#m-event

The Adepti knows just how much you two are… explosive in each other’s presence.

Throughout the times everyone has come to reunite—be it for a mere reunion or a summons by Morax—not once have they ever seen any lighthearted conversations be exchanged between you and him.

Ah, but they suppose that one good thing coming out of your partnership is that he’s talked to you more than the rest of the Adepti combined.

Is that really a good thing?

“Uncouth as expected. Perhaps if you refine your attacks a little more you would get less bruises, but I suppose that’s too much, isn’t it?” satirical as ever for his first words in the day.

“Excuse me?”

Did he just say that? To a Yaksha that his dear friend Bosacius mentored? How dare he affront the battle style taught to you—ah this is madness!

“You’re excused.”

“You—!”

Xiao leans off the tree he’s appeared at after ‘checking up’ on your work. What are the odds that he simply did so in retaliation for what you did some time ago?

“There are telltale signs of one of the sealed prisoners resurfacing from the stone forest,” he says, eyeing the nasty bruise on your arm, but does nothing to address it further.

No one can possibly compare to him when it comes to being indifferent—to you—unless necessary.

“Be swift in your work. We’re to patrol Guyun afterward.”

The thought of Guyun Stone Forest does not weigh in your mind for too long—it’s a prison, a regular place to check on—instead, you’re more set on getting the final say on… on anything.

It isn’t a matter of who’s superior, to be honest, it’s just that he always has a bone to pick with you!

How can you not return that twicefold?

“Get back here, Xiao!”

He flickers away into cyan, gone in a fraction of a second, and you’re throwing your arms up in surrender—

“Darn little man!”

—Only to hiss in pain when pain receptors remind you of your recently acquired bruise. Heck, if he hadn’t showed up so suddenly you wouldn’t have gotten hurt!

Surely, if not for the fact that you both have sworn fealty towards the Geo Archon, you would’ve spent the ensuing years seizing each other’s throats.

Not like that doesn’t happen in each and every single sparring session—times where he is just as annoying.

But then again, when is he not?

He doesn’t run out of things to nitpick.

You’d think that since you don’t do it to him then he won’t do it himself, but no. In the end, you jump in on the boat to find minor errors in him, which is rather complicated, but no man is perfect.

Does he view himself as one? Heavens no, that one you can vouch for.

Is he being pedantic?

If he is, he has all the right to be, given his experience goes a hundred year beyond yours, but that does not mean he gets to do it every single damned time—

“I refuse to herald such news in light of you feeling affronted once more, but,” Xiao skids away following an interval between your clashes, “You’ve gotten rather under par. It wasn’t to my notice that you fell out of your prime so gravely.”

What the hell, you stand with a growl. That’s just being mean now! Oh, but I shouldn’t be surprised, really.

His glance towards your weapon—the same as his—isn’t as furtive as he would’ve liked.

“Or perhaps you are not taking this sparring seriously. Where’s your grand lightning?”

The faintest remnant of onyx and cyan flutters about the atmosphere, the revelatory signs of his windy, turbulent power sending a buzz of thrill within you.

Aha? He’s rather pressed today, isn’t he?

You wonder why. Oh, perhaps it’s because I took his serving of almond tofu?

It’s not often that you both decide to fight it out with elements. But if he so wishes… who are you to reject that? It’s been a long time.

Molten gold eyes lock against yours. It is seldom for him to engage in eye contact, but whenever it happens, it’s always acute. Intense.

“Afraid it’ll drown in the winds?” there’s a beat to his voice, challenging—almost domineering.

It makes you grind your teeth.

“Lightning?” the rumble of said element begins with a warmth in your veins before it succeeds with its outward manifestation.

A coat of bright azure, distant from the supposed violet, crackles between your fingers down to the base of your polearm.

Its sound clashes with the squall surrounding the other Yaksha, blanketing the atmosphere until nothing but blue and teal erupts in a skirmish.

You spin your weapon, weaving the harsh, raw element with adept skill. You think you see the corner of his lips tug upward a little, but you’re uncertain.

It can be another show of mockery—and that doesn’t ease you at all.

“I’ll show you lightning.”

If he’s not being annoying, then he’s being adamantly quiet for whatever reason that goes in that head of his. Or he’s thinking of something to throw you off-guard.

Oftentimes he does not talk at all, but there are exceptions when he does and it’s not sarcastic, though it’s as rare as seeing a certain boy be lucky.

Wangshu Inn stands as both of your sanctuaries—or, to be more appropriate, posts. Fronting the faraway shores of the Stone Forest, the main site of interest for centuries ago and centuries to come.

The atmosphere in the said forest nowadays is quite aberrant, hence the austere watch, and consequently, the dull time.

You aren’t used to standing idly but as of now all karma-infested camps in need of exorcising are thoroughly purged.

So what is there to do but stand beside a fellow Yaksha, who has taken it upon himself to be as still and silent as a rock?

“You’re brooding,” quietude answers your observation, “Is this because we couldn’t find out what creature has gotten loose in Guyun and hasn’t made itself known for the past week?”

That sounds about right. It’s shameful to admit but it’s nothing but the truth.

Of course, the rest of the Adepti have been informed of this alarming situation, but dread as you all may, no one is exactly capable of breathing underwater.

Thus, all that can be done is to remain vigilant and end the creature the moment it so breaches past an inch of the water surface.

“Celestias, Xiao, talk to me,” you grumble, stacking the empty plates that once held almond tofu, “Your feathers are ruffled and you’re not even—”

“I don’t think I’ve heard you be sincere in your worries for once.” he bluntly states, eyes flickering to yours.

His voice is oddly loud, not in a noisy fashion. It just seems louder than the usual mutters, and you later realize that it’s because of your closeness.

Perhaps you’ve been too engrossed, too distracted. His shoulder is touching yours, faces turned to look at the other. Despite the only skin contact being that of your shoulders, he emanates a gentle kind of warmth.

A warmth that’s incongruous to his cold hisses and frosty eyes.

A minute passes with him searching your gaze, and in a low voice, he whispers, “It’s…”

Though his voice does not continue, his eyes does, and they trail from yours, to your nose, then to your lips. Immediately, something inside you churns.

There’s an intense need to say something—oh what the hell, your cheeks are warming.

“It’s what. Come on, say it to my face, I’m right here,” he blinks as if coming out of a trance, “It’s off-putting? Exasperating? You—”

“It’s acceptable.” He completes and looks away, discreet with his tiny exhale.

You’re at a loss. Acceptable? What kind of answer is-

“Ugh! You’re so weird!”

“Such disrespect—”

Now, if you’re not at each other’s throats spouting passive aggressive insults—or you’re not sparring with the subtle intent to pummel the other, or you’re not grumbling at his silence and vice versa… then the assumption that you’re both mad is true.

And neither of you are swallowing your pride to even utter a word to cut through the tension and reconcile.

When this happens, usually it’s the elapsing of time that serves as a remedy. You’ve gone far with not speaking to him for half a century. Too much for the humans, but too little for Adepti.

But as a result, this event is also rather complicated.

Despite the urge to grab your hair and pull it out in chagrin whenever you so breathe in his presence, the two of you are surprisingly able to complement and maneuver around each other’s weaknesses on the battlefield.

Which says a lot, for Yakshas are supposed to have no weaknesses.

No matter the blunt dichotomy between, no known Adeptus speaks against your optimum camaraderie.

It is one of a kind. Truly, if one’s only to witness your feats with him in the grounds of war and battle, no one will know of how you both (value) detest one another outside the bartered oaths and promises.

One promise and oath blessed upon you, a comrade, is a call.

The Vigilant Yaksha keeps his word; he will appear to those who says his name.

It’s easy—one syllable; X-i-a-o.

You’ve said it many times, called him countless times.

So why are you not calling him despite being in a situation that can actually take your life?

The crackle of blue lightning befalls like a judgement from Celestia, striking down the abhorrent creature in a single flash upon your command—at the cost of a great repercussion that struck your heart.

It is an expedient you rarely ever use—a double-edged trump card—to impair upon yourself an extensive damage that will be dealt double unto the enemy.

Dangerous as it is, however, it’s a brilliant thing—necessary only now because there will be risks of civilians’ deaths had you not struck the monster down in the small, permitted time frame.

Swift as the beam of lightning and maleficent as the rumble of thunder, your enormous enemy of the waters disperses into nothing—and you drop from the sky.

The wound on your chest, the lethargy in your body, they’re all too immense. Too much, but such are the prices for a marvelous attack, a wonderful save. You’re not the least bit guilty.

Beyond the raging tides, you happen to see an explosion so bright—so golden. Ah- but should you worry about that when you’re splashing against the sea and descending into its blue embrace?

Your comrade in arms… the Vigilant Yaksha, why are you not calling for him?

Is it because of earlier? You wonder as you sink—down, down to the unfathomable deep of the sea, crimson ichor mixing in with the cerulean.

Before Osial revealed himself close to Liyue, before this other creature that has been in hiding for weeks—you think he’s called Shen—emerged from Guyun Stone Forest, there roused an argument like never before.

It had honestly been terrifying, to witness his face contort to show unadulterated anger. You can’t even recall what you fought over. But he’s gone by the wind the second Osial’s appearance is felt.

Plans to follow after have been dropped as soon as another vortex swirled in to reveal your own enemy at the waters of the stone forest.

It’s supposed to be an easy battle—but it had a ship in its clutch, unmoving with the crew trapped in its mirage of false serendipity.

The idea of having casualties isn’t entertained. No room is allowed for it.

The battle ended as quickly as it began, with the crew having washed ashore. Thank heavens they were near shallow water.

But you? Ah, no, you’re far from land.

Xiao—you’ve said his name so many times, far too many to be counted. He might be even sick of it, actually.

Now… now you can’t even whisper it.

Submerged in water isn’t even an excuse, for even if you call for him inside your head, he shall appear.

“Wherever, whenever.”

Those had been his words.

Why again?

Maybe it’s because you don’t wish for him to see you like this; weak, unfitting for a Yaksha that has served Rex Lapis for millenniums.

Maybe it’s because you do not wish to see the disappointment on his face when he berates you for another recklessly acquired wound.

Ah, would he even dare to scold you this time after you singlehandedly defeated one of those shape-shifting water dragons that sunk ships by creating illusions and mirages?

After you saved a crew that’s in its possession whilst the Adepti, Qixing, and the Traveler are fighting Osial?

No, no he won’t... you think.

A fitting demise this is, you mull, losing grip of your consciousness.

Honestly, you’re thankful that you’re slipping this way and not losing air and drowning—or perhaps you already are? You can’t be sure at all… but it’s cold.

So cold… so unlike the warmth you’ve basked in weeks ago.

A throbbing sensation reminiscent of the lightning you conjured lulls you to a state of stasis until the sensation of sinking—of the surrounding water, even, fades into nothingness.

And along with it, your life.

Or maybe not?

Something disrupts the tranquility of the sea that’s hitherto been turbulent. A fissure in the realm of azure, accompanied by a mass of bubbles and—ah, you don’t know anymore.

The darkness—the black—is serene. Feeling such peace almost seems like a crime for a Yaksha who has slain hundreds if not thousands.

It feels odd, verboten for a being of bloodshed, more so because you are aware that you’re leaving someone similar to you behind.

“… up!”

You do wonder how he’ll fare alone.

“[-me]!”

Hasn’t it always been a wish of his to get rid of you?

“Wake up!”

It isn’t long until you are driven back to your senses, awakening to the light as if a forbidden spell of old has succeeded in its incessant endeavors to retrieve your soul before it can pass through the threshold of purgatory.

Temerity is unrestrained, which is valid, given you did just breathe back into life.

Narrowed golden slits are the first things you manage to fixate your eyes on in the blurry haze. That, and the continuous dripping of water upon your cold cheeks that are yet to regain their usual warmth.

Someone is above—who—… !

Saliently moving, you gasp, only to feel something rise from your throat as you push the person away.

Registering the pain in your chest comes with a delay, far too focused on expelling the water that had invaded your lungs and robbed you of air.

Gone with the water, the blur in your eyes follows suit after a couple of blinks. Your head is pounding as well as your heart and boy does it hurt. It hurts.

You can feel it—which means you truly are alive but-

“Why did you not call my name!?”

The cry of pain from being whirled around so abruptly sounds out before you can repress it, eyes pinching shut as dots decorate your vision.

Immediately, you settle for quick, shallow breaths, though it does very little to attenuate the sting.

A flinch is felt, then the heavy grip on your shoulders slackens. Though it’s just for a little bit.

When you reopen your eyes, the Vigilant Yaksha is all that you see.

Xiao has never worn such a face of extreme worry—eyebrows deeply furrowed, lips parted, puffs of breath leaving, and-

“You…” you do not continue the obvious.

His drenched figure, the way his raven hair clings unto his face and how his clothes are a tad shade darker. He had saved you.

“We saw the conclusion of the battle just after Osial was defeated,” he’s breathless, so uncomposed, “It was bright—that raging lightning. You were nowhere to be seen.”

Distraught is not something you expect the man to wear on his face. Ever.

Or mayhap coming from a moment of near death has prompted you to hallucinate; to see him be worried as he appraises your form, to feel his fingers judder upon your skin…

But his voice is a reminder that you are in fact, not hallucinating, and he is here.

“Why would you—such an injudicious attack that would’ve costed you your life had I not-!” he stops, sunken with dread evident in his chunters, “You’re still bleeding.”

I forgot about that, is your honest answer. I can’t seem to point where it hurts, it’s everywhere. You do not sound it though, wary to set the already hysteric Yaksha off more than he already is.

Enfeebled, you are risen from the sandy shores up into a secure hold.

Warm.

You’re in his arms.

It’s nice—that is, if he can just stop holding you so unbearably tight.

“Xiao-“ your voice begins with an embarrassing falter, so unbecoming, so weak.

“Be quiet.”

“Be gentle, then!”

You’re surprised that you have the energy to raise your voice—it’s not that loud, honestly—but he’s much more surprised than you are.

“Hah,” the Yaksha is awfully expressive today, what with his little lopsided smirk, “I’m saving you and all you do is complain? What was I even expecting.”

He sounds relieved.

The blur in your eyes returns, indicative of another possible drift out of consciousness, but you cling onto it harder this time.

You cannot… pass now, certainly not when you’re being carried back to where there is hope that you’ll be saved.

“Thank you.” You say, a little out of it.

Oh no, you’re not a little out of it.

You’re definitely out of it because you can’t help but admire your comrade’s otherworldly beauty as he’s enveloped with tealish winds that aid him in his swift travels.

His eyes meet yours in the briefest of seconds then his lips move to utter something you didn’t catch. Curse admiring him when you’re probably minutes away from fainting.

“What?”

“I said that it’s useless even if you didn’t call me. Though it would’ve been better if you did.”

His hold on you gets tighter again—though he’s much thoughtful this time, and doesn’t grip as hard as he did a while ago.

“What are you getting at?” your world is spinning, “I don’t think I can stay awake for much longer..”

His response comes with a voice that’s uncharacteristically soft.

It lacks jaundice, the sarcasm, the indifference—similar to the time when you were both at the inn, watching over the distant forest of Guyun.

“Even if I harbor ire, I would’ve come to you.”

Adeptus Xiao is a vexing man.

He gets under your nerves and he bites harshly with his critiques. A day doesn’t pass when he does not scowl your way, nor does an hour pass when he does not scoff at your whims.

But outside all of the things that infuriate you—and beyond what makes you maddening to him, there lies a mutual truth neither of you would admit.

“I would’ve saved you, regardless.”

