You cannot save them.

koi no yokan(恋の予感) (n.) lit. "Premonition of Love"; the sense one can have upon first meeting another person that the two of them are going to fall in love. It is the feeling that future love is inevitable.

In his journey through Teyvat, Aether had seen a lot of things. Dragons, assassins, sentient flowers shooting their frozen or burning seeds at him which never made for a funny joke when he and his party sat around the campfire in the cool evenings. Catboys grown into men who paid their taxes and lived a humble life near calm Springvale. Name it and Aether had seen it.

But Kaedehara Kazuha was something else entirely. When he fought, it was hard to look away. He had a dancer’s grace and a seemingly unerring instinct for what his opponent would do next. His sword wasn’t simply a weapon he swung to cut through enemy lines. It was part of him. Like Lumine completed Aether, Kazuha was only fully himself with a weapon in his hand. This kind of commitment Aether only knew from Xiao, but Kazuha made his devotion for battle look divine; so much purer. Almost innocent in a way that did not speak of foolishness or guilelessness or the innocence of a child that simply waited to be consumed by the world. Kazuha’s innocence was something honest, linked to the making at the heart of the world.

He looked happiest with his sword slicing through the air. He looked graceful plunging from the skies like a hawk pouncing to catch its prey. He looked deliciously fuckable with his hitatare slipping off his shoulders and revealing smooth, white skin glistening with sweat. Aether had noticed a little scar winking at him whenever the fabric slipped and wondered how it would taste like near that elegant curve where Kazuha’s chest turned to solid, firm abs. He imagined leaning over and tasting Kazuha’s skin and suck—

A harsh blow swiped his feet from under him. The world spun and for a moment Aether was flying again, soaring through the sky before golden eyes flashed in malice and his sister was taken from him. The reality of Lumine being absent would come to Aether in flashes. He knew it to be so, but he could not feel it to be true except in these sudden bursts of realisation. The light of that strange, unthinkable truth would dazzle him for a moment and then it would be gone again, a fleeting sense of terrible loss. The pain almost always felt the same, and all he could do in that moment was take it, endure the unbearable and bear it.

It ended as quickly as it stared. Aether’s back hit the hard ground, the impact punching the breath out of his lungs. He stared up at the beautiful crimson sky stretching overhead—red like so many things in Inazuma which was fitting for the country governed by a goddess with a taste for blood.

But then, Kazuha’s even more beautiful face bent over him.

“Focus, Aether,” he said, offering his hand. Aether imagined pulling Kazuha down next to him where they would roll in the dirt like two puppies, drunk on adrenaline and intoxicated with the addicting taste of defiling these sacred lands where the cries of helpless, innocent men would never be heard over the ever-present roar of thunder. Where neither of them was welcome.

Instead, he allowed Kazuha to pull him back up on his feet, slick skin against slick skin, with a swift ease that left little room for imagination how else he could manhandle Aether. He swallowed, his mouth dry.

Kazuha exhaled softly, and even in that companionable silence Aether had grown used to, it was loud enough to catch his attention. “Where are your thoughts, Aether?” Kazuha asked.

Aether kicked some pebbles. He could hardly confess how he imagined sucking Kazuha off. Somehow he didn’t think someone as versed, with a soul consumed by wanderlust like Kazuha, would like to hear that. So he simply shrugged, inspecting the hilt of his wooden practice sword as if it could be held accountable for his lack of focus.

“Oh, you know,” he said, shrugging. “Archons and Visions and the like. The usual stuff.”

Kazuha’s eyebrows rose. Aether held his stare for a long minute but ended up turning away first. Somehow he didn’t believe secrets could be kept hidden for too long from those keen scarlet eyes, and while he wouldn’t mind presenting his body to him, he wasn’t too comfortable bearing his very soul to someone he’d known for less than a month. He wondered if that even mattered. He had let Kaeya rail him in much shorter time than that.

“A healthy mind in a healthy body,” Kazuha said, crossing the little circle they used as their practice area to the maple tree where they left their stuff. He took a dark cloth from his backpack and began wiping his body. Aether looked pointedly at the clear sky as if checking if one of Baal’s bolts would spontaneously flash and smite them. “Whatever thoughts trouble you will affect your performance and slowly but steadily deteriorate your physical capabilities.”

“Did the wind tell you that?” Aether wasn’t really into the idea that the gentle breezes cooling their hot skin spilt all his troubles. Be it his mourning for his absent sister or how horny he was for Kazuha. “Maybe the wind should just mind its own business.”

The wind picked up, tossing Aether’s hair left and right so it came even more loose after their sparring. He was sure his mind played tricks on him, but somewhere in the distance it sounded like Venti’s clear, bell-like laughter. If this was his weird way of trying to set him up, Aether was not happy with it.

“No, you just did.” Kazuha finished cleaning himself, but was in no apparent hurry to tie up his hitatare. When he looked back up at Aether, his smile was a little mischievous but still gentle, and Aether wanted to kiss that stupid grin away. He flopped down next to Kazuha. Dry maple leaves rustled under his body and he took one in his fingers, turning it this and that way just so he could observe the crimson and stall time.

