought you’d never find someone!”

this time, he’s certain there’s a dust of red coating his cheeks as you laugh softly, eyeing him in a mix of sympathy and amusement.

“now, now,” you call, “monsieur neuvillette and i get along, but our relationship is strictly professional.”

he watches as the melusines giggle behind their tiny paws. he’s certainly aware of their playful schemes, but perhaps…perhaps a small part of him doesn’t mind the thought of you in a romantic light—he’s certainly not practiced in such emotions, but there’s a squeeze in his heart as he thinks about how easy it is to feel like a family with you.

his hand itches to reach and squeeze yours under the table as you laugh happily with the creatures, and faintly, he wonders if this is normal—your words are true, are they not? the relationship between you is strictly professional isn’t it?

he takes a sip of his water, unsure of what the rapid beating of his heart indicates anymore.

“we’re just friends, but i show up to her house every time i’m drunk. that doesn’t mean anything though, does it?” — ALHAITHAM

you open the door before he can even knock. his muddled brain should register that he should be embarrassed by that, but he’s too busy trying to keep his balance as he looks at you.

“oh haitham,” you chuckle, shaking your head, “i was wondering when you’d show up.”

“’m late?” he slurs, making you look at him in amusement as you gently grab his wrist and pull him in.

“did you have fun? you never stay out this long even at the tavern,” you murmur, gently helping him settle down on your couch.

there’s a glass of water waiting for him, one you delicately place to his lips and help him drink from as you sit next to him. even drunk, alhaitham can feel the searing burn of your thigh pressed against his—a heat he doesn’t mind, but it fogs his senses even more than they already are.

“beat cyno in tcg,” he says between sips, “i won.”

“good job,” you snort, “did he take it well?”

“no,” he laughs—it’s a giddy thing, one he lets out a bit more freely than his normal self would.

alhaitham is like that when he’s drunk: free and loose and something on the edge of vulnerable in a way you never get to see him. you smile at him, watching as he slumps back and sighs softly, rubbing his eyes.

“’m hungry,” he murmurs, making you roll your eyes fondly.

“i know,” you nod in amusement, “you practically eat my fridge whole every time.”

in the morning, alhaitham will be embarrassed. he’ll wake up on your soft couch and register that he’s done this again (most couches break his back, but yours somehow feels homely. soft and warm and smells like you to the point that he thinks it’s better than his own bed). he’ll tell himself that it won’t happen again next week, and that he’ll drink in moderation and force kaveh to bring him straight home—but somehow, just like the week before, he lands himself on your familiar couch, waking to the smell of coffee hitting his nose as you make it the way he likes.

it’s not a bad thing to get used to, in all truthfulness. but he’s no fool, he knows exactly what’s slowly developing in his stoic little heart, and he doesn’t think this build up of familiarity is helping his case any further. he doesn’t know if the build up exists for you either—maybe you’re just a nice enough person and good enough friend to let it all happen every week. just happy to give him a safe place to sleep the alcohol out from his system.

if he had a rational thought in his brain, maybe he’d ask you. blunt and to the point as he always is. but then again, even blunt and rational alhaitham gets bested by emotions every once in a while. especially the kind of emotions that are dangerously possible of being unrequited.

but regardless, rational alhaitham is out of the equation for now. right now, drunk, tired, hungry, and irrational alhaitham has taken over. he’ll have to worry about what drunk alhaitham does tomorrow when he’s sober, not right now.

“did you make my favorite?” he asks hopefully, almost childlike in the way his eyes peer at you as they wait for your answer.

they brighten when you nod, grinning as you say, “yes, i did. i always do, don’t i?”

“yeah,” he sighs contentedly, closing his eyes as he pulls the soft blanket you keep just for him over his body, a half-hearted attempt at covering himself as you slowly rise from his side.

the phantom linger of your thigh against his makes him realize he misses the touch, even if it clears his mind from the fog just a little to not be so near you.

“wait,” he says suddenly—you pause. he doesn’t know what’s compelled him to say that (he doesn’t know what compels him to do anything he does around you, but he’s here in this situation for that very reason, so there’s not much to be done there).

“yeah?” you say softly, waiting for him to speak.

“just…” he pauses. why did he stop you? is it because he has something to say? or is it simply because he knows as soon as you feed him dinner, he’ll pass out on your couch, and you’ll retire to your room for the night, and there will end the fleeting moment of having you all to himself? “just stay, that’s all,” he ends up saying.

archons know he’d never say that sober. it’s surprising enough as is when he’s drunk, but you don’t let the shock settle for long—endearment is quick to take over.

you snort before shaking your head, settling back down beside him as you whisper, “you’re the one who said you’re hungry.”

“i’ll eat later,” he frowns. you’re laughing at him, aren’t you? he should be embarrassed, maybe. but that touch of your thigh is back, and he can’t think straight enough to keep his sense of humility in tact.

“you know,” you murmur, delicately pushing back slightly sweaty hair from his flushed forehead, looking at him with enough care, he might think you feel the same if he wasn’t so drunk—but he’s simply too out of it to really understand what emotion your gaze holds. “if only you were as bold sober as you are drunk.”

he leans into your touch, closing his eyes and pressing into the warm embrace of your palm against his skin. it lingers—you don’t pull away any quicker than him, and the result is just a step closer that will only be two steps back by the morning.

still, the both of you enjoy it all the same.

“i’m bold all the time,” he insists.

“i wouldn’t say that,” you huff in amusement. “you don’t really speak your mind around me.”

“i do,” he argues, “i like coming here to you. you’re warm. and so is this couch. and your food’s good.”

“yeah?” you giggle, letting your fingers brush over his hair some more. he hums, nodding as he closes his eyes, yawning.

“mhm,” he barely gets out, “it’s the best part.”

“of what? drinking?”

“no,” he shakes his head, “of…of…i don’t know. just the best part.”

it’s the best part of my week, he’d tell you, if only the words could form on his tongue. he’s too blanketed by the embrace of your warmth and sleep to actually say them.

“tell me all this when you’re sober,” you whisper, tracing a thumb delicately over his cheek before you pull away, pulling the edges of the blanket along to cover him properly. he protests at the loss of your touch with a quiet sound, but sleep pulls him into its clutches quick enough that it doesn’t last too long. “maybe then, i’ll believe you when you say you’re bold all of the time.”

“we’re just friends, but i’d kill just about anyone for her if they so much as look at her weirdly. i can get away with it, can’t i?” — AYATO

ayato thinks if anyone manages to assassinate him one day, then they should be allowed to get away with it with no consequences. by now, he’s confident enough that he’s honed his abilities to be sharp. so sharp, that anyone who manages to so much as touch him is an opponent who has earned to get away with their crimes.

you, however, do not apply to this sentiment.

anyone who so much as touches you, in his eyes, is worthy of far worse than just consequences. he thinks the shogun herself could not hope to save them from his blade.

but for now, there are other pressing matters than to pursue the individual who has managed to attack you on your evening stroll with him—he’ll have the shuumatsuban swiftly investigate and handle the culprit accordingly. for now, he’s more concerned with you.

