ninizz

“Yeah,” you admit. More words form and die on your tongue. You don’t even know where to begin - to spill your arguments now that you have the chance, or apologize? Part of you just wants to scream and cry. 

Alhaitham gives you space. You can hear him in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water, while you sit down in the armchair and stare at the ring still in your palm. You forgot what it looks like removed from your finger. It looks so foreign, and not in a good way. You slowly slip it back on your finger. There’s guilt gnawing at your conscience. You shouldn’t have done that.

And so you stand up and join him in the kitchen. Before you can speak, he slides a glass of water towards you. Maybe the fight was pointless. Just a little bit. You drink the whole thing.

“Better now?” he asks, voice still careful. You nod. The lump in your throat only dissolves when you see the ring securely on his finger. It seems he looks for yours too. “Do you want to continue discussing that?”

You need to remind yourself that this is Alhaitham. He’s only asking. He’s not mocking you, not blaming you.

“No,” you shake your head. You put the glass back on the table, rounding it to stand closer to him. 

“I explained my side,” he says, but he doesn’t push, “It’s more productive if you tell me what you think now.” 

You suppose it would be. You know it would be. He’s right like he always is.

“Can we revisit it later?” you suggest, “It… I feel tired.”

It’s almost hesitant, the way he nods and opens his arms for you to walk into. Still you do, without question. The longer he holds you, the more you think about whether the fight was worth it. Was this really that important to you? Was he so mean that you had to do that?

Your thoughts are brought to a standstill by a hand prying yours away from his chest. Unsurprisingly, it’s just him. Just Alhaitham taking your hand, intertwining your fingers and resting your hands above his beating heart. Your rings press against each other. It’s not much of a difference, but you feel him relax. His eyes reflect on the shiny surface of the rings. You’ve never seen him look so relieved, and you don’t think it’s the metal distorting the image.

After a brief hesitation, you look up. Nothing changes, Alhaitham looks exactly like his reflection on the silver mirror. His thumb strokes the side of your hand. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say quietly.

“I’m not letting you,” he smiles, careful. But the smile can’t hide how serious he is - not that you’d want it any other way.

Ayato

How can he just stand there? Calm, impassive, as if this was just another diplomatic negotiation. Perhaps it is, perhaps you should think about it that way too but-

“I’d think about that some more,” Ayato’s voice raises, “If I were you.”

You should. You definitely should. But him pointing it out makes you not want to, gets on your last nerve and so your fingers wrap around the band on your finger and tug- Try to.

There’s a patient hand, though really not so patient now, preventing you from moving. His touch isn’t rough, but it certainly isn’t the gentle, reverent touch you’re used to. How did he get to you so fast, you have no idea, or why it feels like there’s nothing you can do to break free from his touch. The candlelight paints shadows that make it feel like he’s towering over you.

“I know you’re upset, my love,” he speaks slowly, not much of a difference from how he’s been talking the whole night but there is a barely noticeable strain to his voice that makes you reel in any attempts at pulling your hand away from him, “But what you’re about to do is playing dirty. And you know I’m more than capable of stooping to that level too.”

You swallow. Of course he is. And he’s not threatening you, you know, not yet. He only reminds you, you think, of the previous times where he didn’t play fair in way less serious situations, where even playful teasing ended up hurting you. Though naturally, it wounds him too to cause you pain. You don’t want to force his hand.

“I’m sorry,” you say, then quickly add - albeit softer: “For this, I mean.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I wouldn’t get the wrong idea,” he chuckles. Before he frees your hand, he brings it to his lips to kiss just above the ring.

Yet he doesn’t let you go. Instead of your hand, he now holds your waist. It’s grounding, both his embrace and his proximity. Maybe this whole argument getting so severe could be avoided if you talked like this. You can dream.

“It seems to me we won’t reach an agreement,” Ayato sighs.

