#bern writes

Scaramouche

“Honestly, I don’t think they’ve ever had an original thought in their life.”

Your head snapped up as the voices that had been floating around you came into sharp focus. From outside the tent you could hear some recruits chatting. Focusing yourself on their conversation you wondered if being the partner of a Harbinger would give you the rank to chew out whoever the gossipers were.

“You’re right about that. Honestly, I don’t know why they insist on opening their mouth when they have nothing important to say. I guess being the partner of a Harbinger really does go to your head.”

Your breath caught in your throat at that comment. Surely they weren’t… Realizing that listening to this conversation was a mistake you turned back to the paperwork you had been working on. However now your brain refused to listen to you, insisting on continuing to listen to the conversation despite your desperate wish not to.

“I really must. I guess you have to become a suck up to date someone like that though.”

“You could just keep quiet and let your comrades get on with it. We don’t need to hear a broken record, especially not one that makes such irritating noises.”

“Honestly. I wish I could just tell them to shut up.”

“You know that Scaramouche would have our heads if you did. They’re always hiding behind him. In battle, at the meetings; honestly it’s a miracle they haven’t faded into his shadow yet. They really haven’t had a single original thought in the past year have they?”

“Did they ever?”

The laughter of the gossipers echoed around your head, rattling in an unpleasant sort of way. You could feel your pulse accelerating, as the world around you began to hyperfocus and anxiety bloomed in your chest. Standing up you slipped out of the tent, grateful that the opening was opposite of the voices. You didn’t know where you wanted to go, only that it was far away from the camp and from the people who apparently thought you a puppet.

Reaching a small lake you sat down on the rocky bank, trying desperately to find a thread of focus to quell the unease building in you. You knew that you should ignore, that people were often cruel, especially members of the Fatui. There was no reason that you should take your gossip to heart, that you should believe the cruel musings of two strangers over your own heart. You had your own opinions, of course you did! You were a human after all, one that had their own mind, that knew firsthand that their beliefs did not hinge on those of your partners.

Still the voices gnawed at you, and you found yourself going down a long list of conversations and interactions. When was the last time you had publicly disagreed with Scaramouche? Had you ever? Sure, the idea of causing a scene was mortifying, but you must have argued at some point and time. And if you hadn’t, well what did that mean? Did it mean that you truly had stopped relying on your own experiences. Had you just become another sycophant?

You felt as if cold water had been poured on you. Curling up into yourself a worry suddenly came to mind. What if you were a sycophant? What if Scaramouche found your presence irritating? The idea filled you with dread, with a loathing that surprised you in its intensity. Oh archons, what if he hated you? What if he saw you as he saw the other clingers and graspers that he so often derided? These questions spun around in around in your head, until you found that you could not rid yourself of the thorns that had sprouted in your mind and around your heart.

You decided to stay at an inn that night, unable to find the courage to go back to camp, not even to write a missive. Time. You just needed time to figure stuff out. Besides, maybe Scaramouche would realize that he preferred it this way. Maybe, maybe… You couldn’t even begin to think of what that might entail, what would happen if the love of your life were to prefer you out of his sight. Even beginning to imagine such a scenario left you with a pain is your heart, one that left you gasping. For now you focused on getting a room, and making sure that you were allowed to eat the food by yourself.

The smell of wonton soup filled the air as one of the workers brought a platter to your door. Accepting it grateful, pressing two dozen mora into the astonished worker’s hand, you breathed in the comforting smell. Suddenly aware of how hungry you were you began to dig in, ignoring the still hot temperature in favor of your mind being distracted by the task of filling your stomach with food.

You were about halfway through your meal when you heard a knock on the door. Expecting that it was another staff member your heart flipped at the sight of your partner, face flushed, eyes slightly wild, at your door.

“So this is where you are.” Scaramouche spoke in a hoarse voice, a dark look in his eyes.

“Hello.” You managed to make out, unsure whether or not to shift your gaze to the floor.

Scaramouche said nothing in reply, merely staring at you. He seemed on the verge of speaking, opening his mouth for a moment, before clamping it firmly shut. Nudging his way past you he walked into the small room, he sat in the only chair, bearing and expression more imperious than ever.

“Well,” he spoke, voice constrained. “I do not know why you wish to have our evening briefing here, but since you insist on being irrational I will humor you.”

A sinking pit in your stomach at having inconvenienced your partner once more – surely this would not endear yourself any more with him – you shut the door and walked over to the bed.

“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to,” you said with what you hoped was a smile. “You don’t have to humor me with anything.”

“What are you talking about?” Scaramouche replied. “You really are acting irrational today. I don’t know what brought on this stunt, but I’d like to know what caused you to first disappear without a trace, leaving me to go after you, then refuse my company when I do find you.”

“I’m not refusing your company. I’m just, well, I…”

“You what?”

“I…” you swallowed. You didn’t want to say it, put the words out into the world, knowing you might well get the answer you were dreading the most. Yet you had to say something! “I, I didn’t want to inconvenience you. I’m sure that you have generals who are much smarter than I am. And I know that you find people who just parrot back your thoughts annoying. You don’t have to humor me, I’m sure it’s very annoying.”

For a moment there was silence. You glanced at Scaramouche, seeing a blankness on his face you could almost read as shock. Was he surprised that you had picked up on such a thing? Or was it something else? It was hard to tell in your anxiety filled state.

“When did I ever say that I was humoring you?” Scaramouche finally spoke up. “When have I accused you of parroting back my thoughts?”

“Well, never.”

“Then why would you assume any of it?”

A variety of emotions ran through you, overwhelming you. Embarassment, fear, shame, even hope. Mingling around they settled for a moment as you stared into the face of your lover. Though his tone was rough and his expression slightly irritated there was a clearness in his eyes, one that called you to confide in him. Before you knew it words were flooding out of you, the burden that you had been carrying around all day finally lifting slightly.

Scaramouche listened closely. Other than the slight tightening of his fist you could barely make out any reaction. However there was a tension in him when you had finished with your story, and the look in his eyes was one of unabashed anger.

“You should have seen who those idiots were. To disparage their superior is unforgivable for a member of the Fatui. They ought to be punished for it.”

“They were just chatting.”

“Just being insubordinate!” Scaramouche shook his head in disgust. “They’re scum. How dare worms say such things about you.”

“You don’t have to get so upset. It’s not like they’re wrong after all,” you mumbled. “I don’t disagree with you in public, or even that often in private. I don’t fight as well as you; the amount of times you’ve had to protect me is shameful. I’m really, I’m not much use on my own am I?”

You glanced down at your hands, only to see as they were wrapped in your partners. Lifting your gaze your breath caught in your throat at the view of your lover’s face hovering mere centimeters away from your own, gaze fierce, dark locks brushing the tip of your nose.

“Do you truly believe such ridiculous things about yourself? About me? About the Fatui? If you think that you would have risen so far in rank without any purpose than you must truly be a fool. If you think that I would fall in love with such an unworthy person than you must think very badly of me.”

“I don’t!”

“Then trust me when I tell you this.” Scaramouche lifted one of his hands up to cradle your jaw, leaning in even closer. “You have no reason to believe such worthless trash that they have said about you. None of it is true.”

The last of the weight lifted off your shoulders, and before you knew tears were building up at the corners of your eyes. Tears of hurt and tears of relief.

Scaramouche drew you into his shoulder, touch gentler than his words and tone of voice might imply. For a while he said nothing, merely stroking the back of your head as you dampened the front of his shirt. When you stopped crying however he spoke up again.

“I cannot imagine why you should ever believe such foolish things. I do not choose my lovers on a whim. And I do not continue to consort with those who have become sycophants. It is not in my nature to be kind or gracious. If I truly thought such things about you, I would not continue to want you by my side.”

The words were harsh perhaps, but you had no doubt of their veracity, nor of the fact that, in his own perverse way, Scaramouche was attempting to comfort you. Allowing yourself to smile for the first time since you’d heard the conversation you looked up at Scaramouche. He was smiling too, a soft small thing that barely turned up the corner of his lips, though his eyes seemed almost to be shining. It was all too much for you, and you reached up to press a soft kiss against your partner’s lips.

“We should be heading back.” You broke the silence.

“Why? Since you have put all the effort into running away, and I to tracking you, we might as well make the best of it.”

There was mischief in Scaramouche’s voice, and you were glad to follow it.

“Very well. Thank you.”

“I did nothing but enlighten you to the truth.”

“Still. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being so kind.”

Scaramouche sputtered at that, his cheeks flushing a light shade of red that had you giggling.

“I love you,” you blurted out, so overwhelmed by the sudden emotion in your heart.

Scaramouche scowled. Muttering something about idiots he pulled your head once more to his chest. You did so gladly, nuzzling into him slightly.

Though it was soft, almost hesitant, you did not miss the murmur he gave you in return, those words that meant so much to you.