“are you alright?” he asks gently, helping you stand as you slowly take his outstretched hand. there’s a small quiver in your hand as it clasps his, and his jaw grits slightly at the fact.

“yes,” you breathe quietly, trying to hide the tremor in your voice. ayato can detect it instantly, however. he’s good at reading anyone, but especially you. “i’m alright, my lord,” you reassure.

he frowns, for more reasons than one. “ayato,” he corrects, “no need for formalities.”

“oh, ayato,” you chuckle softly, despite the earlier distress in your features, “as much as you don’t care about appearances, i mustn’t be caught addressing the yashiro commissioner so…improperly. what would people think?”

“that you’re deeply familiar to the yashiro commission,” he says simply, “as you are. it’s only the truth.”

you hum, dusting off the dirt from your dress as you inspect your clothing of any tears. ayato keeps his hand securely on yours, and it doesn’t seem as though he’s looking to let go in the current moment—you don’t necessarily take it upon yourself to remove yourself from his grasp, either.

“well, that was quite the surprise, wasn’t it?” you try to poke fun at the situation, a light attempt to diffuse the clear tension in his brows and shoulders.

ayato doesn’t answer, only taking you in carefully himself, running his eyes up and down your figure as if to make sure there are no injuries for himself. he’s still as pristine as ever, you note—although, it’s not as though the attacker was even close to touching him. he’d retaliated faster than you had even registered there was someone else in your vicinity.

the thought makes you realize how accustomed he must be to assassination attempts—a thought that makes your face drop.

and it must be apparent too, because he asks, “why the long face, all of a sudden?”

you flush in embarrassment. he’s cunning as always, that one. always one step ahead and so good at reading you, you might think he himself holds the pen that writes your every move in crisp, clear scribbles.

“nothing,” you mumble, sighing softly as you shrug, “i suppose it only just dawned on me how effortlessly you evaded such a fate. it must be a normal occurrence for the yashiro commissioner if you’re so…prepared.”

“ah,” he grins, slightly amused as he chuckles, “i suppose it is, yes. nothing to concern yourself over, on the contrary. i am very well prepared, indeed. however, i hadn’t prepared well enough for this stroll it seems, my lady. you must forgive me—next time, i’ll have the shuumatsuban keep an eye out as well.”

“i feel safe enough in your company alone, my lor—ayato,” you correct yourself as soon as you notice the smile drop from the corners of his mouth, “but i can’t help but feel regretful that it’s normal for you to assign additional help to ensure the safety of those close to you. it shouldn’t be necessary for you to be so cautious simply for holding people dear.”

“and do you feel as such?” he teases, “that i hold you dear?”

your face feels hot to the touch, you think, heat creeping to your ears as you look away and clear your throat. ayato is a quick witted man, his words as sharp as ever, meant to apply pressure to the weakest of points.

you’re no exception, it seems. though, he has a bit of a softer approach with you.

“w-well, we’re certainly not strangers,” you huff, “if someone as busy as the yashiro commissioner sets aside time to take an evening stroll with me, i would hope it’s safe to assume we’re quite dear friends.”

friend is starting to seem like a generous word. ayato is a good man, respectable and compassionate enough that he can maintain such a powerful position free of any corruption. but he realizes that respect and compassion are difficult to maintain when it comes to someone harming you.

he wonders, for a brief, fleeting moment, if he could be trusted to keep a calm composure if he were to come face to face with whoever attacked you in the future.

he thinks there’s a large chance that the answer is no, and he’s oddly not bothered by the idea at all.

“i do hold you quite dear,” he says kindly, voice softening an octave, “it is why i must ensure your safety. rest assured, events like today’s won’t happen again.”

“i hope you put as much energy into your own safety,” you counter, “i think inazuma would suffer more greatly if anything were to happen to you, rather than me.”

“i would disagree,” he says with an amused grin, “what disarray the nation would befall if the yashiro commissioner was grief stricken, don’t you think? unable to perform his duties.”

“would you grieve me so deeply, ayato?” it’s your turn to tease, stepping closer as you eye him with playful mischief, “would my absence alone call for the downfall of the nation? then it would only be proper of me to look after myself more carefully, if that’s the case.”

“yes,” he says softly, hesitant for a moment as though admitting as such is enough to admit the more…complicated feelings in his heart. “there is nothing i wouldn’t do to ensure your safety.”

he says the words a touch too seriously—it shocks even him. surely, if limits simply don’t exist if it comes to you, friend is not a term deep enough to truly describe what you are to him.

he wonders if friend feels as much of an injustice to your relationship to you as it does to him.

“i would grieve you too, ayato,” you admit, squeezing the hand he never pulled away, “would you keep yourself safe just for me?”

“do you doubt me?” he chuckles, raising an eyebrow, “i’ve never failed thus far, have i?”

“perhaps not,” you hum, stepping closer, “but just to be sure.”

“then for you,” he carefully pulls you along, falling back into step with you as his hand keeps yours still firmly in his grasp, “i will ensure my own wellbeing just as sacredly as yours.”

You blink. Two more pairs of eyes are suddenly on you and one frowns. 

“It’s just a hoodie,” you say, but you know there’s no reasoning your way out of this; he’s already sensed blood.

“Yeah,” he says primly, “but it’s not your hoodie.” 

“I’m borrowing it.”

“From who?” Matsukawa pipes up, feeding into the madness. 

“Just some guy in my study group.” You fold the paper neatly. 

Beside Matsukawa, Iwaizumi remains silent. He looks up, dark eyes meeting yours before he pointedly glances away. There’s a twinge in your chest; something like annoyance but not quite. Something like guilt, but not quite. 

“Some guy on the varsity swim team?” Hanamaki continues to pry. Matsukawa is leaning forward now, hand under his chin as he takes a long, exaggerated sip of his drink. 

“I think he swims,” you shrug. “I mean,” you pull at the loose collar, “it does kind of smell like chlorine.” 

Iwaizumi clicks his tongue, but only you turn to look at him. 

Hanamaki smirks. “Are you guys—?” 

“No.”

“Then why…?”

“We were done late last night,” you sigh, wondering if you’ll even get the chance to finish lunch. 

“It was cold and I was only wearing a tank top so he’d offered because I was going to be walking back to my place.” Not that you truly believe they’ll be satisfied with this explanation.

“You walked home by yourself last night?” Iwaizumi’s abrupt entrance into the conversation is harsher than you think is warranted. 

“It’s like five minutes,” you say, wringing your wrists. The crease between his brow only deepens. 

“Yeah, why didn’t Michael Phelps walk you home?”

Your shoulders drop and the corner of your lips pull into a pout. “I don’t know. I think he was going the other way.”

“Well then maybe he’s not that into her,” Matsukawa reasons like you’re not sitting right there. 

Hanamaki sighs into a mouthful of pudding. “Maybe not.”

The topic quickly gets stale after that and they move onto a spirited discussion about whether or not their Intro to Linguistics prof is in a cult (Hanamaki thinks he is, Matsukawa thinks he’s the one leading the cult), but Iwaizumi remains quiet throughout. 

