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I
“Where are you going?”
She halts near the peak of the hill, tall grass swaying around her ankles, tickling her bare skin—an itch she can’t quite scratch, emotion that swells and dies in the stagnant hollow of her ribs.
“Is it important?” she asks, and hopes that he does not hear the uncertainty in her voice.
Scaramouche—no, the Wanderer now, even if the name that falls from her lips lands differently in the velvet embrace of night—follows her up the winding road. There’s something dark in his eyes, nightmares turned tangible, a fierce burning in her lungs. “Maybe.”
“You know,” she says, turning her gaze towards the horizon, “if you wanted to stick with me, then you should have just said so.”
“Who said anything about that?” His voice is smooth and neutral but it unnerves her all the same. Not that long ago, he was still filled with anger, raging against the unfairness of the world. A shell of a person bearing the cruel burden of fate—she can relate to that, whether she wants to admit it or not.
So to hear his resentment stripped away, turned inwards, festering where she cannot see… a part of her thinks it foolish, but the rest of her feels mildly disappointed.
“Then why are you here?” she asks. He doesn’t answer, his gaze darting towards the evening sky, stained with the hues of sunset—dark blues and oranges, blood rose and purples. Shadows ripple across the grass, lengthening, twisting towards the darkness that lurks in the corners, following wherever she goes; a phantom hiding in plain sight.
Night will soon fall, and they have yet to make camp.
“Because I have nowhere else to go,” he finally says. His voice is quiet, but it startles her anyway; her heart thuds in her chest, a bloody, heavy thing.
“I never said I was willing to take stragglers.” But she knows the pains and struggles of someone desperately seeking a home—she knows very well how it feels to be used and betrayed, tossed aside in the pursuit of some greater good.
She thinks of her brother, of his sweet smile and outstretched hands, golden eyes shimmering in the light. She thinks of her brother, distant and aloof, his gaze simmering with secrets unspoken, the threat of abandonment hanging like a guillotine over her head.
“But you will take them anyway,” he says. “Out of the goodness of your heart.”
She can’t tell whether he means it or whether he says this with an air of mockery—he’s harder to read nowadays, harder to figure out. Not that he’s ever been an open book in the first place.
“I should leave you here,” she says, but there’s no heat in her words. Just exhaustion, a lingering weight born from weeks and months of journeying. Her goal is nowhere in sight—the further she goes, the less she understands.
Once, she would have travelled decades, even centuries just to reach their next destination. Now, the mere echo of time’s passing makes her recoil—it’s a looming reminder of everything she has lost, and she has no desire to face the promise of the inevitable.
“But you won’t,” he says, an unwanted mirror to her thoughts; she flinches away, teetering at the very tip of the slope, a heart’s beat away from falling over the edge.
His hand flies out, fingers wrapping warm around her wrist. Yanks her back to standing, and the whole world is upright again, the sounds and colours settling back where they belong. Her heart thuds once more, and it’s suffocating in her chest, a lump of blood and aching flesh that implies far too much about her mortality. “Thank you.”
“I know you don’t mean it,” he answers, and she doesn’t try to refute him. Perhaps it’s those who lack purpose that best understand human nature; even now, her instincts snake carelessly out of her mouth, devoid of conscience or rational thought.
“What do you want then?” she asks. The setting sun gleams off the clouds overhead, and they’re the colour of rust, the colour of blood, black-red staining the flat of her sword.
“Something that can be mine, and mine alone,” he says. She can’t help a snicker—how very like him, to make such selfish demands.
She would do the same if she were in his shoes.
“And what is it that you want from me?” she asks. Her hands curl loosely by her sides, the harsh, frost-bitten air weaving between her fingers. Night is falling, and the chill is beginning to set in; from what she’s been told, the passing of the seasons is anything but kind.
It’s autumn. The leaves are dying, withering, making way for winter’s frost. Eventually, she will have to cease her midnight wanderings, but not now. Not yet.
“Everything you are unwilling to offer,” he says, and he says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Straightforward and matter-of-fact, a secret gleaming bright as day. “That’s the only way to make it worth our while.”