Albedo leaned back on the couch, letting out a sigh of exasperation and disgust. It just wasn’t working today. The slime particles that he was trying to study were simply sliding here and there on the glass tray, refusing to reveal the secrets behind their elemental infusions. Though Albedo knew that research was rarely simply and nearly always required multiple efforts, he never did get the hang of letting go of the irritation.

“You okay love?”

Albedo turned his head to look up towards you as you swung your arms around the alchemist’s neck. Smiling softly he hummed in contentment as you leaned your head against his shoulder, hair tickling his neck slightly. Closing his eyes Albedo allowed himself to bask in the moment of calm, your presence never failing to calm him, to bring his world back on its original axis.

“What’s up?” You asked after a moment.

“My work.”

“Not going well?”

“No,” Albedo admitted. “It’s not surprising, one cannot expect to solve the problems of the world in a day, with one mere moment. However it can be somewhat disheartening at moments. The world is a puzzle, and it’s hard not to worry that I am simply not intelligent enough to finish it, though I may advance.”

Your head lifted up from his shoulder as you stared down at Albedo, who craned his neck slightly to look up at you. For a moment your eyes seemed to be turned inward, as if you were searching for something within you. Knowing it was probably some sort of answer Albedo waited to see what you might say. He always had all the time in the world to wait for you, since he knew that once you realized what you wished to do you would surely fulfill your goal.

“You don’t have to solve the world you know, some things just exist because they exist.”

“I know, I know that there are things that I may never realize the answer to. And yet, there is a part of me, a darker part, that wishes to simply hold the world in my hands, to look at it through a microscope and feel power over it. I believe it is a fault that Rhinedottir did not account for. Yet I cannot ignore it even though it may be a fault.”

“Oh Albedo,” you shook your head. “There is nothing faulty about you. Besides, you don’t need to hold the world in your hands. After all, I can already do that.”

“Oh really?” Albedo furrowed his brow, wondering what scheme you might have hit on now.

“Yes really. Want me to show you?”

Albedo couldn’t help but nod, watching as you lit up. Making your way from the back of the couch to sit across from him you took in a deep breath.

“Ready?” You asked.

“I am ready.”

“Okay then, here goes!”

There was a pause as Albedo waited for something to happen. Yet all you did was bring your hands to the sides of his face. Sensing his confusion you let out a slightly awkward giggle.

“What?”

“You. It’s you! You’re my world, so I’m holding the world in the palm of my hands!”

There was silence as Albedo’s eyes widened, a variety of emotions welling up inside of him. Oh you were too perfect, how could you be so utterly perfect? It was as if you had fried some circuit in his brain, and now he could do nothing but sit there, his face getting hotter and hotter.

“Ah! I’m sorry if that was silly!” You flushed, slowly beginning to detach your hands from your lovers cheeks. However before your fingers removed themselves from his face Albedo reached up, moving to press your hands once more against his cheeks.

“I, thank you.” He murmured, looking down slightly. “I, I think you’re my world too.”

Your face lit up with his words, in a way that made it impossible for Albedo to not leave down and give you a quick peck on the nose.

It wasn’t until a week later that he managed to screw up the courage to properly return the gesture.

 Childe

He knew that his teasing riled you up, but Childe couldn’t help it. It was fun to see you turn red, stuttering out some half formed response before burying your head in Childe’s chest, or leaning it on the Harbinger’s shoulders. Often mumbles of “I hate you” or “that was so stupid” ensued, followed by half hearted protest as Childe peppered kisses across your blushing face. How was he supposed to resist something like that? Honestly, how could anyone?

He should have known that not even you were immune to the sweet whispers of teasing your loved one.

“Childe! Childe!”

“What is it sweetheart?” Childe asked, mood immediately soaring as he stepped out of the Northland Bank to you running up to him, eyes sparkling, mouth open in a brilliant smile.

“I… have… something to say.”

“What is it?” Childe asked, closing the distance between the two of you and ruffling your hair slightly.

“It’s something important,” you cautioned, taking deep breaths in to steady your breath even more.

“I’m all ears!” He replied, even as the gears in his head began to turn, automatically trying to figure out what you might have to say.

Without warning you leaned over to cup his face, staring so intently that Childe couldn’t help but feel a little flustered.

“What are you doing?” He asked, somewhat embarrassed by the twinge of surprise in his voice.

“I’m holding the world in my hands!” You declared, before whirling around and running back down the main street of Liyue.

For a moment Childe said nothing, nearly standing there, trying to process what had just happened. Your palms had been nice and cool against his cheeks, your gaze so intense he couldn’t help but feel as if his soul had been laid bare for you. What, what just happened?

Had he just been teased?

“Hey, wait!” Childe called out, his legs finally beginning to work again. “You come back here right now!”

Your laugh was music to his ears, even if the Harbinger was still trying to process that, though you were an endless source of entertainment, you gave as good as you got.

 Zhongli

There were few moments that Zhongli would consider perfect. More often than not the ex-archon saw life not as particularly positive or negative, merely experiences that might be woven into the ever growing tapestry of his life.

Yet this was a moment that Zhongli was sure he would remember, for it was so peaceful and so filled with love that he felt to not remember it would be in some ways a crime. The air was slightly cool with the evening summer air, a soft breeze ruffling Zhongli’s hair, and yours. Glaze lilies were beginning to open up their petals, shyly pointing themselves towards the direction of the moon, that would soon rise up from the horizon to take its place in the sky. The grass rippled here and there, making soft patterns like waves in a vast ocean of green.

You were currently disrupting this ocean, twisting occasional blades as you sat underneath a tree, Zhongli’s head nestled firmly in your lap. You had been talking at the beginning of your outing, but now you were doing little, only humming a soft tune here and there as you continued to enjoy the evening air.

You were so beautiful, more than Zhongli could put into words. It wasn’t one thing, one aspect of your features, your voice, your words. It was your whole being, your existence that Zhongli could not help but be in awe of. He loved you so deeply, and yet he could not begin to put his love, his adoration into words. It would be frustrating, if he didn’t feel so at peace with the moment.

“Zhongli?”

“Yes?”

You smiled down at him, as you stopped poking at the grass. Laying your hands gently around his face, fingers tickling his jawline, you smiled so brilliantly Zhongli felt his breath stolen from his lungs.

“I’m holding my world in my hands,” you murmured.

Zhongli’s heart stuttered. The action was so simple, so mundane, yet it filled his heart to bursting. How you managed to contain so much in something so simple was beyond him.

Slowly he let his arms reach up, cupping your cheeks in a matter he could only hope was similar.

“I, am holding the whole world in my hands.” He replied, the words feeling foreign in his mouth. He hoped that it was half as effective as yours was.

Your eyes crinkled in happiness as you leaned down to press a kiss against your lover’s forehead. Zhongli hummed happily at the touch, the corners of his mouth turning up into a soft smile.

Drink with me, to days gone by

Why was he here? Grantaire couldn’t quite remember. Normally he would chock that up to the liberal amount of alcohol that he drenched himself in on any given day, but tonight he was feeling quite sober. Not for lack of trying to be otherwise.

How did he get here? Why had he walked into that café that day? There were plenty of cafes in Paris after all. There were too many cafes in Paris in fact, and one always seemed to be going out of business right next to another that had just sprouted up. Fate? It would be a nice idea, except Grantaire didn’t really believe in fate.

Setting foot into a café was one thing, but joining a ragtag group of cohorts determined to change the world was another. Now what on Earth could have compelled him to join in that? Sure, his fellow compatriots – if he could be called a compatriot himself – were nice. Joly and Bossuet were great drinking partners. But you could be drinking partners with someone and not join a revolution.

‌

Was it him? Sometimes Grantaire couldn’t tell. Sometimes he thought he might become a bona fide Jacobin, if only for the smile of Enjolras. Enjolras, who didn’t really seem to notice he existed.

Of course Grantaire usually wised up soon after those thoughts. Yet here he was. On the barricade.

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Sing with me the songs we knew

Feuilly was singing an old drinking song. Grantaire had heard it first when he was quite young. Though some of the words were different than he remembered. Go figure. Nothing ever seemed to be quite like he remembered it. Even the light of the sun seemed different than he was young. Now everything seemed shadowed. Now he always remembered his apartment as darker than it was. But the house of his childhood continued to be suffused in sun.

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Grantaire began singing along, not truly realizing that he was until he hit a word different than the one the others sang. He wondered if anyone was looking at him. They only looked at him when he was playing the fool. Sometimes it was on purpose, and sometimes it just happened. Grantaire didn’t really care either way.

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He glanced over at a corner of the barricade, saw Gavroche playing with a bit of rope. The activity was so childish. It was peculiar to that time in someone’s life when grownups talked of silly things and the bangs and flashes of guns were much more exciting. But if there were no flashes and bangs to be found, there were always scraps of rope to make up for it.