In the end, you will always have his back, and he will have yours.

a/n: sweet, sweet, Xiao. Oh he can be so sweet with his words sometimes he's so pRECIOUS GRRRRRRR-

@cherryflushz @e7t3 @scarlet-halos @lordbugs @nebulaera @annoying-and-upset @hanniejji @applepi1415 @tjjjrsj @azirajane @koi-chairowo @uwu-dreams @yvechu @hey-comrade-hold-stil @limelightsuperhero @chloeloe @loptido @windyventi @nejibot @ganyuqrt @justrinnn @yasunamilk

A samurai lives with honor and vigilance, striking down foes with a wayward strike of a blade.

Known weaknesses are to be overcome and be a root of power, and with each descent of a comrade in the battlefield equates to honoring their death and trudging on to triumph over the war.

This creed is held above all for those who wield the sword, and Kazuha is no different from it.

It becomes his reason the moment his hand burns with the transient blaze of his friend’s Vision—becoming his purpose as he flees from Tenshukaku.

He has rooted deep into his heart the reality that he will have to respect Tomoaki’s decision. Accepted that he will honor him by bearing the now masterless Vision in hopes that one day, something greater will trounce that vicious lightning.

That passing shall be his source of strength, he will proceed with his own war.

But he later realizes with grave denial that he is far from being prepared to live by the code of the samurai.

“You…” a broken whisper in the cold.

He is not ready to march on his battlefield alone. It is an inopportune time—a cruel hand of destiny, a devastating turn of events. He did not want this.

He doesn’t want to honor this.

“Have to leave me.. Kazu..” a tiny plea lost to his ears.

Underneath the eternal squall that plays a part in fate’s cruel thesis, the fugitive runs with only the wind and his resolve as his incentives.

The lasting echoes of numerous bellows make him run faster.

But the heavy rain lags him down. The stormfall minutes ago has at long last begun to pour its tears, crying for a tragedy that is minutes away from reaching fruition.

Not if he goes against it, though.

Another murmur resounds, more desperate than ever, “They will catch you..”

The burn in his chest, the ache in his limbs, the mist in his eyes—why is it that even his body is going against his will?

Why must even he fall victim to this tragic play?

“I’m only slowing you down.”

He can’t allow it—no, he won’t allow it.

The boat is close—he has managed to outrun the shogunate, there is no way he’s stopping now.

The arms around his neck start to unlink themselves, letting go after the realization that he will not bend to the wish to let go. Feeling the deliberate loss of security on his person, he begins to panic.

Stop it. He can’t pause midway to move his sister from his back into his arms, there’s no time. Stop it… !

Amid the cold, he feels warmth seeping into the fabric of his already soaked clothes.

It’s his kin’s blood.

And just being here, bare in the watching eyes of life, trying to rescue someone who—despite is knocking on death’s door—still thinks of him in her last moments, makes him rasp out a sob he’s been trying to keep at bay.

“[Name], please just let me save you,”

His voice gets muffled by the rain and the shouting, but he knows his sister can hear him well, what with the responsive twitch of her fingers.

I cannot let it end like this, he thinks after recalling how bright [Name] had been when talking about the future. You cannot pass like this.

Why is that when he has finally started to reach back for the fingers that have grasped his—they are withdrawing farther and farther from him? Is this the universe’s reprisal for his negligence?

For knowing only how to lament and regret when everything is already too late?

“Please..” he tightens the hook of his grip on his sibling’s legs.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just please—please don’t take her.

Though he doesn’t remember when his thoughts begin to overpour with his grief, nor does he know who listens to his prayers, he doesn’t care.

Don’t take my sister from me.

He cries, “I can’t lose you, too.”

“…”

The sound of the rain is all that there is, but he doesn’t let up.

In all honesty, he believes that his voice no longer reached his sibling—that he’s far little, too late, and the hope inside is dying- but then he feels quivering hands latch onto him again.

Weak, barely even noticeable—but he does notice, and he almost cries out in utter relief, but he knows the battle has not ended yet.

He does not stop moving even after he has gently set the lady in the boat and he moves to push it in the waters.

Does not let his aching muscles ease as he summons a burst of wind that helps propel them forward and guide them in the direction of Yashiori.

Everything is a blur to him afterward, though he does remember his tremors as he overlooked the paling form of his sister and her open wound.

He remembers arriving at the shore near Fort Fujitou, having barely escaped the arrows from passing the shogunate stationed at the borders of Kannazuka.

No matter how hard he tries to cling to his sense of reason, the mix of hysteria and panic is enough to conquer rationality.

It’s still raining when he takes his kin into his arms to race towards the resistance camp some distance away.

But he has overestimated his body—before he knows it, his legs have given up on him and he falls onto the sand.

The horror that gnaws at his conscious intensifies after seeing his sister’s body roll away, followed by a feeble yet sharp groan of pain.

Washing away towards the rolling tides near them is a dull hue of red, darkening to crimson.

An endless stream of blood.

But what captures his focus the most is not the stream, but the pair of [c]s and the hand that is reaching out.

The unpleasant telltale of disquietude tears out raw distress and he almost breaks back into tears seeing his dying kin reach for him.

With newfound resolve and clawed fingers against the sand, Kazuha pushes himself up—only to collapse, the strain on his body too much to overcome.

His vision begins to blacken and—no, no, no, no.

I can’t, not now.. ! Even moving his arms have gotten so difficult, but he keeps on struggling- keeps on fighting. I’m so close… someone..

He mirrors the action, hand reaching forward to the distant figure of his sister in a silent cry of desperation. Please-!

But his vision finally fades to black.

Nee-san… !

Kazuha gasps, resurfacing from the ghoulish clutch of the night’s terror with a lurch from his bed.

His hand is hanging in midair, reaching for nonexistence—at least, now that he’s awake, there is nothing he’s reaching for.

Still at the crest of consternation, the dropping of his arm is slow, like the turning cogs and gears in his mind that start to make sense of what’s happened.

Another—another awful nightmare. What’s the count again?

Oh, who is he kidding, he no longer is able to take count of it.

It’s always the same dreamscape whenever he escapes to his slumbers, the fear, the denial… he still feels them even after waking up.

A raw wound—an eternal scar.

He tries not to think much of it, knowing that there’s nothing to worry over now.

But all that greets him when he closes his eyes is the blood—the spear, the time of impalement, and he all but throws his covers away in mild annoyance.

There is no way he can sleep now. That is basically just inviting the nightmares again.

With unease nestling in his still racing heart, he makes the decision to leave his cabin as silently as possible—so as to not wake those who sleep in the same room.

The rest has had enough of waking him up when he’s stuck in those horrible terrors and couldn’t for the life of him open his eyes.

The timid rock of the Alcor as it continues its voyage in the sea thankfully gives him some peace of mind, though it can never replicate the comfort provided by the elder Kaedehara.

He ascends to the main deck where he sees Beidou behind the wheel, her good eye leading him to the starboard.

Sitting upon the barrels nearby is none other than his sibling, who seems to be stitching something under the light of the moon.

His chest immediately surges with relief. She’s alright.

Sometimes, all he really needs is the reminder that his resolve did not fail him—that his fear can be put to ease knowing that the [c]-eyed lady is still alive.

“Oh, Kazuha, you can’t sleep?”

He shakes his head at this, almost embarrassed, but the understanding smile on his sister’s face tells him that everything is fine.

She pats the space next to her in a wordless invitation and the samurai doesn’t hesitate at all, taking the chance to revel in the comforting solace.

The latter realizes that the fabric being worked on is the scarf, its golden trim being fixed.

“What has gotten you up?” her voice is as kind as ever, already on the precipice of giving succor if need be.

It has the kind of cadence that will urge one not to lie even if it’s for the sake of not worrying her.

Perhaps he didn’t notice that he has failed to respond as quickly as usual—or maybe it’s because his answer is already known before it can form into words, for a hand is already laying upon his wrist.

[Name]’s expression is blunt with understanding.

“Oh, Kazu,” her murmur is soft, almost lost in the evening wind, “It’s okay. I’m here.”

The way his taut limbs go lax at the gentle reminder he so desired to hear is almost pitying, but he can’t be bothered to care.

Closing his eyes, he takes in a sigh of relief, grateful for the wind’s gentle caress.

The comfortable atmosphere proceeds without any interruption, the ambiance only being the breeze’s encapsulating sound and the sloshing of the tides against the hulls.

“You need not be scared any longer,” he opens his eyes after hearing his sibling speak, turning his eyes towards her—though she’s still engrossed with fixing the scarf.

“Do you remember when you came back to Inazuma to fight alongside the Traveler?”

Ah… he hums, letting his memory reel in the scenes just a few weeks ago, “Of course.”

When he blacked out by Fort Fujitou after his dire escape from the city, the General has found and taken him to camp. [Name] has been personally treated by the Divine Priestess and.

Kazuha has never been so grateful in his entire life.

Just being able to recall the miracle—the shred of mercy, the saving light in his darkening world—is enough to drive him back to tears.

In a rather dismaying case, however, he still has to leave the camp. He’s a fugitive then, after all, and he couldn’t bear to endanger the Resistance.

He left with a promise to help overturn the tides when he returns with more allies and swears to grant them any favor, be it big or small, in exchange for keeping his sister safe.

[Name]’s comatose forbade them from saying goodbye.

It hurt—and his eyes still stung when he left, even still when he came across Beidou.

He recalls attempting to reawaken his friend’s Vision as a way to lift himself up from the cliff of his negativity, and thus he met the Traveler, whose journey requires them to head towards the land of eternity.

Kazuha wished to step down from the Alcor then but knew it to be a reckless move, so he kept himself patient.

How can he forget the moment his feet stepped onto the shoal of Nazuchi when the time has finally come to battle against the forces brought by Kujou?

And in the aftermath of the battle, when they have succeeded and will return to camp, he can’t ever lose the memory of his speeding heart.

When Kazuha looks at his sister now, he can only envision the second he sees the same silver hair standing out from the crowd weeks ago.

[Name] had been treating the wounded and had just finished passing the bandages when their eyes had met.

The world is a blur after that. Nothing else mattered other than the tight embrace shared between them amid tears.

If he dwells on that memory for a while longer, he swears he can feel the warmth from that hug.

“You know, I’ve always had my doubts about leaving Inazuma,” [Name] stops with her work, setting the materials aside as she lifts the newly stitched scarf with a smile.

Kazuha hums, not expecting the divulgence. This is new.

He never really knows how his wanderlust is perceived, so to say that he’s intrigued is more than correct.

The scarf is lowered back onto [Name]’s lap as she caresses its fabric, her smile turning more nostalgic and despondent.

“Because all my life, I’ve devoted my time to making sure that you’ll grow up in a place that you can really call home,” with a wistful tone, she continues.

“Sometimes I even thought of marrying into one of the renowned clans if it means helping to restore the Kaedehara’s honor and give you the luxury that we lost. Leaving means forgetting my purpose.”

He is a part of that purpose.

His first outward reaction to this is to flinch.

I.. wasn’t aware of such plans, he swallows thickly. All this time, you’ve been doing everything for me.

Perplexed, he turns to his sibling, grasping her by the arm and taking her by surprise.

“You needn’t do such things… !” he breathes out in concern, worried that this mindset carried over until the present, “I am beyond content even with the way things are now, you—”

He zips his lips and bites down on them. You needn’t sacrifice more of your happiness for my sake…

[Name] pats the hand on her arm in a gentle fashion, reassuring, “I know, that is why I joined you. I had a time of repose and epiphany when we reunited.”

She takes a few moments for herself, letting nothing but her [c] eyes speak of the hundred of words she cannot utter in a second. Still, it eases the samurai.

“What you said as I was treating your wounds struck me a lot… do you remember it?”

He does, with perfect clarity.

Kazuha had been drowning in the words and emotions he’s suppressed that when he spilled even a portion of it, the dam was breaking.

He refused the healing offered by the Divine Priestess to be treated by his sister, instead.

And when they’re alone—he finally spoke of it.

“In the first suns and moons following the fruition of my wanderlust, it’s been lonesome,” he remembers the words as if he said it yesterday.

“For although a haven has been provided by the Crux, I’ve come to realize that I am not entirely delighted in my travels.”

He remembers [Name]’s look of confusion—because why would he be not content when his wish was to travel all along?

He remembers the way her hands gently tremored at the notion of another departure, remembers the look of loneliness in those eyes- that he just falls silent again and allows his memory to reign free.

“’It ails me to know that I left home’,” [Name] chuckles, “That’s what you said before asking me to join you.”

“I apologize for my selfishness, but—will you join me?”

He purses his lips with a nod. Because I’ve learned that you are my sanctuary—and I can’t bear to leave again.

“I realized then that perhaps leaving wouldn’t be so bad, not when my little brother is there with me to make it worthwhile.”

Kazuha watches with slightly wide eyes as the black and red scarf is placed on his person, snuggling around his neck in a perfect fit, complementing his attire.

“After all,”

Because the last time he was given this same article of clothing, he rejected it. Oh, was that such a foolish move of his.

[Name] gives him an endearing smile.

The same one she gave him when she woke him from his nightmares, when she told him to come back safe in the night—when she only thought of his welfare as she pleaded to be left behind so that he can escape.

“Us two together makes a home.”

He is instantaneously swept over by a wave of nostalgia.

It has his fingers rising to clasp the scarf around his neck, wary that if he chooses to hug his sibling, it may hurt her.

Eyes glossing and heart weighing—because even after all those years, she still remembers that—, he shakes.

Nee-san…

Although he does not say anything, [Name] nods, welcoming his wishes with the slight opening of her arms.

Kazuha does not turn away from this, scooting closer and making himself comfortable in the loving embrace.

The fact that he’s no longer a child does not even faze him in the slightest—in fact, he wallows in his own grief within it.

How could he have ever turned a blind eye to his only sister when all that she’s done was for him alone?

He made mistakes at a heavy cost, nuanced changing behaviors that progressed arguments and yet—

A tear slips past his eye. And yet you still honor and accept me.

It’s this heart-wrenching realization that bolsters the samurai’s resolve to do right this time around. To cherish, to respect, to be grateful.

He swears upon himself, as he’s lulled to sleep by the brushes upon his hair, over and over again.

I will return all that you gave me.

“Anchors!”

The Alcor is beginning to dock and as usual, many are waiting by the pier for various reasons—perhaps a returning loved one, or foreign goods.

Regardless, everyone’s faces are full of mirth.

It is rather contagious, but Kazuha doesn’t need its influence to work up a smile of his own. His reason is already standing by him.

“So this is Liyue…” a murmur of awe and disbelief, “It’s beautiful… what will we do here?”

To ease his stiff neck and aching shoulders—to sleep on mere barrels whilst sitting was uncomfortable but worth it—he rolls them a few times, taking an ample amount of time to respond.

Not like it’s a bad thing, he actually doesn’t want to impede his sister from admiring the harbor.

“Aside from a few commissions I plan to take for earnings, I wish to show you all that I’ve explored in the meantime.”

This will be the first time he’ll take up commissions.

It’s a new feat but not something he’s not willing to do. If this is to be any other case in which he’ll travel alone, he will simply make things work even if he has to sleep outside and hunt.

But now that someone is traveling with him—someone who has allotted all her time for his sake and growth—he will turn to… proper means of living.

He’d hate to make this any harder than it is.

“I’ve heard of some festival in a few days’ time, as well,” he informs as they bid farewell and thanks to the crew, at long last stepping onto the harbor of a different nation.

It almost feels surreal to watch [Name] take a step—almost hesitant as if she’s still in disbelief—forward, turning her eyes to all possible directions in muted excitement. Seeing it is rather bittersweet.

He hasn’t seen her this happy—and he didn’t expect himself to feel just as jovial. Oh, what a wonderful feeling this is.

“I heard of glaze lilies and dandelions, oh, it’d be a sight to see them.”

Dandelions?

Kazuha hums at the familiar sound of the flora before nodding, “Ah, those are found in the city of wind. A neighboring nation.”

“Mm..”

He knows that distant look anywhere. It’s almost foreign. He hasn’t seen it in a long time but still knows what it means—perhaps, this is because they are siblings.