If he met the Raiden Shogun and she didn’t have the answers he desired, then what? How much longer would he have to journey, to tread foreign countries and dangerous lands until he found what Lumine needed him to see? Why was this arduous task better suited than simply telling him? The only logical answer was that during her own travels, Lumine had grown to not trust him in a way only she understood and couldn’t confide in him. The thought closed like a cold fist around Aether’s heart. There was nothing logical about that, for if Lumine chose to hide her heart from Aether, where would that leave him? Loneliness spread like a dark stain inside him, a horror that stole his breath and tightened his chest. Black dots danced across his vision. Aether noticed his body moving without his will, he sat up, afraid he might suffocate. His heart. His heart wasn’t in his chest anymore. It was in his throat, making it hard to breathe. Just thinking she doesn’t need me, Lumine is gone forever and all I have loved, I have loved alone—

A warm hand grasped his, squeezing his fingers painfully until his splintering mind reassembled to the present. Aether stared at Kazuha with wide eyes, filled with horror, with fear, he just couldn’t understand how anyone bore that loneliness without a twin, without another part of their soul bearing the harsh world with them and give comfort and respite.

“Aether?”

Aether flinched, only noticing then how close Kazuha hovered near his face. When he looked down, he saw how his golden strands were caught between Kazuha’s slender fingers.

“There was a maple leaf in your hair,” Kazuha said, not taking his eyes away from Aether.

“Oh.” Aether’s reeling thoughts momentarily halted at this whimsical observation, so simple and apart from his anxious feelings. He looked up at the grand tree above them, crying red leaves. “Really?”

Kazuha still looked at him. A gentle tug lowered Aether’s head back down.

“No,” he said, and then kissed him. His soft lips brushed against Aether’s once, then twice and then he pressed his mouth to his, pushing Aether to the solid, hard ground. One leg stole between Aether’s, pressing a knee against his crotch, and Oooh. Until now, Aether had thought Kazuha to be soft and restrained, a man more servant to the voice of nature than his own desires. But there was nothing soft or restrained about the way he pinned Aether to the ground now, stole his breath and swallowed all those little huffs and moans, making Aether go crazy with lust.

Swift fingers dug into his bare waist. Aether was looking forward to the bruises he’d see blossoming the next morning. Their bodies pressed together hard; Aether arched his back, hoping that if he just willed it hard enough, he would become one with Kazuha and fill that gnawing black hole inside him. Kazuha reached out and put his thumb to Aether’s jawline. The tips of his fingers brushed the hollow of his throat and pushed against the pulse point where Aether’s blood visibly thundered in exalting beats against his skin.

Kazuha’s tongue darted across Aether’s lower lip. Willingly, Aether opened his mouth, longing to savour his taste and finally quench his thirst for the exquisite being that Kaedahara Kazuha was.

But Kazuha remained still, their mouths inches away from each other, each inhaling the other’s breath. Aether opened his eyes, meeting Kazuha’s that had turned so much darker. Wilder.

“You don’t even know what you do to people, do you?” he mumbled against Aether’s lips. His nose grazed his cheek as he dove for Aether’s jawline, his neck, mapping Aether’s face with his lips and teeth. Aether remembered Kazuha saying once that he smelled like stars, and wondered how that worked.

“What—“ Aether exhaled a long, shuddering breath. “—do you mean?” He tried to buck up into Kazuha, to create some delicious friction between them, but Kazuha’s grip around his waist was like iron. Aether whined, but Kazuha made with one, sharp bite pretty clear that whatever happened would only happen on his volition.

“The way you move, the way you look and think no one notices.” Amusement stole into Kazuha’s voice. “Or might you think only I don’t notice?”

“I am anything but subtle,” Aether acknowledged, planting a kiss on Kazuha’s temple. He chuckled against Aether’s skin. “And you don’t necessarily make it easier, fighting like this.” His hands sneaked inside Kazuha’s hitatare, fingers trembling with excitement spread against his warm chest.

Kazuha inhaled sharply. His own fingers trailed a path up Aether’s waistline, nails scratching the sensitive skin and sending shivers all over his body. “Look who’s talking. It’s hard focusing on anything else with you walking around like this.”

Aether laughed, dark and rich. “It’s my pleasure.”

“No.” Kazuha tugged the fabric of Aether’s black collar down and kissed his neck. “It’s mine.”

Aether didn’t know how long they stayed like this, cradled against the maple tree’s trunk, growing drunk on kisses and lust and the taste of each other until their lips were bruised. At some point, they had dozed off under the setting sun that made way to twinkling stars that winked at them in mischief. Only they knew the secrets and confessions they shared, absolving one another from their darkest sins.

“I know you seek your sister,” Kazuha said, studying the joints and bumps on Aether’s fingers before he brought them to his lips. “We both follow steps of people dear to us, choosing to ignore we only run after shadows. I think that is why my soul refuses to leave you.”

    “Maybe I’m just a little nervous,” you admit. “It’s been almost half a year since we really saw each other.”

    “Just a little?” Narukami’s eyebrows disappear behind his hair. “When I woke up I saw you were online at four a.m. Did you watch tarantula videos again?”