She’s about to ask what he means, amused by his newfound vagueness—it’s very unlike him to hedge—when he takes a sudden step forward and the words die on her tongue.
His lips are soft, a stark contrast against the harsh planes of his body and the bitterness that spills so easily from his pretty mouth. When he retreats, she simply looks at him, her fingers drifting up to her cheek, where the remnants of his warmth linger. “You made a mistake,” she says.
The sound that leaves him is a mockery of a laugh—hard and flinty and glasslike, shattering into a thousand sharp edges that dig into her skin, threatening to draw blood. “We have lived too long to be making such rudimentary mistakes, Traveller.”
His indigo eyes meet hers. There’s no trace of humour in them, nothing but a gaping void, heavy with meaning. “Like it or not, someday, you’ll have to admit the truth.”
II
“The clouds are pretty today.”
It’s an offhand remark, and she doesn’t think too much about it, folding her skirt underneath her as she settles beside him. He’s leaning back on his elbows, gazing up at the sky—his hat is on the verge of falling, but she decides not to tell him.
“I didn’t know you appreciated such things,” she says.
He deigns to look at her then, something like scorn in his expression. “What, just because I was a Harbinger?” he asks, and she wonders how in the world he managed to draw that conclusion from her comment alone.
“No. Because you seemed so absorbed in your thoughts that you never had time for anything else,” she clarifies.
“I’m not sure if that’s better,” he says, but he drops the topic anyway, glancing back at the sky. It’s a pleasant day—the sun is shining but not too bright, and the clouds are drifting overhead, serene and peaceful. She thinks the sunlit sky reminds her a little of the Wanderer’s garb.
“Why did you change your clothes?” she asks, now that she’s thinking about it.
“Why is the sky blue?” he asks in return, and her eyelid twitches.
“If you don’t want to answer the question, then don’t,” she snipes, and he has the gall to laugh, the sound soft and melodious, rolling like silk off his tongue.
“I just thought the answer would be obvious,” he says. “A new journey, a new beginning. Wouldn’t you try to look the part?”
“I understand that. But why blue?” she asks, gesturing at his attire. It’s a far cry from his get-up as the Balladeer, Sixth of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers—light and airy, almost pastel, she’d never have imagined him dressed this way in the past.
He doesn’t reply immediately, still leaning on his elbows, watching the sky. She doesn’t press him for an answer either, content to watch the clouds drifting by. It feels strangely peaceful, even if he still strikes her as suspicious, even if she can’t bring herself to trust him fully.
It’s almost companionable; the two of them sharing their loneliness, even if for only a while.
“It’s a nice colour,” he finally says, and she knows better than to probe further, so she lets it go.
“You’re being unusually inquisitive today,” he adds after some time passes and she has yet to say a word. “Could it be that you’re finally warming up to me?”
She scoffs, unable to help herself. “Don’t test your luck,” she warns. “Nahida might have forgiven you for everything you’ve done, but I haven’t.”
He shrugs, though a hint of a smile lingers on his face, insufferably smug. “Not much I can say to defend myself there,” he replies, with an ease that seems at odds with the gravity of his admission. “Though I simply wanted something to call my own. Was that truly so wrong?”
“You tried to usurp an archon and nearly destroyed the city in the process,” she reminds him, her brow furrowing. “I don’t think the morality of this is up for debate.”
Another shrug, this one somehow more blasé than the last. “Suit yourself.”
“I don’t know how you manage to annoy me with such alarming regularity,” she mutters, more to herself than to him. “You’d think I would have gotten used to you by now.”
“Don’t be rude. I’m not someone you can just get used to, you know.” He flops down on the grass, and after a moment’s hesitation, she follows. “There’s only one of me in the entire world, after all, and you’re the lucky individual I’ve decided to bless with my presence.”
“Is it really a blessing if I’d rather not have you around?”
“That hurts my feelings,” he says, rolling over to look at her, and she wonders if it’d be acceptable to retort with something along the lines of “I didn’t know you had a heart in the first place”.
It’s probably too soon. “You should have considered that before agreeing to the Akademiya’s plan. How many dreams and feelings have you trampled on in your pursuit of godhood?”