You’ve always kept silent about your own wishes because you’re prioritizing mine, he sighs. That won’t do now.

“We can visit if you so wish.”

The way those [c]s flash alight with a gleam so beautiful and liberated makes him stop breathing for a moment. Happy.

Nee-san… his voice is lost. For a second—it seems like they haven’t surfaced from great troubles and everything is fine.

“Truly?” [Name] smiles, radiant and blooming and alive.

Feeling his heart warm with gratitude—for the universe’s mercy—and ease, Kazuha allows himself to smile.

Oh, who is he kidding?

“Of course.”

As long as they are together, there will be no rainclouds.

“That’s lovely! Oooh, I’m rather excited—but wait, we must eat first! I overheard some people talking about a restaurant, let’s go!” [Name] claps before darting into the crowd.

Kazuha buzzes in shock, hurrying after her with a call of, “Nee-san!”

Just a reviving bond, a pleasant journey…

“I understand your eagerness, but please do not rush so suddenly,” the samurai sighs, much to [Name]’s giggles.

“My bad, but! It seems like we found what we’re looking for. Shall we?”

The older Kaedehara begins to amble through the sea of people again and Kazuha follows, his fingers pinching the ends of his sister’s sleeve.

... And a loving home.

a/n: at long last... the alternate ending.. A HAPPY ENDING! FOR KAZUHA AND NEE-SAN .·´¯`(>▂<)´¯`·.

@cherryflushz @e7t3 @scarlet-halos @lordbugs @nebulaera @annoying-and-upset @hanniejji @applepi1415 @tjjjrsj @azirajane @uwu-dreams @yvechu @hey-comrade-hold-stil @limelightsuperhero

Teyvat is not meant for an ‘impostor’ such as you.

Yet, Teyvat is the same world that aids you in fleeing.

When you race through the fields of Mondstadt, saplings grow into thick, curling into thick fir trees that block an angry mob’s way.

In the snowcaps of Dragonspine, the blizzard of snow and ice will veil your form as you’re whisked away by snow-covered creatures.

Currents of air will lift you from the ground as you flee from the chase of adventurers, and the same breeze will push you back from teetering to the edges of a cliff.

The epiphany of being this world’s creator—at least, that had been a previous life of yours—came after your own investigation.

Whilst hiding in solitude, away from the rancor of humans and other creatures alike, Teyvat aided you in discovering ancient lore pertaining to your past.

It hadn’t been difficult, considering there are ancient ruins still erected in your name.

The only issue was getting to it safely, since now that an ‘impostor’ has graced the land bearing the likeness of their beloved creator, many had come to join hands in prayer and ask for necessary divine punishment.

It’s laughable, truly, how they come to spit fire and poison upon you, claiming you to be an impostor—when they haven’t seen their creator in millenniums.

Weren’t they supposed to revel and rejoice?

Or has their simple-minded consciousness deemed that their divine beloved has truly fallen in the ancient war from long ago, and will cease to exist, only to be remembered and worshipped through stories, texts, and prayers?

Incapable of returning to a vessel?

If you had the courage to walk back to them announcing that you are their one and only, you would’ve—but you’ve little evidence to provide.

They are all blind—Archons, the Knights, the Adventurers, everyone—to Teyvat’s reverence of you.

And what more, your powers are forgotten. This mortal vessel of yours is yet to adjust to this world like it did on Earth. It will not spare you of death for it bleeds crimson, unlike the divine form you once bore.

It will take time… for you to reawaken them, both your powers and regal vessel.

But that is alright.

You will not go down this way, pushed to the limit because of the once previously, characters you adored.

The light of the blue moon peers past the hanging vines that hid the entrance to your alcove, your simple refuge.

If you are to close your eyes and listen to the nearby sound of the rushing waterfall and let the luna caress you, you’ll be fooled into thinking that you’re not being hunted like prey.

Adjusting your position so you’re comfortably nestling against the anemo slimes that wholeheartedly inch closer as if welcoming your action, you hiss, feeling the sting of a wound caused by an arrow.

The bandage has a faint dye of pink and the radius of your wound emanates a dim, barely noticeable teal glow.

Courtesy of Venti’s arrows.

If Teyvat’s winds hadn’t intercepted in the right moment, he would’ve been able to shoot through your chest—and you wouldn’t be here now. Well, if it wasn’t for Teyvat and someone.

The vines to your hiding place parts and you stiffen, holding your breath as if you’ll be able to conceal your presence away.

But the sight of chartreuse eyes makes you sigh in relief instead.

“I’ve returned, your Grace—how are you faring?”

“I’m fine,” you’re really not, but a little sting isn’t going to kill you, “Thanks for dropping by, Alatus. How have you been?”

Truly, when you’re sent to this world, you aren’t expecting the Vigilant Yaksha to be—well, his beta version.

But you suppose that’s alright, you met Subject Two as well, who is in the form of someone new and went with a new name.

The Yaksha told you that he went by the name ‘Alatus’ instead of ‘Xiao’, though the latter was proposed to him by Morax, he refused.

But what surprised you the most is this Adeptus’ lack of hostility from when you first saw him; all he did was gasp, eyes as wide as they possibly could be, before making haste to escort you someplace safe.

He’s the only one out of everyone to not raise a weapon against you.

“Nothing new, your Grace, simply purging the marshes and feigning subservience to Morax.”

Oh, right, he frequently tells you of the Archons’ plans and investigations, acting two-faced in front of the revered sovereigns of each nation to keep you safe.

Also, you don’t think you’ll get used to seeing his tiny smile every now and then, as well as his much more vocal personality, but you’re getting there.

Seeing it distracts you from the clawing horrors past this small sanctuary.

“I see, thank you, but don’t endanger yourself because of me.”

His smile twitches and for a moment, you swear you see his expression crumbling.

Ah, yes, you always did wonder how he knew you to be the creator when even the Archons thought otherwise.

“Excuse my disobedience, but I will have to turn you down… whether that be an order or a request, I will put my life on the line for you, your Grace.” His voice has gotten somber and so does his smile.

The greens of his eyes are lit with woe as if imageries from times long forgotten—at least to you—are playing in his head.

“You mustn’t concern yourself over me… instead, please focus on recovering. Then, I will join you in your quest to reawaken your powers.”

He always repeats that—joining you wherever—whenever he comes to visit, like he wants you to depend on him because no matter what, he will be there.

And for someone like Alatus, you know that he means every single bit of what he vowed.

Watching closely, you observe his tense shoulders and wandering eyes. He isn’t fidgeting, but he’s giving off telltale signs of hesitance. He’s been like this after finding you.

“… If you’ll excuse me, your Grace, I will be patrolling the nearby areas to be safe. Please, rest.”

He saved you—smiled your way, brought food and essentials, yet- why does it feel like he’s so distant? Is it because of your status? It doesn’t feel like that, though.

There has to be some reason why each time he smiles at you, it’s strained like he’s holding something back. You want to know.

Just as the Yaksha moves to leave through the vines, you stand, lips pursed. “Alatus—”

But then the sting of your wound returns with an impact as twice as strong—and you’re gasping out of pain, unable to make out any words as you begin to stumble.

You hear a panicked cry.

“[Name]!”

What’s that? Eyes wide open as the warrior swoops in to catch you before you can fall, you blink, trying to make out what you heard. Did he just…

Wounded you may be, you aren’t hearing things. You aren’t.

Remaining speechless in the wake of surprise, your figure is compliant, carefully being guided down to sit by the wall next to the panicking slimes.

He’s fussing over your wound, but thankfully, it didn’t start bleeding from your abrupt movements.

But I never gave him my name… nor is my name recorded in scholarly articles. So how did he—?

“Don’t move around too much, the wound is still fresh-“

“You said my name.”

He flinches, slowly lifting his head only to meet your [c] eyes. Seeing this, he hastily, in a graceful second, kneels before you in a knightly fashion.

The stance appears normal to him like he’s done it for so long.

“It’s wrong to utter her Grace’s name, please unleash any form of punishment that will appease you.”

“It’s not like that,” you shake your head, trying to connect the dots. “I never gave my name to anyone… so how did you know?”

“…”

Teyvat couldn’t have—it literally cannot speak… but even then, this world only ever does things when you are in danger, or you command it to.

Not once have you thought of giving your name to someone lest they use it against you in rituals.

“You never told me why you helped me, as well. Were you faking? Hiding me away so you can end me yourself?”

“I will never!” the way he looks at you with raw denial and rage is shocking.

It’s an expression you haven’t seen on his face even when you were playing the game.

He realizes what he’s done a second later, seeing you spooked and—and probably reminded of how the livid people rose against you. He’s then shamefully casting his head down with a meek apology.

“I-.. I’m sorry… your Grace.”

Oh, you could care less about how he had gotten hysteric. You needed answers.

Inching closer, you place a hand on his shoulder, “Tell me, Alatus. Why did you not raise your spear against me—when I am an impostor to the eyes of the people?”

“You aren’t.” his response is immediate, tone as certain as it could be and it’s baffling, almost touching, even.

“You’re far… from being counterfeit. Even if you are in the vessel of a mortal, I can’t possibly mistake you for an impostor.”

Gentle and meticulous, he takes your hand from his shoulder and looks your way as if asking for permission to hold you. You answer by squeezing his hand, and he does the same.

The action casts a watery gleam in his eyes as he sighs—and unveils the truth.

“… I was your protector since ancient times, your Grace. Your shield and your sword,” he licks his lips, most likely reassuring himself that he can do this. It feels like even telling you this is hurting him for some reason.

“But in the discord and war amongst the powerful, and your clash against the gods that have invaded Teyvat… I had failed to protect you.”

Oh.

His hold on your hand quakes ever so slightly, recalling a time of anguish that he has buried deep in his memories.

“I watched as your divinity is stripped away, your halo fragmented asunder, and your very life fade like the transience of stars… still, when I held you as you were dying, you did not blame me,”

Something cold drops on the back of your hand as he continues, “You said that perhaps it was meant to happen, that it will be Teyvat and your people who will turn against the marauders. And we did.”

Alatus takes a moment to pause and, after regaining his bearings, musters up a smile.

“In the end, you said—no, you vowed, that one day, you will come back to this world… when it’s free of strife and everyone is happy. And you are here. You’ve returned..”

The silence is loud. Which is to be expected… how would you respond to that?

He was someone who undoubtedly was at your side at all times.

Feeling bitter, you weaken your clasp on his fingers, saying, “I see.. my apologies, then, for doubting you. It must’ve pained you a lot.”

“My pain matters not, your Grace,” he insists, letting go of your hand—and consequently, its warmth.

Not knowing how to salvage the conversation any longer—if it can be salvaged in the first place, anyway—what with the gloomy-turned atmosphere, Alatus stands, arranging his crimson breastplate with a clear of his throat.

“Then.. I will go—”

“No.” your voice is firm, “Stay here for the night,”

His eyes are wide and his lips are gaping as he takes in what you said to him, “Your Grace, I can’t possibly leave the surrounding area unpatrolled. Your safety-!“

“Then leave when I have fallen asleep.”

He splutters.

You think a hue of pink is decorating the Adeptus' face, but you can’t say for sure—the interior of the alcove is rather dark and the only source of light is coming from the spaces between the vines.

Yet even that is only faint.

It is clear that he’s still against your order, but still, Alatus stiffly sits down next to you, discreetly wetting his dry lips and chewing on them as if it’ll abate his nervousness.

You don’t understand it, perhaps it’s because he’s still wrapping his head around the fact that you have returned?

Shaking your head, you push him down, leaning your head over his chest and wrapping your arms around him. You hear him stammer, “Your Grace… can I ask… what you’re doing?”

Alatus or not, Xiao or not, a part of him remains the very same—good heavens he needs a hug.

“Cuddling,” you say in nonchalance, adjusting your position. “You need an embrace. And—it gets cold during these hours.”

He sounds bemused as he responds, “I see.”

That’s a good thing, at the very least he’s no longer dwelling much on the tragic past between the two of you.

Little sounds coming from the surrounding slimes prompt you to turn towards them, smiling.

They seem to get the message you’re trying to deliver with a flick of your hand, and they begin to bounce towards the exit with the intent to observe the area in the stead of the warrior.

Pleased, you sigh, nestling closer to the Yaksha, trying not to chuckle at the way he shifts, unsure where to place his hands. Your composure breaks when you see his hands in midair, and you laugh.

“Silly, what are you doing? It’s fine, you can hold me,” gently, you guide his hands down to your back before pausing, “Unless you are opposed to this, of course? I don’t want to force you to do this.”

He lowers his hands immediately.

“It’s not like that, your Grace, it’s just… please rest,”

You laugh, “Alright.”

Closing your eyes, you hum, grateful for the warmth he’s providing. Subconsciously, you pull him closer, finding his small grunt to be adorable.

For a moment, you’re drifting off to the sleeping realm—in a dream where you are safe from the tides of malice and misunderstanding, but something rips you away from it. A sound. A beat.

The beat of a heart.

Opening your eyes, you listen closely. His heartbeat is…

It’s racing. Rather abnormally, might you add. And he’s gotten awfully warmer…

Bringing your head up, you ask.

“Were you just a protector?”

Alatus’ face immediately delves right into a deeper shade of pink, his stammers serving enough as answers.

Something tweaks your chest as you rose with the use of your elbows, resting your cheek on your fist.

Oh? In interest, you hum, “So you weren’t,”

His heartbeat just raced even faster and you think it had to do with your close distance, so, you withdraw, parting with a laugh.

“Were you a partner in romance, maybe? A husband? Consort?” you tap your chin, whispering, “Mm, perhaps someone I had benefits with?”

He jerks, spluttering with a red face. “Do tell me what her Grace means by that!”

“Oh, it's just a saying from where I’m from.”

It grows quiet again, only the echoes of your short giggles heard in the alcove.

This time around, you didn’t bother saying anything, choosing to sit instead of cuddle him again. The results of your minor teasing have resulted in this awkward ambiance, or maybe you’ve also gotten a tad shy.

You didn’t know what came over you for a moment, but it felt right, the tiny banter and teasing.

It’s like it’s happened plenty of times ago.

“… I confessed a long time ago, but I was never given an answer,” not expecting him to open up this many times in the span of an hour, you look his way, studying the nostalgia in his face.

“I suppose that’s alright, though. It was my mistake to speak of it moments before the war.”

No wonder he had received no answers, because by the end of the war… he was left alone.

A lump on your throat has come unknowingly, so you swallow it down, feeling oddly nervous.

“Do you still… ?”

His response is as swift as ever.

“Not once has it waned, your Grace,”

Ah—

Trying not to think much of the intensity of his emerald stare, you mutter, “[Name]. Call me [Name].”

You’re unable to keep track of the various emotions that flood his face, but you manage to make out bewilderment and evident fluster.

“But—your Grace, to refer to you so casually-“

Ah, that, you can understand.

In the now scary streets of Mondstadt and Liyue, no one really refers to the beloved creator by her name, only by epithets and titles. You assume that having him call you by your name means a lot.

A trust—a sort of special connection.

“I don’t mind, besides, I have a feeling I had you call me by it back then. You wouldn’t have said my name earlier if not.”

Your astute reply causes him to avert his stare, feeling the prior weight of his slip-up bounce onto him.

Alatus can’t speak for a few seconds, only taking shy glances every now and then—which is new to you but all the more adorable—but when he reclaims his vigilance, he nods.

“I understand, alright.. [Name].”

“That sounds better, come, let’s rest.”

This time, snuggling closer to the Yaksha comes like a breeze for he’s no longer restrained with thoughts that prevent him from gaining comfort.

As he holds you close without any warning, you feel warmth coming to your cheeks.

Somehow.. it felt right.

You do not know what you would’ve said to his confession all those years ago—but by the way your own heart is fluttering in your chest, you’re certain you returned his feelings. Perhaps this time, fate will smile upon you both.