    “Don’t judge me.” You stuff your mouth with more mochi just to be busy with something else. Narukami shakes his head, but he has a hard time not smiling seeing you this happy. And happy you are. Euphoric even. Akira is returning to Tokyo, to his beloved attic above Leblanc. His plan is to work for a year and see if college might be an option after that. Since you’ll finish your studies around the same time, travelling doesn’t sound so bad either. You two will have a lot to talk about once he’s here, which won’t be for another couple of hours since he’ll have to unpack all his stuff in Leblanc.

    “You know, at first I wasn’t really sure you’d manage a long-distance relationship.” Narukami helps himself to another mochi. You have a hard time swallowing the sticky mass in your mouth.

    “How so?”

    “You’re not someone who comes to my mind when I think of the word ‘patient’.”

    “Is this about me blue-balling Akira for a yea—”

    “We are not going there.”

    “Are you telling me you never looked at him and wondered who he bribed to become so god damn pretty?”

    Narukami looks at you as if you’ve thrown something wet in his face. He takes out his phone, tapping away. “I am reporting you for predating on a minor—”

    “He’s been 18 since January,” you mumble a weak objection which Narukami turns into solid ice with his frosty glare.

    “Just keep digging yourself in deeper,” he replies. He stops, eyes fixed on his screen, then sighs. “I can’t believe Nanako’s starting her last year this month.” You peak at his phone, recognising her immediately in her black Yasogami High School uniform. She’s grown into a pretty young lady, her auburn hair falling past her shoulders as she beams at the camera.

    “You sound like a man in his forties.”

    “I sure feel like a man in his forties sometimes.” He gives you a pointed look as if you were the one responsible for that and you pretend to ignore it by wrapping up the remaining mochi. Since he can be as stubborn as you, he just keeps staring until you concede and go take the strawberry cake out of the fridge.

    “Hey, we had tons of fun too? You ever heard of ‘adversity makes two hearts grow fonder?’”

    “It’s ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder,’” Narukami corrects you without mercy. He gives the glazed strawberries a longing look. “Though I guess you’re actually right this time.”

    “We are not going to talk about—”

    “Remember December last year? That was quite eventful.”

    If that isn’t the understatement of the century. First was the reveal of Masayoshi Shido’s crimes. If Akira thought sending a calling card to the most powerful man in Japan was not considered stupid, then you really should have had a serious talk with him about how that word is defined. There must be a guardian angel protecting him because despite all odds he succeeded and saved Japan from a megalomaniac tyrant. All was good for two days—preparations for Christmas were going well, the elections were put on hold to search for someone who might step in as prime minister.

    You were at Inokashira Park on December 24th when the end of the world began.

    The first rain drop falls on your cheek and leaves a wet trail down to your chin. Still engrossed in telling Narukami about Kinoe’s new clinic, you don’t notice anything out of order until his expression changes into horrendous surprise.

    “What?” You frown. “You don’t have to worry, I’m keeping a close eye on Kinoe’s appointments.”

    Instead of answering, he reaches out and wipes the droplet from your chin. It leaves a red smudge on his thumb. Your heartbeat picks up. You can’t remember hurting yourself, there is no pain. He must read the confusion on your face. A second later, his head snaps up to the sky as the floodgates to heaven open and it starts to rain blood, drenching you both in crimson red.

    “What the hell is going on,” you whisper, all colour drained from your face. Narukami jumps to his feet, hands balled into tight fists. There is an intense look in his eyes you’ve never seen before.

    “Come on,” he demands. “We have to get somewhere inside.”

    That is when the first bone breaks out of the earth and rises into the air, connecting to others until they look like ribs looming over the ground. Every appendage is like a crooked finger with sharp claws trying to reach out—only no one else seems to notice them. Couples and families stroll down the path, completely oblivious to the grotesque sight around them.

    A tight grip closes around your hand, pulling you up to your feet. Narukami marches off, each step so big you have to take twice to compensate for his long legs.

    “What is going on?” Your voice flips at the end, shrill and scared. “Yu, what is happening?” Your free hand latches onto his arm, trying to find hold, something secure. Finally Narukami slows down a little. Worry cuts wrinkles so deep into his forehead, you’re sure they’ll stay there forever.

    “I don’t know. But no matter what happens," he orders, not looking back at you. “Don’t let go.”

    He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You wouldn’t let go if your life depended on it—which somehow you feel it does.

    When trees finally make way to tall buildings spearing the sky, you realise it really is the end of the world. The sun is hidden behind red clouds, casting everything in the colour of pain and ruin. They’re swirling in dizzying circles around a tower in the middle of Shibuya, painting the picture of the apocalypse, the wrath of a God bearing down on mankind.

    I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars / Did wander darkling in the eternal space. You’re pretty sure Lord Byron didn’t think his imagination would become reality.

    Peoples’ screams echo through the streets. It’s Hell on earth, panic and fear rule over the crowd. They trample over each other like frenzied animals in search of safety, ants with no coordination, nowhere safe to go.

    Narukami leads the way to Central Square where confused policemen try to get the situation under control and fail spectacularly at it. Not that you can blame them. They’re panicking as much as the citizen demanding their protection.

