#apocryphis

al-haitham takes the final measurements along the wall of the living room by the time he hears footsteps in the rubble. unhurriedly, he turns around - and greets the traveler with a brief nod before he goes back to scribbling down the results of his investigations. "come to admire the disaster? i've tried to convince kaveh that roofless houses will be in fashion in sumeru soon enough, but he only said my jokes weren't funny." too bad. al-haitham thinks he is hilarious. "how about you? how are you coping after these arguably world-altering events?"

In the wake of the INFERNO that had engulfed the World Tree, a wealth of ensuing complications, debates and issues had begun to crop up even as the dust had yet to fully settle. Aether had inevitably been swept up in the tide of it all, finding himself busier than he'd been in a very long time. In some ways, the occupation was a benefit. It kept his mind off the more insidious lines of thought that plagued him and gave him a building and progressive sense of accomplishment that helped to blanket the roiling unease in his heart.

How had he been coping? In truth - not well. Aether could probably count the number of hours he'd managed to sleep over the past week on both hands alone. As was its nature, the true DEPTH of emotional turmoil only made itself known, rising up like a dark tide when all the hustle and bustle had melted away and he was left to his own devices. It was in these moments of solitude that he thought of all that had transpired within the depths of Irminsul : that final BRUTAL fight, the crushing darkness and the rising heat, the flames licking at his skin as he'd plummeted into the depths.

" I've been fine. " Aether responded without missing a beat, picking his way through the rubble and flicking gravel and dust from the end of his braid. It felt impossible to put it all into words, hard enough to rationalize it to himself, much less express it to a different person entirely.

bepo might be fully of whimsy, but he's also protective of what is dear to him. their crew is dear to him, law is their captain, but he's also the mink's bestfriend. to think that blackbeard had harmed law, had nearly taken his devil fruit, his cruel laughter echoing, it makes bepo angry. and even with the rumble ball, if it had been just blackbeard, there's no telling where his rage would've taken him. but his captain had been a priority, so staying to fight would've been foolish.

❝ ━....why don't you rest by the fire? it'll keep you warm. ❞ truthfully, he doesn't want to talk about anything but moving forward. he doesn't want to think about what they went through, because they would find a town, they would build a new boat and penguin and the others would leave signs, or bepo would. they had plans for things like this, where law was most important and if they ever got separate, they would leave clues to find one another, no matter how the sea separated them.

@apocryphis sent: ❛   don’t look at me! i don’t … i don’t want you seeing me like this.  ❜ (xiao for venti again :) )

The air was putrid with the miasma corrupting this place and with it Rex Lapis' dutiful yaksha – the one that was left. Anything or anyone with a spirit capable of sensing such energies would have felt the poisonous corruption hanging over the area; even mortals dwelling here too long might have felt an unexplainable sickness taking over their bodies and minds. To Barbatos it was like wading through a swamp, the air too dense to breathe properly, no breeze making it through the thick oozing darkness. It hurt to be there.

Did it feel the same for Xiao or was he given better defenses against it than the god of freedom? He knew it was unlikely and yet Venti wanted to believe that it wasn't this awful for Xiao every time he encountered the old gods' remains, excusing this naiveté with his own unique nature. In a way he was never meant to be an archon and though he'd chosen this power and this form by becoming one, he'd always be different from gods like Morax or Rukkhadevata.

He felt Xiao amidst the darkness before he saw him, kneeling over something broken – an artifact, perhaps the source of this evil. Black and blue flames were rising from his body, engulfing nearly all of him, and for a moment Venti saw himself faced with a bitter future he so desperately wished never to experience. He certainly wouldn't let it find them today. Xiao's words were broken and quiet but with the effect they had on him, he might as well have yelled.

"I will never fear to look at you," Barbatos said, his voice calm and steady despite the tempest raging inside him. His knuckles turned white from how hard he grasped the lyre in his hands. The day it would fail to help Alatus, he hoped it would shatter in his hold. With slightly trembling fingers Venti began to play, a few tentative notes that quickly turned into a hopeful little melody. The effect was not instant, in fact it took longer than it ever did before for the notes to pierce through the darkness and purify the corruption, to even reach Xiao where he cowered.

His fingers move diligently across the surface of Moze's back, feeling out the ridges and bumps of old scars, gently pushing against his skin until he can find the points at which these feathers sprout. Each time he finds one, his fingers linger in place whilst his other hand reaches out for the little shelf on the shower wall, dipping expertly into the pot of cream sitting open upon it. It is a salve of his own making, of course, specifically tailored to Moze's needs: it soothes the skin, creates a barrier to prevent infection, and helps to ease the feathers free, in the hope of minimising the pain. There's a dash of local anaesthetic in there too - not as much as he'd like, he'd much rather Moze be entirely numb for this process, but in those early days Moze had been more comfortable feeling the process, pain or no, and he's simply never altered the components of the salve.

He rubs the cream into Moze's skin, in slow, gentle circles, waits a minute for it to work its way in, for the effects to take hold, and then he carefully, slowly, plucks the feather from his back. He hates that tug of resistance he feels each time, hates that he knows it hurts, and whilst Moze makes no move, makes no sound, he can't help how his heart aches. He leans down, presses a soothing kiss to the nape of his neck, lingers a moment with his face nuzzled close. The feather pulls free at last and it falls, discarded, to join several of its fellows already littering the shower floor.