Maybe this time, soon, you’ll learn to love him again.

a/n: for this one, Alatus was MC's bodyguard in the past. This was a small challenge to write since I'm so used to writing Xiao being all chill, cool, and the exact opposite of Alatus who's more expressive- so I had to do tons of reread for once-

But I'm glad with the results! I hope you all enjoyed :>> PS. A tiny alteration is how I kept MC's blood to be red than gold. This says that she's still in mortal form, and the journey she'll take is one that will help reclaim her power + divinity. Eventually leading to gold blood~

@cherryflushz @e7t3 @scarlet-halos @lordbugs @koi-chairowo @uwu-dreams

No one in Mondstadt believes it to be true; the beaute from the clan of unlawful evil is to be married to the one and only Ragnvindr.

But all their doubts disperse when they come to descry the golden ring on the latter’s finger whenever he enters the city.

Indeed, they’re a beautiful couple to see, but they know one thing for certain when they notice the obvious disinterest in both their eyes.

It’s nothing more but a marriage of mercy, not of love.

Absolute is the cognizance of many when it comes to knowing the last Ragnvindr’s hatred towards the Fatui. So, when news of [Name] is to be his wife, confusion arose.

When they see the pair ambling about, the people are uncertain as to whether who is the most unfortunate one.

The lady whose clan was ascertained to be in cohorts with the Snezhnayan military force—and thus fell from grace and respect, or the man whose loss of his life’s colors was done by no other than the Fatui.

And, in honoring the wish of his father, had to take in an ostracized woman who was determined to have worked with the organization he’s fighting against.

It’s an unfortunate tale and relationship, through and through.

But it doesn’t stop there… oh, it doesn’t.

Those tending to the manor know very well, the arguments within those wooden walls. It’s an infrequent event, actually, the disagreements between the married couple, but when it does come around… it’s as blazing as ever.

The head maid Adelinde realizes that this particular one, however, in the dead of night, just as everyone is about to retire to their own lodgings—it isn’t as heated as previous quarrels.

It’s more… how can she put it, solemn. As if it is a dispute between two stranger-turned friends.

If one questions her opinion about this marriage, she’ll say it’s a tragedy. After all, her master’s relationship with the lady ran far deeper than the people knew.

Heaving a sigh, the blonde maid makes her way down the stairs and towards the exit, letting the muffled voices disappear in the back of her mind as she shuts the doors.

The candlelight barely flickers, its flame gentle in comparison to the scalding heat in the crimson-haired man’s stare.

His place by the window, his back against you, is almost intimidating.

You can feel his displeasure spiking the moment he welcomed you into the room.

Well, ‘welcomed’ is a bit of a stretch, it’s easy to say that he only let you in because you’d bug him some other day about it if he didn’t.

Feeling peculiarly safe with the wooden desk situated between you and the man—acting like some barrier—you bite your lips, mustering the courage you’ve lost the moment you learned of your family’s incredulous secret.

“Diluc, I know you’re more than upset with this, and I apologize—but-“

“If you know of my sentiments then you have no need to bother telling me about it,” he cuts you off with a voice as passive as possible, but the window reflects the annoyance in his features.

“Be grateful that I have taken you in… despite the fact that you are a part of them.”

He grips his forearms tighter in its crossed position, the furrowing of his brows seen in the dimly lit reflection as he continues, “It’s by the wish of my late father and by mercy alone that I argued with Acting Grand Master to have you with me than be exiled.”

You can’t believe what you’re hearing. Is he saying this for real? And here you thought that—he’d have at least done it out of the goodness of his own heart.

Oh, you shouldn’t have hoped for something impossible.

Threading fingers through your hair and placing a hand on your hip, you pause, attempting to process all that he said. Unbelievable.

“You think I wanted this?”

“Be more specific, what is ‘this’? To be caught? For your right to love someone else be stripped away? Or to have fallen from your little throne?”

By now, Diluc has turned away from the window, opting to rest his hands on the table and look at you head-on. His handsome face lacks the smile that was last seen a decade ago.

The manner in how he delivers his questions is eloquent, the gruff in his voice intoxicated with poison.

If words could injure, you’ll be bleeding out by now.

“I’m talking about you!” you slam on your hands on the desk, mirroring his stance with disbelief and disappointment the most prominent emotions leaking from your voice.

“I thought you knew me better, Diluc. I thought that, out of everyone else, you would know that I have done nothing with the Fatui.”

But you’ve hoped for something that cannot come true. To start with, hoping for him to understand your situation is a lost cause. Not when the Fatui is roped into it.

Yet, you clung unto that small belief, to no avail.

As you plummet from a place you thoroughly thought was there out of your ancestor’s goodness, there is no one to cushion your fall when you realize that your family had assumed that place solely through wicked methods.

Or perhaps, once upon a time, the family was good but had lost their way.

The [Surname]s are far worse than the Lawrences in terms of deception, or so some of the folks in Mondstadt whisper.

I have nothing to do with this, you plea inwardly, and you speak nothing but the truth. I’m innocent.

Yet no one will believe you.

“All the guilty speak of the same thing…” Diluc mutters, fostering an even harsher glare as if he’s enraged that you decided to reason that mid-argument, “My affiliation with you in the past.. it has nothing to do with your circumstance now.”

That being the bittersweet story of how you’ve been friends with him—and his brother, and even Jean, as well another—until he left Mondstadt and his future as a Favonius Knight.

Leaving it to bite the dust.

When he came back, he’s no longer the boy you knew—this argument with him just solidifies that further. You feel defeated. Lost.

And there’s nothing more to salvage than broken dreams and fractured pasts.

What you harbored before as a silly crush that bloomed into something more, is now withering helplessly.

“… You’ve changed, Diluc.”

His burning desire to see the Fatui scum be eaten by the flames that consumed his woeful, mourning heart is too wild to subdue. Too strong to overpower.

And he’ll pause that hatred for nothing and no one.

Even if it means severing the last of his already flimsy ties with you.

Something falters in his gaze at your response, reticent of defeat. Or perhaps it’s just your eyes playing tricks again, nonetheless, it is a certitude.

The gold ring on your finger—one you’ve dreamed of when you were a child—has zero value. Although rings are meant to symbolize an eternity together with him, in truth, you are alone.

“So have you.”

“No,” you laugh humorlessly, caressing the cold metal of the worthless circle as you turn your back on him. Once and for all.

“I haven’t… not at all.”

Arguments are nonexistent after that night, and along with it, died the suffocating atmosphere. There is simply the bitter acceptance of things.

And no one is against it.

If anything, it has actually gotten peaceful in the manor. There is little—almost none, to be honest—interaction, no trivial small talk, and zero greetings.

Other than the maids and servants occupying the place, it feels like living with a ghost.

And to Diluc, it’s not a problem at all.

He resumes his days working about, trying to uncover schemes of that infuriating organization, governing Mondstadt in the evening, and going about the winery.

Rarely is he ever in the manor, which he’s thankful of.

The only times he gets to see [Name] is when he dines with her in the morning, out of the respect he has left. Yet even then, only the clinking of silverware can ever be heard in the dining hall.

Returning by midnight, he will see his wife—by mere papers and words—sitting by the fireplace, a wineglass in hand. He will divert his eyes in mild choler, the smell of finely brewed wine giving him a headache.

He will later notice that [Name] is always drinking the night away with a bottle of wine around a few months later, when he catches her staring at the flames as if she’s trying to lose herself in the past.

“I pay for it, don’t worry.” He doesn’t miss the dead tone of her delivery as she takes another sip, heaving a sigh afterward.

It’s the first thing he’s heard from her in a long time, and he huffs. “It doesn’t matter.”

Seeing her outside is just as rare, but when he does, Diluc does not approach—nor does the woman.

He thinks [Name] is wallowing in guilt following the aftermath of her family’s downfall, for until now he is unable to see the light in her eyes.

It disappeared after their last argument.

He also notes how few of Mondstadt’s folks are welcoming of the unexiled [Surname], for obvious reasons.

The city visibly dims whenever the latter comes to visit, but by the looks of it, the lady is far from being bothered.

Or at least he thought. But he wouldn’t know that yet.

Perhaps if he stuck around further, he’ll see the faintest crack in the façade [Name] has tried her utmost hardest to build. But he doesn’t.

Not until he comes home to the same scene he’s been a witness to for the past several months, almost a year. At first, he pays no mind to it, because what else is new?

But then he hears the faintest of sniffles and a held back sob—and he just pauses.

Weeping? Initially, he tells himself that he shouldn’t bother. Maybe she didn’t hear him enter. But he remains glued to the floor.

“I waited for you… for so long,” the bottle of wine clinks against the tableside, “Trusted you… but I was wrong.”

They both always kept to themselves, not once invading each other’s privacy, so staying for longer scalds his throat and sense of moral.

As discreetly and silent as possible, he moves to the staircase, trying not to listen to the girl’s musings.

Yet he isn’t swift enough.

“Perhaps if I hadn’t been too ambitious, too hopeful, then maybe I wouldn’t be suffering like a pathetic person.”

Or maybe she’s always known that he’s there.

“But the heart strays… it loves and it hurts…”

Because when he’s reached the upper floor and catches sight of the lower level, he finds [Name] looking at him.

Her whisper—it’s raw of emotions that are too plenty to tell at once, but with a simple look in those [c] eyes, he can decipher one.

“Doesn’t it, Diluc?”

Anguish. Yearning over something unobtainable. It’s the message of defeat and surrender in her stare. It’s puissant.

[Name] breaks the eye contact as nonchalantly as ever, returning to the silent shell she had been, drinking and losing herself in the intoxicating wine that dulls the pain, he assumes.

Bewildered, the Ragnvindr retreats to his room and tries to get a wink of sleep, but slumber evades him like a slithering snake.

Instead, that night is sealed with nothing but recollections of what he’s heard, along with the past he has shared with her. A past that he has buried and severed.

The morning after, Diluc finds her as he’s walking to Mondstadt, by the grasses with wind wheel asters. Flowers that the lady is currently caressing, raising it to allow the wind to spin its petals.

“Diluc?” the voice breezes, childlike and mirthful, and—

For a second, his sight is showing him something different; it shows him a child with [c] hair and [c] eyes, the smile on her face as large as it could be, beckoning him over with another call of his name.

But then the wind blows a harsher breeze and he’s blinking—then the spectacle in front of him has moved back to the present.

Diluc sees the same lady, refined by the years, clutching the same wind wheel asters she’d weave into crowns. She called his name in wonder, not excitement.

And there is no smile on her visage.

He lowers his head, walking back on track without so much as a response, endeavoring to bury the prickling recollection of long ago.

That night, he comes home, again, to a scene he’s used to. Only, [Name] is not drinking wine, nor is she weeping. She’s asleep on the loveseat, but she appears to be squirming.

She could’ve gone to her quarters, he mulls, walking closer, only to find out that the lady is fidgeting in place because of a nightmare.

Her arms are clasped around her body like she’s trying to protect herself from something, and she shivers.

As if it’s inherent to him, he sets his eyes on the fireplace. The flames have gone down.

“… You’ve always hated the cold,” Diluc mutters, catching the subconscious frown and tiny whimper that rakes through the woman as she sleeps.

Biting the inside of his cheeks, he leaves, thinking nothing—but amid the feeblest of whispers, he hears his name being called.

A stray tear runs down [Name]’s cheeks and, when Diluc reproaches to see if she indeed called for him and has awakened, he notices something on the table. It isn’t the usual bottle of wine and glass.

Atop is none other than a crown of wind wheel asters.

[Name] will awaken the next day with a blanket over her, and a small smile on her face. A smile rarely seen by those in the manor.

And one that will everyone in Dawn Winery will speak over in bewildered gossips and excited musings. Such, of course, doesn’t fly by the ears and eyes of the Ragnvindr himself.

He notices the mornings when they will dine together, from the end of the table, he’ll see the light in her eyes has returned.

For some reason, witnessing it lightens the weight in his chest.

Whenever he’ll work in the manor with paperwork, he’ll hear her humming a tune or two and he finds it pleasant to listen to.

There are times when Adelinde or Connor will inform him of his wife’s returning charisma, seen in the smile on her face and the bounce following her steps. It feels like she has been revived.

And although they haven’t gone back to occasional speaking terms, he’ll feel at ease, and his chest will flutter.

Perhaps, maybe, [Name] knows that he’s been the one personally replacing the vase of flowers in her room?

That he’s the one who has been secretly restocking the wine rack with her favorites?

Maybe… just maybe, it’s because of him?

Maybe… not.

For when he comes back from Mondstadt, earlier than usual, at the time of twilight, with freshly plucked wind wheel asters, he sees someone he does not expect to see.

[Name] is smiling, bright and sweeter than usual, a sight no one has seen after the exile of the [Surname]s. And she’s speaking to-

“I can’t believe you’re here, Thoma. It’s been so long! I got your letters.”

Their friend who came to move to Inazuma a long, long time ago. And just like him, Thoma has brought along a lovely bouquet of wind wheel asters.

He’s always been such a bright man, with an equally bright smile—that when he asks,

“Will you come to Inazuma with me, [Name]?”

Diluc can’t help but stagger to the corner, in the shadows cast by the setting sun, and drop the measly plucked flowers. Letting the wind carry it away.

As it does with his heavy heart.

Silently, the crimson-haired man sighs to himself.

He detests it, but doesn't wine dull the pain away?

a/n: thoma being mr. steal yo wife -/SLAPPED. he doesn't know, he really doesn't- in truth, this ending is quite ambiguous. it's open-ended, i didn't write in whether MC accepted it or not so~ the ending is up to you, dears!

WELL NEVERMIND, HERE'S THE THOMA ENDING-

shucking diluc being stubborn just won't-GAAAAHHHH-

@cherryflushz @e7t3 @scarlet-halos @lordbugs @nebulaera @koi-chairowo

Quite the amusing prelude to their tale, really, how in the first place it was Lumine who found her and brought her to meet him.

It only takes a few moments of stunned gazing and marks blazing—and he knows he’s found his life-long partner.

[Name] streams her way in their journey without any complication, easily forming a wonderful bond with Lumine the same way her relationship with him grew.

They’ve been together for so long—wherever one may be, the other will follow.

Aether is thankful that his soulmate has otherworldly abilities, all that is essential to joining him and his twin in their adventures.

Albeit she’s never been that much of a fighter, she proves her tenacity in healing and support.

He’s lost count of the times he’ll deliberately get himself harmed—not to a critical extent, of course—just so he can feel the comfortable cold brought by his lover’s healing touch.

Lumine is never entertained with his behavior but lets it slide knowing that he’s in good hands.

Their days are encapsulated in euphoria.

They aren’t just a group of three, either—they’re family.

He can still remember the time Lumine deemed all of them together as one. Aether has no complaints, and neither does [Name].

And so, they traveled far and wide, in and out of multiple worlds, hand in hand with a story to reminisce.

They are happy.

But the universe exists to balance fortune and misfortune, good and bad, eternity and change. And all good things are fleeting—they do not last forever.

To Aether, he’s always been accepting of the natural order. It’s life.

But not this one.

“Keep your eyes open, [Name],” nothing can surmount the fear gnawing in his chest as his hands push against the large, gaping wound. He chokes.

The lady only stares at him, [c] eyes dulling. “Love..”

Not this one—he can’t accept this.

Aether shudders with a whimper as he squeezes his soulmate’s hands over the wound, desperately hoping for it to emanate the [c] healing glow. But it doesn’t.

He hears another urgent shout of his name, but he can’t be bothered to look towards it now—not when his lover is leaving him.

“Aether, [Name], we need to—!” Lumine’s horrified gasp is a painful and harsh reminder that all good things truly don’t last long.

[Name], in her labored whispers, says, “You need to leave… this world… is unmerciful.”

“We’re taking you with us.” Firmly responds the blond as he hooks his arms under the back of his lover’s knees and her back, trying to let his tears fall despite knowing the inevitable outcome.