Something in Grantaire’s chest tightened. He felt a sudden disgust for the planks of wood protecting them from the soldiers. He felt disgusted by himself. He felt disgusted that he’d not managed to keep this child away from here. He’d tried, he had. But he hadn’t tried hard enough. And to Gavroche guns were just spectacles and bullet wounds merely battle scars.

‌

Grantaire wanted to cry very badly. Too bad he wasn’t drunk enough.

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Drink with me, to days gone by

It was time for him to do something. If he didn’t do something right now he would cry. And he’d suddenly decided he didn’t want to cry. It wouldn’t do to cry. Everyone would look at him strangely. And no one would trust him with anything after this. Not that Grantaire really wanted to be trusted with anything. He’d never fired a gun. He didn’t plan on starting to now.

After all, what did he have to fire a gun for?

Grantaire stood up, noting pessimistically that his feet were quite steady. He seemed to be cursed to spend tonight far from plastered. And what if tonight was the last night? There was no point in spending your last night on Earth sober. In spending your last night on Earth getting some of the worst sleep of your life.

After all, this dirty Parisian street was hardly the most comfortable bed in the world. Had Feuilly been singing about beds? Grantaire couldn’t quite remember. His version of the song talked about beds. Who knew if everyone else’s was different. Probably.

‌

Can it be you fear to die?

It started out alright. He was laughing, just as he always did. He was dancing just as he always did. He was winning the cheers and chuckles of his friends. That was his job. After all, what other job could be given the sad sot who wasn’t even a full Ami? Clown. That was Grantaire’s job. To be a clown.

Too bad he’d grown careless. He’d forgotten to practice. The words just slipped out of him.

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Will the world remember you when you fall?

Why did he even care if anyone remembered him? It didn’t matter. He’d be dead. Nothing mattered once you were dead. Hell, nothing really mattered when you were alive either. He knew that. He lived by that. So why was he asking himself this? Why did he feel like screaming? Why did he want to cry again?

People were looking at him. Someone was reaching for him. Joly, Joly was reaching for him. Joly was looking at Grantaire like he was something fragile. Something to be pitied. The way that Grantaire sometimes looked at the rest of Les Amis, pitying them for their love for the world. Envying them.

No one envied Grantaire. Least of all himself. And yet.

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Could it be your death means nothing at all?

Was he going to die? Was he going to die for something he didn’t believe in? He realized all of a sudden that he didn’t really understand death anymore than Gavroche. Grantaire didn’t want his friends to die. He didn’t want to die himself. But he didn’t really understand it.

Death didn’t happen to you. Not really. It was something you feared, but it never actually happened. He wasn’t going to die, right?

‌

Death seemed like some cruel gift life forced upon you. And he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die on a dirty Parisian street for something he didn’t even believe in. He didn’t want to become some poor drunk bastard who met his end for no reason.

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Is your life just one more lie?

He already knew that though. He already knew that this whole thing meant nothing. That it was ridiculous. That it would fail. That he should never have stepped into the god forsaken café. That he should have kept Gavroche away from here. He knew that. He knew that.

All these thoughts spung around in his head. He tasted gall in his mouth. It was all so repulsive. What had he done with his life? What happened to the light that suffused his childhood? What happened to the warmth?

Why was he shouting?

He hated these thoughts. He hated them. He didn’t want life to be worth nothing. Wasn’t that why he kept chasing a man who would never look at him, who would never trust him? Wasn’t it the hope that he might, even only by proxy, be bathed in light? The light that could only belong to those who believe in life fully. Who believed in the world, who believed in fate, who believe in their fellow men. Didn’t Grantaire want that? Even when he said he didn’t, he secretly wanted it. He coveted that light.

Enjolras was looking at him now. Why now? Why now of all times did Grantaire have to be noticed. He wasn’t playing the clown right now. He’d obviously forgotten how to. And yet Enjolras was looking at him. Staring down from his perch on the barricade.

Even in the darkness Enjolras was full of light. It emanated from him as if he were some faraway angel. Come down to rouse the people of Paris from their beds. Come down to show people into the new dawn.

But he wasn’t here for Grantaire. He never would be. Grantaire could not, it seemed, even touch that light. All he could think about was death. He didn’t believe. He wanted to, so very badly. But he didn’t.

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Enjolras climbed down. Fell down. Floated down. Graceful, so graceful. Like a dancer. He reached out towards Grantaire.

Grantaire didn’t really remember lunging away. Only for a moment he thought, he knew. How could an avenger of the people touch a man who didn’t even trust in them?

‌

He needed to clear his head. He was drunk.

Even if he still didn’t feel like he was.

‌

Drink with me, to days gone by

Spindly arms circled themselves around Grantaire’s waist. Tried to. Gavroche was still little. His hands only made it to the pockets of Grantaire’s tattered coat.

He turned around. He looked at the kid. Grantaire had promised to himself that he’d protect Gavroche. That he’d make sure Gavroche came out of this unscathed. That Gavroche would not come out fearing and hating the world the way Grantaire did.

But now Gavroche was the one looking out for him. How funny. How strange. How topsy turvy tonight was. Grantaire let out a shaky breath. Maybe it was a sob. He wrapped his arms around Gavroche, practically engulfing the kid. Inexplicably, he felt a little better. Little people indeed. Gavroche was a good kid.

God, Grantaire didn’t want Gavroche to die. He’d give anything, to make sure Gavroche didn’t die. Gavroche was much too young to die. It would be unfair. It wouldn’t make sense. Not even in this world that didn’t have much logic in the first place.

Grantaire wasn’t really the praying type. The last time he’d gone to mass he’d dirtied his best shirt and his mother had scolded him until he’d cried.

He prayed anyways. He wanted Gavroche to live. Even if Grantaire died. Even if he had to meet what he feared, what he didn’t understand. Even if he had to, there was no reason Gavroche did too. He was just a kid after all. And wasn’t this what they were all here for? The future?

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Enjolras always talked about the dawn. The new day. Grantaire could never imagine it. There was nothing beyond today. Nothing even beyond this minute, this second.

If Grantaire had to imagine the future, he figured it probably looked a lot like Gavroche. Just a kid, a thing that had to be looked out for. That had to be protected. That didn’t understand things like guns and armies and revolutions. But that still managed to make its way to them.

And you had to protect it. Even if you didn’t think you’d succeed. You at least had to try.

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Grantaire fell asleep staring up at the sky, Gavroche huddled against him for worth. Parisian nights could be surprisingly cold. The clouds hung low in the sky, trapping in the damp. Grantaire imagined reaching out and pushing them away. They’d part easily, like bits of mist in his hands. They’d feel like paint brush bristles against his skin.

Somewhere next to him was Enjolras, watching. Not sleeping, or probably not sleeping anyways. Did angels need sleep? Grantaire wasn’t sure. He wanted to apologize to Enjolras. He wasn’t sure why.

The night was filled with the sounds of gentle breathing. His friends were piled up around him, also trying to find their way to dreams on the cold cobblestone of the streets of Paris. Maybe some were trying their luck on the barricade. They were all trying their luck, in one way or another.

The tune everyone had been singing earlier came to Grantaire again; he hummed it softly. Tomorrow they might die. Tonight might be their last night. What could any of them do? They were at the mercy of life. Of fate – not that Grantaire believed in that.

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At least they were spending it together. At least they were not alone. At least they’d spent some good times together. Maybe that was enough. Maybe that meant something. Even if nothing else did.

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Scaramouche

If someone had once attempted to tell Scaramouche that he would be spending his free time with a civilian from another land, wishing that every minute might last a little bit longer, he would have scoffed at them. And yet here he was, scorning the fact that there were only two days left to spend with you, two days before he must leave. A part of him wished you would go with him, but you would not. Even if he commanded you do so you would not.

So instead he buried his face deeper into your shoulder, memorizing the feeling of peace as best he could, hoping that it would last the test of time and distance. He was always waiting for the day it failed, only when he was with you like this could he pretend to forget about it. Scaramouche knew that he was powerful, that there were few as strong as him. Yet he could not dare think what might happen if you did not run to greet him the next time he stepped of a Fatui destroyer. He could not imagine defeat, yet he could not see a future where his life was devoid of your presence.

“Are you alright love?”

“Yes.” Scaramouche replied curtly, embarrassed at how easily you seemed to read him.

“Are you sure? Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

“No. Just,” Scaramouche let out a huff, “just stay still like this for a bit.”

You said nothing as the Harbinger closed his eyes, as if understanding that he wasn’t ready. Not yet, not yet, not yet. It was what he told himself every morning that he woke up next to you, glaring at the sun, whose rising signaled the incessant passage of time. Not yet. Not today. Not now. If he were more honest with himself he might realize that he was pleading rather than commanding, but that too was something he couldn’t face.

“Do you have to go so soon?”

Your words echoed what Scaramouche had been thinking for the past few days, the plaintive tone striking a chord as he realized how alike you were to him, how much you also found this torturous.

“I must go for the glory of the Tsaritsa.”