    “This is insane.” If this really is your last day on earth, maybe it’s time to atone. Narukami still doesn’t know it was you who broke his MP3-Player by accidentally dropping it to the ground. That is when the first person disappears beside you. You scream. Narukami whirls around, his hold on you turning painful. He pulls you behind him with a quick tug and scans the area. People flee to the underground walkway, tripping over their own feet as they descend the stairs. Children cling to their parents, wheezing, just as confused and frightened as everyone else.

    Thunder lights up the sky in feverish yellow for a second, followed by an infernal rumble that sounds like someone is laughing in the distance—hollow and ghastly.

    Narukami exhales audibly and you look up at him, his broad shoulders the only sight of comfort in a world that is so foreign and grotesque. When you look away, out of the corner of your eyes you imagine seeing a wavering silhouette looming above him in eye-blinding white. When you blink, it’s gone.

    Under his breath, Narukami whispers, “I entreat thee not to leave me. Watch over us, Izanagi-no-Okami.”

    More thunder rumbles above your heads. For a second, the clouds open and show the glimpse of what might compete to one of Maffei’s paintings of righteous angels. Gold glints off a stainless surface in the sky, blindingly striking like a flash of lightning. This thing hanging in the air looks so otherworldly that no words seem sufficient or capable enough to describe it. It looms over Shibuya like an infernal device with wide wings stretching to engulf the world.

    When someone points to the sky, it is not at the apparition of gold and white. “Isn’t that … the Phantom Thieves?”

    You close your eyes, dread sinking to the bottom of your stomach. Please don’t let him be there, please don’t.

    The giant screen facing Shibuya Crossing changes from the black and white static to flashes of an image showing a group of people dressed up in a variety of costumes that in any other situation you’d think belong to a carnival. If they really are the thieves, the reformers of society, then there is only one person you are interested in and you’re able to find him really quickly because only one of them has hair jet-black as the night.

    “Oh God, he’s up there.” Narukami’s arm must turn purple where your fingers are digging into his skin. “He’s not—he’s not thinking about fighting that thing, is he?”

    “If he’s as good as he thinks he is, he’ll be fine. Okay?” Narukami ducks as another gust of wind whips his hair left and right. “But we should get out of here.”

    You wish you could show Akira somehow that you’re here, that you support him. But getting to safety might help him more than flailing like an idiot trying to get his attention. Before you let Narukami lead you to the roofed smoke area, you glance back at the screen. Donned in a long, black coat, he is the definition of the picaresque hero set out to steal hearts. His complete posture is different—squared shoulders, slender, red-gloved fingers clenching and unclenching as he barks orders to his team. The realisation hits you like a punch in the gut, hard and unforeseen. You stop in your tracks and press a hand against your mouth in shock. “Oh no,” you say.

    Narukami immediately turns around, worried. “What’s wrong?”

    “He’s hot in that outfit.”

    He groans your name. “Not the right time.”

    You cling harder onto him, expression serious. “No really, he can step on me with those heels.”

    Narukami shakes his head and pulls you after him, right into another group crowding inside the smoke area. He’s shielding his eyes from the rain, squinting up at the screen. You know him long enough to recognise the glint in his eyes as pride.

    What happened after that always remains a blur, a picture on canvas unable to dry and now smudged beyond recognition. Akira and his friends were somehow able to overcome the danger threatening the world. When the people started cheering for them, led by a blue haired boy in a Shujin uniform you remembered meeting with Akira in the diner on Central Street, you joined, screaming like everyone else until your throat hurt and your lungs went ablaze.

    On that day, December 24th, a God was slain.

***

    After Narukami leaves, you get comfortable on your couch. The goal is to rest just for a little since the excitement of seeing Akira again has kept you up all night. Instead you doze off while watching a few videos explaining the endings of horror movies because you’re unable to watch them on your own. Right on the verge of falling asleep, you hear the door being unlocked. Mind still on this thin line between sleep and wakefulness, the sound is so foreign it makes you bolt up and fall off the couch. A familiar voice calls out if you’re alright.

    “Yep!” Your back hurts. “Got everything under control!”

    Akira peeks into the room, and wow your heart simply decides to go into overdrive and try to break out of your chest even though you saw each other via video call this morning before he went to the train station. He’s stopped wearing glasses pretty early on upon his return and has started wearing his hair slightly shorter but still untamed as always. You two just kind of stare at each other from across the room, afraid to move and unfreeze time.

    Finally, Akira opens his arms. You jump to your feet and fling yourself against him. He easily picks you up, your legs immediately wrapping around his hips. You cling onto him like your dear life depends on it and he doesn’t seem interested in letting you go as well. He makes a strange humming sound against your temple, then proceeds to press dozen kisses all over your face.

    “Uh huh, yes.” You rake your hands through his hair, settle them around his nape, his skin as soft as you remember. “I missed you too.”

    He mumbles something unintelligible and because the entrance area isn’t the best for reunions, he carries you over to the bedroom and drops you unceremoniously on the mattress. It dips under your weight. He straddles your waist, his eyes roam all over your face like he still has to make sure this is real. They settle on your lips, and he smiles a secretive smile that lights a candle in your stomach.

    “You’re not going to take off your jacket?” you ask, fingers itching to continue playing with his hair. It’s much shorter in the back, his curls barely grazing his skin. How you’ve missed it.