He groans. “If you’re just going to nag at me about my grandiose ambitions, then I refuse to listen. I’ve heard enough of that from Buer.”
“Maybe you need to be reminded,” she says. “To drive the message in, you know?”
“I’d rather die,” he says, and she can’t quite tell if he’s being serious or not, so she decides to err on the side of caution and drop the matter.
“Can you make dinner tonight?” she asks, changing the topic. He’s still staring at her, silent and unmoving—at times like these, she can’t help feeling apprehensive, can’t help remembering his origins and the fact that despite his human appearance, he is anything but mortal.
“Okay,” he finally says, and she lets out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding. “What do you want to eat? Chazuke?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable making,” she says, and her heart is thudding once more, a traitor hiding in the cavity of her ribcage. “We can take a look at what raw ingredients we have.”
“Based on my recollection, there’s not much,” he says, sitting up abruptly and retrieving his hat, which had fallen off when he lay back on the grass. “You don’t even have unagi meat.”
“You say that as if it’s common to have unagi meat just lying around,” she says, feeling slightly wronged. “Unagi aren’t easy to catch, you know. They move fast.”
“Then you’re not catching them the right way.” Suddenly, he grabs her hand and she lets out a yelp, startled by the unexpected contact. “You have to be quick,” he says, his indigo gaze fixed upon her, and she feels like she’s forgotten how to breathe. “So quick that the eels don’t realise—so quick that you don’t even notice what you’ve done.”
She’s pinned in place, helpless under the weight of his stare; when he lifts her wrist to his mouth, she finds herself unable to resist, rendered immobile by her curiosity. “You know,” he murmurs, “I wonder sometimes. What exactly do you think when you look at me?”
It’s a good question. What does she think?
“I’m not sure,” she finds herself saying. “I’m not sure if I can bring myself to trust you. Even if you’re no longer one of the Fatui, even if I understand why you did the things you did—”
“Ah,” he interjects, and she quietens, her heart in her throat, an uncomfortable obstruction. “I don’t think I ever asked for absolution.”
She bites her lip. “I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You’re not hard to read, Traveller. Despite being so old.” His laughter sounds like wind chimes, tinkling sweet and crystalline and all too brittle. “Shouldn’t you know better by now?”
“And you should let go,” she answers, pulling against his hold—not hard, just enough to make it seem like she’s trying.
His smile widens, his grip on her tightening a fraction, a warning more than anything else. “Do you know what the different types of kisses mean?” he asks, and she shivers when his lips glide against the back of her hand, soft and fleeting, leaving trails of warmth in their wake.
“You’re going to tell me no matter what I say.”
“Such confidence.” He clicks his tongue against his teeth, and she swallows, unable to tear her gaze away from his mouth. “Indulge me a little. At least pretend to guess.”
She gives in. “A kiss on the back of the hand means respect,” she says, trying to pull free again. His grip remains tight, and she can’t move an inch.
“Good.” He flips her hand. It makes her feel strangely vulnerable, and she glances away when he kisses her palm, his mouth lingering a second too long. “And what about here?” he asks. “Do you know what that represents?”
She shakes her head, honest this time, and he cocks his head, a wordless challenge—the silence between them stretches, taut with anticipation, and she’s about to shatter, the truth seething on the tip of her tongue—
“Resentment,” he finally says, and she remembers how to breathe then, her lungs swelling with every greedy gulp of air. “A kiss on the palm signifies resentment.”
She blinks, and he grins back, his teeth blindingly perfect, veering on this side of too sharp. “Do you resent me?” she finally asks, and he shrugs, dropping another kiss.
This one is warm and gentle, and he meets her gaze with his lips still pressed to her skin. His indigo eyes are intense; it feels like drowning. “Not for the reason that you think.”
III
“Is this too much?” he asks, his fingers spread over her back.
She shakes her head, her gaze fixed resolutely on the bedding. His hands are cool and strong—it feels strange having him touch her bare skin this way, but she reminds herself this is necessary, that if she suffers yet another day without fixing her sore back, she might just go mad.
I’m good at massages, he said when she returned to her teapot, uttering curses with her fingers curled against her hip. Let me relieve some of your pain.