“You talk about world domination, but really Scaramouche…” you trailed off for a moment, as if unsure of where you wanted your words to go.

It was a common tension, admit what even Scaramouche knew about the goals of the Fatui, or stop before a line might be crossed. It was a conversation the two of you had been on the verge of having ever since you two became lovers. Even Scaramouche, who saw his role as a Harbinger as a given, who did not particularly care about the people suffering under the regime of the Tsaritsa, knew that there were questions that could destroy the peace you two had built so hard to create. He also knew that said questions might destroy himself too.

“It is too late to change anything.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

He nodded curtly. It was usually like this, him trying to keep things together, to lean back into the familiar coldness that he so often swathed himself with. He would never let anyone see how much his leaving affected him, not even you.

“Scaramouche?”

“Yes?”

“You know, I don’t need to conquer the world. I can already hold it in my hands.”

“Oh really?” What in Teyvat were you talking about? Despite himself the Harbinger could not hide his curiosity at your emboldened statement.

Slowly you reached out towards him, cupping his face so gently that you would think you were holding something made of glass. You smiled softly, even if there was something wet in your gaze.

“See? I’m holding the world in my hands.”

Scaramouche didn’t know what to say at that moment. There was something rising up inside of him, threatening to cut off his careful exterior, threatening to change the way he always acted when he left.

Xiao

You didn’t understand why you felt the need to sometimes listen to the pilgrims that passed through Jueyun Karst . Perhaps it was accident, perhaps it was nosiness. Perhaps it was the knowledge that, ultimately, the adepti cared little for the prayers of humans, and would be unlikely to listen to the influx of praise and wishes. It wasn’t perhaps the most honest thing you ever did. Maybe then that was why you ended up hearing what was never meant for your own ears.

The two old ladies’ faces were filled with awed serenity as they wandered through the mountain passes, as if unaware of the dangers that surrounded them in the land of the gods. Passing by stone tablets and ruins, they never failed to offer a word or a prayer. It was touching to watch them go, even if you struggled to covertly get rid of all the slimes and treasure hoarders that otherwise would cross with them, and you couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of shared experience, a little moment that only the three of you shared.

“It’s so beautiful here, we ought to go more often.”

“Ah, but you know what they say, monsters everywhere. Besides, I can only cook so many dishes so often,” the lady jostled the basket she was carrying slightly. “All these years and you still rely on me too cook everything.”

“All these years and you don’t let me step foot in your precious kitchen,” the other woman replied teasingly. “Don’t you dare come in with dirty slippers! My slippers have never once stepped outside! And yet you complain about them being dirty.”

“It’s because you never wipe them down!”

Talk between the pair floated jovially back and forth, from discussions on the scenery to the birds, to the children in Liyue who might want to visit. It was easy to get lulled in by their conversation between whopperflower kills, and you found yourself hoping that the adepti might here even a sliver of it, the beauty of ordinary conversation.

“Ah! Do you know what I heard yesterday from that innkeeper?”

“Verr Goldet? What? She never likes revealing information to me. I think even Yanxiao is a more open mouth than her, and he barely speaks of anything except food.”

“Well he is a chef dear, you can’t expect much else; but Goldet did tell me something interesting as I was passing by to see if Yanxiao had any ingredients I needed, you know how it is sometimes when the ships come in late. One day I thought I might not even have enough flour! I really need to send a petition to the Qixing about this!

“Anyways what was I saying? Ah yes, I was walking towards the kitchen when I heard some giggling up on the roof. Now you know I was completely caught off guard, as they say Alatus is the only one who goes on the roof, and even then I suppose he spends most of his time in the mountains. I must have looked even more surprised then than you look now, for Goldet smiled at me and said: ‘Is everything alright?’

‘Well yes,’ I said, ‘only I am just wondering who is on the roof?’

‘Xiao’s partner is here’ is what Goldet said. And imagine! I was so surprised I turned right around for home without even glancing at Yanxiao! To imagine an innkeeper using Alatus’ name so freely! Then to imagine that Alatus has a partner! So I go home and I ask around, you know how our neighbor has a very open ear for these things, even if I never can remember her name. Anyways, she told me that not only is the fact that Alatus has a partner very old news, but, even worse, they’re a human!”

“That cannot be right!”

“It must be! Though I know, I was completely surprised too. It doesn’t seem proper after all, for a human to be involved with an adeptus.”

“It does seem disrespectful.”

“More than disrespectful! What does this person want to become, a god? They must be greedy to be so bold.”

“You may be right…”

“Honestly, I don’t know what Alatus would ever do such a thing, but even so, it’s his partner’s job to realize their place.”

The other woman might have said something in reply, but by then the shock had finally been overcome by shame and anger, and you had run off towards Mt. Aozang, monsters be damned. You knew it was a reckless thing to do, to leave some old women at the mercy of the Liyue land, could only hope that an adventurer might be passing by or otherwise able to help them. It was selfish, yes, but you could not think of anything in that moment besides the blood rushing through your ears, the tears that were fast welling up at the corner of your eyes.

Watching as the fish swam lazily in the pool outside Cloud Retainer’s domain you tried to make sense of the emotions jostling within you beyond the wall of hurt and shame that was clouding your mind. However any time you tried to explore what the two women had sense, convince yourself of the fact that you simply were not the evil person that they said you were, you came up empty handed. There was only the layer of hurt surrounding you.

Eventually the water became effused with golden light, as the sun followed its trajectory down below the horizon, the moon taking its place in the heaven’s. You knew that you had to go soon, that it was time to go meet Xiao as you usually would. Yet no matter how much you tried to convince yourself to get up your legs remained firmly fixed to the ground, your eyes following the patterns of the ripples across the water. You did not want to go see Xiao, you did not want to go anywhere really. Nothing at the moment seemed more enticing than retreating to an abode the way the adepti did, barring your door towards anyone who would enter, locking yourself away from the outside.

How could you face your partner? Now that the idea had been placed into your mind you couldn’t help but feel dirty, as if you had unknowingly committed some great wrong. You loved Xiao, how could there be anything wrong with that? Yet if two old women thought so low of you, who knew how many else did. Perhaps you were just being humored, humored by adepti and humans who turned around and shook their heads at your behavior. Perhaps Xiao even found you too familiar at times.

By the time you managed to convince yourself to stand up and go anywhere the sun had long ago disappeared. You weren’t quite sure how you made your way home, by some luck or vigilant being you managed to avoid any monsters or hoarders. The moment you reached your apartment you flopped onto the couch, not bothering to make it to your bedroom before falling into a deep, mercifully peaceful sleep.

The next day was spent in a haze, the day after that much the same. Every effort to shake yourself from your reverie was met with a wave of dejection and anxiety, and soon enough you stopped even trying to fight the insecurities that had come roiling up from within the dark recesses of your mind. Seeing Xiao was so much of an impossibility that you didn’t even bother thinking about it. You were too stuck in your own head after all.

Before you knew it two weeks had passed, and you had done little except wake up, go to work, come home, and sleep. You knew that if you kept going like this your fears would only get worse, but at this point, well, who cared? Certainly you couldn’t bring yourself too. After all, didn’t everyone think you were a grasper who had gone far above their station? What did it matter if you became a hermit? At least everyone would likely forget about you.

You jolted awake, your brain registering the noise in a sleep filled haze before your reflexes sprung into place. For a moment you peered at the figure in the doorframe, the light from the hallway at odds with the darkness of your bedroom. You had no sense of time, or space. Yet someone was here, and though you weren’t quite sure of your surroundings yet, you knew that this person was not supposed to be there.

“Who…” you trailed off as your brain finally roused itself from your slumber, and everything crashed back into you. “Xiao?”

Xiao’s expression, which was slowly becoming easier to read, was that of a deep scowl. “Who else would it be?” He asked, crossing his arms.

“I don’t know, I was just, why, why are you here?” You replied, voice creaky from sleep.

“Why do you think?” Xiao’s tone was curt, full of frustration, though from what you couldn’t seem to grasp. “I should be asking why you’re here. Where have you been?”

“I’ve been nowhere.”

“Then why have I not seen you for two weeks. Is there something I did?”

“No!”

“Then why are you avoiding me.”

“I’m not avoiding you.”

Xiao didn’t bother to reply to your protest, merely raising an eyebrow as his scowl deepened. You realized then how ridiculous such a protest must have sounded to him. After all, you saw him nearly every day when you weren’t off adventuring, unless Xiao was struggling more than usual with his duties. You knew that this would require some sort of explanation, even if your mind balked at such a thing.

As if sensing your reticence Xiao slowly walked over to the bed, slowly enough, you realized, that it might give you time to ask him to stop. The idea was somewhat heartbreaking, as you began to imagine what Xiao might have been feeling these past two weeks. For, as much as you doubted what everyone else thought about you, you never doubted the love that Xiao might hold for you. It was your guiding star, and you could not let go of it.