Both the girls offer no consolation, also aware of the ending result.

But hope delays denial and grief.

So, with the appearance of their wings, the twin siblings take flight towards the skies painted with the color of flames and blood, away from the destructing world they called home.

The three knows—they know very well that one of them won’t even last through the travel.

To course past the elements upholding this world takes energy, what more to leave one and enter someplace new?

Although the cataclysm they’ve witnessed is more than enough to scar and wound their hearts, it pales to the harsh truth that [Name] is dying.

And as they start to be coated with an ethereal glow of gold—a kind of protective layer as they pass through space and time—much like a falling star… as the blond feels his soulmate in his arms start to disintegrate…

He wishes nothing more but to be blessed with the ability to not feel.

But he is someone with a still beating heart.

And no matter how much he tries to reassure himself that it’s alright—that at least he experienced how to love—he feels the pain. The desperation and the anguish.

“I love you, Aether,” he does not look, but still, he sees the manner in how his lover begins to chip away into stardust, her voice fading. “Take care, the both of you.”

He can feel himself losing consciousness in the process—who knows how long it’ll be until they arrive at a new world?—and oh, the desperation that comes with wishing to stay awake is superlative.

But he loses, anyway, and as his tear slips away with his consciousness, so does the lady in his arms.

“I love you, too,” Aether manages to whisper, “You’ll still be my one and only. Whenever,”

[Name] smiles, “Wherever.”

The name on his wrist disappears.

“Oh, Paimon didn’t know you had someone so special,” the floating pixie all but says with a faint whimper, doe eyes collecting gloss and water, “Paimon’s sorry for asking!”

“It’s fine,” reassures the blond Traveler with a smile, his eyes continuing to fixate on his now bare wrist.

He tries to remember the neat curls, strokes, and serifs that once adorned his skin—and his mind graces him with a blurry memory of it.

The comfortable warmth on his wrist that he thought will last an eternity can no longer be felt nowadays, so he finds himself keeping his gloves on for hours longer than necessary.

It remains as one of the few methods he has to indulge and relive the retrospection of days spent drowning in ardor.

If only he knows it to be a sojourn… maybe he wouldn’t have let himself fall so hard.

Because now he is all alone without even a reminder of her to get by. Not even the mark that is once embedded in his spirit.

Even his dear twin sibling, the one he’s hoping to lean onto after arriving in Teyvat, has left his side.

And when he finally found her, after nearly a year of journeying and learning of the new world… he realizes that there’s a turbulent surge of a long war underneath the surface.

Waiting to tear through the abyss and rise in retrospect of an antiquated battle.

And he’s left to learn the story of how it all began, alone.

“Oh, don’t be so sad! Paimon will leave the whole sweet madame alone for you to eat!”

Ah, right, technically he’s not alone.

Aether works up a smile, one laced with sincere gratitude.

The sentiment runs deep, complex, and thus a little difficult to express in words alone, so he hopes his smile is more than enough.

He figures it to be successful when his companion snuggles to his side, her words of assurance and comfort enough to dispel the raincloud over his head.

Taking another good look at his wrist, the Traveler takes a couple of moments to brush the pad of his thumb over it.

Back then, there lies the bump of a written name, now there isn’t.

Although the sight strives to bring about a timid frost of wistfulness within, he knows that with time, it’ll eventually thaw into one of acceptance.

After all, just because he lost a paradigm for the existence of a darling soulmate, doesn’t mean she is lost forever.

What cannot be seen on the surface of his skin will always be felt in the crevices of his heart.

The sway of the glaze lily overlooking the whole of Liyue Harbor makes him recall how his lover used to look over him and Lumine at the back, much like a guardian.

He thus cannot help but think of her in relative similarity.

Aether closes his eyes and opens his arms a little to invite the night’s breeze, prompting himself into thinking that the wrapping air is the figure of the lady he wishes to embrace again.

Wherever you are now… he breathes in with a sigh. Look after me, [Name].

He doesn’t think he’ll ever learn to love again, not when he has already given his heart to someone. And that’s fine by him.

Acceptance, the slightest bit of it, weaves through his chest, planting a seed yet to bloom—and he knows not to rush it.

It feels like it’s only been a blink of an eye ever since the passing of his soulmate, and everything has turned into shambles.

No one fancies this kind of aftermath… this lonely recollection and the tragic separation, but with bad comes good.

[Name] might not be at his side any longer, Lumine may have traversed an unforeseen path on her own, and things look so bleak and grey, but…

In turn for the new rounds of cards played by the universe, he knows he has gained something invaluable along the way, too.

“Traveler, let’s go! It’s almost time for Xiangling’s treat!” Paimon tugs at the ends of his cape, and he chuckles, nodding.

“Alright, let’s go,” he jumps off the cliff and flicks his glider out, laughing at the distressed shriek of the floating girl who rushes after him.

Amid the spinous journey of loss and zemblanity, he has acquired a wonderful number of people he can call his friends, and is on another adventure.

He glances at the firmament with plans to whisper all of the things he come across to the stars. In due time, he’ll talk to the stars again.

After all… [Name] always liked hearing a story.

Tumult proceeds to be the rage and apex of his journey, the Outlander later realizes, after he steps out of the realm of consciousness where another Sacred Sakura has found root.

He realizes that, although in its own league, Teyvat is a place that does not shy away from the cruelty its universe ought to bring.

He is reminded of his own homeworld in such a way that Teyvat is on the crux of destruction, obstructed only by divine laws that the Seven are upholding.

Or was upholding, presently speaking.

Maybe this is the reason why Lumine wished to stay—wished to fight.

Perhaps she saw that this world carried the paradigm for injustice and apathy, and wished to do right upon it, for she failed to do so in their homeland.

And hence, [Name] was lost.

He thinks he can understand a little now, but he knows he’s nowhere close to reaching erudition. Still, comprehension is knowledge, and he’ll take it no matter how big or small it is.

The rush of the battle keeps his blood pumping and lively, still dwelling in the adrenaline brought from the fight against the Shogun.

He’s excused himself from the conversation between two friends, feeling the need to have some time alone.

Ever since he has stepped foot in Inazuma, things have been escalating so quickly he feels like he’s left behind. It isn’t a lie by any means, but it’s almost as if he’s pressed to do things posthaste.

Lost in the tides of a livid ocean, the Traveler attempts to surface and make sense of everything, but he is being washed under, defenseless.

The murkiness refuses to clear despite knowing the reason behind the ocean’s rage.

And he’s so, so lost.

Aether sits by the Sakura Tree, his sight already moving to fixate on the starry night.

“[Name],” he says in a whisper, “It was another exhausting day… but the Electro Archon, she’s gotten the closure she deserved.”

The faintest recollection of Ei’s conversation with her sister pricks his heart with ease. Truly, catharsis brought with making amends and resolidifying a once fickle bond is supreme and comforting.

Subtle change permeates in the behavior and decision of the Archon, one that without a doubt will flabbergast the citizens—in a good way, of course.

The abolishment of the Sakoku Decree means to liberate Inazuma from the strict barrier of a supposed eternity.

A wish from the people that eventually sees enlightenment as of tonight.

Exhaustion is seen in the way the Outlander fights the drooping of his heavy eyelids. He pinches himself in the arm to fight it off.

Now is not the time to fall asleep… not when he’s yet to relay this day’s events to the sky in hopes of it being heard by his soulmate—and perhaps, maybe even his sister.

“Sometimes I wish I had it, too. Closure, I mean,”

They had nothing, after all, because they were in the middle of fleeing.

He can only reminisce the way he held his lady close as she eventually turned into stardust, waning from existence along with the eternal love she professed.

It leads the blond to gaze at his gloved hands, the warmth it provides reminiscent of the one previously emanating from his mark.

It can never replicate such an otherworldly sensation, but it’s close enough. Comforting enough.

“But it’s alright… it…”

His smile is small, morose yet accepting.

“It doesn’t hurt that much anymore.”

And it isn’t a lie. He means it.

Before he fell asleep for another five hundred years, when Lumine woke him up so they can flee to yet another world, he was so sore.

The wound left by the loss of his other half remains open and raw, a rupture in his heart that now beats alone.

And it only grew the second he lost his sister, as well.

Waking up without someone at his side feels like he’s been swept under by a crashing wave of reality.

He’s been scarred so deep, and it pulses with agony for the continuing months.

But nowadays, after saving Paimon and traveling Teyvat, after seeing Lumine and understanding that he must continue his journey alone… the pain has lessened.

Long ago, when he stares at the stellar firmament with a fragile composure, he’ll shatter midway—and his storytelling will be prolonged for he had to try and keep his tears at bay.

Now, he can freely speak of his days without regret and grief weighing him down.

It hurt, but it’s tolerable.

Aether stays at the shrine by the Sakura Tree with the permission of Yae, only nodding off to a blank dream when he finished speaking of everything that has gone down.

Letting exhaustion get the best of him, he sleeps through the night, waking only to the chirping of the birds and the sunlight caressing his face.

His back and neck are stiff, but nothing beats having a good night’s sleep.

He stretches his arms up after standing, popping his joints, and twisting himself to relieve the stiffness.

“Well, good morning,” he turns to see Yae walking towards him, amused, “The Shrine welcomes all kinds of people—but having someone sleep here is rather insulting, don’t you think so?”

The horror in his face must’ve looked ridiculous because the fox envoy is already laughing in presumable jest.

She sighs, splaying her hand towards the sight of Inazuma.

“Worry not, Traveler, you’re welcomed here. It’s the least I could do as thanks for bringing back Ei, now, don’t you have a ship to catch?”

Oh, right—he’s meant to leave Inazuma today, setting sail for Sumeru. Or perhaps he’d pay a visit to Mondstadt first, he doesn’t know yet—but he knows his job here has met its end.

After bidding adieu to the friends he made in the city as well as the Electro Archon—who sent him off with the assurance that he’s free to return to her nation anytime—he makes his way to the plains leading to faraway Ritou.

Paimon, who has appeared at his side as they bid goodbye to the people—he became well known—is talking about all sorts of adventures once they’re out of the islands and the Traveler can’t help but be entertained.

It is a nice thing that Beidou’s ship is anchored and she’s willing to give them another voyage through the seas.

The enormous vessel can already be seen even from afar, its size comparable to the strength it possesses.

With the sequence of steps leading to the Alcor, the more Aether begins to ponder about the new chapters of his journey ahead.

It’s time again, [Name], his voice is clear in his head as he maneuvers through the busy crowd with Paimon overhead. His wrist is emitting a tender warmth. I’m leaving now, to enter another place.

The people are a blur of colors, but he can make out the clear figure of Beidou ordering the crew by the docking bridge, turning in their direction when Paimon flies ahead to greet her.

Look after me.

“Hey there, can I bother you to bring this up? We’ll leave soon,” greets the Captain.

“It’s no problem,” the Outlander responds, heading to the pile of crates the other crew members are taking.

Beidou pats his back in thanks as she steps aside to speak to someone else.

Aether moves to bend over and pick up a filled crate of herbs so he can load it in the Alcor. He huffs a little, feeling his hands sting for some reason as he tests the weight before hoisting it into his arms.

He begins to move to the bridge, and he feels an odd tremor rake through him, followed by a pulse of warmth on his hand.

Before he knows it, a blazing heat is pressing on his whole body, like lava has been doused from above.

A choking gasp of pain rips through his throat in surprise, almost making him fall into the water had he not maintained his balance.

The burn on his wrist is so strong.

So, so strong and it’s scalding… !

It has him dropping the crate, unable to tolerate the feeling of being eaten whole by flames.

He rips his glove away, seeing the skin of his wrist a shade of red. Paimon flutters to his side in worry, exclaiming his name.

“Aether!”

But it doesn’t sound like his little companion at all.

“Aether!”

His heart misses a beat. That voice… isn’t that—?

Duties long forgotten, he looks up, his arm still clutched by his free hand as it continues to pulse hotly—like the beat of a heart.

“.. [Name]?”

Whispering it out loud eases the burn. His heart twists at the familiar roll of his tongue, but he pays no mind to it, nor to Paimon’s frantic calls. He didn’t mishear anything, did he?

He’s certain he heard her… !

“Traveler, are you okay?!” his companion’s cry is again ignored, eyes of aurum searching the crowd for any sign of—he stops breathing.

“Aether!”

The rest of the colors splash into a dull grey, but not one.

[C] can be seen perforating past the monochromatic canvas, emphasized amid the lusterless tints. It’s much like a single flower blooming in a bare land.

His world only starts moving when a body collides against his, trembling with relieved sobs.

“I finally found you, oh, thank heavens,”

Am I dreaming… ? the blond stays still, frozen as he blinks repetitively. The burn is no longer there.

He looks down, seeing a familiar face pressed against his chest, and he swallows thickly.

This is a dream.

“I could hear you, you know? Your stories, everything, but I—I couldn’t find you anywhere and Inazuma was closed off and I didn’t know where to go-“

He seizes her by the shoulders, creating some distance between them. What the Traveler sees is enough to compel his hidden tears to spill, but he keeps himself firm.

Denial and grief—hope and desperation, all have returned in the luster of his eyes, glossed with water as he searches the face of his lover.

He will embed it in his mind for one last time because after so long, he’s finally dreamt of her.

Finally, he can see her face again even if it’s just for a sliver of a moment and he’ll wake—

“Aether?”

The hand that moves to take his sends electricity within his being, jolting with a sensation that he can only feel around…

Ah… I… he staggers back, reality crashing. This… !

The perturbed and distracted faces of those nearby do not even register in his head and do not process the possibility that they’ve made a scene.

In a blink of an eye, the Outlander races forward, capturing the girl—his muse, his soulmate—back in his arms.

He cannot control the onrush of hysteria as he tightens his hold.

“You’re here,” he breaks into a small cry, voice raw, “You’re really here…”

There is silence all around him—probably because this is the weakest they’ve seen of the Hero. But he does not care.

He doesn’t care that he shakes, doesn’t care that he cries, doesn’t care that he’s displaying such vulnerability to everyone because just like them, he has a heart capable of breaking.

So there, under the light of the smiling sun, caressing his skin with the sensation and love that’s unable to be brought back until now, the Hero weeps.

He stays in his sanctuary, picking up the pieces of his heart to rebuild it whole.

“It was surreal, being born again,” [Name] reveals after they part, just so the blond can indulge in looking at her once more, “Teyvat is lonely, but when I started to hear you.. I felt so happy.”

He thinks he can cry again, but he’s certain he no longer has any more tears to spill. Paimon is crying in his stead now, having connected the dots herself.

Aether lifts his ungloved hand, the soft skin of his soulmate’s cheek meeting his palm, and he stammers out a breath.

[Name] nuzzles into that hand, [c] eyes containing the same fondness she’s held in her previous life.

The way she holds onto him so dearly brings back memories he thought he wouldn’t ever be able to live through again. He remembers all the times he held her cheek, her figure, her soul, her heart.

And he remembers the day he embraced her—just like this one—as she turns into stardust.

The little dread continues to burn like embers in his chest, making him cup his soulmate’s face as if he’s afraid that she’ll disappear again.

Understanding flickers in [c]s, and the lady tenderly caresses the hands on her cheeks, “Hey, it’s alright, I’m here now. You couldn’t have forgotten it, right?”

[Name] smiles. “I’ll be with you,”

I love you.

He can never forget it. Never.

Another burn starts on his wrist, but no longer is it agonizing. It is soft, like a cozy flame by the hearth, and he knows it to be his mark returning.

After all—even if death manages to separate them, he knows it now, that separation is but a momentary inconvenience. Because a joined heart can’t ever be split for eternity.

A soulmate’s bond transcends space and time—and the love that follows it will persist to defy all that endeavors to keep it asunder.

Aether realizes this after he seals the reunion with a kiss that told of woe and eunoia; that whenever there is separation, there is no need to dwell in the grief of loss.