She had tried her best to ignore the glimmer of interest in his indigo eyes. Convinced herself he would be nothing but professional because they’re not friends, they’re barely even allies, but—
He presses into her horribly stiff lower back and immediately she moans, unable to help herself. Mortification shoots through her, but he doesn’t say anything, just kneading out the knots in her body with an expertise she grudgingly finds impressive.
“You’re good at this,” she says, turning her cheek into the mattress as she slides her arms under her pillow. The smooth cotton is cool against her skin; she inhales as he slips his hands beneath her hips, lithe fingers circling her waist.
“You sound like you weren’t expecting that.” There’s a distinct note of amusement in his voice—she can’t explain the reason, but she finds that a little embarrassing.
“I just didn’t think you would ever willingly put your hands on someone,” she mumbles, closing her eyes. “I’m not wrong, am I?”
“You’re not,” he concedes, and she bites back another moan as he presses into the curve of her waist, his thumbs ghosting dangerously close to the hem of her bloomers.
She can’t help wondering if he’d go any lower, but the instant the thought occurs, she grabs her pillow and drags it over her head, appearances be damned.
Why can’t she just relax? He never does anything out of the kindness of his heart—she’s certain that he’d request some sort of favour once he’s done. She ought to enjoy the massage while she can, but instead, all she can think about is how nice this feels, and would his touch remain as soft on other parts of her—
“Traveller?” He pauses, his hands still spread over her naked back, and she shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak. There is dangerous warmth pooling within her, but she foolishly hopes that he would pay her no mind, that he would ignore the traitorous hitch in her breath and carry on with whatever it is that he’s doing.
Instead, he stills, unmoving and unspeaking, silence settling heavy between them. Her heart is racing, so fast she’s convinced he can hear it, the erratic rhythm turning her breathless.
Why isn’t he saying anything?
Then suddenly her pillow flies off her and she yelps, lurching up in surprise—he’s dangling her shield high overhead, out of her reach, but she scrabbles for it anyway, desperate to force some distance between them. “Give it back!” she cries. “I need to hold something!”
“Does it hurt that much?” He sounds anything but concerned; there’s a knowing gleam in his indigo eyes that hints at ideas she’s probably not going to like. “I can make it softer.”
“I’m fine!” she babbles. The skin beneath his palm is prickling, inexplicably sensitive. “I—I just want to keep my hands full, that’s all.”
He hums. “You can occupy yourself through other means. There’s no need to torture your poor pillow like that—look, your nails were about to rip the fabric.”
“Since when did you care about my furnishings?” she grouses. “Stop talking and return me my pillow.”
“It’s also rude to hide while I’m providing such meticulous service, don’t you think?”
“That’s just self-praise,” she retorts, a little less flustered now that she’s easing back into their familiar back-and-forth. “And self-praise doesn’t mean anything.”
“You’re the one who said I was good a while ago,” he says, and she wrinkles her nose, glancing over her shoulder at him.
“I was being polite.”
“No, you’re being a liar.” He tosses the pillow aside and she gasps as he drops towards her, his breath washing against her cheek. “I didn’t think the righteous Traveller would treat me like this, especially not after everything we’ve been through. I must say, I’m rather hurt.”
“You’re exaggerating,” she says. Her head is beginning to spin—from his proximity? From the constant contact, from his warmth bleeding into her skin? “Don’t act like it’s serious.”
He laughs and the sound curls velvet in her ear, sending tiny sparks skittering down her spine. “Are you trying to tell me how I should feel? I never knew you understood me so well.”
Her belly clenches, roiling with nerves—and, if she must be honest, a little something else too. She tries not to think about that. “Can we just go back to what we were doing earlier?” she asks, injecting as much nonchalance as she can into her words. She’s glad her voice doesn’t tremble. “I’m sure you’re not anywhere near finished.”
He tuts. “How demanding,” he murmurs, but he acquiesces anyway, his hands sliding over her shoulders to her scapulae—she nearly whimpers, her sudden sensitivity making it exceedingly difficult to stay still. “Well, so long as you don’t try to shove your head under a pillow again.”