Slowly Xiao situated himself on your bed, taking little time to settle before reverting to his unnatural stillness, as he became so statuesque that it seemed as though he was barely breathing. His hand was stretched out a little ways away from him, and you took the invitation to intertwine your fingers in his, grateful for the small bit of contact. For a moment the emotions of missing Xiao rose up inside you, overwhelming you, and you couldn’t find the breath to speak. However soon enough the urgency to explain overrode the need for physical contact, and you slowly began to explain.

Xiao said nothing as you recounted what had happened in the mountains of Jueyun Karst, his expression as stony and unreadable as ever, though you could pick out the occasional twitch in his brow that conveyed his displeasure. The gestures warmed you, even if you thought that you were not worth it. After all, no one else seemed to think so.

“Anyways, that’s what happened,” you finally finished, letting out a small sigh. Letting your gaze flick up to Xiao’s eyes you moved to say sorry, however your words died on your lips as your mouth began trembling a bit. What could you say that wouldn’t change what was gnawing away at you.

Xiao sat in his characteristic silence, only the sudden pressure on your hand now enveloped in his letting his emotions slip through. Eventually, however, he seemed to find some manner of words.

“How could you believe those fools?” The words were harsh, yet felt as if they weren’t pointed towards you, as if instead he was battling an invisible enemy, one fixed between the palm of your hands. “Do you really think so low of yourself?”

“Well, I, I don’t know. I don’t think so. But then I just remember what they said and ah,,,” you fell silent once more. “I don’t know if I could stand knowing that there are people who think that I don’t love you. Or, worse, that even if I do our love is doomed. Because I hear it and I think, what if they’re right? What if… what if I have somehow cursed you, have uprooted divine order. What if I must meet divine punishment, what if something happens to you? What, I, I don’t know!”

The sob that had so long buried itself deep within the recesses of your emotions finally surfaced, as you began to heave and shudder. Immediately Xiao opened his arms, clinging to you as you dove into his embrace and sobbed wetly into his shoulder. You felt somewhat ashamed by the scene you were making, for surely you were being too dramatic. Still the tears continued to flow, and still Xiao continued to hold you.

When you at last began to calm down, though your breath still hitched haphazardly, Xiao began to speak one more, his low, gruff tones making you want to lean against him and be lulled to sleep.

“As if you could be any more cursed than I’ve already been. I’m not a pure being that needs to be protected from corruption. If there’s anyone who should worry about upsetting the way of things it should be me for putting you in danger.”

“You know how I feel about that,” you murmured into his sleeve.

“I do.” You could almost hear the smile in Xiao’s voice. “I feel the same way about you.”

“But…” your voice died in your throat. Sighing, you buried you inhaled slightly, Xiao’s smell suffusing your senses, blocking out the voices warring inside you.

“I feel the same way about you. You were the one who helped me stop seeing myself as a monster, I won’t let you feel like you’re crossing a divine boundary. Anyone who says that is wrong. I won’t let them corrupt your thinking.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, unsure of what else you might say.

Something in your tone must’ve reassured your lover, for Xiao let out a soft sigh before relaxing his embrace slightly. You relaxed too, your breathing evening out to matching your partner’s.

Eventually the two of you must’ve fallen asleep for when you woke sunlight filtered softly through the curtains. Your gaze focused on Xiao, who was staring at you with an intensity that might be intimidating if you didn’t know it so well.

“Good morning,” he murmured.

“Good morning,” you replied, suppressing a yawn.

“Do you feel better?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Don’t do that again, please.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

Xiao

My words will never reach you. I will never hear you call to me again. You lie far below me, and your spirit is far above.

 Liyue had a special energy, frenetic and lively yet filled with the ancient calm of a city that – until recently – had been led by a god whose age was as unfathomable as his power. It was that power that the Traveler was basking in one clear cool morning, a morning that promised a clear, calm day. Paimon flew next to her, chattering about this in that in the way that was Paimon, attention caught by every glittering object and unfamiliar scent that they drifted past. Though Paimon could sometimes be overwhelming, Lumine couldn’t bring herself to chide her traveling companion. At least not now, when the world was in a reverie of just waking up.

Drifting past Third-Round Knockout, Lumine spied a familiar figure sitting at one of the tables. Evidently her traveling companion did too, for Paimon let out a loud “Hey! Zhongli!” momentarily disturbing the peace.

If Zhongli was disturbed by the sudden cry of his name he didn’t show it. Smiling, the ex-archon put down his cup of tea. “Ah, Traveler, Paimon. How lovely to see you.”

“You too Zhongli!” Paimon enthused, immediately flying over. Sighing, sure that this would end in Paimon begging for a meal, Lumine followed.

I only figured out what I wanted to tell you after you left. Now I have the words but no one to tell them to. It is worse to realize too late than to not realize at all.

Sure enough the offer of tea was made, then a meal, then the realization that Zhongli didn’t have as much as ten mora on him. By that time fronting the bill Lumine allowed herself to be lulled into a gentle reverie of conversation, finding such well worth the cost of paying to sate Paimon’s invincible appetite.

“It’s truly a beautiful day, very auspicious. The adepti will be in a good mood today, for Cloud Retainer will not have to worry about her equipment being damaged, and Moon Carver and Mountain Shaper in return will be glad for the peace and quiet. If not, Cloud Retainer might be inclined to look in on her neighbors and then…” Zhongli shrugged. “Forgive me, I did not mean to speak of the past. It is a day for such musings I suppose.”

“You always have such interesting stories Zhongli!” Paimon enthused. “Besides, it’s more interesting than talking about our recent activities. These commissions, I wonder when we’re actually going to start being paid properly!”

“Why do you call it a day for reminiscing?” Lumine interrupted, knowing well that if Paimon began to complain the group would be liable to be sitting there all day.

“Ah, a reason that touched someone else more than it did myself. Still, it was a sad story, one cannot have a part in it without somehow changing. Then again, I suppose it is that way with most things in life. Adepti, human, deity, one cannot exist without being touched by those around us. Only there are some who carry the burden more easily than others. Some are forever changed, cut themselves off from the world for fear of the repetition of history, for fear it is them that brings calamity.”

“Xiao,” Lumine whispered. For a moment there was a pause, as if to attempt to conjure up the man in question. Yet soon enough Zhongli nodded his head, a soft smile painting his lips.

“Let me tell you a story. It is one worth doing so, even if it is not one very pleasant to speak of.”

You were so perfect. Everything you did was perfect. And I destroyed you.

“It was back when Xiao first began his contract with me. He was wilder then, having just been freed from great suffering, yet also somehow happier. Or perhaps it was only that he was more willing to be happy. He would walk among the people scattered across Liyue often, though even then he despised the bustle of what would one day become this harbor. In truth, I do not know the proper details of the matter, but it was on one such voyage that he met, well, them.”

I can still remember the first day we met, the sunset in your hair. It was like a halo had formed around you. I could not believe that you were not an adeptus yourself. If was only when you bowed to me I realize that you were human. You were my equal even then, even when you were calling me ‘my lord’ and making some stupid promise about not meaning to trespass.

“Xiao was immediately entranced by them, or so it seemed to me. You know how time differs between humans and adepti. Yet even by human standards, I think they must have fallen in love quickly. What is that concept that you humans so love? Ah, yes. Soulmates. In truth, I do believe that, if there are those meant for one another, than they must have been. Xiao did not change, not per se, but he did soften. It made me happy to see, for though I had freed and named him, I had not been able to teach him what is so difficult for those of us who live above the clouds to learn, the value of humanity.

“You may think Traveler that Xiao does not much think of individual humans, but that is not the truth. Indeed he was much wilder then, much more willing to shed blood to make sure that impurities were treated. I do believe if I had not forbidden him from killing humans he may have done it, not for hatred but for lack of understanding. Yet he softened then, for in this love was a window to a new world. Xiao had previously walked amongst humans, but now he lived among them too.”

You always told me how much your life turned upside down after you met me. Yet I changed so much more. I’ll never be that way again. I couldn’t without you. Everyone would stare at me, and you would not be there. You would not tell me that they did not hate me. You would not tell me that I was not destroying them.

“I do not think that Xiao understood the fragility of humans at the time. He did not understand the ways that they so easily fall, did not understand that time passes differently for us. Nor did he understand that most crucial aspect of human life, their ability to survive. A human may love and may lose and they will live on, as long as they survive those first harrowing moments. An adeptus is not the same, will never change, will never move on. That is one of the reasons that adepti do not enjoy the company of humans. Adepti rarely understand humans on their own terms, and if an adeptus does manage to befriend, or even love, one, that will not change. An adeptus that loves a human dooms themselves. Yet I did not have the heart to try to tell Xiao such a thing. Even if I had, I do not believe he would have listened.

“Yet even time was not as kind as one might have hoped, for Xiao did not see his love grow old, though that may have had its own ravages, its own sorrows. No, not all tragedies come at the end of a blade, some come with a sudden chill, a cough that does not go away, an illness that ravages towns and cities.”