“Hey,” he says later, when it’s just the two of you. “You’re going to return that right?” 

You blink up at him, fingers pulling at the worn cuff of your borrowed sweater. The Adam’s apple in his throat bobs. 

In the months that you’ve known Iwaizumi, you’ve only known him to mind his own business. This, in contrast with the drama-mongering of Hanamaki and Matsukawa, was something you’d admired immensely about him: there was his business (whatever that was), your business (untouched), and the few friendships that bridged the two, like circles that just barely overlapped. 

But now, as you stand in the empty hallway of a seventy-year old engineering building, with the lights flickering above your heads, you feel him encroaching upon your circle. Mysteriously, it’s less of an intrusion than you’d expect.

“Of course,” you say. “It’s not mine, after all.” You turn over the concept of possession in your head: mine, yours, ours. From the past and present of your friendship, how did the lines begin to get so blurry?

“Good,” he mumbles, eyes cast downward as he plants himself firmly into the territory of your circle. He reaches up to rub at the back of his neck. 

“And the next time you’re going to walk home at night, you should call me,” he says, earnestly. 

“It was only—” 

“It doesn’t matter,” he insists. “I’ll get you, just—just call me, okay?” 

Not Hanamaki. Not Matsukawa. Just him. 

You look up at Iwaizumi. The crease in his brow darkens his stare, but there’s something tender in the way he holds your gaze; something soft that searches for the overlap between the two of you and obfuscates the figurative edges. 

“I’ll bring you one of my sweaters too,” he says. “For when you’re cold.” 

You consider possession again. 

“Are you giving it to me to borrow?” 

Iwaizumi leans down. “No, I’ll give it to you for you to keep.”

Mine, yours, ours, and somehow, all of the above. 

Up close you can see more details. He towers over you in height, but you suppose most people would feel short compared to him. His eyes capture your attention the most, the pupils such a strange shape, but gorgeous nevertheless.

"I apologize for leaving you waiting," he starts, almost looking as lost as you on how to start.

You wave your hands frantically in front of you. "It's fine! I didn't expect anyone to come in. I was told I would be meeting-"

Saying future husband felt much too strange. The man in front of you notices your pause, and arches a single silver brow. You frantically try to remember the name of the man who is meant to be your fiance.

"Ah, sorry, I was meant to meet a Mister Neuvillette?" your voice stumbles awkwardly over the new word, still struggling with the accent.

On the trip to Fontaine, your parents had tried to give you lessons on the language, as though you would become fluent in the few hours it took to travel.

The man blinks. And then he blinks again, as though he's trying to figure out what you just said.

Apparently the lessons hadn't worked.

"Sorry, my accent needs work," you apologize. "I hear he's the Chief Justice?"

The man nods, slowly. "That is correct."

You hum, non-committal, waiting to see if your company decides to keep the conversation going. When he doesn't, you find yourself unable to think of words.

Well, this felt awkward. And from the way the man still seemed at a loss for words, he also felt the same.

The tension could almost cut a knife.

He clears his throat after a moment, the sound almost makes you jump.

"Yes, well..." he pauses, gesturing towards the couch. "I am sure monsieur Neuvillette will be here soon."

You take a seat near him. Not close enough to be inappropriate, but close enough that it would be clear that you were talking.  Maybe "monsieur Neuvillette" will see the two of you and decide that this marriage wasn't something he wanted a part of.

"Congratulations on your engagement," your new friend tells you after a moment. You give him a tight lipped smile.

"Thanks."

Once again, silence descends over you two. You fidget with your skirt, smoothing out the wrinkles from travel. Hopefully, it wasn't something your new husband would be upset about.

At least the silence didn't feel as oppressive this time. You let yourself relax, taking a deep, steadying breath.

"Can I ask you something?"

The man beside you nods. You still haven't gotten his name yet, you realize. You'd have to ask later, after some other questions. Who knows when your parents and future husband will be coming.

"Um...how is Neuvillette?" you tentatively ask, to which you only receive a rather blank, if not curious look.

You suppose you'll have to be more direct. Though it almost pains you.

But at least, if he's not kind, you would like a warning. Some way to prepare yourself for what the rest of your life is going to be like. Some women, they don't even get that. They were woken up on the day of their wedding, and the rest of their lives was at the whims of their husbands.

You steel yourself, and fully turn your attention to your friend.

"Is he kind?"

Something in him softens at that. He looks at you with an emotion that you can't recognize in that moment. Pity, maybe?

He opens his mouth, but before you can get your answer, the door opens.

Your parents lean in for a moment, see you sitting on the couch, talking to a stranger, but strangely have nothing bad to say about that. In fact, they look delighted.

"Are you two getting along well?" your mother asks you, somewhat reminding you of a cat just having caught a bird.

The satisfaction on her face made you uneasy, like there was a secret you were missing.

"Fine, thank you," your friend replied for you when you couldn't manage words. "Your daughter is very polite."

Your parents beam at that. The uneasy feeling in your stomach gets worse.

"Thank you, monsieur Neuvillette."

Somehow, it hadn't dawned on you. Your stomach feels like it falls into the floor, but Neuvillette doesn't seem to have any other reaction, looking at your parents. They don't even wither under his stare.

You never wanted to shrink into the floor more. You had just asked your future husband about himself. And more than that, you asked him if he was kind.

Your parents talk with Neuvillette, allowing you a moment to feel invisible and wallow in your self-pity and embarrassment.

At least, until you feel a small tug on the sleeve of your blouse.

It's one of the melusines, you had found them to be very cute upon first seeing them. Your parents hadn't explained much about them, so you found yourself blinking down at the small melusine.

"He is," she says to you, nodding.

You tilt your head to the side. Briefly, you feel eyes on you, but when you look at your parents, they're still talking to Neuvillette, and taking his attention.

"He's what?"

She hands you a long ribbon. It's a deep, ocean blue, the same color that Neuvillette is wearing.

"He is kind," she explains, patiently, as though you were a child. "I heard you ask."

Your cheeks felt like they were on fire, especially as she climbed up next to you, weaving the ribbon through your hair, and both your parents and Neuvillette turned to stare.

"Y/N, that is very rude to ask," your mother scolds, because that is the lot of women in life, only to worry about when men think of you and what might make you undesirable. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

"Nonsense, it is a very reasonable question to ask. Why wouldn't someone want to know who they're marrying?" Neuvillette cuts in, before your mother can scold you any more.

Your parents fall silent, nodding their heads in agreement as though they hadn't been about to lecture you like a child. You would have laughed if it wasn't for the Melusine finishing with your hair.

"There," she says, with her self imposed job done. "Will you be having a wedding?"

You weren't sure your heart could take any more surprises today. Your cheeks hadn't even lost their blush from the first moment, at this point you didn't think they'd ever go back to their normal color.

"We'll have to see," you murmur, because you weren't completely sure yourself.

She nods, taking in your word and opinion as though it was law. Neuvillette didn't contradict you either, but did finally turn back to your parents.