“Why are you so irritated by that?” she asks, a half-hearted attempt to distract herself from the stutter in her chest. “It’s not like you can see my face either way.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” he says, and he leaves it at that. For a moment she contemplates pushing for answers, but then decides to drop the topic—it’s probably nothing important.
Probably.
His thumbs press into her back, and she melts into his touch, closing her eyes and leaning her forehead against her arms. The atmosphere is peaceful, quiet save for the sounds of breathing; hers, loud and regular, his, just barely perceptible, the softest flutter against her nape.
At times like these, she wonders—though he says he’s forsaken his dream of becoming human, has he, really?
“I’m done.” His voice breaks into her reverie and she blinks, raising her head, surprised by the sudden announcement. “Be careful in the future. I won’t always have the patience to fix you.”
“Huh.” She turns, staring at him. He’s right beside her, sitting in front of the window—sunlight streams in, throwing his face into shadow. “So soon?”
“What, did you want more?” She can’t see his expression, but she can hear his amusement and she briefly considers thwacking him over the head—though he probably wouldn’t feel anything through that ridiculous hat. “I only helped you because I hate owing debts. Don’t be greedy.”
“I can pay,” she offers, ignoring how desperate that makes her sound. He’s good—she will admit that much, and combined with the fact that she hasn’t had a proper massage in ages… “I know! What about those mushrooms you enjoy so much, will a hundred of them—”
“Traveller,” he interjects, and her breath catches, her eyes turning wide. His voice is quiet, any hints of his earlier humour flattened into smooth neutrality. “You seem convinced that you can buy me over, but what can you possibly offer that I don’t already have?”
“…Not mushrooms?” she asks weakly, and he shakes his head, leaning towards her, out of the light. There’s a small smile on his face, the barest curve of his lips; she can’t help but shiver, a strange sense of déjà vu making her stomach flip.
“I can get those myself.” His hands ghost across her back and unbidden her fingers flex, nails digging into the sheets. Her breath leaves her in one long exhale, her eyelids fluttering as his touch slides warm along the curves of her waist. “Will you give me whatever I want?”
“Within reason,” she says, and her voice still sounds faint.
“And who decides what is reasonable?” His whisper is so close, a lover’s sweet caress; there’s promise in his voice, dark and sinful and delicious, and she ought to push him away before it devours her completely and she forgets the role she’s meant to play.
“Me,” she finally coughs, wriggling against him in an attempt to break free—he’s pinning her down with his weight, one hand on her waist, the other encircling her wrist, and she wonders when he even managed to get so close.
It’s been a long time since she’s gotten this distracted. He clearly isn’t good for her.
“Beggars don’t get to be choosers.” The snide amusement is back, but she welcomes it, glad to return to safer territory. She’s used to his sarcasm, to his biting comments and condescending tendencies—all that, she can deal with.
But those glimpses of intimacy, the long-buried knowledge of what he desires—she’s not quite sure how to handle that. Not yet.
“Then I’ll give up on you,” she retorts, elbowing his chest when he still refuses to budge. “You aren’t the only one who can help me, you know. I’ll visit a massage parlour in Liyue—”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” he snaps, and she bites the inside of her cheek to hide her grin.
“That’s good to know,” she chirps, wriggling in yet another attempt to throw him off.
But then he grabs both her wrists in one hand and shoves them into the mattress and his lips are brushing her neck, soft and warm. She freezes. “Stop being a tease,” he says, and there’s a slow, delicious ache building between her thighs, a sensation she finds undesirably familiar.
“Get off me,” she growls, and he has the audacity to laugh before he kisses her, this one a proper press of his mouth to her skin, his lips sliding up her jaw, tongue flicking against her earlobe.
She shuts her eyes and thinks to herself, maybe she can allow this. Just this once.
IV
“Lumine.”
He very rarely calls her by name. It’s his way of forcing distance between them—she knows full well what keeps him up at night, and she can’t fault him for wanting to maintain his barriers.
Still. She wonders when he will finally let his grievances go, wonders if he ever will make peace with his past. One too many nights she’s witnessed him startling awake; she doesn’t ask and he never confides, but she sees the way he always stops breathing afterwards, his unblinking gaze fixed on the ceiling, and she thinks she knows enough.