    “Nu uh.” He leans down and takes your face in his hands. His breath is hot on your skin when he presses his forehead against yours and tells in a quiet voice, as if not to disturb this moment, how he reached Tokyo a couple of hours ago and brought all his stuff to Leblanc where his friends threw him a first welcome party.

    “And now you’re here,” you finish for him, kissing the corner of his mouth.

    “And now I’m here,” he echoes and nibbles on your bottom lip, then presses his lips against yours. Over and over, one kiss sliding into the next. His mouth grows more demanding but never in hurry because time doesn’t matter. Seconds, minutes stretch into hours, lips slowly turned bruised. Akira changes positions from sitting on top of you to lying next to you, allowing you two to be even closer. Occasionally giving your mouths a break only to whisper how much he’s missed you, how beautiful you are, how he can’t wait to start mornings with you, end evenings with you. His words are as sugary sweet as the cake frosting still sitting in the kitchen and you happily consume each vowel and consonant.

    Hours later, after the sun disappeared behind the horizon, the room is now dipped in darkness. You wake up with your cheek squished against Akira’s back, both of you curled into each other like a human pretzel. He still loves to be the little spoon, making himself much smaller than he is. You carefully untangle your limbs from his, head dizzy and spinning from a nap that took too long and now leaves you questioning what year it is. In the kitchen, the little lamp on your phone blinks, notifying unread messages. It’s the usual criminals, Narukami and Kenji, lately also Minako, though you can’t recall giving her your number after your reunion. Kinoe as well has sent you a picture of the furnishing in his new apartment coming along nicely. He too can’t wait to finally see Akira.

    After the whole day travelling and settling back inside the attic, you decide to let him rest. There are still a few chores you can do around the house. A full laundry basket is waiting to be taken care of and sure, people can doubt that midnight is the best time to do it, but who cares? Rules are meant to be broken.

***

    The small room reeks of wet fabric and mould.

    The steady rumble of the washing machine puts you in a lazy, tired state; the words on the page in front of you merge into a blurry line, the letters shifting and eating each other. Okay, doing laundry and reading the first duty papers for your internship wasn’t one of your brightest ideas, but there’s no turning back now because you forgot your keys on top of the dresser in your entrance hall.

    You’d probably execute it a lot better, were it not for the dim light in the room withholding any possibility to actually see what’s in front of you, and the sound of the washing machine drum rumbling doesn’t help either. Everything would be a lot easier if you could do your laundry in your dormitory, but once again you still don’t feel responsible for contacting the janitor each time they break. Nothing has really changed, has it.

    It’s past midnight. The small, red numbers on the display tell you with very lacking interest 13 minutes are left before you can buzz off. The night is calm, somewhere outside a cat hisses, and despite it all, you feel comfortably at peace. Maybe it's because you’re alone and no one’s talking. Maybe it's because it’s the first time today you can sit and think about nothing at all. Someone tugged your brain into a cosy blanket and accidentally left it there even though there’s all kinds of stuff you should rather focus on. Well, a break is important, you decide, because sometimes it’s better to treat yourself to one before losing one’s mind over all the things still in need to be considered. About to pull your phone out of your pocket, your eyes fix midway on something else.

    In the doorway of the tiny, cramped laundromat stands a tall guy, both hands jammed in his jeans pockets. Akira yawns, sleep still inscribed on his face. He pulls a set of keys from his pockets, jiggling them. “You just leave without these?”

    “No, no, I knew you’d come,” you lie, really glad now that you left him a short note telling him you’d be out here. The dozen calls clearly helped too. “You can’t tell me there’s something more romantic than spending our time here together.”

    Akira gives the room a doubtful once-over. He leans his slim hips against a dryer, and while he is looking around, a wistful curtain falls over his eyes. “I can’t believe a laundry area is where everything started.”

    “It’s a story worth telling.”

    “Seems so.” He puts the keys back in his pocket, but it seems it’s not the only thing he’s hiding inside. You try to get a glimpse, but Akira turns around, uncertainty darting across his face. It’s fleeting though, as if he’s decided there’s no secret worth keeping from you. His hands come back outside, a black chess piece between his slender fingers. It’s the king figure, standing tall as Akira places it on a dryer. You consider it, unable to determine its significance.

    “I got that in the mail a couple of months back,” he explains, grazing the top of it, the crown, with the tip of his finger. “I used it to play chess with Akechi.”

    You need a second to make the connection—staring from the piece up to Akira and back down. At first there’s nothing you could possibly say, until you manage, “Why can’t he just come up like a normal person and apologise?”

    Akira gives a dry huff of laughter. “Because he likes to be dramatic.”

    You’d like to glare at the piece, imagining Akechi in its stead, but it’s hard to recall his face when it’s been so long since you saw him. How must it be for Akira, you wonder. Surely he has missed him—is still missing him judging by how he carries that piece around with him. It’s become a memento, the accumulation of every what-if that in time turns into regret and latches onto the soul until it wears down, grief settling deep into bones where it spreads like weed overgrowing a flower bed that first bloomed in tender affection.