You don't get too much of a chance to participate in most of the conversation. The Melusine, Sedene, as you learned the name of, asks you more questions that keep you occupied.

It's a welcome distraction. It's better than awkwardly listening to a conversation about your future where at least two of the three people here wouldn't even care for your input.

The jury was still out on Neuvillette.

Eventually though, it grew late, late enough that Sedene was sleeping with her head on your lap. It seemed that finally the other three were tired of negotiating over your life.

Before you knew it, you looked up from your lap just in time to see Neuvillette leave without even a goodbye, the door clicking behind him. Your parents look much too pleased with themselves, which you somehow didn't think was possible.

"I told you, the match would be a good one," your mother tells your father, pride seeping into her voice.

You're not so sure. You can't be sure. At least not yet.

"Yes," your father agrees, with the same fond voice he always had when he didn't want to argue with your mother, and it's easier just to agree.

It seems, just like the foundation of Liyue, that your future is set in stone.

You hope Fontaine will be kind to you.

-x-x-x-x-

You do not have a wedding.

It's actually fine with you. More than fine, really. Apparently as Chief Justice of Fontaine, Neuvillette is well liked and popular. The amount of people you'd have to invite to the wedding would be too many for you.

So you simply don't. You sign a document and in the eyes of the law, and of Neuvillette, that is enough.

Though a part of you aches that you will never have the traditional Liyuen wedding you dreamed of as a child. But you suppose that dreams of childhood should stay there.

You move into Neuvillette's home. Fontaine comes as a culture shock, almost.

The amount of times you get absolutely lost in this fish-bowl of a city manages to astound even you.

It's not your fault, really. Liyue Harbor is easy to navigate, warm and welcoming. In Fontaine, the streets all somehow manage to look the same, though the shops sell things you never even thought of. At some point, you're pretty sure you even see a woman standing outside of a building with a mechanical bird.

You end up seeing other Melusines more than your new husband. You don't really blame him for this, his job is important and needed, so each day he bids you a single "good morning" along with a look you couldn't decipher, as he heads to the Opera House.

That's a whole other thing about Fontaine that you still haven't investigated.

It's not as though you're upset that you don't see Neuvillette often. But he is one of the few people that you know here, and it doesn't take long for you to be lonely in the new city, without any of your friends.

Though you find the Meluine's to be kind. They help you when you get lost, and press small gifts into your palms as they take your hands to lead you around.

They tell you to tell Neuvillette to take some time off work. To spend some time with you. You nod and agree that you'll tell him the next time you see him.

But when the man quickly leaves in the morning and doesn't return until late, you never really get a chance to.

If you didn't know any better, you would have thought he'd been avoiding you.

It's like that for almost a month. He says good morning, disappears, and you wander the city to familiarize yourself with it. He never comes home until the sun has almost set, and night is almost there, while you wander until the rain finally starts for the day.

You asked the Melusine's about it once, commenting that there wasn't so much rain in Liyue. They tell you of the hydro dragon and the tears it cries. You hope that someday you will get to meet this dragon and see what makes them so sad.

At least, it stays like that until it doesn't, as most things tend to do.

You were lost, which wasn't too much of a surprise, but unlike the times before, there were no Melusine's to bring you back home or to a place you knew. The rain had started earlier today, earlier than anyone seemed to expect, and before you knew it, you were huddled in an alley, your clothing absolutely soaked and shivers running down your spine from the wet and the cold.

You missed Liyue. You missed your friends, your parents, you missed the smells and sounds of the harbor. Tears burned in your eyes and mixed with the rain on your cheeks.

Standing there simply isn't going to fix things though, so you eventually left your small, but dry, protection, and decided to finally figure out this city.

Your confidence fades the longer you walk around.

It takes almost two hours of wandering around in the rain until you finally recognize something. Not the path home, but to the first place you ever meet Neuvillette, despite not knowing at the time.

You push open the door. It's late, though that doesn't seem to mean the place is devoid of life. Wrapping shaking arms around yourself, you spot a sliver of light coming from Neuvillette's office.

It felt much too late to be working, but perhaps it was Sedene, fixing up things. Tentatively, you knock on the door, and the faint scratching of a pen against paper suddenly stopped.

Suddenly, this felt like a mistake. You took a single step back, but before you could change your mind and leave, the door swung open and Neuvillette stood there, a look of mild concern on his face.

Neither of you spoke. Neuvillette looks you up and down, brows furrowing, and you realize all at once that you must look like a sight, absolutely soaked and dripping water on the floor. If you weren't so cold, your cheeks would be flushed.

"Why are you here?" he asks, glancing around as though that would provide him with the answer.

Your shoulders slump. You can't really explain why. Maybe it's the disappointment  at the sight of you, or the lack of a warm welcome. Not 'what happened to you' or 'why are you soaking wet' but instead a question that felt almost like he questioning your presence in general.

"I-um," you stutter through chattering teeth, "I got lost and didn't know where to go."

That felt like an understatement of what happened, but you weren't sure how else to answer the question.

Neuvillette didn't seem to know either.

When he didn't say anything more, you shifted from foot to foot, wincing at the cold and the squish of wetness. You'd be lucky if you didn't get sick, after this.

"You got lost?" he finally asks, as though the concept was foreign to him.

You don't know what to say, so you shrug, peering around him. It seemed Sedene had already left for today, and there went your hope for an escort home.

"The streets all look the same to me," you manage, shivering again. "Uh-you can just tell me which way to go, and I'll get out of your hair. I didn't mean to be a bother."

"And why didn't you ask anyone for help? Anyone could have told you where I live."

The question almost comes out cold, for how logical it is. You huff, a small noise of frustration. All you wanted at the moment was to get out of these wet clothes and to be warm again. But it seems that isn't going to happen any time soon.

"Never mind," you murmur, suddenly so tired. Of course he wouldn't understand why you wouldn't want to ask for help. Your Fontainian was still in it's learning stage, and while you could ask a couple of questions with a thick accent, you had no idea how to ask someone to lead you home.

Plus, wouldn't it reflect badly on him, to have a wife who didn't even know how to return home? But you supposed, if it didn't matter to him, then it shouldn't matter to you.

"I'll see you at home, then," you murmur, turning on your heel to leave.

It was the last thing you wanted to do at the moment. The rain seemed to be coming down even harder, you could hear the thunderous roar of rain against the roof as you went to the main door.

A little more rain wouldn't hurt, and you were pretty sure you knew the way home from here.

You step out into the rain, but surprisingly, you don't get any wetter than before. The rain hits something above you, and you glance up to see an umbrella.

Neuvillette stands slightly behind you, umbrella extended over you. You still hadn't stopped shivering, teeth clattering together. Neuvillette almost looks pained as he looks down at you.

"You'll catch your death out here," he says, as though that explains everything.

And then, in true Fontaine fashion, he extends his arm out to you to link your own through, a true and proper escort.

You take it, if only for the stability. And maybe the warmth. And also the umbrella is hardly big enough for two, if you don't stand close, then Neuvillette would get wet as well.

That's the only reason.