“Nightmare?” she murmurs, sitting up and holding out her arms. He approaches her, small and careful and fragile, and she pulls him close, tucking him underneath her chin as she rocks him slow and gentle—he’s still not breathing, and she exhales into his hair, closing her eyes.
“Want to talk about it?” she finally offers. Moonlight streams through her window, a small silver square cast on the hardwood floor—he’s staring at it, and she wonders what he sees.
He’s not one to open up even on good days, and at times like these, he clams up completely, as though reverting to the puppet he used to be.
Slowly, he shakes his head, and she hums, running her hand through his hair, twining the dark locks around her fingers. “Do you want to sleep here tonight?”
A nod this time, and they lie together, nestling in the warmth of her blankets. He curls into her, more instinct than conscious decision, and for a moment, he seems so young.
It’s a sobering thought. They’re not that far apart in terms of age—at least, she doesn’t think so, and immortals usually lose count after the first couple of centuries anyway—but seeing him in this state reminds her of how different their lives are, how different their lives used to be.
Maybe he wouldn’t have turned out this way if he had a friend. Someone to steer him down the right path, someone he could always return to, someone who cared.
But that’s nothing more than speculation and what-ifs. They can wonder all they want, but this possibility isn’t one they can explore, no matter how immense his regrets.
What is regret, after all, than a mistake that lingers? He cannot erase the weight of his past and she’d be lying if she says she can forgive him completely, but—
When she looks at him clutching onto her like she’s his lifeline, the only thing preventing him from being swept out to sea… all she can feel is pity.
“Do you hate me?” he suddenly asks, his voice little more than a whisper in the dark.
Her hand stills. “Why do you ask?”
He seldom talks when he’s like this. An occasional whisper, perhaps a stifled groan as he struggles to fall back asleep, but a complete sentence? That’s never happened before.
“I just… wanted to know.” He reaches for her, his fingers digging into her arms as though he’s trying to ground himself, trying to claw beneath her skin and take root within her memories.
The answer doesn’t come to her. Does she hate him? For a long time, she could say she did—it wasn’t hard to spurn what she didn’t know. Kunikuzushi, Scaramouche, Balladeer, Sixth of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers—he had so many titles, and she despised them all.
He represented everything she couldn’t stand. He was hateful and snide and selfish—he acted purely for his benefit, and she loathed how easily, how effortlessly he took. Sometimes he reminded her of a child throwing a tantrum, acting out just because he could, just because he wanted someone to look at him and pay attention.
Then Sumeru happened. Sumeru and Nahida and the Shouki no Kami and the 168 samsaras, and the aftermath was more fear and anger and a profound, lingering exhaustion that nestled in each shadowy crevice of her body, weighing her down with knowledge she never wanted to possess.
“I should,” she says. He doesn’t answer, though she feels his grip on her tighten. She thinks she might bruise when morning comes. “Do you think I should?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, but eventually, he glances up. “I think so,” he says in a voice so quiet, she almost doesn’t hear him. “So why don’t you?”
She blinks. “Did you just answer your own question?”
He hesitates. There’s conflict in his eyes and when he next opens his mouth, his words are slow, measured, tentative. “You let me kiss you. And hold you like this.” He tugs her hands up, placing them on his chest. “I know you pity me. You think even I deserve sympathy.”
There’s a bitter note in his voice. She curls her fingers into his shirt, shifting a little closer. “You don’t seem to want my sympathy.”
He shakes his head. “I feel pathetic enough as it is.”
“I don’t know how else I should feel about you,” she admits. “You’ve done awful, terrible things. And if I let myself think about it for too long, I get mad all over again.” She ducks her head, her words directed at his shirt. “You had an unfortunate past. I won’t deny that. But we all have a past. And the people you’ve hurt, the lives that were destroyed as a result of your actions… those won’t come back, you know? They’re gone now. They’re gone forever.”
“I know,” he mumbles. She hears him exhale and she wonders how long he’s had to practise to make it seem convincing. “I can’t change the past, no matter how I try.”
His voice is raw, filled with emotions that she can’t quite decipher. “I wish I could tell you it’s not your fault,” she begins, “but I can’t. I can’t, and that’s what vexes me.”