“No,” you admit as much as you don’t wish to. Unresolved conflict only means repetition later on, in some form. “Not with the way things are.”

You let him wind his arm around your waist and bring you closer. You, too, embrace him, resting your head on his shoulder. The argument exhausted you.

“Then we both need to put in more work,” he hums, “And continue at a later time.”

Maybe. It’s the only thing you can do, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it. Perhaps you should go pray, there must be someone who could grant you both what you want without the other losing their chance. He’d laugh if you suggested it, though.

“I hate how efficient you are,” you let go of your final grievance for the night, making him chuckle.

“Years of experience, darling,” he reminds you, “With higher stakes - which of course doesn’t mean I’m calling our marriage insignificant.”

You only roll your eyes but nod. You know that’s not his intention. He’s right anyway, and to some extent you’re glad he can remain stable and unshakeable like this. Being able to always depend on him, that’s one of the reasons you married him in the first place, after all.

“But I must say,” he murmurs into your hair, “I’ve never been threatened so violently before.”

You laugh and shake your head.

“No sword, no polearm or a bow is as scary as seeing you without your ring, my dear,” he whispers, “Believe it or not.”

Baizhu

“What are you doing?” his voice cuts through the air. Amber eyes staring at you, wide and afraid, eyebrows furrowed and his lips twisted downwards.

You hold the ring in your palm, your gaze dropping to the band like you need to make sure you really did that. But you did and now Baizhu is crossing the room to cradle your hands in his. 

“What do you mean by this?” his chest is still heaving but at least his voice drops into something softer again. 

“We should stop,” you lick your lips, your attention is split between the warm ring and his cold hands, “We’re just talking in circles.”

He takes a deep breath, lets it go again. His touch is so careful, even though he keeps distance between you. His gaze slowly seems to be warming up too the longer you silently stare at each other.

“Life’s too fragile to keep fighting,” Baizhu murmurs. Tension still holds his body in its grip. At the same time he looks like he really wants to let go. 

“But this is really important to both of us,” you remind him, “Or we’d be better at making a compromise.”

He seems torn. Stuck between wanting to argue his point and dismissing the argument. It’d be easier to pretend nothing happened, but the core of the issue would just loom over your heads. He doesn’t come closer but his thumbs stroke the sides of your hands. 

“We shouldn’t be together right now,” he sighs eventually. You nod. The pain in his eyes reflects your own. 

“Stay here,” he suggests, cautiously, “I’ll go - but I’ll come back, okay?”

And so it’s agreed. You sit by the open window for the most part, taking deep breaths of the cool air in hopes it’ll clear your mind - it does. What it doesn’t do is magically give you a revelation as to what would be the perfect solution in this situation. Your anger ebbs and flows, even though it’s no longer directed primarily at your husband, more so at the circumstances.

And by the looks of it, Baizhu fares no better than you. He looks disheveled, as if he ran his hand through his hair the whole time he was out. Even his braid looks horrible, clearly having taken the most abuse. 

Baizhu kneels next to your chair, easily intertwining your hands once more when you offer. With his other hand he reaches up to cup your face. You’re tired, you’re angry and you’re sad. You let him touch you, leaning into the familiar comfort.

“I’m gonna take the couch today,” you inform him. There’s no malice in your voice, only the silent understanding passes between you - you both still need time.

“I should be the one-”

“Let me,” you shake your head. You push some of his hair away from his face. “You take the bed and I’ll put the ring back on.”

He huffs, incredulous, before his lips settle on a softer smile.

“That’s a strong bargaining chip, are you sure you want to use it this way?” his thumb strokes your cheek.

“Mhm,” you give him a weak smile too, “You already know I’m yours.”

He nods. His eyes fall to your lips before he, sadly, looks away. Now it’s your turn to make him face you with a gentle touch to his jaw. Your lips meet slowly, first a hesitant brush, then they melt together like it’s the first time. Baizhu soaks up the contact, drinking the reassurance from your lips. You think you could be convinced to forget everything, if only for the night.