He makes quick work of the walk home, and you were almost dismayed by how close you had been the entire time. By the time you walk up the steps, still shivering from  the cold, the rain had finally stopped, the sky clearing to reveal the stars.

"I shall make you something to eat while you dry off," he says, as though it is the law of the land.

You wonder if that is how he sounds in court, when he's trying the cases. You almost want to argue just for the sake of it.

But being dry and having a warm meal sounds much too good to ignore, so you only nod, and go to change your clothes. You debate on taking a bath, the call of the warm water ends up being much too tempting for you.

You emerge feeling like a new person. The water washes away the feelings of the day, and the coldness in your bones. You emerge feeling like a new person, if not a bit more tired and ready for bed than before.

Neuvillette is true to his words. Your hair drips with water as you peek into the kitchen, only to find him sitting at the table, waiting, with two bowls of soup in front of him.

"Come," he says when you don't move forward. You do as asked, sitting beside him and inhaling the rich aroma of the soup.

You had found here that the food varied greatly from what you were used to in Liyue. It certainly wasn't bad, but it was an adjustment. Even the soup was a bit creamier than you were used to, but you ate it eagerly, allowing it to chase away whatever lingering chills the bath hadn't rid you of.

"I'd like to apologize," Neuvillette starts, his own food barely touched, like it's an afterthought for him.

You tilt your head, exhaustion falling over you from the soup and warmth. "For what?"

He looks embarrassed. It's a rather cute look on the normally stoic man. Neuvillette struggles for words, almost seeming to give the words spoken to you the same value that he gives to the court.

"I was not aware that you were struggling to adjust here, I should have foreseen such an event occurring."

He almost looks upset, suddenly. You understand, at least you think you understand. It must be hard having a wife who couldn't even navigate the city of your home.

"It's okay, I'll do better in the future," you reassure, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder as you stand.

It's the first bit of contact you've had since you were married and he placed a kiss upon your cheek at your parents badgering. He looks a bit annoyed though, so you retract your hand to not make him more uncomfortable.

"That's not what I meant. I meant that I should have been here to help you adjust."

"Oh," you say, honestly confused. "it's alright. You're very important here, I don't want to be a bother when you're so busy."

Your words seem to have the opposite of your intended desire. If anything, he looks more upset, leaving you with a rather sour taste in your mouth.

You seemed to be more of an inconvenience than you had even considered.

You hoped this wouldn't turn into an argument. You were tired from wandering and walking for hours, from being caught out in the rain. You rested your head on your hand, trying to think of something to say.

Before your tired mind could think of anything, Neuvillette sighed, a long suffering thing that sounded much older than he must be.

"You should go to bed."

You don't need to be told twice. You take your dish to the sink, leaving it there to be washed by you in the morning. Neuvillette rises, though it seems more to see you off than to actually leave.

"Good night, y/n," he says quietly, still as upset as before.

"Good night, monsieur Neuvillette."

You fall asleep as soon as you're tucked underneath the covers of your bed. You wonder if it's the bed that you're meant to share with your husband, but he never joins you.

And that's fine with you.

-x-x-x-x-

He's still there, in the morning.

It's a sight that makes you freeze coming out of your bedroom, just able enough to peek down the hall and see him in the same place as last night, at the kitchen table. He holds the paper in his hands, the same one that you've seen just about everyone in Fontaine obsessed with.

Did you wake up early? A quick glance at the time told you no, that in fact you had woken up later than normal. Neuvillette was meant to be long gone by now, off to court.

As though sensing your stare, the paper falls, and startling purple eyes lock onto you.

"Ah, you're awake."

You nod, because what else are you going to do? Neuvillette folds the paper back into its  original shape.

"Let me know when you are ready to leave."

Well, you couldn't say you expected that to happen. You nod after a second, before disappearing to get yourself ready.

While you don't look your best, at least you aren't soaked and shaking. Really, the amount of time that you've spent with Neuvillette could be counted on one hand, and you did not like the thought of one of those times being when you were in such a sorry state.

A little bit later, you were back by Neuvillette, looking at him with nothing short of confusion as he prepares to leave.

Oh, the disappointment aches for a moment. Like a child being promised a treat only to have it taken away.

"Well? Come along then."

His voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You take a few, tentative steps forward, until he offers you his hand.

You take it, after a moment, brows furrowed with confusion.

"Don't you have court to attend to?" you ask, as he leads you outside.

"I have sent notice that I will be taking today off. I have recently become aware that my wife needs a tour of Fontaine, and I consider that a much more pressing item on my agenda."

Your cheeks color. You can't tell if it's at being called Neuvillette's wife, or from how he doesn't let go of your hand even when you walk outside.

Before you can ask him if he's sure, if he can really take time off, Neuvillette gestures down the street, and begins what has to be one of the most in depth tours of Fontaine to exist.

This time, getting lost in the sights and sounds is fun. Neuvillette explains every building you pass, the history behind it, and what is happening there now. He lets you pull him in random directions when something catches your eye, and answers every question that you can even think of.

It's fun. Neuvillette is well liked by the people, and suddenly that seems to mean you're well liked as well. The food vendors give you free samples, pressing them into your palm and insisting that you take it despite your protests.

Even the Melusine's stop, chatting with you more than Neuvilllette, much to his surprise. He even comments that you know their names, and seems very ashamed when you point out that you've spent more  time with them instead of him.

You feel like you can actually navigate the city, by the time the sun is setting. Your bones ache from the exhaustion that the excitement has left you with. When Neuvillette notices, he starts herding you home, despite your protests.

The last thing you want is for the day to end. Going back to how it was before seems unbearable now that you know how it could be. If Neuvillette knows of your plight, he says nothing of it.

He simply wishes you a good night, and lets you head to bed.

If it's a dream, you hope that you will remember every detail of it.

-x-x-x-x-

Things don't change after that, much to your relief.

Neuvillette stays in the morning, talking with you sometimes. Most of the time he reads, while you make coffee for yourself, and subsequently him. He likes it with two sugars, no milk.

The information feels nice to have. Especially when, on the very, very rare occasions you wake up before him, you can have a hot cup of coffee waiting for him.

The little things before you grow before anything else. Conversations in the morning. Coffee. Neuvillette bringing you home treats that you love, especially the conch madeleines.

There are other things, as well. When you mention missing a certain dish from Liyue, Neuvillette goes out of his way to procure it for you. You're not sure how he manages to do it, but if it means you can get slow cooked bamboo shoot soup whenever you like, then you're happy not to know.

He comes home earlier, as well. As soon as the case is done for the day, it feels like he's on his way to find you. You're happy to do just that, telling him of everything you managed to do during the day, or whatever else is going on in your head that you want to share.

Neuvillette always listens. And he remembers. You mention once, in an off handed comment, about how beautiful you thought the rainbow roses of Fontaine were.

The next day, you woke up to a bouquet of them at your bedside.

You do your best to return the favor, going to collect him at the Opera house when his day is finished.

When you were younger, you read stories of people falling in love instantly, with a single look and it was easy from there.

You think now, as a married woman, that the stories are wrong. Love comes in the small gestures, in the moments spent together.