There is always a pause between each extraction - he tells himself it is to give Moze a reprieve before the pain begins anew, but it is equally to give himself a break from causing that pain. It doesn't matter that he knows it would be even more painful if they weren't plucked free. It doesn't matter that he knows if he didn't do this, Moze would go back to pulling them out himself, and that would be far more painful. Being the one to cause him any pain or discomfort has never sat well with the foxian.

And Moze knows it. Perhaps that is why he cracks a quiet joke, in an attempt to lighten the mood, to ease his mind. Jiaoqiu can hear the smile on his beloved's face, can hear it in his voice even though its tone has barely shifted, and the effect is instant - his own lips curve instantly, warmth spreading through his chest as a wave of pure affection consumes him. "I ought to scold you," he chides lightly, his own smile evident in his voice, "for putting yourself through such discomfort for my benefit."

His hands briefly abandon their task to instead settle upon those strong shoulders, thumbs digging deep into muscle as he gently massages away the knots that have formed there. "And for insinuating I would lose my touch without practice." There's a slyness to his voice now, a familiar tease. "You should know me better than that, darling." His hands glide over slick skin, up along the sides of Moze's neck until he can cup the other's chin and guide his head back, tipping his face up and out of the spray of water.

Lids lift to reveal a sliver of liquid gold as he looks sightlessly down at his beloved, teeth flashing in a grin as he leans forward over him, drops a kiss first on his forehead, then the tip of his nose, and at last upon his lips. "Such slander ought to be punished." He murmurs against his lips, still with that sly little grin. "I think my tail will need some care after this. I'm sure you wouldn't mind, would you darling?"

He steals another kiss - because he can - before he pulls back, before fingers once more start roaming Moze's back, seeking out those remaining feathers. He says nothing as he repeats those practiced movements, as yet another black feather falls. Then, "Thank you," he murmurs softly, his palm briefly laying flat against Moze's spine. For still trusting me with this. For still trusting me with you. For keeping me useful. For not changing a thing. For always thinking of me.

Aventurine looks somewhat dishevelled, if one could ever call such a put together man such things. Ruffled is more appropriate perhaps, or undone. The markings of a long day about him, the loose neck of his shirt, the slump of his shoulders, the half-finished drink before him. It does not escape Archer that few would be permitted to view this version of Aventurine, this version of him that does not have his armour in place, does not have his masks fixed to keep up the persona that protects him.

He is quiet as he crosses the space between them, coming to join him on the couch. He folds himself into the space at Aventurine's side, silent initially as he settles before his tongue clicks.

"It must be an egregious situation if you dare put the glass on the table without a coaster. You will be incurring my wrath..." he remarks, turning to look at Aventurine out the corner of his eye. The laugh he receives in response is a discordant sound, not one that holds only joy, but something strained by something unsaid. It is not for him to pry, and he will not. He is a guardian, a force to protect, not to investigate, his only offer presence instead. There's no expectation of explanation or conversation at all, and yet Aventurine's voice rises anyway, filling the void.

“Say you’ll stay. Just once. Lie to me if you have to.”

"I am not in the habit of offering false hopes." Archer's first words perhaps suggest refusal, except he settles back in his seat, his arm stretching along the back of the seat. A comfortable splay mostly, yet one that offers his side openly should the other require the comfort of embrace or the space to hide.

He does not say anything further but the reclined position, the unhurried look about him, it all says what words do not. I am staying, there is no need to lie about it because I had little intent on doing otherwise.

There is a pointed silence between them, only broken by the sound of a mug being placed upon a coaster on the desk. Archer has learnt over time when to speak and when silence is better to allow space for the other to process his thoughts and feelings. He had not been listening to all, but the gist of the meeting he had overheard between the Stoneheart and other IPC members seemed only slightly productive and more of a chance for him to be given the short shrift and a chiding that at best was veiled mockery.

He paces instead; pottering around the room, organising the space so the only mess that might exist is only that which lingers in Aventurine's mind. When he is done he only waits, standing by the window and watching Pier Point below with the sharpness of his gaze following each of the ships diligently, considering each an enemy until it moves on its course. When he hears the cup behind him picked up and be sipped from, he turns his head in acknowledgement, a smirk on his lips as he studies the other.

‘ you know me by heart . it infuriates me that you know me by heart . ’

"And yet you being infuriated will change nothing of my knowledge. I suppose you shall have to learn to be at peace with it..." There is no sense of remorse about his words, instead a slight amusement and a steady confidence that is followed by his full move from the window. A slow pace brings him behind Aventurine's chair. Hands rise and lay upon the other's shoulders, a firm presence, an existence that does not waver, a grounding support.

@apocryphis sent: ❛   we have no scar to show for happiness. we learn so little from peace.  ❜ (wriothesley for diluc)

Diluc runs a finger down Wriothesley's arm, free of bandages for once, tracing one of the many scars carved into his skin. It reminds him of his own skin, a canvas of his past sins and failures, and he wonders how similar the smaller details of their life stories would appear side by side. At first glance, from what little he knows, their pasts couldn't be more different, and yet written between the lines of their stories is a language they both understand. It's tempting to agree with Wriothesley, faced with all his scars, each telling a tale of an enemy, an accident, a moment of weakness. That is, until Diluc remembers the first time he felt the need to hide his pain and tears.

"You have a point," he responds, "but I don't agree entirely." Releasing Wriothesley's arm, he lifts his own and turns it to present the outside of his forearm, where a long thin scar bears forever witness to the time he tripped and fell right on a sharp rock while chasing Kaeya around the winery. He doesn't remember the pain now, of course, but the shock on Kaeya's face at the sight of the blood and his own resulting desire to bite back his tears and pretend it didn't even hurt that much, just to keep the other boy from crying.