“We’ll figure this out,” he promises, then he adds after some hesitation: “Together.”

And really, that’s all you’re asking. So you let him take your hand and guide you to the bedroom. Then you let him slide the ring back onto your finger.

Dottore

The ring slips off your finger to the very last digit, as if giving you time to reconsider. Dottore watches the action intently. Nonetheless, his words only stop once he’s finished his sentence - that, too, as if it was your chance at redemption. Despite the mask shielding his eyes, you can feel his gaze on you and swallow heavily. As passionate as he was about presenting his arguments, the energy is gone now, turned into cold tension. 

You hesitate, the ring still gingerly held between the fingers of your other hand. Dottore doesn’t move, tense and silent, observing your next step. He doesn’t say a word. And in the wordless face off, you understand - he would let you make this choice. He won’t say he wants you to stay and put the ring back on. Sometimes you have to do the work for both of you. Your ego is not more important than him. 

It takes effort to make a step forward. The fists at his side clench but he makes no move to stop you, his silence remains deafeningly loud. You walk on until you stand before him and offer him your hand, ring dangling on the tip of your finger. The mask allows him a lot of anonymity. He tilts his head, the lower half of his face offers no hints as to what’s going on inside his head. 

“That was very irrational,” you admit quietly, “A lapse of judgement.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” he scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. You don’t pull your hand back. “I have no use for an unwilling partner. I believe I made myself clear about only giving one chance.”

He waves you off, disinterested. Even so, he purposefully moves in a way that won’t remove the ring barely balanced at the tip of your finger. 

“Did I catch you off guard, doctor?” you ask, “Do we have no further use for each other? Is that what this is about?”

Dottore bristles. Perhaps it’s pointless, as he warned you it is, to attempt to persuade him that a relationship can work even if the parties have no vital need for each other.

“I need you,” you whisper, little more than a breath, “Why stall? If you had no need for me at all, you would take the ring back already.”

It might be a trick of the light, the moment it seems like he wants to say something. He doesn’t. Instead, he grabs your hand rather roughly and shoves the ring back down your finger. He doesn’t let go.

“So stubborn,” he growls, “Inefficient. If you just-” 

“You don’t need me for the experiment to progress,” you sigh, “Why get upset with me beyond the way in which I wronged you?”

His grip tightens. His jaw is set, which is about all you can read in his face. From the tilt of his mask and his fingers lingering by the band now securely around your finger, however, you can guess where he’s looking. 

“Have you never doubted your decision? I should be allowed to make the same mistake,” you reason. He scoffs.

“Mistake?” he mocks, then he huffs, “Perhaps.”

He swipes his thumb over the ring. His own rest hidden inside his breastpocket for safety. Not that it matters - it’s more important that his claim on you is clear for all to see. Above all - for him, Dottore himself, to see. As if the intricacies binding you together were not enough.

“I should find a more permanent way of branding you,” he mutters. No attempt to hide it. No need for the mask either - now you know well that’s looking at you, studying you.

You just smile.

Kaveh

You can barely see what you’re doing but you feel the empty space immediately, and perhaps more so the painful void inside your chest than the cold air on your finger.

The room goes deadly silent. Kaveh stares at you, speechless. His mouth opens and closes like fish out of water. A thousand different emotions flash across his face before they settle on anger. 

“Fine,” he scoffs, “Fine, go on then!”

He’s supposed to be furious. Why does he look like a cornered dog? Too scared to see through his fears. You blink and the anger turns into hurt, as if he wore nothing else on his face before. It breaks something inside of you. He’s not fully sober, he’s not thinking rationally, the whole fight got blown out of proportion-

You jump when something lands somewhere in front of you and rolls away. His own ring.