For in the finale, he will remain hers, and she is his. Whenever.

Wherever.

a/n: HH, academic term is back and things have gotten busy- so i'm glad i was able to release this! ah, writing such a comforting piece eases me heart :')) HHH I WANNA GIVE AETHER A HUG WAHHH

@cherryflushz @e7t3 @scarlet-halos @lordbugs @nebulaera @annoying-and-upset @hanniejji @applepi1415 @tjjjrsj @azirajane @uwu-dreams @yvechu

Or so fate says.

The tears in his eyes can't possibly spill more after witnessing you go through hellish pain to deliver your beloved child. His hand is nestled in yours, tight and comforting.

Words are being ushered in your ear, taken with assurance and pride.

“You're doing well, just a little more.”

Just a little more.

The face of your husband can't be seen through the blurriness of your vision, but even having him nearby is enough as you grip his hand in yours.

Whatever the circumstance, as long as you both are present, hand in hand... every hurdle is possible to overcome.

Your tears are wiped away, shaky yet gentle as if he too is feeling the excruciating pain you're submitted into.

Which may as well be true—for you've both vowed, through highs and lows...

“Ah...” mesmerized midwives—then the sound of a crying baby.

Through pain and bliss...

Though it is contradictory for your eyesight to be blurry yet with perfect clarity you can see your husband, you do not care.

In the light of those few seconds, as he whispers your name and brings to you your beloved newborn... you are a happy family.

In sickness and in health...

“My sweet child..” you cradle your blessing with a tearful smile, feeling their soft skin with a hoarse laugh.

Then, you lift your stare and hand, clasping your husband's as you gaze in his glossy eyes. They speak of adoration, of pride, even—and comfort, and just sheer happiness..

“You're a father now..”

That you'd hate to tell him how faint you're starting to feel.

Beep- beep-!

His heart drops to his stomach at the urgent sound coming off the machine—and all of a sudden, the feathery weight on his arms becomes impossibly heavy.

“Severe bleeding, hurry, we'll do a transfusion-!”

You both have vowed,

Plenty of things is happening all at once, far too quick for him to peruse each and every single one of them—though he knows them all to be ominous.

Hasn't he been made aware of such complications during delivery?

As swiftly as it came, the baby is taken from his arms and he slips entirely past the weakening grasp of his wife.

A nurse starts to push him outside in a hurry, “Let me escort you outside, sir.”

But all he can think of is—

That you will be together.

“[Name]-!” he's only able to tear through his bubble of initial shock by the time he's escorted outside the delivery room.

A rapid spike of alarm sends him sprinting back inside, but someone holds him back. His breath hitches and his throat starts to burn.

“[Name]!”

The world blurs as he sees through the closing doors, the tearful visage of his dying wife as she spells out with her lips—in her last breaths-

“I love you.”

And only 'till death do you two part.

The doors close and he hears it before anyone can even attempt to save the mother.

The sound of a flat line.

Scaramouche

Engrossed in his state of loss, he can only continue typing away on his keyboard. Though he knows full well that he's drafting an email, his mind is elsewhere.

Which is natural... for this particular day of the year.

He thinks he's grown numb—that he's much adapted to the hollow condition that his hearth's been left in, but he hasn't.

For every day, it pulses with life and throbs with longing.

Scaramouche didn't think he'd come to face such a period like this when he's in his youth—that he won't fall for someone because love is such a destructive thing that ain't worth his time.

But he has.

“Papa, I love you!”

And oh, how love destroyed him as he feared.

He stops typing as soon as he hears his child's endearing words.

They send life throughout his being and he detests it; the reminder of being alive.

The reminder of being alone in a bind that's meant to be solved with his other half.

Although he is able to control himself from physically lashing out, he cannot tame the hysteric anger in his voice. In warning, he clenches his fists and orders his child to leave the room before it's too late.

This recurring day of the year is not and won't ever be his best.

But his son appears to be more obstinate now than ever and refuses to budge, only looking at him with beady, [c] eyes.

“Get out.”

When there's still no movement, he finally snaps, slamming his clenched fists on the desk and clattering the items on it.

“I said get out, Yukio! Hell!”

There is a tiny squeak of fear—then rushing footsteps followed by a timid shut of his office door. Or at least he thinks he hears it close. He can't look right now.

He can't bear to look and see the same shade of [c] he wishes to gaze and awaken to every morning at his side.

“... Damn it.”

It's only when the fury has subsided for clarity to enter does he finally feels the shame of his doings. And, in no good shape to resume his work—he never was cut out for it today—, turns off his laptop.

Scaramouche rests his head in his palms, his stare directed to the picture frame an arm's length away. He takes it, gingerly, in his weak hold.

There's no picture of the three as a whole family.

“Doing this alone is hard... [Name],” he whispers, broken and solemn as he brushes his thumb against the frame.

“You don't look like it at all, but I can tell that you'll be a wonderful father, Scara.”

His lips upturn in the slightest when he recalls that sentence. It's a wonderful miracle that until now, he still has a perfect memory of what her voice sounds like.

Perhaps it is the sorry gift of life to him?

Ah, to think that he has gone to be like this—a man who fell in love, who lost, and who gained tears, smiles... and even a child.

Hah... a funny thing to reflect over.

But he doesn't regret it at all.

Finding the resolve to make amends with his son isn't remotely difficult, not with the seeping clarity and shame to have shouted at the blessing brought to this world by his love.

Sappy it may be, he does not cringe from the truth.

After another endearing brush of his finger across the picture in his hands, he sets it back in its place and stands from his chair to leave the study.

The house is silent in what's supposed to be an atmosphere between a family of three. Yes, it scalds in the hollowest of burns, but he takes into account the fact that although a mother has passed...

“Hey,” he calls by the threshold of the teal-accented room.

... They are still a family of two.

The child would've tripped on the carpeted floor if not for the swift hand that caught the back of his shirt.

“Ah- papa!”

Scaramouche sets the boy on the bed, gentle mannerisms a complete turnabout from before the arrival of the only remembrance of his wife.

“Don't worry, I'm not sad... I understand,” Yukio drags the heavy duvet over his lap, murmuring, “It hurts, too. But I still have you, so..”

Silence hangs about in the air, absent of the earlier strain.

Small and barely visible, the bitter smile on the father's visage tells of many a tale of longing. A foreign expression, that was.

Rarely does he ever let himself be vulnerable, after all.

Subconsciously, he lets his hand ruffle the boy's—his son, his treasure—[c] hair, sighing, “You take after her a lot, don't you.”

“Mama says that, too,” responds Yukio, whose face is tinged a faint pink at the rather uncommon display of fatherly love.

The answer takes Scaramouche off-guard.

He's heard that children are more 'open' to factors past reality and are considered to be imaginative—artistically and supernaturally according to those sites he read—but to hear it for himself...

Oh, what to feel.

On one hand, he's perplexed since he's not a keen believer in the supernatural, but on the other, he is relieved—happy, hopeful, even.

“Does she now?”

“Mhm!”

Because it means that in some way or another, their little family is still complete. It makes his chest fuzzy inside, warm and thankful.

Knowing this lightens the weight on his heart, and maybe it'll eventually dissipate in the years to come. Though the wound of loving remains fresh, perhaps in time it can be remedied.

Scaramouche opens an arm in invitation, unable to help the content smile when his son beams and snuggles closely.

And as he stays there, hugging his child in a room built with a love between two, a wind flies through the open window—and he feels like he's being embraced, too.

Venti

“Papa, I love you.”

The father in question nearly loses his clutch of the wine bottle he's slid out of the rack at the voice that's come to greet him.

With a hand on his chest to steady his aching, racing heart, he then sets the bottle on the kitchen counter.

After he's ascertained that its placement won't lead to mishaps and accidents, he then turns around, bearing a smile.

Well practiced, easily believable—genuine, yet ironically a little counterfeit.

“Aw! I do, as well!”

It's dreadful, but Venti takes pride in being able to deceive himself and his daughter of the reality that he's intoxicated in lament.

“Mama does, too!”

But there are times when there are cracks in that facade of his. Rarely does it happen, but it lasts with an impact that's difficult to overcome.

This time in particular, the fracture may be too big. Fortunately, however, he's managed to grasp onto a semblance of comfort, a guise of being alright.

“... Papa?”

“She does, does she?” he whispers, falling to sit on one of the chairs with a drawled sigh.

Taking the opportunity to amble closer, Wendy moves to beam up with a bright grin on her features. She pats her father's lap, appearing giddy.

“Yeah! Sometimes she visits me in my sleep. We talk, but it doesn't last long..”

Ah, this again. He's heard this story one too many times already, but it's safe to say that he doesn't find it cumbersome at all.

If anything, it's appeasing.

His daughter has always known about the absence of her other parent, but it's infrequent for her to be crestfallen. That fortitude of hers has always been admired.

Such a strong child, even stronger than he is.

The yawn that he hears is a prompt for him to blink out of his daze, and he chuckles, saying, “You look like you want to sleep now more than ever, hm.”

Wendy rubs her eyes with a murmur, tiny hands clenching the fabric of her father's pants.

“I'm sorry I can't stay up for long, papa... I don't want to see you so lonely and drinking, especially today.”

Venti's smile grows solemn. I can't help it.

“Will you sleep early tonight, papa?” the sudden excitement throws him off his wavelength, blinking in surprise as his child giggles.

“If you do, I'll tell mama to come to visit you in your dreams, too so she can tell you to take care of your health herself!”

“Venti, stop drinking so much-! I'm not about to marry a drunkard! Unless you're drunk in love.”

Recalling those words elicits a sincere laugh to rumble from his chest. Ah yes, he did miss that nagging.

“She always said that I should look out for your health, but! She can tell you herself, too!” Wendy pouts, chubby cheeks appearing much chubbier.

Venti can't help but shake his head in amusement, acquiescing.

“Alright, then. No drinking for me tonight.”

His answer alights multiple sparkles in the girl's tealish eyes, her excitement far too impossible to tame.

“Then I better go to sleep quickly so I can tell her,” she jumps to plant a swift kiss on her father's cheek before zooming out of the kitchen, “Hehe, good night, papa!”

Grateful for the mild appeasement of his anguished heart, he stands, inserting the wine bottle back into its rack with an endearing smile on his features.

No drinking tonight.

After flicking the lights off, he makes a beeline towards his child's room, entering as quietly as possible.

Wendy has already tucked herself in, with her lamp on that slowly spins a myriad of stars against the ceiling. She always said it makes her feel closer to her mother, who's gone above.

The peaceful sight of her slumber eases the heaviness within, plucking away the embedded thorns in a reminder that he's not alone in this journey.

For he still has the fruit of the love he's shared with someone.

Without a sound, the door clicks to a shut, and he moves into his bedroom and pauses for a brief moment.

Now that his head is clear, he discerns how it isn't as cold as it used to be. Perhaps this is because he's more accepting of what has come to happen?

He shakes his head, moving to dress in his nightwear before falling onto the soft, warm bed. Upon natural instinct, he leaves a space at his side.

Venti turns, hand on the empty space on his bed, the recollection of his daughter's words upturning his lips again.

A dream, is it.. ?

“Good night.”

A good night that really is.

But Wendy didn't exactly dream of her mother that night, though, so she was a bit sullen when she awoke the next day.

She's rather ashamed and afraid to face her father in the morning but knows that interaction will be unavoidable. So, after a muster of courage, she gets dressed and goes out to enter the dining room.

To her surprise, music is playing—and the atmosphere is bright.

“Good morning, little songbird!”

There is a smile on her father's face as he beckons her to come and sit next to him.

Ah, Wendy thinks to herself. Papa's really happy today.

He must've had a good dream.

a/n: well, this has impacted me so :')) to be honest this is my first time writing this kind of au so it's fresh in the heart :weary:

@cherryflushz @e7t3 @scarlet-halos @lordbugs @nebulaera @annoying-and-upset @hanniejji @applepi1415 @tjjjrsj @azirajane @aryllechan @applepi1415 @tjjjrsj @azirajane @hey-comrade-hold-stil @limelightsuperhero @chloeloe @loptido @windyventi @nejibot @ganyuqrt @justrinnn @epioneemersyn

“It’s getting late..” you frown, leaning by the walls of a closed store with a sigh, “He’s not picking up, either.”

It isn’t the first time you receive a tip and still end up at a dead-end, but having it occur one after the other just dampens your hope further.

This case has been running mellow for the past few years, only garnering interest after a series of recent killings were unraveled to be linked to the old case.

What captured everyone’s attention now? Because the killings are all from the government; known politicians, attorneys, senators—the list can go on.

You shake your head, letting your grumbles fill the silent night as you start to walk down the sidewalk that leads to the hotel you’ve booked in a couple of hours ago.

So much for that tip.

It’s difficult work—but one you’re willing to persevere through until the end of your career. You did not take up this path to let this chance go.

The screen of your phone lights up with another ring, showing your partner’s message that read his panic.

Not bothering to hold back the urge to roll your eyes, you sigh once more, responding that he needn’t come any longer now that you concluded that the tip was—bluntly put, useless. And that you’re coming back to the hotel.

You pocket your phone afterward, whistling away as you continue your trek down the road.

There is no one else in the vicinity.

At least you thought.

“Hello there, lady~” drawls a man from one of the alleyways you’ve just passed.

The haunting slur of his voice prompts you to move faster, the neon lighting of the hotel looking so far away.

Albeit fear has an acknowledged presence, it isn’t the one rattling your bones, but impatience.

There is no time to lose and you can’t have someone taking up your space now. But alas, the quicker your steps become, the more ground the man continues to cover.

This is playing out to be a scene you’ve seen in flicks and you can’t say you’re not prepared.

“This is a dangerous city to be in… surely you’re aware of that.”

Ah, the hotel is nearby, you mull. Perhaps I should notify him that I’m getting tailed, for precaution. Idiot, why didn’t I think of that sooner?

Your building annoyance does not go unnoticed. Perhaps it has even influenced the stranger behind you because suddenly his steps are thundering. Your heart pounds in your ears.

A click of the tongue is all that is heard before you are being yanked backward to one of the nearby alleys.

“You’re a rude one, aren’t you? It’s alright,”

So much for taking my phone out, the swift whiplash clatters your eyesight—the dark environment does not help, too. The disadvantage is clear judging by the way the man moves about in the blackness. He’s a local.

Maybe… the realization freezes you for a moment. This is the man that tip was talking about? If this is the situation then you’ve struck gold.

“I can discipline you, anyway.”

You’re brought back to reality when you are slammed into the wall, the back of your head throbbing with a pain that has you gasping.

“What—let go of me!” the hold transfers to your neck and you begin to choke, your one hand darting to grab something in your bag—but then there is no need to take any weapon of sorts.

Because the vice grip suddenly loosens and you’re freely taking in all the air.

“What the fuck, you’re out in the open, you dumbass.”

The new voice is yet to be processed.

Your mind is currently running the priority to survive because this is it—undoubtedly, these two must be the members of that criminal gang. And you’re alone.

Ahh, idiot! You should’ve phoned your partner when you had the chance.

The man that seized ahold of you laughs, voice raspy, “Open and midnight. You aren’t any fun, are you.”

You press your back to the wall, a futile attempt to merge with the shadows. Everything within is screaming for you to run while the two are still locked in a conversation, but something grounds you in place.

The sound of an incoming car presents the possibility of survival.

“We don’t need the cops on our tail after another sherlock'a corpse. Learn some restraint.”

Now that you can hear them properly… that other guy… ah—oh no, wait, he’s turning-!

“As for you—… !”

A car zooms past the street, its headlights enough to shed some light in the alley.

In a flashing second, white trounces the black—and albeit it’s only for a sliver of a moment, the figures shown buzz you with both horror and relief.

It can’t be.

“Quite the catch isn’t she?”