They said that your village was safe, that the illness was in Mondstadt. They said that you would be alright. They lied. They were all liars. They lied and they killed you because of that lie. Or maybe I killed you, who knows, maybe I was the one who brought calamity on you all.

“I only met them a few times, did not witness their death. Xiao did however, and just as he was changed in their meeting, so too was he changed in their parting. It is a pity, they were too young to die, the reason too mundane, too foolish. Yet that is what one must accept when one walks with humans. They either are cut like flowers, their life draining from them just as it began, or they wither, skin and bones and wrinkles and living frailty. Which one is more tragic? The swift end or the drawn out pain? But that is not for us to decide, only to accept.

“Xiao, however, could not accept such a thing, could not find a way to edge his grief in something. There are some tales that are sad when they end, yet some live on, haunting us, refusing us all the peace we may be allowed, the comfort and the calm.”

You’ll never know how I reacted. I’m glad you won’t. But if you’d been there, it’d wouldn’t’ve happened. If you were there I, I wouldn’t’ve been crushed.

“It is not for me to say how Xiao was changed, nor what his actions were. He has ever been loyal and his moral code ever strict. Yet one can be cruel even when one is not committing outward wrong. And Xiao has ever been committing wrong against himself since. A penance not even I can absolve him of. Just as an adeptus will ever love a human in life, so will they ever mourn them in death.”

I never had any use for my name, or at least I don’t now. I am grateful to Morax for it, but I hate it. I hate it so much. It is worthless now, for now you will never use it.

The breeze was soft, the sunset warm. He had not moved in hours, had not budged an inch. It was like this every year. Only when the sun went down, when a new day came could he pry himself up from his spot, kneeling in the ground.

You had always seemed a bit self-conscious about your birthday, explaining how weird it felt to be a year older, to realize that the past year was over, that you were different now, older now. Even if you assured him you were still young, you also seemed to be in mourning over your past self, even though you had been them a mere day ago.

Yet you seemed to love when he came to visit you, loved the flowers and leaves and stones he found for you. It was a special day, your birthday. It was a day that you two always had together. It was the day you had come into the world, and how could that not be such a joyous thing, something worth celebrating? Even now, even when you were gone, even when he should curse it, he could not help but love today. Even when it meant staring at your grave, the pain in his chest stronger than ever, the grief drowning him.

“A beautiful sunset.”

The familiar voice of Morax echoed through Xiao’s ears. Always he waited at your grave, and always his benefactor came, as if he might ease some of the weight. Xiao did not in truth believe he did, but he could not bring himself to dismiss Morax either. He could not heal Xiao’s pain, but Morax was still the only one who could watch over him. Maybe that was enough.

“It’s… fine.”

“I’m sure they would laugh at you for saying that.”

“Maybe.”

A pause. Xiao did not mean to be so dismissive. And yet, he did not know. He would never know now. You were gone.

“I do not wish to interfere in your grief, in your memories. Yet I must tell you, Alatus, Xiao, one I named, you sell yourself cheap. As do you sell the one you loved. You blame yourself for the fickleness of fate, you blame them for leaving you. Even if you say you do not. You have never accepted the transience of humanity. It is that, as much as the impurities you defeat, which is killing you. It is the knowledge that their heart would break at your never ending grief that gnaws at your heart.”

Xiao did not know what to say, merely letting Morax walk back down the gently sloping hill. He was right, he was completely right. Why did you leave him? Why? The unfairness bubbled up inside Xiao, as did the shame. It was not your fault you were born human. It was not your fault you died. Yet it hurt, it hurt so badly. It burned a hole in his soul, and nothing would heal it. Not a millennia, not all the birthdays in the world. You were gone. You were forever gone.

Eventually night came, and with it the reprieve of knowing another birthday was over, the sorrow of another year gone without you. You would be centuries old now if you had been born an adeptus, yet Xiao’s love for you burned bright as ever, a flame that would never die so long as the yaksha could remember his name, remember who he was.

Mozart

There was something undeniably fun about cleaning up the mansion, the intrepid explorer thought. Like peeling back layers of the past. For though the mansion no longer seemed foreboding, it still hid a few secrets here and there. And she was determined to find them, at least as many as possible until she become a human dust ball.

I wonder if I’ll find anything interesting today, she thought as she climbed up the staircase to the third floor. Though Saint-Germain had assured the young lady that there was little of interest up there, mostly storage crates, she still thought that it would be fun to explore. After all, what does an immortal vampire collect? Do they collect only a few precious objects, or are they horrendous hoarders? It was an interesting thought to entertain, and one she was musing over as she opened the first door on the left, only to be met with a surprising sight indeed.

She could recognize a violin case anywhere. There was something very, specific about the shape of a violin. Whether a case that fit the form of a violin, or a glorified rectangle, there was no way this musician wouldn’t recognize it. Former musician, she corrected herself. After all, she hadn’t picked up a violin since she was living her old life, and that was months ago at this point. Yet old habits die exceedingly hard, and thus she found herself gingerly opening the violin case, hoping, despite herself, that she might see something at least somewhat preserved.

The violin was certainly worse for wear. The bridge was teetering dangerous close to collapse, the strings slackened and dirty with unwiped rosin residue. The varnish was cracked and peeling, and there was no small amount of sweat damage on the neck. Nevertheless the sound post was still in its proper place, and there appeared to be no seams. For a moment the woman’s heart soared. A violin! A beautiful violin! Oh how wonderful it might be to play again, to once more feel the weight of a bow in her hand. She could even ask Mozart for some of his sheet music for surely…

Oh. That’s right. Mozart. The would-be violinist couldn’t help the sigh that escaped her. Mozart. Her partner, her lover, her closest friend. What would Mozart’s reaction be to her picking up the violin? For surely she could not compare to a man who was performing for imperial courts by the age of six? Suddenly it felt like a piece of lead was forming in her stomach, and she set the violin down. Closing the case with a soft click she began the work of dusting out the room.

Throughout the rest of the day she couldn’t stop thinking about that violin. It was one of the things that the time traveler had missed most about her life in the present. She supposed at first that she could ask Saint-Germain about getting a violin, but felt at the end of the day that such a purchase would end up being too expensive, and that she didn’t have much sheet music to go along with it anyways. Still, she never stopped loving the violin, and now that one was so close to her the urge to pick it up and practice was overwhelming. And yet Mozart… Though she knew logically that her lover wouldn’t care, might even be excited about the prospect of a musical partner, the seeds of doubt that sprouted in her chest refused to wilt. How could she, an amateur, ever compare to Mozart? What if he told her she was awful? What if he hid the violin from her? What if she was bothering his precious time practicing and composing. All these thoughts shuffled around her head until she was barely sweeping the floor. No, she didn’t want to think about what might happen if Mozart were to find out about her past as a violinist. Better to let it lie.

At least, that’s what she told herself. Yet the prospect of an unclaimed instrument in the house was too strong. Thus the young lady found herself in front of Leonardo’s door, anxiously holding the old case tightly to her chest, hoping that no one would catch her and blab to her partner.

“Who is it?” Leonardo’s voice was muffled through the door, nevertheless retaining its easing cadence.

“Just me,” she replied, opening the door a crack.

“Ah, yes. What can I do for you signorina?” Leonardo glanced up from the sketch he was working on. Immediately his eyes fell to the violin case, and curiosity flashed across his face. “I haven’t seen this in decades.”

“Ah, is it yours? I’m sorry if it is I didn’t mean to bother it! It’s only, well, I found it yesterday while cleaning and I was wondering if you could fix it up a bit. The bridge especially is, well, on its last legs.”

“I’m not surprised,” Leonardo let out a chuckle, “in truth that violin belongs to an old friend of Saint-Germain’s. He had taken a shine to it, and since the friend wanted a new violin he left it here. However Saint-Germain is surprisingly impatient – disastrous for anyone attempting to learn a capricious instrument like the violin – and thus it ended up in the attic. I can take a look at it if you’d like, though if you don’t mind I’d like to ask why. Is Mozart looking for a spare?”

“Ah. No. It’s, it’s for me.”

“You play? How wonderful! I’m sure Mozart will be rather excited to hear that his lovely lady is also blessed with great musical talent.”

“Ah thank you, but no! Please don’t tell Wolfgang about this.”

“You wish to surprise him?”

“No, in fact, well, I kinda hope that he doesn’t find out at all.” She smiled awkwardly as Leonardo fixed her with a confused stare.

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t tell him.”

“That’d be like asking me to show some sketches to Vincent, or Theo, or you. How can I go up to one of the most talented musical geniuses in history and say ‘hey! I play the violin too!’ He’ll just think I’m pathetic.”

“I sincerely doubt Mozart would act in any such way. Not to one he loves so much.”

“Well,” the young lady flushed slightly, “I don’t know. Even if he didn’t say it out loud, I feel like I would just be able to tell. He’d look at me with such hidden distaste, and I don’t know if I could stand such a thing.”