    A slender finger taps against the underside of your chin. You haven’t even noticed Akira crossing the room, the king already back hidden inside his pocket as he holds on to the memento—no, the promise. “I can already tell you’re thinking of unnecessary things.”

    “Maybe I’m just thinking about how I’m already missing your uniform. That turtleneck, hmmmm.” You hook your fingers in his jean’s belt loops and give a single tug, pulling him closer. He lifts a single eyebrow when you sling your arms around him and press your face against his stomach. Mine, mine, you can only think.

    “I can get one,” he offers, rubbing your bare arms to warm them after sitting out here in the cool night.

    “What a about a virgin sweater?” you mumble into his shirt.

    “Now you’re pushing it.”

    The laundry machine starts peeping, sparing you the humility of begging. Akira helps you hauling the wet clothes in a basket and easily carries it like it weighs nothing. On your way out, he pauses in front of Leblanc and looks up at the dark windows.

    You follow his gaze. “How do you feel being back?”

    “Like I never really went away.” He blinks as if in daze, then turns back to you, a mischievous smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Let’s get breakfast here tomorrow.”

    “Curry for breakfast?” A moth flutters past you towards the still lit lamps of a busy bar down the street. You scurry closer to Akira—another moth drawn to a flame. “You do know the way into my heart.”

    “I want to spend the morning with you.” He shifts the basket so he carries it in one hand, and with his other, he laces his fingers together with yours. “And the noon. And the afternoon. And the evening. And the day after.”

    Giddy excitement bubbles inside you. Sometimes reality takes time to set in, and for you it’s a couple of hours before your brain finally catches up on the fact that yes, this present of you and Akira, finally together, is real, and what naturally follows is the future.

    “We could invite Kinoe.” You swing your arms back and forth as you make your way through the narrow streets. “For breakfast. Not the rest of the day.”

    Akira pretends to pond over it. “Is it going to be the test of his approval?”

    “No, that’s going to be with Narukami.”

    “Ah, of course.” He sighs theatrically. “Peace was never an option.”

    “Think your chances are good?”

    “Not in the slightest.”

    It makes you laugh out loud, thinking there’s something Akira might be afraid of.

    “You literally shot God in the face last year.”

    “Uh-huh.”

    “And went to jail.”

    “Yep.”

    “I’m still mad you did that, you know?”

    Akira frowns. “I apologised.”

    “I can still be mad about it.” After his release, you made it pretty clear how much of a dick move you thought it was that instead of hearing the news from him, someone called Alibaba hacked your phone to deliver a message that had pulled the rug right from under your feet.

    There was little time to freak out about it though as they assured you that there was a way to get him out and they and multiple people were already on it.

    I am sure you too can come up with an idea. It is our turn to help him, you still remember Alibaba’s words, confirming your idea that maybe this was another phantom thief. What came next was easy. You spent the new year’s days collecting signatures around campus to demand a wrongly convicted young man to be released. Weeks later, you sent a thick envelope to court, the signatures easily finding their way to the responsible people as the case has gained quite the attention in a small circle that really want Akira out of juvie.

    Three weeks later, he was back where he belonged inside the sacred halls of Leblanc. Only to tell you that he’d soon return to his hometown.

    This boy is just a rollercoster of emotions.

    Which also means it never gets boring with him.

    “I said, I’ll make it up to you.” Akira tugs at your hand. You round the convenience store. Inside, the clerk is busy scanning the bento boxes and coffee cans of businessmen currently on break during their all-nighter. “Are you listening?”

    “Always.” You blink innocently. “You said we should make out. I highly approve of that.”

    “Oh?” Mischief has found its home in Akira’s voice. He looks down at you with an expression that suggests he has no problems to make good on that promise right here and now. But then his eyes dart over your shoulder and his expression softens.

    “You think we could get us a pot someday?” he asks. You blink, trying to figure out if this is a new way of flirting. When you follow his eyes, you see he’s been looking on a sign showing different ingredients on sale … that yes, usually go into a hot pot.

    “Hot pot in March?”

    “Well, it brings people together,” he says, swinging back and forth on his heels like he wants to bump into you. “And there’s a lot of people I want you to meet.”

    You look back at the convenience store, considering what else you two might get that’s missing in your apartment when the thought that this, something as simple as thinking about what you two should buy to share, means that you’re starting to build something you’ve been longing for for a long time, and that knowledge unfolds something carefully hidden inside you that you’ve put away since your last conversation with your father.

    The emotion is so raw, you’re rendered speechless for a moment, unable to swallow past the lump in your throat.

    Akira carefully says your name, the question in his voice asking what’s wrong. You shake your head, tightening your grip on his hand. “Let’s get that pot tomorrow,” you say. “And everything else we need.”

    “Sure.” Finally you two move on, though Akira has slowed down to a leisurely stroll. “I like it when you say ‘we.’”

    “I’m sure there is more you’ll like me saying,” you say, ready to count I love you and I need you off your fingers to get a reaction out of him, when he, without batting an eyelash, says, “For example ‘Yes, Akira,’ and ‘Let’s do it again.’”

    Hand still half-raised, you snap your head towards him, feeling the heat creep up your face. He takes in your embarrassment, visibly proud he came up with that but past the mischief glinting in his eyes, you can easily read the challenge in them as well.