He laughs; it’s a humourless sound. “Because not doing so contradicts your noble nature?”
“No.” She reaches up to touch his cheek, and his eyes widen, his breaths stilling again. “Because sometimes, I want to forgive you. But I don’t have the right to wave away your wrongdoings. Your burden is not one I can share.” She quietens, her thumb tracing his jaw. “Even if the descendants of the Raiden Gokaden exact their revenge upon you—what then? Will your life be any different?”
“What are you trying to say?” There’s no trace of accusation in his voice; he reaches up, covering her hand with his, and it feels like he’s trying to pull her closer, trying to meld them into one, the coolness of his skin a stark contrast against her warmth. “What should I do then?”
“Let go.” She breathes it out like a secret, pressing her forehead against his. His eyes close. “You can’t move on by clinging to the sins of your past. You know that. You chose to be a wanderer for that very reason.”
“It’s not easy to let go.” His fingers slip into the spaces between hers. “I’m trying, but when night falls…” He pauses. “When night falls, I still see his face.”
She doesn’t ask who he’s referring to. Instead, she wraps her arms around his hips, leaning close, and he whispers her name in a way that sounds like a plea. Like she’s offering him salvation, like she’s offering a second chance, even if they both know that nothing can truly change.
They remain silent for a while, and eventually, he coughs. “Could you turn around?” he mumbles, and she acquiesces, wondering what he’s up to as she burrows into the mattress—
His arms slink around her and pull her in, and she yelps, startled by the unexpected gesture. He’s usually the one who falls asleep in her embrace, and she fidgets, unused to being held by him this way. “Are you—”
“You never say my name,” he interrupts, and she quietens, her breath catching. His grip on her tightens, rendering her immobile. “You gave me a name but you never use it. Why?”
What is she supposed to tell him? That she resented the intimacy of giving him a name—that she felt like she was carving out a piece of her heart and offering it to him when he didn’t deserve it, that she didn’t think he would care, that she didn’t think he would even remember the name she painstakingly came up with?
“Do you want me to say it?” she asks, staring at the blank wall opposite her.
“Please.” He rests his chin upon her shoulder, his breath grazing her cheek, and she closes her eyes, wondering if this is just a dream, one she will forget once morning comes.
“En,” she exhales, and he hums in what sounds almost like pleasure, his mouth ghosting across her shoulder, lingering near the slope of her neck.
“Don’t leave me,” he whispers, and she thinks she knows why he asked her to turn around.
V
“Stop running and get back here,” he growls, and she giggles, scrambling up a nearby hill in an attempt to put more distance between them.
“Don’t get mad just because you’re losing!” she shouts.
“I won’t get mad just because of your stupid bet,” he retorts, strolling behind her as though he’s not the one who proposed this challenge in the first place.
She barely resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Since you’re not even trying, I guess that makes me the default winner, so as my prize, the next time I meet Kazuha—”
A gust of wind blows straight into her eyes, cutting her off, and at the next moment, she sees him standing in front of her, a decidedly smug smirk on his face. “Looks like I won.”
She spits her hair out of her mouth, scowling at him. “We agreed not to use elemental powers!”
“Did you see me use them?” He shrugs, his gaze glimmering with amusement. She opens her mouth to retort but then he steps forward, cradling her face between his hands, and she falls silent when he kisses her, deep and intense and full of longing he’d never express in words.
She’s the first to pull away—she always is—and he laughs, sweeping his thumb across her cheek, so close she can feel his breath against her lips. “You were saying?”
“If you didn’t want me to meet other men alone, you could have just said so, you know.”
“But then you’d call me jealous and possessive,” he protests, and she does roll her eyes this time, shaking her head as she pecks him on the mouth.
“I wouldn’t dare,” she simpers, and he glares at her for a second before his expression softens.
“I love you,” he tells her. She looks at him—takes in the promise in his eyes, the gentleness of his touch, the affection in his voice. He’s so bright it’s blinding, and her chest twists with everything she feels, all the love and consideration she wants to share with him.
A bird cries in the distance, and without thinking, she smiles.