“Well, if you are truly that worried,” Leonardo fixed her with a skeptical look. “I will try not to tell Mozart anything, but I will let you know when I’ve finished my work.”

“Thank you Leonardo, I appreciate it very much.”

“I’m willing to be of help at any time.”

The young woman closed the door softly on her way out, thoughts filled with what Leonardo had said. Yes, the old vampire was probably right. After all, there was no one that she confided in so much as Mozart. Hadn’t they both laid their souls bare by now? Didn’t she trust him enough? She did, of course she did! And yet.

 “Meine Liebling. Was hast du dieses Tag gemacht?” Mozart’s voice was as clear and musical as a windchime, and despite it all the young woman felt herself relax.

It was nighttime now, the work of the day set aside for the bliss of spending a night cuddled in the arms of one’s love. The couple had gotten in the habit of laying out their days to one another, a kind of living journal just between the two of them. Tonight appeared to be no different.

“Let’s see Wolfie,” she giggled as Mozart blushed slightly, “nothing really of note today. Finished cleaning up things with Sebastian and went out into town. I can’t believe how much bread this household goes through in a day! And you? How was your day?”

“Ach,” Mozart scowled. “I was told by Saint-Germain that his friends were holding a sort of party in a week and he wants me to play for them. I don’t know why I accepted.” Letting out a sigh Mozart buried his face in the top of her head. “I don’t want to play for these men and women, no appreciation for music.”

“You can always tell Saint-Germain you changed your mind.”

“No, I agreed to do it, so I have to.”

“You really care about your promises don’t you.”

“Well, it’d just be a pain to change it at this point!” Mozart insisted, something which brought a laugh out of her despite herself. Ah how he liked to hide his own kindness from himself.

“Anyways,” Mozart continued, “that means I’ll have to be out late in the evenings for a while. Don’t wait up for me, or else you won’t be able to get anything done the next day.”

“I make no promises not to wait and you know it,” she replied, giving Mozart a peck on the cheek. “Still, thank you for looking out for me, I hope you end up enjoying the performances.”

“It won’t matter whether or not I enjoy it, besides I should think that would be rather impossible.”

“Why, because you’ll miss me?”

“Of course not! I mean, well, maybe, whatever!”

Her laughter carried through the room,  joyous in the calm cool air of the evening. In these moments how could life be anything but pure bliss? She allowed herself to be carried away by the conversation, nestled safe in the arms of the one she loved, all worries dissipating away as she drifted off to sleep.

It was only the next day that the young lady realized how much of an asset Mozart’s impromptu practice sessions might be for her. Though she would certainly miss spending so much time in the evening with her partner, it also presented an easy solution to how on Earth she was supposed to practice with her lover always in the mansion. The day that Leonardo finally pronounced the violin playable was one spent in high anticipation. Kissing her partner goodbye, she hoped that she didn’t seem too excited for Mozart to be on his way. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be around him, no in fact loneliness seemed to set in the moment that his carriage turned down the lane and out of sight. But the allure of the violin was too much to deny at this point, and she scurried away excitedly to her room, anticipation building.

Playing an instruments after months of absolutely no practice was never something that the violinist assumed easy. Still it was frustrating how awkward the instrument seemed to rest on her shoulder, how her fingers fumbled around the bow. Tuning took about ten minutes, and the first attempts at playing a scale made it only about an octave and a half before she stopped and restarted. Nevertheless there are some things that your muscle memory refuses to forget, and soon enough she was going up and down three octave scales again, even if the top half was rather squeaky. Happy enough after about twenty minutes the young lady then went through the arduous task of trying to recall any sort of piece beyond their first two lines.

Mozart’s face flashed through her mind about five minutes into her first attempt at Beethoven’s Romance 1. How she wished that she could simply ask him for some sheet music. But no, she’d already convinced herself that secrecy was the best option, and there was certainly no going back now. After all, how would she ever explain that she was sneaking around with a violin because she was terrified that he would think she was an absolute hack? Not to mention that he might still think she was a hack after that, especially considering the level she was currently working at. The young lady could barely remember the notes to Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star right now, much less anything actually impressive. Then again, had she ever been able to play anything impressive? Certainly not on the level of Mozart.

Though she managed to play for about an hour and a half it was a fight the whole way through, and by the time she was finished she wasn’t sure that she had ever been particularly good at the violin, though the logical part of her brain reminded her that with a bit of practice she’d surely improve quickly. It was late evening by the time she finished, having started right after dinner, and she quickly hid the violin under her bed before going to check and see if Sebastian needed anything, all the while thinking about what Mozart was doing in that moment, and what he might think if he were to hear what had just happened.

The rest of the evening was passed in a cloud of moodiness. Even the usually blasé Theo seemed to pick up on the fact, asking what was giving the young woman such a hangdog look. Though she quipped back her usual “I’m not a dog” she couldn’t deny the fact that she probably seemed awfully dejected at the moment. Nor could she ignore the fact that Mozart would certainly pick up on this the moment he got home. If he was a bit brusque he was still probably the best person at reading her mood – even if he didn’t always know what to do about it. She had to find a way to rein in her feelings, or risk all her plans falling apart. However it was becoming quickly apparent that this was easier said than done, and in the end all she could do was go to bed early, pretending that she didn’t notice Mozart’s soft gait across the room, as well as the way he kissed her gently on the forehead, whispering a soft “I love you” before drifting off to sleep.

The next day Mozart was up early at his piano, scales echoing through the hallways as the musician practiced his repertoire to perfection. The same thing could not be said of his lover, who was spending the day in the library, trying to act as if she was working on reorganizing the bookshelves rather than looking for a quiet place to wonder where everything had gone wrong in her life.

“Ah, signorina,” Leonardo’s voice spread throughout the library. The polymath was trailed by an apparently rather disgruntled Isaac, who murmured out a greeting before shooting a look at his taller companion. “I hope that the violin is going well.”

“You play the violin?” Isaac asked.

“Only very badly!” The young woman replied. “Leonardo, I wanted to keep it a secret.”

“Ah, ‘scusa,” Leonardo replied, not looking very sorry at all. “Since I already let Isaac in on the secret now, you might as well tell us about it.”

“Fair enough,” she sighed. “In truth it’s harder than I thought it would be. My fingers feel so awkward and wonky, and certainly the lack of sheet music doesn’t help. In fact I was hoping that we’d have some sheet music here in the library, but it must all be in Mozart’s room, since I don’t see much here.”

“Not unless you count some very old chorus books,” Leonardo agreed. “Why don’t you just ask Mozart about it?”

“I told you, I don’t want him to find out. Especially now when I’m at my worst. I’m sure he’ll be rather, well, rather unimpressed.”

“I still don’t think that Mozart would say anything against you,” Leonardo said skeptically.

“I agree,” Isaac chimed in. “You two always seem completely devoted to one another, in fact it’s rather annoying. What I mean,” the physicist continued as she shot him a look, “is that I don’t think that Mozart would be anything but further enamored with you if you told him that you played an instrument.”

“See, Isaac agrees with me, and he’s not the kind to honey his words.”

“Still…” she trailed off. They were probably right. I mean, of course they were, weren’t they two of the greatest historical minds? Still, still. She just couldn’t do it. At the end of the day, she was just too scared.

Uttering an excuse about how she needed to do the dishes the young woman left the library, a half-hearted “I’ll think about it” as her last words on the subject. The pit in her stomach seemed only to be opening farther, and she couldn’t help but feel like she was drowning in her emotions.

That evening was a rather distracted one, as she floated half-heartedly through her workload. Dinner was spent listening to the conversation flow in and out of her ears, never truly reaching her in any meaningful capacity. The only thing that managed to reach her was Mozart discreetly squeezing her hand under the table, a gesture she returned gratefully for Mozart’s actions brought her nothing but happiness. That evening she practiced for an hour, letting the familiar notes of one of the etudes she had memorized wash over her, the familiar pattern of her jumping fingers a comfort. At least she could still play this relatively well. Perhaps it was the only thing that she could.

It was the fourth day since she’d started practicing the violin, the sixth since Mozart had started going over to the house of Saint-Germain’s friend to rehearse, and the day before the soiree was actually to be held. The composer had gone out in the middle of the day for something, and despite everything the young woman found herself pulling the worn violin case out from under her bed. It was easier to play in the daytime, the sun seemed to clear away the worries, the uncertainty. Though the young woman knew that the violin was no lighter than it been yesterday, she nevertheless passed through her scales quicker, marveling at what one could do when the fatigues of everyday life had not yet set in, and when the worries of the world were still off one’s shoulders. Perhaps things weren’t as bad as she has thought.

This optimistic view was shattered the moment the door swung open, revealing a very surprised Mozart. Immediately the joy the violinist felt shattered into horror, the beautiful day having apparently betrayed her.