    You raise your chin, accepting. “We’ll see about that.”

    “Ah, there it is again.” Akira closes his eyes for a moment, content like a cat sleepily blinking into the sun. “We.”

    “Yes, we,” and there you kiss his knuckles, the skin still warm against yours, “should head home.” There it is, four letters forming a word that has been a stranger to you up until now, but together with Akira, you’re happy to rediscover it.

give your heart and soul to charity 'cause the rest of you, the best of you honey, belongs to me

Chapter 1

     A cold gust of icy wind drives you deeper into the sheets and you swear by the name of Her Majesty Herself once you get up and find Alexei, you’ll smother him with a towel for leaving a window open in the middle of the night.

    Somewhere outside, a rooster crows. Fine, not dead of the night then, but no one cares for technicalities like these when sleep is involved. Especially after a night like this one, when Alexei fucked you into oblivion and back, you need every minute of shuteye you can get before another day of exhausting missions in the Chechnaya Taiga of Snezhnaya claims your last strand of sanity.

    It’s peaceful mornings like these that make it all worthwhile though—the quiet during the early golden hour when people slowly wake up to a brand-new day and get ready to do their chores, their factory work. The sheer number of possibilities stretching out before their hands, and hope rekindled every morning despite the harsh cold waiting at their doorsteps. You love how everything stands still, how even the uncaring universe seems to grant people a sliver of peace, allows them to be soft and vulnerable. To be kind to themselves by indulging in a freshly brewed cup of coffee or tea. Nothing can spoil this for you, nothing and no one—

    An awkward cough sounds from the door. You close your eyes, willing him to disappear by simply ignoring him, but his eyes burn into the back of your head like two smouldering coals and eventually, you turn around to see Alexei standing in the door frame, shifting from left to right. “There’s someone out there who wants to talk to you,” he says.

    Turning around, you try to disappear into your pillow. “Whoever it is, I’m sure they can wait until it isn’t such a damn unholy time.”

    Alexei clears his throat. “It’s uhm … it’s someone from the Fatui.”

    Your eyes snap open. Suddenly the warm, cosy blankets feel like a snake’s tight hold around your body, and you struggle out of its grip, grabbing for the dressing gown you carelessly threw around the back of your chair last night.

    The sun hangs low in the east, painting the city of Kerch that stretches outside of your window a sheen of dusky gold. When the red-brown bricks of the dacha cottages come into view, you think of the gingerbread houses you used to make as a child every year in celebration of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa of the Zapolyarny Palace.

    Cold already seeps into your bones even though the robe is tight around your body. You hiss when your bare feet hit the icy floor but can’t find your slippers. Time to die like a woman.

    You brush past Alexei, who’s scratching his head, still just in his underwear and you think him crazy for walking around half-naked like that even though it’s minus 58F outside and the heating systems inside your barracks only start to work once outside temperatures drop to minus 75F.

    Maybe what they say is true. People from around Noyabrsk in the north of Snezhnaya regularly dip into frosty rivers and you do remember him mentioning ice swimming is his hobby. It was one of the few things you thought attractive about him. Actually, it was the only thing you thought attractive about him.

    Light streams into the floor from the kitchen, flickering once, twice in dangerous foreboding. It’s time to switch the lightbulb. Tomorrow. Tomorrow for sure, because that isn’t important right now. What’s important is Tartaglia sitting at your table, leaning back in a chair, both feet crossed on top of the table, and eating your leftover mayonnaise sandwich you saved up for breakfast.

    His eyes slide lazily toward you, taking in your form—barefoot, shivering even though the fur from your bathrobe is of the finest white wolf fur obtainable on the market.

    Tartaglia finishes your sandwich, smacks his lips and licks mayo off his fingers. He doesn’t even like it, and you know from time to time he can’t handle dairy all that well. He just eats it because he knows how it infuriates you.

    “Alexei, huh,” he says in lieu of hello. “Didn’t know you’re into himbos.”

    Behind you, Alexei makes a sound like a kicked puppy. You glare at him over your shoulder, then jut your chin towards the front door. “Out. Now.”

    He doesn’t wait for you to repeat yourself. Surprisingly fast for a guy this big, he bolts into your room, gets dressed in record speed and leaves your little one-bedroom apartment without so much as a Goodbye or “We’ll hear from each other,” and you prefer it that way. It saves stuff from getting messy.

    Speaking of messy, you really wish Tartaglia would have sent you a note before coming. The smell of icy wind and snowy forests clings to his clothes. He must have come straight from a mission, not unusual in the slightest, yet in most cases he sends a message your way just to make sure he doesn’t run into one of your one-night stands and it doesn’t get ugly.

    Like right now.

    “I thought you had a little more class than that,” he says nonchalantly. His feet keep wobbling from left to right until you make your way over and push them off your table. Not that you actually sit there to take your meals, no. But this is your home, you have to assert dominance.

    “Well, I’m not picky,” you say, taking the empty chair opposite from him. “The nights of Fyrva’snezh are really fucking cold.”

    “I’m sure Fire-Water will do the same trick.” He’s sulking, yet he has no right to it and knowing Tartaglia, that’s why he sulks even more.

