It is a whirlwind romance for Tartaglia and Morax.

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The first time that Tartaglia meets Morax on the field, he stops dead. He stares, eyes tracking over the length of him, taking in every muscle, every angle, the sharp jut of his jaw and hips. The fine arches of Morax's cheekbones, the silky smoothness of his hair, and his charcoal skin and glittering markings—all of it causes heat to rise in Tartaglia's stomach.

This man will become an archon. Tartaglia can feel the power roll off him in waves, and damn, if a large part of his brain doesn't go feral at the sight. Tartaglia wants to become a god, but this man already is, and it shows. And Celestia above, he wants to fight him.

And so Tartaglia does, challenging the god of Geo with bold words.

Morax cocks his head to the side, flicks his lance, and lunges. Their fight lasts ages. They trek across the land in leagues, losing their parties. When they tumble to the ground, they're alone, beaten, and sweaty, and Morax is the most gorgeous thing Tartaglia has ever seen. And maybe Morax thinks the same because he reaches up and traces Tartaglia's mouth, uncaring of the blood that seeps from his split lip.

Ekaterina and Xiao find them fucking each other a half hour later, Morax's chest against the ground, and Tartaglia railing him from behind.

And really, if there's a better way to end a really good, bone-searing, honest-to-the-gods fight, Tartaglia doesn't know what it is.

#

The problem is that Tartaglia is now enamored.

Who wouldn't be? Morax embodies everything that he strives to be: powerful but poised, ethereal but grounded, loyal to his people. A quick fuck, a few rough tumbles during the heat of the battlefield isn't unheard of.

But falling in love is. And war is the worst time for that, particularly because there can only be a few who reach the end. Tartaglia's goals during the war turn from winning to making sure that he just survives, because if he does, they may have a future together—

He's thinking ahead of himself. Morax has indulged in their wild trysts enthusiastically, but to what extent, Tartaglia doesn't know. It is always quick and rough, Morax face-down and Tartaglia fucking him from behind. It's easier that way, easier to forget, to imagine it's just a means to an end and nothing more.

Tartaglia is a fool, an absolute and utter fool because the moment he sees Morax he is gone. Heart in his throat, unable to breathe, gone; washed away by the waves at the shore, gone; aching as if he's just realized he's missing a part of himself, gone.

Ekaterina pinches his elbow, nails digging in sharply. "Focus," she hisses.

"Right, right," he murmurs.

The war is over. Tartaglia did as he promised, he survived. The weight of the gnosis in his chest is proof of that. Celestia demanded a celebration in return, and so the Seven have arrived on her floating shores to partake in the revelry.

The question begs, though, what else is there? Where does Tartaglia go from here? Eons ago he would have said this would be enough; he's become a god in his own right, but—

Morax is a vision swathed in silk robes, and his hair half-done up, the rest trailing around his neck and shoulders like liquid. Tartaglia can't tear his gaze away, a new wish breeding in his heart.

Ekaterina pinches his elbow again, but this time, her voice is gentler. "You can talk to him later."

"I—this isn't about him."

"Isn't it?"

Tartaglia turns to look at her and Ekaterina stares back with that bland, non-nonsense look of hers. "Respectfully, sir, you are allowed to be selfish."

He is not. He is not. Being an archon means that he has a responsibility to his people and no matter how much he craves Morax, Tartaglia will always have to return home. He'll always have to leave, and as strong as he is, Tartaglia doesn't know how long he can weather such a thing.

Ekaterina's touch turns into a soothing one as her thumb rubs circles through the fabric of his coat. "Go to him. I'll cover for you."

"We—They'll notice—"

"So let them notice. What will anyone do? Isn't the point of all of this to celebrate?"

It isn't, and everyone here knows that, despite the war's end. Celestia is still up to something, and it's clear that the party is nothing but a political ruse. Every archon is on their toes, eyes flitting about, watching for betrayal. Or worse. They've traded in their swords and Visions for heated words of debate and espionage. Celestia always has an ulterior motive.

Morax finally catches Tartaglia's gaze. His eyes linger, golden and glowing, staring at Tartaglia as though he is the only thing in the room.

A soft sigh from Ekaterina as she gestures to him. "You won't have much time so make the most of it."

Against his better judgment, Tartaglia crosses the room swiftly. He snatches Morax's wrist and drags him around the corner into a quiet hallway where there are no servants or guards.

"Tartaglia—"

He cups Morax's face in his hands and kisses him. Tartaglia kisses him like he's always wanted to, all tongues and teeth, passionate and heady, all-consuming. They've never—they wouldn't. But here, Tartaglia finally does, tongue teasing the slit of Morax's mouth, coaxing it open.

Morax's hands clamp around his wrists and Tartaglia fears he'll be pushed away. But then Morax kisses him back with a soft moan, tongue dragging across Tartaglia's as he melts against him.

Tartaglia presses him against the wall. His hands find Morax's hips and he holds him there firmly, and they just kiss and kiss and kiss—

Only to be interrupted by a very loud, annoyed cough.

When they part, Morax's cheeks are flushed pink. "If I knew this was the sort of greeting we could have indulged in this entire time, I would have asked for it earlier."

"Morax—"

Morax kisses Tartaglia again, sweeping and lingering until another cough permeates the air. They part too soon, breaths mingling. "I apologize for Xiao. He can be a little... temperamental."

"Ekaterina's keeping watch in the hall. We can spare a few more minutes. I don't..." Tartaglia swallows down the lump in his throat and leans close until his mouth is near Morax's ear. "I don't want this to end. I never want this to end. You can't imagine how long I've wanted to kiss you."

Morax cups his cheeks and presses his face back. His gaze is warm and open when he looks at Tartaglia, eyes creased around the edges. "Actually, I think that I can. You've plagued my dreams, you know." Morax traces the arch of Tartagali's cheek with his thumb. "Years of fighting. When did we begin to turn a blind eye to each other? Tartaglia, we made love instead of war. If I wanted to harm you, I would have done so from that very first time."

Tartaglia presses their foreheads together. "Isn't this treason?"

"I don't think Celestia will take kindly to her pawns making their own decisions, no." Morax tips his chin up. "But I've never been one to follow the rules of convention."

"Strange for a man who speaks in nothing but contracts."

"Promises are merely words set in stone. They do not discriminate." Morax's gaze tips to Tartaglia's lips again. "I would like to kiss you again."

"How long until Xiao pries us apart?"

Morax's mouth widens into a feral grin. "I would like to see him try."

The next kiss is different; Morax nips at his mouth, fangs sinking into the corner of Tartaglia's mouth, effectively marking him for everyone to see. Vermillion blood blooms in Tartaglia's mouth, and his lip stings as the tip of a tongue laps over it. Then Tartagalia laughs as Morax seeks out his mouth to taste it, no doubt making an absolute mess of themselves.