-x-x-x-x-

It's pouring rain outside. A heavy downpour that has been going on for the last hour.

It's also the time Neuvillette normally comes home, but it doesn't seem that way today. The change in routine throws you off more than you'd like to admit.

You wait another half hour before you grab your cloak, a heavy thing that Neuvillette insisted on buying you so you wouldn't get soaked in the rain any longer, and head out to the Opera House.

You're not too fond of the aquabuses here. They're faster than walking, but something about them feels so awkwardly slow. But with a bit of tension in your shoulders, you bite down the complaints and make small talk with the Melusine piloting the aquabus as you arrive.

Neuvillette only took you over here once, to show you the Fountain of Lucine. You suppose, on another level, it was also to make sure that you knew where the Opera House was in case you needed him and didn't want to get lost.

You're thankful for his planning.

Everyone else has already left, except for a very dedicated couple by the fountain, praying for blessings upon their child. You wonder if someday that will be you, but dismiss the thought with a blush.

It takes you much too long to find Neuvillette. For a man who cuts such an imposing figure, you wander around in the rain looking for him for much longer than needed. Eventually though, you find him at the back of the Opera House, standing in the rain as though he doesn't notice it.

"Neuvillette?" you call, quiet, as to not startle him. It seems you do so anyways, from how he jumps. "Are you alright?"

He nods, but doesn't speak. You reach out to take a gloved hand, everything about him feels cold.

You lead him back home, and he follows you as though he has no mind for anything else. It takes too long to get home but also not enough time. You hold his hand the entire way.

"Was court today rough?" you finally ask, when you're in the security of your shared home. Neuvillette lets out a hum, not agreeing but not disagreeing either.

You usher him to the bathroom to clean himself up, and go to make something warm, when the irony of the situation hits you all at once, because it must have only been a few months ago that Neuvillette did the same thing for you.

It felt nice to have the roles  switched.

 Neuvillette doesn't seem hungry, so you usher him into your own bed, since truthfully you've been suspicious that he's been sleeping on the couch or at his desk in his office to prevent you from feeling uncomfortable.

You sit down, and urge him to lay his head in your lap. You brush your fingers through his slightly damp hair, and you hum a Liyuen lullaby your mother used to sing to you.

Neuvillette never talks about court. You asked him once and only once about it, curious since everyone in Fontaine seemed to think that the cases were some kind of show. But Neuvillette had simply said that it was very usual, and not worth discussing.

At the time, you took him at his word. Now though, you wonder if it's something more.

"I believe an innocent man was sentenced today," Neuvillette says, after a moment. His voice is so soft, you almost can't hear it under the pouring rain outside.

"Is that so?" you ask, a silent prompt. Does he want to continue? Or leave it there?

He sighs after only a second, pressing further against your hand in his hair. Like a cat seeing attention.

"I'm sure it will be resolved soon, I simply need to investigate things more."

You nod, remaining silent. Neuvillette doesn't explain more, but eventually, as his breathing evens out, the rain comes to a stop outside.

You can't bring yourself to move. It would no doubt wake up Neuvillette, and that seemed like the last thing anyone needed. So you settled amongst the pillows, and close your eyes.

If you wake up tomorrow, still close to another and sleepy limbs tangled together, you said nothing of it. Neither does Neuvillette.

After that though, your bed becomes just the bed, and you're not opposed to that at all.

-x-x-x-x-

The Fountain of Lucine ends up being one of your favorite places in Fontaine. Not for any particular reason, you tell yourself, it's simply pretty to look at.

And that's not a lie. It is pretty to look at, and it's fun to visit and listen to expecting parents wish for good things for their children. It was nice to see the sights and sounds without the hustle and bustle of the city.

The first time you end up going out though, you can't say you had the most pleasant experience.

You had gotten the idea in your head, perhaps you were too bored lately, that you should visit Neuvillette at work and bring him lunch. So you packed a small bag, and made the journey.

Only to be stopped at the entrance of the Opera House by one of the gardes.

"Court is in session, no one is allowed in, miss, without a ticket."

Your head tilts to the side, truly puzzled. A ticket? People bought tickets to court, as though it was a show?

"I'm not going to see the court, I came to drop something off for Neuvillette," you explain to the man, holding up the small box.

The man eyes it with a bit of suspicion, and part of you almost wants to ask if he really thinks you've poisoned it. Another part of you is sure that if you ask, you will absolutely get accused of that.

"That's nice, miss, but you still can't go in. I'm sure you know monsieur Neuvillette has many admirers, and we can't stop court simply because you wish to give him a gift."

Wow. You weren't even sure how to unpack that. You crossed your arms over your chest, not budging.

"I am his wife, here to bring him lunch. Do you want to explain to Neuvillette tomorrow about how you banned his wife from visiting him.?"

The man, you still haven't even gotten his name yet, isn't looking at you any more. He's looking behind you, a look of mild panic on his face.

Oh, this was going to be just like one of those soap operas back in Liyue, wasn't it? You knew without looking who was going to be there.

"Monsieur Neuvillette!" he said, giving the salute of Fontaine. "I was just telling this young woman that we do not allow visitors during court."

"That is true," Neuvillette says, you can almost hear a bit of smile in his voice. "However, I think I can make an exception for my wife. Thank you though, I will handle it from here."

The man scurries away before you can say anything. If he had a tail, it would have been between his legs.

"I think you scared him," you said, turning to your husband.

You ignore your racing heart at hearing Neuvillette call you his wife for the first time. You couldn't stop the smile from spreading on your face though.

"I think if anyone scared him between the two of us, my dear, it was you," he muses, and yes, it is amusement you can hear in his voice.

You two stand there, smiling at each other for a moment before you remember just why you made the journey out here.

"Oh, I brought you lunch." You place the small package in his hand. "I'm sure you're busy here and I wanted to make sure you were eating. I didn't know I needed a ticket to get inside. How did you know I was here?"

"Ah, Aeife told me you had arrive, and I suspected that you would encounter a problem."

He gestures to the side, and sure enough, the small Melusine is there. She gives you a wave before going back to skipping and offering help to those who need it

"She's sweet."

"She is," Neuvillette agrees. "I think most of them like you more than me."

"Who wouldn't like me?"

The smile Neuvillette gives you almost makes you blush, but you barely manage to get a hold of yourself.

"Yes, they'd be fools not to like you."

And now you were blushing. You gently swatted Neuvillette's arm, and only received a chuckle for your antics.

"Thank you," Neuvillette says, genuinely. "I must return now, but I appreciate the thought."

A tiny sliver of disappointment ran through you, but you pushed it down, nodding your head. "Of course, of course. Don't let me keep you. Off you go now."

You made a little shooing motion, the smile on your face letting him know you were simply teasing. But he didn't leave.

"Any time you wish to come and see me, there will always be a ticket waiting for you at the booth." He gestures to the sales booth, which very much looked closed, but you didn't say that. "I'll be sure to tell you the next time Lyney and Lynette do their show."

You visibly perked up, which gained you a small chuckle. You hadn't been shy about saying you wanted to see the show, though apparently it was impossible to find tickets to it.