“I won’t hold you back!” he keeps screaming even as he falls to his knees. He looks like he can’t believe what he’s done, what he said. Your heart breaks but… this is just too much. And you’re in the wrong too, you have no right to be upset with him - you took off your ring first. But it’s too much. 

So you ignore him when he starts crawling forward to look for his ring. And because you’re hurting and emotions are high, you drop your ring too. The search should entertain him for long enough that you both cool down, you could take a walk- 

You don’t get the chance. And maybe you should’ve expected it. 

“Kaveh…” you sigh. 

Looking down, you see exactly what you thought you would. It doesn’t matter, your heart still clenches painfully. His eyes glisten with unshed moisture, his cheeks burn red. His face is twisted in agony, suffering which only you may free him from. He’s holding onto your leg like a lifeline, clawing at your clothes to make you stay. 

With another long exhale, your frustration dissipates into nothingness. Your hand falls to the top of his head, pushing his hair away from his face. He leans into your touch like a cat.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, looking much more sober now, “I’m so sorry. Please don’t go.”

Words would be pointless. They’re cheap and without substance Kaveh could latch onto. He rests his head against your thigh while you slowly keep combing your fingers through his hair.

“Let’s look for them together, hm?” you suggest eventually as you get down on the floor with him. He furiously nods his head.

It’s easier than you thought it’d be, with the light catching on the metal and guiding you to the discarded bands like the stars guide ships at the sea. Even so, Kaveh keeps looking your way as if still scared you’ll leave. The fear remains despite both rings resting in his palm, it lingers after you put them back on with shaky hands. Not long after you find yourself looking up at the ceiling.

“Please don’t leave,” Kaveh mumbles into the crook of your neck, lying on top of you after tackling you to the ground, “I’m sorry, I’m-”

“I’m sorry too,” you stop him from the inevitable self-depreciating rant. You hold him closer. “Let’s talk about it again after we get some sleep.”

It’s so easy to get him to agree. He always insisted that the bed you share is his only safe space, a sacred space he never brings work to. He sinks into the mattress with you, more like a snake than you ever imagined was possible for a human being. Sleep evades you. Kaveh holds you so tight it’s hard to breathe. You can’t say you mind, though.

Pantalone

The world narrows down to this moment - his office, his biting remarks, your voice hoarse after hours of this. Nothing else exists. Nothing beyond this room. And then Pantalone says another hurtful thing and you’ve just about had it. The ring tries to stick to your finger, truly it does. But you’re stubborn.

And then the click of safety being dislodged, the pull of a trigger - not enough to make the gun aimed in your direction shoot but close - rings through the room in the sudden deep silence.

You freeze, staring at him not quite in disbelief, but in cold clarity of what happened, the whole sequence of events. His usual mask is already back in place.

“Now now, be careful with that ring,” he says smiling. That calm, deceptive smile that fools nobody that ever made the mistake at displeasing him. Your palms start to sweat, goosebumps rise over your body. You think your body starts trembling. “It might be your only chance at survival should you leave, to sell it.”

Pantalone comes closer, quiet, slow strides. His hand cups your jaw to tilt your face towards him, holding you in place. Apparently, he needs to work on his temper and you need to work on your survival instinct.

“No pawnshop will buy it,” you argue. Because what else are you supposed to do than submit to him fully, to admit his full control over your life. You messed up, and Feofan is not a man easily placated. “And anyone foolish enough to want to buy it won’t have enough mora to do so.”

He smiles, looking almost proud as he leans closer to you. “And why is that?”

“Because only the smart survive, get rich and stay in business,” you answer, “And because they’re smart, they’ll recognize the ring. And they’ll know that you’d come for it. And that you’d make sure the word doesn’t get out and that there’s no witness.”

Pantalone looks most pleased, closing the distance between you to rub your noses together.

“Very good,” he murmurs, “So how about you make sure the ring is safe on your finger, hm?”