    Your relationship can be summarised with one word: complicated. Which is funny, because besides martial arts classes (taught by a teacher that is a real ball of sunshine who could easily snap your spine like a twig) and infiltration tactics courses (led by a grumpy teacher who once woke you all up in the middle of the night to do a spontaneous quiz about infiltration steps and everyone who failed or fell asleep had to run a marathon through the forest in their underwear) you had to take at the Fatui military school of Zapolyarny, they also teach mathematics and molecular physics, and that shit was complicated.

    Growing up in a small seaside village—bless little Morepesok; how much you miss babushka Katya’s refreshing botvinia soup—with only a handful kids your age, gravitating towards Tartaglia was the natural development. He loves ice-fishing, you love eating fish. You gag just smelling solyanka, he wolfs it down like it might be his last meal on earth. Opposites attract each other, as they say, and how true it is for you two—you, the morning person and he, the night owl; his will of iron and your nerves of steel. Your bow, his sword, even though Tartaglia is a masochist who likes to make it hard for himself by trying to switch weapons solely because you’re better at it than him and he is a sore loser.

    His worship of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa, your fear of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa.

    “I don’t think you came all the way here just to call me a slut,” you say. He is in no position to do so anyway, because Camilla from the ptychy’moloko shop down the road that leads to the Sarov church didn’t shut up about blowing him for weeks until you sent her a liver of a pig and claimed that was the leftovers from the last girl that thought she could put a leash on the Eleventh of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers. Camilla quickly moved on to an inconspicuous merchant who sells matryoshka dolls for a living and all is well that ends well.

    “What do you want?”

    Tartaglia starts tapping a gloved finger against the wooden table, a nervous tick you don’t know he’s aware of.

    “I’m leaving for Liyue first thing tomorrow.” His tone is low when he speaks, his earlier nonchalance replaced by a sense of urgency.

    “Okay.” It isn’t the first time he’s leaving Snezhnaya by order of the Tsaritsa, but every time he does, something inside you leaves with him. “So, you want me to keep an eye out for Teucer and the others?”

    “He’s really unhappy I’m leaving again already.” Tartaglia doesn’t mention the reason he was sent away just a couple of months ago to Inazuma was because he accidentally blew up an artillery factory belonging to a nobleman that secretly shipped orders to Fontain. The fallout from that was easier to handle with him not being anywhere nearby. Tartaglia is like a pair of hot tongues; no one is sure where to put him or how soon he would cool off, but if they just drop him, he might light the world on fire. Kid gloves are put on and a careful perimeter marked out.

    “And what excuse did you make up this time?” You knock your foot into his leg, lingering on his calf just a second too long before withdrawing again. “Another business trip to promote your toys? You can’t hold up this charade forever, you know.”

    “Why, your eyes feast on Snezhnaya’s greatest expatriate toy seller, now extending to the Liyue Branch of our Institute for Toy Research.” Tartaglia’s eyes have taken on a playful glint, and he leans forward as he speaks. “You wouldn’t be so cold to break a little boy’s heart. That’s not you.”

    You want to remind him that you have no problem to put an arrow between a man’s eyes, or rip out his fingernails, one by one, to get the information that you want.

    “You owe me, toy man.”

    “Put it on my tab.”

    Tartaglia looks like there’s something else he wants to say, but as always, he decides to swallow those words even though they must hurt like swallowing needles. You know that feeling, and so you help him sort out his tightly entangled yarn of emotions by figuratively pushing him off the cliff.

    “Don’t forget to bring condoms. I hear the women of Liyue are beautiful.”

    Tartaglia goes a sickly grey colour, like the ashes of a dead fire, but he’s been the leading role of this play too long to fall out of character now. He gets up and stretches like a cat getting comfortable in a spot of sunlight. His jacket rides up, showing a stripe of skin, and you quickly turn your head away before giving into leaning over the table and mark him with your teeth.

    Patting his left pants’ pocket, Tartaglia says, “I’m always prepared.” He carries a grin that is dry, humourless, and for a brief moment, you two lock eyes, trading a look that feels like a dare. You allow yourselves to imagine how he picks you up and carries you to your bed where you two would proceed to fuck without abandon through the whole day and the following night, leaving the bed only to get food until Tartaglia leaves for Liyue and you’d send each other love letters until his return. What an idea. What an utterly stupid, naive, wonderful idea.

    “Well, lucky ladies,” you say, not bothering to hide the jealousy in your voice because jealousy is easier to handle than regret.

    “Lucky indeed,” he agrees and dons his easy-going smile, one that he’s perfected after hours upon hours in front of the mirror until it accomplished what he wanted: to mock people, infuriate them.

    On his way out, he stops to ruffle your hair in an affectionate way, one typical for childhood friends, but the distance between you is like the ocean separating Snezhnaya from Liyue.

    It was on the very first day of your conscription into the military organisation, Number Six of the Ten Laws that the Fatui abide by: Any physical or romantic relationship between Fatui agents is prohibited. As thou would not exchange flesh with thy brother or sister, so thou shalt not with your comrade, for he or she is thy brother or sister in arms.

    And everyone knows Her Majesty the Tsaritsa’s word is law, and though the law is hard, it is the law.

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