Tartaglia watches the rain.

--

"I have to wonder what outside captures your attention so raptly?"

Tartaglia hadn't even realized he'd been staring. Morax leans a shoulder against the wall, right next to the window. His hair is down and frames his face. He wears one of Tartaglia's discarded shirts and a loose robe that pools around his shoulders, dressed down in a way that steals Tartaglia's breath.

"It doesn't really rain in Snezhnaya, you know."

"Oh?" Morax's head tilts in genuine curiosity. "Isn't it a dreary place?"

"In a frozen wasteland sort of way. It's too cold to rain, it just blizzards instead." Tartaglia's gaze slides to Morax. "Haven't you been there?"

A soft laugh. "Eons ago, or have you forgotten? With time climates change—"

"It's always been that way." Morax's eyes dance with mirth. Tartaglia snorts. "You. Always with the teasing, hm?"

"It has become a favorite pastime as of late." Morax crosses his arms over his chest, his entire posture relaxed. "As is watching you. When you're worried you get this little wrinkle between your brow and I must confess that it is cute."

"I—I don't—" A soft huff tumbles from Tartaglia's lips. "I am not worried," he finishes lamely.

Morax waits for a beat before responding, letting the silence sink into their bones. And then he says, "You know that I can smell a lie, correct?"

He means no judgment, only to be honest with him. Tartaglia sighs softly as he leans against the windowsill, watching the rain drip from the sky. "It is only a matter of time before she figures it out."

"Ah."

"She'll call me home and when she does, she'll know."

"Mhm."

Tartaglia rubs at his wrist idly, thumbing over those healed teeth marks. He remembers the way that Morax's teeth slid into the skin there effortlessly, drinking his fell as their oaths sealed into place. Maybe Tartaglia is a fool. It isn't a mistake—never—but anxiety tugs at his being because the Tsaritsa is not a forgiving woman.

It falls quiet again. They listen to the drip drip of water from the roof as it splatters against the stonework of the palace. There is an old story Tartaglia once read; Morax crafted this very place with his hands, laying every stone into place, a love poem to his very people. They would look upon his home and feel safe.

Tartaglia does. He feels safe for the first time in his life despite the concern that breeds in his breast.

"Do you remember what you said that day you swore fealty to me?"

Tartaglia said a lot of things, all of them childish idealism, and wishes and promises that he isn't sure he'll be able to keep. And then there is a thought, one that's plagued him since before he even set foot into these lands, stuck in his mind even aboard a ship rising and falling on the sea.

She sent me to my doom.

Tartaglia is no fool; Morax's favor or not, the Tasritsa still chose him for a mission to a dying land. Morax knows it's mostly a matter of delaying the inevitable. The evil of those old, embittered gods spoil his lands and there is little to actually be done about it.

"Do you wonder what the point of it is?"

Morax's mouth parts at the unexpected question. He presses his palm against his chin as he thinks of an appropriate answer. "By this, I assume you mean everything. What a question, Ajax."

"You're old as the dirt." A soft laugh and the quirk of Tartaglia's lips. "Literally. Like, you are the dirt—"

"Yes," cuts in Morax ruefully. "Thank you for reminding me. I suppose you are calling upon my infinite wisdom. Ajax, I must disappoint you for I have none."

"Sure you do."

Morax hums softly. "Time flows differently for both of us. To you, my land has been dying for eons because that is a length of time that you cannot possibly fathom. For me, however, it was just yesterday that Guizhong and I were planting those Glaze Lilies in her garden. That Marchosius traveled from village to village, lighting his fires, and that Xiao wasn't a one-man army, but rather a general of a fleet."

A soft sigh. Morax rubs at his face. "But I struggle to understand the immediacy of life. I would think that your oath to me is obscenely romantic, but it has taken listening to you to realize just what it is that you have put at stake. You certainly weren't supposed to fall in love with me."

Tartaglia turns to him, resting his cheek against his palm. "Same to you. Wasn't the whole mating thing supposed to be a one-and-done deal?"

"I never mated Guizhong," replies Morax quietly. "She and I... she was my closest friend and I cared deeply for her but we did not live for each other."

Oh. Oh. Tartaglia's mouth is suddenly very dry. His heart speeds up, racing to his throat before sitting there, making his pulse pound in his head. "Zhongli, you've lived eons longer than me."

"I know."

"And you—"

"Whatever you are about to say, I know."

Tartaglia's mouth snaps shut. He just stares at Morax, eyes gazing over him, taking in every detail, every wrinkle in his robe, the charcoal tint of his fingers as they peek out from the hem, and the ghostly outline of his half-formed antlers. "I would do anything to save Liyue, you know. For you."

Morax smiles then, a rare, wide one that isn't brimming with court bribery. This is something honest, something rarely seen because Morax is, above all, a master in tailoring how others perceive him. In the presence of Tartaglia, in private, he is just a man who is desperately in love.

He reaches out and takes Tartaglia's hand, brushing over his knuckles with the soft pad of a thumb. "There was a time that I never slept," he says. "There wasn't a need to. I would spend my waking hours reading and thinking of ways to rid Liyue of the bitter-black karma that infects it. And that is my fault—my hubris has led to the loss of what I love. And there is fear here, too, Ajax. Do not think that I am not afraid of what might come."

Morax tugs Tartaglia's hand to his mouth for a kiss.

"However." His breath is warm against Tartaglia's skin. Morax nuzzles the ridge of each and every finger. "I have found that I enjoy watching you sleep. I enjoy your tea. For the first time in a long time, I feel as though I can relax, and even if it has to stay here in our private chambers, that is enough for me. These are the sorts of things that make my baser instincts go haywire. My heart beats for you, Ajax."

"Our chambers," repeats Tartaglia, which Morax does not refute or correct. "You hate my tea." Morax ignores that accusation as well.

"I love you," is all he says before dropping Tartaglia's hand. "I also feel the need to express that you are very handsome against a backdrop of a rain-slicked window."

Tartaglia is a mess. He hasn't bathed, his hair is mussed, and he's wearing his clothing from the day before. Still, Morax looks at him like he hung the moon.

"Whatever is to come, we will weather it," says Morax. "Until then, I would enjoy sharing tea with you. We can watch the rain together."

Tartaglia has more questions but knows that this isn't the time, so he files them away for a later date. He lets Morax tug him to the opposite side of the room to the attached parlor. There is a steaming pot of water and a selection of tea leaves that all look the same to him.

"Giving Katya a key to your chambers was a terrible idea."

"It was a wonderful idea. I love that your loyalty has come with hers as well."

"I wish Xiao would throw me a bone."

Morax sits in his chair and laughs. "He has."

Tartaglia frowns. "He has not."

He watches as Morax dumps leaves into his cup. "Have you not realized that otherwise, you'd be dead? He doesn't take kindly to handsome men violating his Emperor."

"What if it's the Emperor who started it?"

"Well, the details are often lost through our rose-tinted glasses, aren't they? I would bet Mora that Xiao is fond of you, much to his annoyance."

Tartaglia is unconvinced. Morax laughs again before sliding a teacup into his hand. It's that old set, the one that Morax made, meant to be shared with a beloved one. And he does hate Tartaglia's tea, even if he still drinks every last drop.

They watch the rain. It is cold and dreary outside but it's soothing to Tartaglia's wild-run thoughts. Even Morax sinks into his chair like liquid, watching the gray sky, eons of thoughts behind those glittering gold eyes of his.

And, of course, the tea tastes perfect.