You don’t acknowledge the threat to you. That was only to be expected. You wounded him, or at least upset him, destabilized a favourable situation that is your relationship; naturally he’d lash out. You know better than most. The ring feels heavy on your finger. Less like a ball and chain locked around your ankle, more like a heavy winter coat around your shoulder.

Feofan can be incredibly sweet and attentive to those he cares for. He is. Unless given a reason not to be.

“There we go,” he whispers. Some of his smile is genuine, which is a relief.

He’s about to pull away but you’re quicker. It doesn’t matter much, whether he stays or not is entirely up to him. For a moment you don’t think he will, considering how coldly he regards your hand tugging on his sleeve. Then he indulges you, allowing you to even put his hands on your waist.

“I hurt you with my words,” he states, licking his lips. The haze of the argument must’ve left his mind. “I apologize.”

“I also apologize,” you sigh, “I shouldn’t have done that. You know how to be incredibly infuriating and I never know how to stop you and then act out of line.”

He chuckles, kissing the top of your head. “Yet you’re forgiven. A benevolent lover, am I not?”

You agree, with reluctance that remains privy only to you. Feofan knows how to be very benevolent, yet unapologetically cruel at the same time. You, at least, are protected by his fondness for you. Still you think you’d rather pamper him for a while, to make him forget your mistake.

Zhongli

You’d maybe prefer if Zhongli showed his emotions more. You’d perhaps appreciate more if he looked as worked up as you. This is going nowhere and it’s frustrating, he’s frustrating-

“Do it and you’ll have to face punishment,” he says, sternly, impatiently. Exactly the way you hoped he’d talk ever since your blood started boiling. Yet now you completely disregard his tone for sake of what he’s saying, or rather - those words with that tone make you forget what you were doing in the first place. 

He closes the distance between you swiftly and you all but shiver when he takes your hand into his. However, his mood changes rapidly the moment his fingers brush the ring halfway down your finger. Zhongli’s very good at hiding his emotions, but when he lets them show, they’re painfully clear. And now the remorse consumes him completely.

“I didn’t mean to upset you so,” he murmurs, stroking over the ring now safely in its usual place, “I apologize.”

You take a deep breath, exhale slowly. He means it, of course he does, sometimes your tempers just don’t match well. 

“I’m sorry too,” you mumble, then you swallow, “What did you mean earlier though, by the punishment…?”

You know better than to genuinely think Zhongli was suggesting what your body clearly seems to think, or maybe even hope for. 

“We signed the certificates,” he says, slowly, almost carefully, the tone you know well because that’s how he always says what he’s half-certain might be upsetting to you without fully comprehending why, “Marriage is basically a contr-”

“Zhongli, I swear, if you call our marriage a contract I am resigning from it,” you sigh. Exhausted by the revelation so much that you can’t even get mad, let alone think about what you were fighting about in the first place, you let your forehead fall against his shoulder. He freezes for a moment in a silent contemplation. 

“I don’t think of our relationship as a contractual obligation-”

“Zhongli, I know you think that’s comforting but please be quiet,” you stop him before he can get the rest of the explanation out.

“I love you,” he chuckles, settling for the safe option.

“I love you too,” you accept, a small smile blooming on your lips, “But don’t ever call our marriage that.”

He nods against your head, his arms wrapping around your waist. He holds you closer, rubbing circles into the small of your back. How easily does he undo you with his words - how easily you undo a god. With nothing but a simple mistake in the heights of emotion.

“I wasn’t planning to leave,” you mumble into his shoulder, “I was just so frustrated.”

He makes a small noise of acknowledgement. The longer he holds you, the more you feel like you’ve both calmed down. The golden light of the late afternoon casts a warm glow around the room.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he says, slowly, as if each word was hard to spell out, “I don’t like the idea of you leaving… our home, and me.”

His hand finds yours, squeezing, tracing the ring again. You have to appreciate he made the effort to not say breaking the contract. You reward him with a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“I don’t plan to,” you pull away enough to meet his eyes, “We swore until death do us apart, didn’t we? I’m keeping that promise.”