The man wearing a mask hauls you out of the alley, nearby a lamppost where you can be seen under the orange light.

You’re unable to move, eyes blankly gazing into the other acquaintance’s violet ones.

You do not say his name out loud, but he flinches in the slightest—like he’s snapped from whatever reverie has ensnared him.

“I’ll take care of this. Report to the Tsaritsa for me, will you?” he’s not waiting for an affirmation from the other person, already slapping away the hand on your arm so he can grab you himself.

The way you jolt does not go unnoticed. The fact that relief has started to seep in instead of panic cannot be denied, as well.

Although it remains true that you’re in the midst of two criminals, knowing one out of the two puts you at morbid ease.

“It’s not every day that the nasty Balladeer asks for a favor,” rasps the masked man, his crimson stare burning daggers into your profile like he’s attempting to uncover any relevance you had to this comrade.

“Really, calling my name like that?”

Why the pause? The sudden interest?

“You’re going to kill her anyway, I don’t see the point.”

Fortunately, that curiosity of the stranger does not linger for too long. If anything, the masked man looks more amused.

“I’m holding this one against you,”

Scarmouche scoffs, “I get it.”

They begin to exchange a few short phrases in a language you can’t understand and your sense of reason returns, bidding you to grab your phone again.

This is an opportune time, you can’t have this pass—

Thud!

“Not a nice move, doll.”

You can barely register the lulling whisper in your ear, too focused on easing the pressure on your neck. It’s strong enough to beckon black dots around your sight. You can’t believe this—Is this really-

The weight vanishes and you gasp, almost falling if not for the arm that circles your waist to hold you back up. On impulse, you latch onto it.

“Scara,” his expression is stone-cold, it’s eerie, “So, this is where you’ve been all along? I can’t say I’m surprised—but-”

He lets out another scoff, choosing not to respond to your questions as he forces you up properly with a small kick to your calves. Your attempts to struggle are easily impeded.

“Answer me,” you demand, but he does not listen, only hauling you away farther from the hotel.

Seeing that he will not bend to any of your wishes, you swipe him off the floor with a leg, breaking free from his clutch.

“Shit—”

You cut him off with a slam of your fist to his face, feeling your knuckles burn at the contact.

Though your body is running hot with a rush of adrenaline and a kick of vigor, the cold temperature that has stiffened your limbs a while ago proves to be a nuisance.

You find yourself clenching your gloveless fingers, endeavoring to get rid of the cold as you deliver another swing.

Though it meets its mark, the receiver merely laughs in nonchalance.

Scaramouche slides his foot to a circle to throw you off but you’re able to jump and avoid it—but that paves an opening.

Before you can raise your guard up or even land, you are being tackled to the sidewalk with a speed uncatchable by the eye.

The brutal collision manifests a dizzy spell—so painful and strong that you’re seeing stars, but you’re keeping your fists up anyway.

“Hold still when you’re at my absolute mercy, we don’t want to soil your pretty face red now, would we?” he tuts.

It’s a certainty that your face isn’t smeared with blood, but you can’t say the same for the back of your head—nor the recent wound at your shoulder from a nasty run-in just a week ago.

Glaring with a zeal that intends to entail your refusal to surrender, you’re met with harsh eyes of violet that respond with a vicious, untold warning.

Familiar as they may be, however, they are no longer the ones you used to gaze into so fondly.

Your silence is met with a huff of presumable triumph, then there is a movement to take the handcuffs that peek out of your jacket.

“No funny business.”

Hauled back up, the momentum sends you crashing against the man’s chest, who steadies you with his free hand.

It is only with the flickering light of the lamppost do you see the scrunch of his eyebrows, bewilderment evident when he appraises the blood on his palm and your shoulder.

Now that you’re simply standing, you are able to slowly comprehend the stinging pain from a wound that has re-opened. Crap.

Scaramouche only gives a look before raising his hand—then, not taking any chances for you to struggle as you did before, knocks you out cold.

The friendly darkness that comes to greet and be your companion for who knows how long has thinned your patience by the time you wake up. It had been another colorless sleep.

It doesn’t take too long for your senses to kick in, replaying all that has happened leading up to this very predicament.

He knocked me out, you grumble inwardly, testing your limbs and looking on in surprise when you realize that you aren’t bound as you initially thought. A kidnapping…

The room you’re in is, shockingly, not the stereotypical basement.

You’re in a living room—a rather luxurious one, at that, maintaining its pristine and sharp appearance belying the fact that its owner is a criminal man whose middle name is slaughter.

Wary, you try to find solace in your bag—only it’s nowhere to be found. As expected.

Where is he? You stand up, careful not to make any noise. If he’s even here and not somebody else.

There is a strange comfort in having Scaramouche be the one present—but alongside it, there is also distress.

If worse comes to worst and you end up with the need to end him, it will definitely mar you for years to arrive.

Down a lit hallway, you walk through, passing by paintings that contained faces, some familiar and some not.

The soles of your shoes are silent with their contact upon the mauve carpet. Shuffling sounds then alert you from the rightmost room and before you can even do anything—someone appears by its threshold.

“So you’ve become a detective,” Scaramouche lifts your badge and your wallet containing the identification card before sighing, looking crossed, “That’s even worse.”

The temperature Is peculiarly freezing.

Is he really not doing anything? Your thoughts are answered when he disappears in the room, only to come back with your stuff.

He rolls his eyes at your apprehensive stance then throws to the floor your belongings before crossing his arms, keeping his leaning figure by the door frame.

He doesn’t do anything else—and you laugh in disbelief.

You don’t know whether to be relieved or vexed.

“You’re kidding.”

He’s letting you go—just like that, without so much as an injury, without anything at all.

For a moment you almost thought him to be as normal as he appears to be, a civilian, and not someone affiliated with a criminal organization that’s being hunted by the government.

Unsuccessfully, too, telling of the group’s surreptitious nature and ability to be invisible—with only their crimes being traces of their presence.

Pursing your lips, you take your bag and stand your ground.

“Scara,” his eyebrow twitches at the nickname, “You disappeared without a trail after the death of your sisters—everyone’s looking all over for you. It’s been years.”

When he makes no sound nor movement that indicates a future response, you step forward, pushing him by the chest with a burn of courage you didn’t know you had.

Words from the heart—tears you previously cried, disbelief and worry that you harbored throughout the past, you try to prevent them from achieving full control of your perception.

You allow only the tiniest bit of emotions to slip through, fearing that if you hide them then you’ll literally crumble apart.

But it comes as an epiphany that just looking at his face alone, devoid of care and interest, is more than enough to make you question why you even decided to bother appealing with pathos.

He steps back again—though his fingers are starting to grip his arms a little tighter—letting you push him back as you grit your teeth, hissing.

“I couldn’t just sit around and do nothing so I chose this path to search for you and now that- now that I did, you’re just going to let this pass by?”

You’re sending me away? It isn’t raised, but the question hangs openly.

Finally, he cracks, swatting your hand on him away with narrowed eyes.

“I didn’t ask for you to look for me,” his snarls are full of warning and danger, but you stay rooted on the ground, sizing him up with a glare of your own as he continues, “I wanted to stay hidden. I didn’t want to see you.”

“Why kidnap me then? Why not let that masked person do as he pleases?”

He steps closer, narrowed vision of violet acute with forbearance.

“I told you, you’re on my last sliver of mercy. Take it while it’s free.”

Is that all the reason you can give?

Rendered speechless at his behavior that might as well be tantamount to that of a stranger’s, your shoulders drop.

That’s really everything?

Scaramouche bumps into your shoulder when he walks past with a frown, not batting an eye to any of your stuttering gestures.

For a wink, you lag behind in that room, watching the back of the man who has occupied a great time in your life vanish once more.

There are whispers in your head, olden recollections, and naïve promises.

Once upon a time, your hand is clasped within a child’s. Then, your pinky is linked with a teen’s—shy, shy touches… but then, little by little, the distance grows longer.

Until that day.

“Scara? Why aren’t you picking up the phone? Where are you?”

The one you’re reaching your hand to is nowhere to be found.

“You’re worrying everyone. Can you answer? … Please?”

All that’s left is the memory of him, susceptible to pale and be forgotten in the aging of time.

“I’ll find you.. even if it’s the last thing I’ll do.”

And you did.

Air fills your lungs as you clench your fists, recovering the earlier paroxysm of valor and striding after the one that got away.

“Scaramouche!”

He turns back around at the call of his name, his countenance speaking of a future retort, but he doesn’t get to say anything.

In a flash, all he sees is red hot burning fury, then he’s being thrashed against the wall by the collar of his shirt.

It’s a brutal move that sends dizzying white to his sight, but he can tell with ease that it contained restraint.

“I did not hunt you down all this time to be simply overlooked as nothing. How do you think I felt when all of a sudden, one day, you were nowhere to be found?”

Teeth gnashing down, he ‘tsk’s, peering into hues of [c] that holds intransigent will. It’s rather awing if he’s going to be honest—but then again, obstinacy has always been your friend.

He starts to grab you by the arm, without a doubt to throw you off, but you let him go, opting to pin your stare instead.

Miraculously, he does not walk away.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me exactly why the fuck you’re working with the thugs that wrecked the living hell out of your life and mine,” you say through bared teeth.

Eyebrow arching in amusement, he throws his head back to the wall and laughs, breath a little raspy.

Aside from that, only the ticking of a faraway clock can be heard in the silence of the hour.

His fingers thread through his bangs, tugging at the roots as if they’ll rip the words he wants to say out of his mind.

When he lolls his head and drags his hand down, a lazy smile can be seen—one that appears mocking—on his handsome visage.

He hasn’t changed a bit.

“Hah, you’re dumber than ever… but I can’t blame you for being oblivious,” he laughs, “The facts are buried with bias.”

What does that even answer? It’s either he’s playing with ambiguity or just giving you nothing. It’s insane—unacceptable.

Still in a cloud of wonder, you start to pace back and forth. The urge was too strong to hold back.

It doesn’t make sense at all.

There are portraits of his sisters in the hallway you passed a while ago, and some had unfamiliar faces—except for that one masked person you came across in the alley.

You almost throw your hands up in resignation.

“Weren’t they the organization that harmed your sisters? Even my mother? Why would you be working for them now!?”

Cold bodies upon a pool of red, broken whispers of pleas hushed to the unmerciful… the recollections falter your valor.

You can never forget the gruesome sight—you were but a child then, a witness who saw the insignia often marked by the criminal faction. It was written on the floorboards, messy and bloody.

With shivers beginning to disconcert you for the memoria, you start to take steady, mediated breaths.

You’ve never really worked past seeing that traumatic incident, and when you turn your eyes to observe someone you used to think of as your other half, you’re shellshocked.

No longer is there vexation on his face, but equal gloom.

It bolsters the incentive to reach out to him, one that he looks at with immediate warning.

“Scara—”

“Shut up already, [Name]! You don’t know anything! Just leave already before you push me to do something you’ll regret.”

He cuts you off with a bellow and a fist to the wall, his whole stature trembling. Having known him for so long, you know his tremors to be a way to hamper his anger from doing anything foolhardy.

Despite his back turned against you, however, you make no effort to stop spluttering all that you wished for him to hear.

“We just met again after eight years, and you’re already blaming me?” you couldn’t help but scoff derisively, “I wanted to know—I wanted to help you, and I promised that, but what did you do!?”

“If you want, you can stay with me for a while, my family doesn’t mind.”

It was mere days after… that happened, and though neither of you could function properly, not with the traumatic scene you’ve both stumbled upon—there still laid the priority to ascertain each other’s welfare.

Unlike you, who still had a father—that you eventually lost to murder years later—, your friend had no one. He was just fourteen.

Scaramouche was eerily silent when you took the usual place at his side. His jaw was clenched tight, though, speaking of his inner conflict. He used to tell you all that bothered him.

“Thanks,” his voice had always been snappy… but he was particularly harsher this time, “But I don’t need any help.”

“Scara-“

He all but shoved you away in your attempt to grab his arm, and glared with a sneer, “Just lay off. You’re not worth my time.”

Astounded, you remain glued to the floor, watching as he disappeared down the sidewalk—alone.

You’re laughing when you recount the specific memory to the man, who seems to have calmed himself down.

Which is far from being the truth. You know that there simply is a brewing squall within him that he refuses to liberate.

“You’re such an asshole, too! Who in their right mind would kiss someone after apologizing and disappear afterward?”

Skin growing warm and a little flushed, you sigh wryly, pressing a hand to your hot forehead.

All those years learning to rationalize over the ability of emotions to spur things out of control—gone in a snap when it comes to facing this man.

Or maybe it’s because that stupid kiss of apology stuck fresh in your head?

You were both just teenagers, running high with abominable hormones.

That isn’t a valid excuse, though.

Petty things done as a teen is more than welcome to be forgotten, but that moment has not once paled in the crevices of your mind.

And you know that the simplest reason behind it—the only reason, rather—is because it’s him.

But you suppose your hard work did have some good fruit. You wouldn’t be standing in his presence if it didn’t have any.

“What happened, Scara? Just tell me.”

A beat of silence.

The tick of a clock.

A crow of a rooster.

Then the ringing of phones simultaneously.

The both of you made no move to acknowledge anything beyond each other’s presence and that silence, that pause made you believe that you got through him.

Maybe he’s cracked, maybe he’s finally choosing to enlighten you about everything.

And as he turns, the look on his face tells all that you’ve won him in your favor… until.

“Hey, hey, Scara, not picking up the phone again? You might want to listen to this as soon as possible, then!” the two of you freeze.

Another.. ‘co-worker’ of his?

Following that is the opening of your own phone’s voicemails, the voice coming through the speakers belonging to your partner in arms.

“I called the police, [Name], where are you!? I finally reached your phone but you’re not answering, what’s happened?!”

Scaramouche stiffens at the sound and hardens his gaze when you make a small move to get your phone and silence it. You chose not to proceed, however.

There is a dangerous glint in his eyes and you’re not going to risk it.

So, you both stand still, statuesque, ears bare to the simultaneous calls.

“The Tsaritsa is calling an urgent rendezvous at [ - ] in an hour’s time, you better get there as soon as possible or Dotto’s going to snitch whatever he’s hiding!”

“Thank heavens your GPS is on. Don’t worry, [Name], we’re going to get you out of there!”

Both calls ended in a unified beep—and you fear the look of realization in his eyes.

No matter what angle it’s looked at, this situation is compromised.

A detective has gotten a direct lead to the organization’s meeting point and backup is on the way to this exact location.

Even if it’s you, you can tell that he has his priorities straight.

The next turn of events may be tragic.

And that fact solidifies itself when in a flash, a gun is pointed straight at you.

The iciness of a stranger’s gaze pierces against yours, opposing the past in which the man was not a stranger, but a dear friend—maybe something even more—who held a warm, fond stare.

The same lips that once touched yours part to utter the ultimatum with a grave, sinister tone.

“This is it.”

Fitting for a bitter reunion.

“Don’t look for me,” were his last words when he was fourteen.

Perhaps this is the price to pay for going against what he said before?

You don’t need a minute to be able to measure how certain—how prepared he is to raise a gun against you.

He’s a pull away from another kill.

It’s upsetting, but is there even anything to salvage now that fate has decided to play its hand? It is checkmate now.

“So this is how it’ll be?” you whisper, adeptly whipping out a pistol of your own and dropping the bag you took it from to aim the weapon towards the criminal in a similar fashion, “It’s not too late to turn yourself in. I promise I will help reduce your sentence.”

The corners of his lip quirk up but he shakes his head, dismissing your offer. To this, you swallow thickly—and sigh, tightening your grip on the gun.

Your heart is racing. You wonder if his is too.

“How miserable we’ve become, Scaramouche.”

He clicks his tongue, his dominant finger dangerously curling around the trigger.

“Life’s like that, doll.”

You mirror his movement, chuckling, “Since when did you even do pet names..”