"Thank you, I'll be sure to take you up on that."

You stood up on your tip toes, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek. He seems surprised at the touch, but after a moment manages to compose himself, saying a quick goodbye before returning to work.

Aefie tugged at your skirt, a gentle motion almost as soft as a breeze. You knelt down to her level, allowing her to whisper in your ear.

"Thank you for making Neuvillette so happy."

-x-x-x-x-

You fell a lot, as a child, as all children do.

Scraped knees and bruised elbows. What is childhood without a few injuries? Without those precious moments that make them realize oh, sometimes life has pain.

The first time you heard of the concept of "falling in love" you had thought it was like that. Falling on the ground and bruising your knees.

Now though, you think it is something else. Like the feeling of falling into a warm bed at the end of a long day.

Neuvillette is already in bed tonight, laying on his side facing where you normally lay. You tip toe over to the bed, just in case he's already fallen asleep.

He hasn't though, and your eyes meet his vivid purple ones as you lay down, facing him as well.

"I thought you were asleep," you murmur. Tentatively, you reached for him, only to have him meet you halfway. Your fingers laced together with his.

"I was waiting for you."

Such a simple declaration is enough to make you blush. A year of marriage and he still managed to make you blush.

"I'm here now."

Something changes in his eyes, and he looks at you, so, so, fond. "You are here."

You both lay there, either unwilling or unable to fall asleep, feeling so close but somehow still so far away. It's one of the nights when the rain isn't falling. When you first came to Fontaine, it felt as though the rain never stopped, but now it's only occasionally.

"You never answered my question, you know."

Neuvillette frowns for a moment, thinking. You take pity on him before he can worry if he made you upset.

"I asked if you were kind," you murmur, gentle.

It felt like ages ago, talking to a stranger without knowing who they were. Neuvillette looks at you, waiting, knowing you weren't finished.

You had been so worried about everything. And though Sedene had told you, you didn't know if you could believe it or not.

"And what have you found?" Neuvillette asks. His voice is small, as though he's actually afraid of how you might answer.

You don't hesitate.

"You are," you whisper. You inch closer, knees brushing against his own. "You are so, so kind."

He kisses you. Lips sliding against your own, slotting there as though they were meant to be there. And desperately, with almost a full year of longing in you, you kiss back.

You're breathless by the time that he pulls back. He looks the same, and for the first time you see a small blush on his cheeks.

"I love you," he whispers, a reverent noise just for you.

You smile, leaning in to kiss him again.

You've never gotten sick from being carried like this, either.

“You are bossy,” he says simply in rebuttal. "You say please but you know I'll do whatever it is you want. Even unreasonable things."

"I'm always reasonable," you say. He pats your butt in a way that isn't supposed to be condescending but is. You smack his in return and enjoy the way his back muscles tense up. "Ooh, you've been training your glutes."

He's been doing it in your home gym. You've always been loud about obvious things like this; he doesn't understand it, especially, but he likes it. At first, that had been much of your relationship. You were loud and obvious about your feelings for the up-and-coming teenage ace, and he didn't understand you, but he liked you.

He considers, and then revises his previous thought. He understands you better now. You talk through even things you and he know well because it helps you to process your thoughts, and you are determined to be shocked and delighted by all small things in the world.

"Hello, Bo-kun!" you wave to his teammate. Bokuto, bless him, attempts to bend over upside down to mimic you.

"Hey, Ushijima-san!" Ushijima is lucky that everyone in the facility knows you and you don't have to clarify to any security guards that you aren't in danger, for real. You take offense to the idea that you couldn't win in a fight against him, anyway.

You had been asserting this particular belief, actually, to the rest of the Japanese men’s volleyball team while they stretched post-practice and friends and family were allowed on court to distract them. Atsumu had been egging you on, urging you to try fighting another of the players since he didn’t trust Wakatoshi not to let you win currently. You had rolled up your shirtsleeves when the ace scooped you up and you had, already protesting, waved goodbye to the blond, a huge grin on your face. He had saluted you as you went.

“We’re not married yet,” you say, bonking your forehead into Wakatoshi as he stops short. “You all don't have to keep saying that. Please, call me—”

"Oh, Waka-kun said," Bokuto starts before being cut off.

“We may as well be," Wakatoshi says, turning to face Bokuto (At least turn sideways so I can see, you complain). "It'll happen eventually, so we can start practicing by calling her my wife now."

"What?!" You say. "Don't say things like that. You sound like you like me. Do you like me? Do you want to be more than friends?"

People have always talked about your relationship in begrudging terms. "Oh, opposites attract, I guess..." spoken in a disbelieving and reluctant tone. He understands. Most high school relationships didn't work out. Most people would get frustrated with him and his communication style. Then most long-distance relationships didn't work out. Most young professional athletes wanted to try new things, new people.

Wakatoshi doesn't understand why he would want to try something new when he had something perfectly fine with you. He had said that to you, once, when you were in Sapporo and he in Koganei. You had gotten very quiet for the rest of the call and then remained quiet for two weeks, sending all of his messages to read and calls to voicemail. It had taken a short flight and a shy, quiet apology to right his wrongs. He had known that he would spend the rest of his life with you, he said, forgetting to blink even as you furiously swiped away tears, a month in when you were fifteen. Barely longer than this terrible time you had stopped even fighting with him, just giving up on him. Why would he try anything else when he had never deviated from this path?

But what if you're just not seeing that there might be something better out there for you, you had said, voice angry but face already forgiving. Worse, what if you do see that someday? You’ll get tired of settling.

He had shaken his head. There isn't something better. Please, continue to be patient with me. Your breath had burst out of you in a single sob, and then you were yanking him toward you, ordering him to kiss you so you'd stop crying in front of all the neighbors.

Considering his parents' marriage, one might have thought that he would have more qualms about the concept than he did. You didn't seem interested in pressuring him there, though, and when asked just reminded him that living together long enough would result in common-law marriage anyway, so he just had to tell you if he ever wanted to stop living together. After several years separated and more reunited, he hadn't yet found any desire to do so. He definitely had strong negative feelings about being away from you for extended periods.

He was very lucky that you had chosen a career path which would allow you to travel essentially anywhere with him, find lucrative work anywhere with him. The home gym had actually been your gift to him, from the bank account you didn't share. It was the most thoughtful and horrifyingly expensive gift he had ever received. He had retaliated by hiring your most favored interior designer to rework your apartment into something both sentimentally familiar and not decorated entirely on the whim of two mid-twenty-year-olds. While they worked, he took you on vacation.

"We have to go," Wakatoshi adjusts you in his hold, nodding to his teammate. You’re quiet for a bit, so he puts you down, steadying you by your waist until your head stops swimming.

“You know we have to talk about these things,” you say, looking steadily at him.

“Yes,” he rumbles, considering his words for a moment. “I’ve been thinking about it more often recently. I still don’t feel strongly about the idea of a wedding, but I want you to be my wife. If you want to be.”