He did not dislike the signature wine of Mondstadt, not at all. He had definitely shared a few drinks of dandelion wine with old friends, especially with a certain Anemo Archon who loved the wine of his own nation dearly.

He did not dislike the City of Freedom, not at all.

So what was the problem?

He had claimed mountains, defeated gods, and governed a whole nation; what could have been the problem? You see, dragons notice things differently, and above all of that, Zhongli noticed that he did not like the scent of another nation lingering on you.

So when you came back with a bunch of souvenirs from Mondstadt, including a bottle of wine and stories that you believe Zhongli would like, you noticed there was a slight frown on his lips as he looked at you, observing.

You were confused, terribly confused.

"Zhongli, is there something wrong?" You asked, tilting your head slightly as you stepped forward, arms still lifted up in anticipation of the hug that you were expecting from Zhongli. A small smile finally reached Zhongli's lips, and he moved to finally wrap his arms around you. "My apologies; it seems to me that you appear to have enjoyed Mondstadt." "I did," you replied, finally settling in his arms, though Zhongli did not reply as fast as he would usually have. "Very much, apparently."

You realized it the moment you stared at Zhongli as he helped you unpack your things. All of them had one thing in common; all of them had one scent. Everything smelled the same—dandelion wine. Before you left for Mondstadt, you smelled like silk flower or perhaps the fragrance of the glaze lilies and tea leaves from when Zhongli would brew for the both of you, but now you smell like the City of Freedom.

Dragons are notoriously territorial creatures.

And as much as Zhongli didn't want to admit it, he didn't like it on you.

"You're frowning." You narrowed your eyes towards Zhongli, and you saw him looking up, holding your gaze. "I am not, my dear," he replied. You leaned in and huffed, "Then do you hate it when I visit Mondstadt?" But then it clicked in your brain, and a small gasp left your lips. "Are you jealous I visited Mondstadt?" The silence that followed that question was magnificent, and you almost saw Zhongli pout. "Certainly not," Zhongli finally answered. "Zhongli." "My dear, I am not competing with a nation." "So you are jealous."

Without reply, Zhongli turned his head away from you and hid your clothes away as you continued to stare at him. At this point, Zhongli refuses to answer.

Which was almost the same as admission itself.

Later that evening, you found Zhongli staring outside the window as the harbor glittered and the moonlight bright above. You stepped in beside him, and Zhongli was silent for a moment before he turned his head towards you.

"... I simply find myself preferring the pieces of Liyue on your person," he said softly. You tilted your head up slightly so you could see how his amber eyes softened. The meaning was clear, simple, and undeniably warm.

Zhongli simply liked it when you smelled like the tea you both had shared that morning, like the flowers that grew near your home, like the life that both of you had built, because that meant that you had been there and he had been with you. He liked it when you smelled like Liyue.

So when the scent of wind, freedom, and wine faded from your skin and was replaced by the aroma of tea, flowers, and the distant salt sea during your walks through the harbor, Zhongli felt at ease.

Because now you smelled like home.

𝓱usband!kento who still gets you flowers even when there’s no special occasion. sometimes it’s a small bouquet of roses, while other times it’s just a single stem he saw on his way home from the supermarket. he’ll pass it to you with a faint softness in his expression as he says, “… this is for you, love.” you now have a collection of dried flowers tucked away, each one from a different day he thought of you.

𝓱usband!kento who goes to great lengths to ensure you feel comfortable & fulfilled. he takes care of things without making a big show of it, choosing to ease your burdens wherever he can by helping you with the house chores sometimes, and making sure you don’t overwork yourself too much since he’s more than willing to provide for you both.

⨳ 𝓷𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: i actually do miss writing for kento…

credits to im4yeons for the pink cream & star divider, polka dot floral frame found on pinterest ♡