Scaramouche laughs and tilts his head to the side, the look on his eyes reminiscent of long ago—it’s as if he’s standing before you as the child you grew up with, and not the criminal he is now.

This very second—you like to envision that you’re both simply who you once were.

And how you used to be.

“So, you still want to know my reasons?”

The gun in your hand grows heavy with suspense, but you nod, anyway, not trusting your voice—afraid that you’ll say something that you’ll regret.

Which is funny, because should you really be thinking over regrets when death is but a possible second away?

He smiles—you can’t tell if it’s of amusement or sorrow.

“You’re certain?”

You are. Besides, is it really better to stay oblivious? In some cases, yes, but in this one, you’d rather learn the truth. Even if it means taking it to your grave.

There is nothing else for you to lose.

“Answers have prices, darling.”

It’s very distant, but in the quietude of the hour, blaring sirens can be heard.

Time is ticking.

You prepare yourself to shoot. He does the same thing.

“Out with it.”

His violet eyes gloss with resignation.

“Very well.”

Bang!

Broadcasted in the news, reporters are flocking all about the crime scene, cameras zooming and panning through the crowd of investigators and police in an attempt to catch today’s bearer of misfortune.

“Coming in live-! We are now at the city of [ - ] after officials have been told of a gunshot just half an hour ago at the time of 5:13 in the morning. It’s believed to be another work of the criminal group—”

A police officer gets into frame and he falters for a moment, blind to the flashing lights, before clearing his throat and providing the news. His voice is grim.

“Another body has been found, mauled and burned black beyond recognition and is once again, identifiable only by their card…”

He lifts a paper bag, with credentials of the victim and the sort of evidence inside written on the material.

If someone pays close attention to that officer’s voice, maybe they would’ve caught the slight waver in it as he says,

“Detective [Name] [Surname].”

The funeral isn’t big—and began just a week after investigating the crime scene.

DNA testing has been confirmed the body to be the detective’s, and the tailing of the organization continues.

No one but a few friends and fellow officers in the division attended.

Thoma’s frown can be mistaken to be perpetually attached to his face as he stands idly, watching as dirt is being thrown over the pristine white casket.

The badge attached to his hip feels heavier despite its actual weight.

Somehow, it is like he’s carrying a mass of guilt in that silver plate—and he is.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been so trusting of his partner, perhaps if he just met her halfway… then this could’ve been prevented.

“Look at how quick the officials dismiss this case as nothing. They’re scumbags.”

At the contemptuous voice that rose belligerence towards the civil force, Thoma goes as still as a rock.

It’s not uncommon for some people to hold malice against the police, it happens rather often… but it surprises him, still.

In a way, he can understand. This case, as well.

“It can’t be helped,” he murmurs, not finding the strength to look at the stranger in fear that the guilt within him will fester, “They’ve already gotten what they needed. It’s back to the manhunt… I won’t fail [Name], her death won’t be in vain.”

“Dead doesn't mean gone.”

The wind rustles through the trees, wafting the cold on an already cloudy day.

He thinks the stranger is gone, but then he hears a grumble of ‘pathetic’ and words he isn’t quite able to catch.

What?

The blond finally finds the strength to look at the stranger but doesn’t get to see him at all.

At least, not a face.

All that he sees is a tuff of violet hair being hidden in a helmet before the man speeds away on his motorcycle, presenting the implication that he’s only there to give a quick check on the funeral.

Which is a little odd.

A mere stranger… ?

Thoma feels the cool surface of his badge and thins his lips. What did he say again? Ah.

‘And is there really death for someone vying for justice?’

a/n: writing curse words sucked my soul lmao, i'm not an active cusser so writing it is a little weird. but hey, it's not too much! now this piece i like as well.

there is a body and all (poor thoma), but doesn't scara's words just leave a small impact? :')) is there really death for someone like mc?? ehehe

ooo the ambiguity~

@cherryflushz @e7t3 @scarlet-halos @lordbugs @nebulaera @annoying-and-upset @hanniejji @applepi1415 @tjjjrsj @azirajane @hey-comrade-hold-stil @limelightsuperhero @chloeloe @loptido @windyventi @nejibot @ganyuqrt @justrinnn

He’s always been the oddest out of the group, that Alatus. His story is nothing new to you; coming out of a wretched god’s manipulation, only to serve Rex Lapis.

His only purpose is to serve and yet—how can he be so optimistic, still?

You don’t understand it, really.

Or more like you fail to see the beauty in things after the scarring war and pivotal karma you’ve been subjected to.

But it’s normal, no? Can people blame you for being reclusive when you’ve already dawned upon the true horrors this world has to offer?

Ah, not like you care for others’ opinions.

“You’ve cleared this area before I can even arrive… as expected of the Frostborne,”

You sense him coming before you see him appear in the middle of the battleground at Guyun Stone Forest, a location that’s active of evil’s influx.

Turning your eyes away from the fellow Adeptus, you glance at your worn catalyst.

Its splendor has waned throughout the years, leaving a dull luster behind the shards of noctilucous decorating the weapon’s body. Maybe you should refine them… this grimoire is a gift, after all.

“You really went all out,” you see the man trek around the remains of Cryo, thoroughly conducting his observation, “No longer can I detect a speck of evil… looks like Guyun won’t be visited for a while.”

He pipes up and you roll your eyes with a muted scoff. He’s annoying…

Not passing him a glance or any of your attention unless it’s important, you dematerialize the weapon and pinch the space in between your eyebrows.

It’s getting unbearable, again… this karma.

It always acts up whenever you quell the curses of the deities that try to break free.

Looks like you’re going to need more of the medicine you’ve been learning to brew to last another night without tipping over to insanity.

“Hey, [Name],”

Moving your stare to fixate on him, you see the Yaksha looking at the bright moon past the mouth of the cave housing Guyun’s domain. He’s smiling again.

“You don’t visit Wangshu Inn that much, anymore. It gets a little lonely sometimes, so, will you—”

“No thanks.”

Your swift response only drives him to chuckle, looking at you with a gleam of bemusement in his chartreuse eyes.

“You don’t hold back, do you? And here I thought we’ve bonded over the eons. You’re still sharp.”

He lifts his hands in joking surrender at the narrowing of your stare, the smile in his face not once dropping as his shoulders vibrate along with his snickers.

It’s unbelievable how he’s able to find mirth in little, trivial things. You’re getting peeved by the second.

Alatus just doesn’t break.

He wears that stupid grin of his everywhere, parading around as if he doesn’t have nightmares clawing the depths of his psyche and demons whispering for him to go insane.

He humors the musings of mortals, and albeit caged in yet another contract, remains a free spirit.

Anger is a foreign emotion to him—hell, you haven’t even seen him frown for once in thousands of years. The most he can do is a blank face.

Why does he do that? You click your tongue when the Conqueror goes off on another talking tangent.

Why can’t he be mad at this accursed world for everything it’s done to him? No one is going to blame him.

You don’t think you’ll ever understand this man. Why he feels like hiding his immense suffering under a damned smile is a necessity.

“Rarely do we see one another outside of joint exorcisms, [Name]… last time I saw you was almost a year back.”

You’re too holed up in your thoughts to notice the drooping of his jubilant tone, a subtle change to one of longing that you remain oblivious to.

“As it should be, unless you want to stir up chaos. Us Yakshas can’t stay put in one place for too long—our karma may accumulate, and you know what comes afterward.”

He lowers his head at this, obviously aware of what you’re trying to say.

Madness will take hold, the beholder may lose themselves to the clutch of mania… and wreak ruin. Like how the Yaksha of Geo has fallen to it and thus slain one of their comrades bearing the element of Hydro.

It is too risky to have karma play its part once more, especially now that there are only two of you remaining. Bosacius’ status remains unclear… but from someone who got out of a grueling war, you’ve come to assume the worst.

Sighing, you shake your head, trying to keep your voice firm as you state, “An encore must not play out, for the betterment of both of us.”

The isolation, the loneliness—of course it burns.

Of course it hurts, but the risk is too high for you to bet. That is why, until you are able to perfect a healing concoction, you must remain vigilant.

Gambling with too high of a risk is the same as putting your life on the line.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t try,” he whispers, stepping closer to you. “Can we?”

Yet this man is more than willing to throw himself away regardless of the risk.

Again with this endeavor of his. You mull, attempting not to stare in the depths of his emerald eyes—ones that speak so longingly of his want to entwine his life with yours.

You thought he’d stopped wishing for something impossible when you turned him down after the Archon War, but you thought wrong, it seems.

Pushing down the sentiment of relief and opting to stare at him with furrowed brows, you ask him with a voice of genuine wonder.

“It’s been centuries. Why do you try so much, Alatus?”

When the Yaksha in question notes that you don’t shy away from his approaching figure, he reaches for your hand—holding it in his own.

His gloved hands, though calloused and firm from millenniums of slaughter… are surprisingly gentle.

He whispers his sincere response in the breeze carried by the night air.

“Is it wrong to want you by my side?”

The hitching of your breath doesn’t go unnoticed, to your chagrin, but he doesn’t comment on it. Other than that, you’re plenty aware that he has also taken note of the way your hand twitched in his.

He’s always been good at reading your bodily cues.

“Also… I could ask you the same thing,” he starts fiddling with your fingers, “Why are you trying so hard to distance yourself from me?”

Don’t say it, Alatus.

You purse your lips. The truth you shy away from—if he mentions it, you may cave in, you may fall deeper. And you may imperil both of you.

Don’t say it…

But he does.

“What hinders you from accepting what we mutually desire?”

You vanish, leaving only a wisp of black and a frosty rain of snowflakes—and there, Alatus stands underneath the moon once again, alone. His chest is hollow, but there is a smile on his face.

There is a faint pain, but why must he dwell on it when he knows that his feelings are well reciprocated?

It’s safe to say that you openly distanced yourself further after that confrontation several moons ago. You don’t shirk away from your duties even if the hammering guilt persists, telling you to take the chance for once.

A chance to be happy.

But you don’t let the whisper of greed get to you—it’s what led to your doom eons ago, if not for Morax rescuing you from it. The stakes are too much to play with.

Even if it feels like this opportunity with Alatus is different—in a sense that you truly will be happy—you can’t, you can’t jeopardize anything.

You’ve put up with silencing your own want for centuries, who’s there to say that you won’t be able to do it again?

‘Ironic that you do this to prevent yourselves from being hurt, but you’re hurting him more this way.’

Speaks your guilty conscience one night as you send a rain of freezing swords and spears down the creature that has manifested out of the land’s lingering curses.

You’re thankful that you’ve gotten rid of the curse as swiftly as possible. If your damned sense of moral continues to trip you down the guilty lane, you would’ve suffered more injuries than necessary.

That said, you didn’t quite get out of this battle scot-free compared to usual…

You hiss at the trail of blood that drips from your temple.

Getting distracted in the middle of a battle is a rarity, but you suppose that you can’t avoid it now that this distraction ropes in the very being of a fellow Yaksha.

Speaking of him… you haven’t seen nor felt any remnants of his Anemo in his usual battlegrounds. Is he doing alri—

You slap your cheek, ignoring how you may have done it a little too hard, but the sting is much needed. Being carried away is not on the agenda tonight.

For centuries, you’ve gone without thinking much of what your avoidance does to the green-eyed Adeptus, you can do it again.

But, as you trek away from the battered and dry grounds of Cuijue Slope, the weight in your chest gets heavier—and so does the shame that’s been hanging in your mind for a long time.

‘Isn’t it hypocritical for you to turn against something you want in the first place? Especially when you share the same wish as he does.’

Groaning in resignation, you run your fingers through your tresses. You’d think your conscience would’ve perished in the tides of unforgiving war, but that’s far from being true.

Thus, with bitterness—yet eager, though you refuse to acknowledge that—you change the direction of your journey, setting the destination to the one place you know him to be in.

Wangshu Inn.

It’s late in the night when you step foot in the architecture, months after your last visit. Thankfully, there are few people, so you could care less about striding in without hiding away.

The woman behind the desk, Verr Goldet, looks surprised to see you—and, to be honest, you can’t believe that you’re standing there yourself. But alas.

She knows you not to be a conversationist unlike the other Yaksha, so all she does is say her greetings before nodding her head towards the upper balcony.

With a grunt of recognition, you walk up the wooden stairs, trying not to let frost cover the ground as a reaction to your nervousness.

It’s ludicrous, you mull as you enter the balcony. But here I am.

Looking for the man who has been triumphantly plaguing both your mind and heart. He’s nowhere to be seen, however.

The temperature is oddly low, like an abundance of Yin is suffocating the air and you stagger with a choked gasp. This is…

It reeks of miasma and karma, you note with a harsh click of the tongue. And mine is reacting to it.

This is what you fear the most, but you can’t bring yourself to leave, not when you now know that he’s emanating such powerful waves of karmic debt.

If he keeps this up at this rate then- then there is a possibility that he may lose himself.

With adroit maneuvers, you’re up on the roof of the inn, eyes flitting back and forth to search for—there!

Alatus is visibly writhing in pain, eyes scrunched shut and cold sweat trailing down his exposed skin.

His hold on the thick branches of the tree he’s situated at is desperate as if he’s doing his best to stave off the urge to succumb to the darkness.

He pants, heaving breath after breath amid the torments of his karma. Heavens, it’s unbearable. Too much, it feels like it’s gotten worse and—

His alertness comes into play when he feels an incoming presence, but before he can do anything, his head is being tipped back and some kind of liquid is entering his mouth.

“You’re such a fool,” you grumble, pulling the empty bottle away and letting him cough in bewilderment, “Rex Lapis provides us medicine for a reason,”

It takes Alatus several moments to register the fact that he isn’t dreaming, but very much awake when he sees you sitting next to him with a glare that can rival an angered Archon.

Ah, he realizes, the pain has lessened a lot.

Relieved, he rests his forehead on his hand, taking the time to collect his bearings and breath more properly before providing an answer.

“I... ran out of it.”

He hears a scoff.

“And you think the best way to get around such adversity is to be silent about it? You talk big about trying, yet you keep to yourself. You’re infuriating, you know that?”

Not expecting the insult to come in a straightforward manner after a show of vulnerability, Alatus jolts in his place, mildly offended.

“Hey—”

But that sentiment disperses into the wind when he sees your eyes brimming with an angry layer of tears. Silence captures him whole as you spat.

“How could you smile your days away pretending that nothing’s wrong? No one is asking you to hide it away, you’re free to get angry—yet you don’t let such emotions consume you.”

You choose to drop the bottle onto the floor lest it shatters in your hand, and you divert your stare elsewhere.

With coiled fists, you continue. “You’re hurting, aren’t you? So why do you have to act that everything’s fine when it’s not?”

There’s no answer for a long minute—or perhaps it’s even more, you’re not sure. But you don’t care, you said what has been troubling you for so long.

This is a point of no return.

In truth, you assume that he’s gotten tired of your snappiness, and you feel more than inclined to depart that instant to save what’s left of your pride—but the hand on your wrist stops you from leaving.

Slow in your pace, you bring your eyes to meet his, though reluctant because this is it- there's no going back. The second you hear his answer, you know, you know you'll give in.

“It’s easy to be distracted when you’re still here, alive, with me. Stand by me, [Name]."

Expression soft, chartreuse eyes genuine, Alatus is smiling, as always.

And that sight, along with the answer alone are enough to spill your tears and for your stubborn walls to crumble once and for all.

Centuries after holding it back, you finally allow your heart to flutter.

"... I will."

bonus: MC's titles are: Frostborne Beast | Subduer of Curses

bonus short (fluffy scene :D)

a/n: aaaaahhhhHHH don't you just love it when two equally broken people find solace in one another ajdnuiwaehfhuiwa please even if it's Alatus give him a hUG-

@cherryflushz @e7t3 @scarlet-halos @lordbugs @nebulaera @koi-chairowo @uwu-dreams