Insecurity sparks in him. You enjoyed your friend’s weddings, but perhaps you didn’t want one of your own, or one to him. Perhaps he had crossed a boundary.

“I don’t know,” you tap your lips with a finger, and a weight lifts off his chest when you smile at him. “I’ll see when you ask me. But I want it to be sometime in the future, somewhere more scenic than your athletic facility, okay? With a ring and a sappy speech.”

He smiles, then, his teeth showing. An explosive and momentous display of emotion.

you look at him, the smile on your face looking more like a grimace. xiao is getting more worried by the moment, are you hurt? do you feel unwell? did he do something wrong?

noticing this, you squeeze his hand, in a reassuring manner.

“i’m fine, xiao.” you flinch, shifting your weight from one leg to another.

xiao’s gaze follows your movements and then he realizes: the skin around your heels looks raw, as if something had been grazing against it for a long time.

“you should be more careful, [name].” xiao utters, hooking one arm under your thighs, while the other wraps around your back, lifting you up with ease.

“xiao! but it’s full of people in here!” you exclaim, heat rising to your cheeks, heartbeat loud on your ears.

“i’m not letting you get more hurt.” your yaksha murmurs, voice filled with the same sweetness as the tofu he so adores. “i’ll protect you.” he leaves a kiss on your temple, and resumes your walk, with you in his arms.

SCARAMOUCHE.

the tsundere.

scaramouche warned you.

“why are you wearing that?” he asked, face a deep shade of red, violet eyes looking to the side after regarding your choice of clothes.

it’s unfair, he thinks, that you look so cute in that soft blue dress, your white jacket and pink scarf matching so well with the silver hued high heeled boots you’re wearing.

“oh,” your face falls. “you don’t like it.”

“it’s not that, idiot.” he huffs, losing patience. “but don’t come complaining if your feet hurt after a while of walking.” he finishes, as he grabs your wrist and tugs you along.

scaramouche was right, you admit to yourself, bitterly.

not after much long walking around sumeru city’s streets, your feet start hurting, your ankles almost spraining when the terrain has the minimum roughness to it. you just wanted to look cute for your date with him, but now you’re starting to regret it.

the wanderer’s hand, however, doesn’t let go of yours once. with fingers laced and a firm but gentle grip, he’s already prevented you from tripping more than once. you’re grateful for that, even if right now he seems a little annoyed at you for slowing him down.

“kuni! please, i need to sit down.” you finally cave in, pleading with him to take a break.

turning around, he regards you, frown painted on his features, dark iridescent amethyst eyes serious.

“i told you, didn’t i?” he scolds you, his tone more laced with tiredness than with malice. picking you up, he starts walking to the nearest bench, your aching feet finally resting. “you don’t need to dress up for dates, you know…” the wanderer trails off. “to me, you always look very pretty.” he mumbles that last part, but you hear him anyway, your lips reaching up to kiss him on the cheek.

ALBEDO.

prince charming.

walking around mondstadt’s cobblestone streets in high heels is certainly less than ideal.

see, you wanted to dress up for your christmas date with albedo, but you definitely did not consider comfort.

you are thankful for the chief alchemist’s hold around the small of your back, having already prevented you from falling on several occasions, but the way your feet are hurting and your ankles aching from trying to maintain your balance certainly do not pay off.

“my princess,” your lover says, your hand in his. “i dare to say you do not seem to be quite alright.” his teal eyes that could become a sunny sky or a stormy ocean regard you, inquisitive, thoughts most definitely crossing that beautiful mind of his. “could this have something to do with the fact you keep losing your balance?”

you start. perceptive as ever, isn’t he? nothing gets past him.

resigned, you let out a sigh, your eyes downcast.

“it’s just… my feet hurt… these shoes…” you indicate, moving one of your feet, “i’m not used to them… sorry…”

“i assumed as much.” albedo offers, smirk gracing his pink lips. “and i have the solution for it, my love.”

before you can let out another word, albedo has already picked you up, and you find yourself resting in his arms, one of your hands over his heart, the other instinctively wrapped around his shoulders.

“isn’t this better, my dear?” albedo asks, with a soft brush of his lips against yours.

“it certainly is…” you answer, reaching up to plant a kiss to his jawline. “my prince.”

TIGHNARI.

the one who comes prepared.

having tighnari tend to you was not what you expected today’s date to look like.

yet here you are, sitting on a bench as your boyfriend softly puts a bandaid to the area where your shoes hurt your feet.

“‘nari, it’s fine, i’m fine.” you try to convince him, even if you keep grimacing and flinching. “please, don’t worry about this, love.”

“nonsense,” the fennec fox replies in a tone that does not leave room for further discussion. “i will not let yourself be in pain when i can treat this easily.” he finishes, standing up from his crouched position. “does it not feel better now, my rose?”

your face heats up at the nickname. it’s a little unfair, you think, how he can make you flustered with such simple words, when he looks completely at ease, smug even, seeing your flushed state.

“yeah, it does, but you needn’t…”

“shhh…” tighnari silences you effectively, his index finger coming to rest over the curve of your lip. “your comfort will always be priority to me, darling.” his lips move to peck your forehead, any words you might have wanted to let out dying in your throat.

after resting together for a while, you try to stand up, the way you cringe not unnoticed by tighnari.

“i’ll carry you back.” he states, without more preamble.

maybe uncomfortable shoes are not so bad, you would think afterwards, if you get a piggyback ride from your boyfriend, his long ears perking up and twitching every time you pet them or leave little kisses at their base.

CYNO.

the gentleman.

why did you decide to come to aaru village in high heels and dressed to the nines, you’ll never know.

perhaps you wanted to have fun dressing up for once, maybe you just wanted to look your best for your date with cyno.

what you do know, however, is that walking in the desert sand in such fancy and impractical shoes hurts. quite literally, your feet are begging you to sit down and rest.

but cyno has taken the day off from work today… and you would feel awful ruining this date for him… so with your best smile plastered to your face, you are determined to pull through. for your boyfriend.

cyno’s hand feels warm in yours, the contact a welcome sensation that manages to distract you from the pain, if you focus hard enough.

but, alas, nothing gold can stay, as they say.

spraining your ankle on one of the bumps in the terrain throws your whole act out the window.

“[name]!” cyno’s arms wrap around your waist, stabilizing you. “are you hurt anywhere?”

you try to smile, but as soon as you attempt taking a few steps it’s pretty obvious you’re limping.

“i… i’ll be fine!” you do your best to sound optimistic, but cyno is too concerned to bring himself to believe your constructed cheerfulness right now.

“regardless,” he begins, his voice deep and sultry. “allow me to do this for you, love?” he asks, at the same time he hoists you up, flush against his bare chest, his bronze skin so warm and smooth against your cheek, the desert sun painting him in golden rays, like an ancient god.

“okay.” is all you can manage, your thoughts too muddled and your heart racing too much for you to form more words.

for a while, you proceed in comfortable silence. then:

“cyno?” you call him, gaze downturned, voice small.

“yes, my love?” warm scarlet eyes focus on you, so tender, so warm.

“i’m sorry… because i ruined our date…” you mumble.