The young woman honestly couldn’t quite remember how the whole conversation went. She didn’t know how she replied to Mozart’s inquiry, and she didn’t remember how she escaped the room. She couldn’t even remember if she managed to put the violin back in the case. What she did remember however was the incredulous look on her lover’s face, the words “what are you doing” passing coldly through his perfect lips, the sinking feeling in her stomach that she was right to think that he would be disappointed in her.

As soon as the sun went down and Mozart was safely out of the house the young woman went back to the third floor. Though it was certainly less dusty before the air of mystery still pervaded the room, although the urge to explore it had long since left her. After all, was she not suffering the consequences of ill-advised curiosity right now? No, best to let it lie. Just as it was best to return the violin to its rightful spot in storage, since she evidently had no need for it now. It deserved better anyways, deserved to be played by someone with at least a modicum of talent. Unlike her, who could not even play a few scales correctly. What a bunch of nonsense.

Still she couldn’t help the bitter feeling that spread through her chest as she took one last look at the case and closed the door. Despite the frustration, despite the poor intonation and the lack of memory and the screeching E string, she still rather loved playing the violin. The way that the notes emanated from her fingers, the pure full sound of the chords. Ah, how she loved it so much. But she couldn’t keep doing this, not now that Mozart knew that she was a mere imitation of a violinist.

That Mozart seemed to completely avoid her the next day – having apparently gone out in the morning and having spent the afternoon preparing for the soiree – certainly didn’t help her much flagged mood. Yes, she knew logically that it was probably just bad timing, but that still didn’t stop thought from flying around her head, fears that somehow she had shamed him so much that he refused to be near her. Yes, perhaps that was thinking very lowly of his character, but she couldn’t help herself. It was all too much, and try as she might the young lady couldn’t totally chase these fears out of her, having to settle for distraction.

When Mozart left for the soiree, having not even said goodbye, all the energy the young woman might’ve had suddenly left her. There was no likelihood of talking to Mozart tonight, at least not if she wanted not to be incoherent with fatigue. Though she tried to get through the rest of the day Sebastian, being ever-vigilant, gave her an early dinner and sent her on her way. Climbing the stairs the young woman realized how tired she was, and how good some sleep might be, at least to drown out all her thoughts for a while.

There was something rather odd on her bed. Though all logic pointed towards it being a violin case, she could not quite bring herself to believe it. The case itself was gorgeous, the wood having been carved to perfection, varnished so as to not disturb its beautiful dark sheen. When she finally got up the courage to touch the case, not entirely convinced that she wasn’t simply dreaming, it was smooth to the touch. The locks were quick to open, and the catch did not stick. The inside was padded in a silverly silk, well-stuffed and sure to keep any cold out. Yet it was the violin that caught her, for it was a beautiful one.

Slowly she lifted it up, tightening the bow with apprehension. The first few notes she attempt came out clear and pure, the rest similar in their brightest, in the fullness of their tone. Yes, this was a beautiful violin.

Underneath the case was a few loose pages of sheet music, the writing on it was impossible to mistake. Mozart’s hand, despite being rather loopy in letters, was perfectly made for writing sheet music, clear and separate and perfectly legible – not something one could say of all composers. Yet how could this be? Did someone become aware of the fact she had put the violin away? Had they stolen Mozart’s works? And yet the paper seemed to be rather new, the pieces unfamiliar to her. There was only one explanation, even if it was one she could not bring herself to accept. There must be some mistake. Perhaps Mozart ordered a new violin and one of the members of the mansion thought to bring it to her room, instead of walk into his study and perhaps accidentally bump into something. Yes, that must’ve been the answer, and that being so she could not keep playing it. Tremulously she put the violin back in the case, setting it on the seat at the foot of her bed, and falling quickly into a confused and dreamless sleep.

She woke to her lover leaning over her, softly tracing stray locks of her hair across her face.

“Wolfie?”

“It’s me. I’m sorry to have woken you up. Being Saint-Germain’s friends the performance went well into the night.”

“You don’t seem happy about that.”

“Why should I be? Such a waste of time, I could have been composing all those days. But at least it is over now. Everyone seemed to like the performance.”

“I’m glad to hear.”

For a moment the two stared awkwardly at each other, the agitation plain on each of their faces. And though that was not necessarily surprising to Mozart, it was to the young woman, who knew that her partner seemed on the verge of asking something, yet was engaging in the small talk he usually put down as a waste of time.

“Did you, ah, did you see the new violin.”

“Oh? Oh yes, I did. It looks very beautiful I’m sure, well, I’m sure it will do you well.”

“Me well?” Confusion painted the composer’s usually serene face.

“Well, yes. After all, isn’t it for you?”

“Of course not! Why should I get a violin when I have one that suits me perfectly well as it is? Honestly, what kind of madman do you take me for?”

“I, well…”

“It’s for you! I thought you were slow at some points but honestly! I don’t know why I bother.” The scarlet that colored Mozart’s face was undeniable, even in the dim light of the moon.

“Why would you get me a violin?”

“Well, if you want to play on that old one then you can! But I wouldn’t recommend it. Too much sweat damage on the neck, that one wasn’t meant to be played again I bet. Besides, I, I don’t know! It seemed like a good idea! I mean when Leonardo told me he was fixing up a violin for you… I know the man’s a genius but would you trust that one over a luthier? I wouldn’t.”

“Leonardo told you? But I told him that it was a secret!”

“I confronted him about it. It was obvious that you were distracted over something, and I was worried that, well. I know we, I, have had difficulty expressing myself in the past. And after everything that we’ve been through, well I’d rather not have any sort of repeat performance. And I thought even if you were angry at me or upset, I’d rather know than not.”

“But Wolf, I could never be angry at you. At least, if I were I wouldn’t tell everyone in the mansion but not you. And why didn’t you just ask me?”

The look on the composer’s face was so funny she couldn’t help but giggle – it seemed as if the thought had never crossed his mind. He may have improved, but he truly was the same Mozart in some ways that he had been when she had first entered the mansion. Prickly, prone to being roundabout, but caring nevertheless. Pressing a kiss lightly against his cheek she smiled at him.

“Well, I appreciate that you tried. Although I am rather peeved that you went to someone else, and that Leonardo told you. I’ll have to talk to him tomorrow. Still, I appreciate it.”

“Well, thank you. Although I also have a complaint.”

“And what is that?”

“Well, it’s simply that some idiot with moths in her brain thought it more prudent to sneak around and try to covertly practice than tell me that she played an instrument. I thought that, well, after all the time we’ve known each other it stung a bit. I mean, are we not fellow musicians, all else aside?”

It was a short statement, but one that made her heart stutter anyways. Looking down for a moment she began to play with the covers between her fingers, trying to think of how to put into words all the emotions that had gone through her this past week.

“The thing is, well, um,” why were the words so difficult to get out? “It’s just that I’m an amateur, a student. I never played in a professional orchestra, only youth orchestras and other school and community programs. I know I’m not the best violinist under the sun, honestly, it’s a miracle I got into some of the programs I did. I know that, and compared to you I mean, how can I even compete? Not that I’m trying to be better than you of course! It’s only that not only could I not keep up with you, I’d fall flat on my face within the first few minutes. I just, I didn’t want you to be, embarrassed by me.”

For a moment the room was silent, and her heart flagged. Perhaps it was better to have said nothing. Then however the light touch of her partner’s fingers graced her jaw, lifting her head up to meet her eyes with his.

“I could never think so low of a fellow musician. Never think so low of you. Yes, perhaps your technique was not perfect, and your intonation poor, and your vibrato unsettled and your memory for pieces appears utterly gone a-”

“Mozart.”

“Sorry, the teacher in me. Anyways, what I mean is that I know that you have talent, and even if you didn’t, though such a thing is impossible, I could feel your passion. Before I opened the door, when I was standing there, well, I mean, it wasn’t half bad. And I do think that if you buckled down you could improve a great deal.”

Though not perhaps the most romantic statement ever made, the young woman couldn’t help but feel her heart lighten, more than it had at any point in the past few days. Throwing her arms around the composer, who immediately turned beat red and began sputtering incoherently, she buried her face in his neck.

“Thank you Wolfgang. Truly, thank you.”

“I was just giving my professional opinion,” he murmured, looking away.

“Whatever you say,” she giggled. Mozart may have retained his prickliness, but that could not deter the meaning of his words, or the joy she took from them.

The next day the young woman opened the violin case as soon as she was done with the morning preparations. Humming the tuning pitches softly to herself she relished the openness of her actions, the fact that she didn’t have to slink away to practice anymore. After some scales she looked at the first etude in the pile that Mozart had given to her. Grimacing slightly at the key – Ab major – she nevertheless took great joy out of the first chord that she struck from the violin.

As she played she heard the soft lilting tone of Mozart’s piano. The notes reached her ears and mingled with her own music, creating a perfect sound. Ah Mozart, she thought to herself, you really cannot stop yourself from your own kindness.