aethour
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Aether isn’t particularly fond of mirrors—hasn’t been, not since Sumeru. Seeing himself, seeing Lumine... It just—it wasn’t worth it.
But with this new fabric... He hesitates.
It is the intention behind it, he hopes, that will save him the heartache. He can't go through... that, again.
As Heaven and Earth are made anew, Aether finds an old outfit of his—of Lumine's. Putting it on ought to quell his heartache, but he soon finds that it, in fact, does the exact opposite.
At least Diluc finds him before he can start to spiral. That is, if he hasn't already started.
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“If I knew I was going to have to do all the work,” Alhaitham says, and Kaveh gasps at the actual audacity that the man has. He’s without a single stitch of clothes, yet all he does is aggravate him. How ironic.
Bastard, brat: Kaveh’s finding that many, many words describe Alhaitham.
“‘All the work'?! You?!” Kaveh gawks. “I'm doing all the work!”
“—I’d have fucked myself."
Alhaitham isn't one to pull his weight—when he bottoms, that is. Anytime, anywhere else, he's diligent. A diligent top, a diligent partner... It's only when he's laid out on his back in the bed that he decides he'd rather not do anything, much to Kaveh's chagrin.
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As it turns out, Phlogiston pigment is an absolute bitch to paint with.
(That, or Aether is far from as proficient in the stuff as he thought he was.)
He sighs. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I swear, I thought it'd be easier than this. This paint...”
“It’s alright,” Diluc murmurs. His eyes finally flutter open, the smear of red-orange-yellow—from what was supposed to sit on his cheek—clumped in the ends of his lashes. “I’m sure it’s lovely."
Aether may be Tumaini, but painting is an art form that is drastically different from fighting. He's lucky, then, that Diluc's patience exceeds even his own—that, or that Diluc loves him enough to put up with whatever he wants.
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“Varka."
“Yeah, baby? What do you want?”
It's a dangerous question, what Varka’s asking. To ask a fae what he wants is undeniably dangerous... yet. Yet.
What Flins wants, Varka wants. Giving in, then, is only natural.
Testosterone is a hell of a drug. It's given the Grandmaster more gifts than he can count on two hands, but, of them, Flins finds himself most intrigued by one particular, ah, effect of it.
He doesn't know who's luckier: Varka, having taken so kindly to it; or himself, having the fruits of the Grandmaster's labor heavy across his tongue.
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“Forgive me if this is too forward, but...” Flins’s eyes sparkled with something akin to mischief. “Allow me to show you what you are worth."
“Only if you promise to be gentle.” Aether tells himself it was a joke. He was merely... playing along.
But the look on Flins’s face at that—it was downright lecherous. Licentious.
“Why, you have my word, darling.”
With the fae, there is no such thing as a joke—not when he is what, or rather who, a fae wants. Honestly, Aether should have expected it; give a fae an inch, and they will take a mile. It's a well-known old wives' tale—the first he heard in Nod Krai, in fact.
How obvious it should have been, then, that Flins is no exception.
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“let me be yours.” diluc adds, as if hearing his thoughts, but aether suspects there is no true correlation. “let me give you everything that i have. let me walk with you for eternity.”
Bookmarked by aethour
08 Feb 2026
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This was it.
The last time he would see this man, in this specific light, in this quiet sanctuary, for months, perhaps years. Snezhnaya was unpredictable. He might not return. The weight of his unsaid feelings—which he had diligently suppressed for nearly a year, telling himself they were impractical, inconvenient, and utterly unnecessary for a man consumed by justice and duty—became unbearable. They needed to be shed, like a heavy coat, before he could walk into the frozen wastes.
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Or when Aether finally decided to confess his feelings and Diluc responded with a proposal.
Bookmarked by aethour
03 Nov 2025