Tartaglia finds a stash of his... stuff... in Morax's chambers.

--

Tartaglia was only looking for a place to store some spare shirts and the trunk at the foot of Morax's bed seems the obvious choice.

It is not locked. Morax has told him time and time again that whatever is his belongs to Tartaglia as well, so he thinks nothing of it as he drags his fingers over the worn, polished wood. It is beautiful. The sort of thing that his mother would love. Obviously a beloved antique carefully cared for through the centuries, or maybe even eons.

He does not expect it to be chock-full of random shit.

Morax isn't necessarily tidy—his room is full of knick-knacks and things, but each has its place even if it's a carefully stacked pile. This though—

Tartaglia's nose wrinkles. The contents smell old and musty. Sweaty. Old clothes and blankets, and—

He pauses. His head tilts. Nestled inside the trunk and cradled by a swath of fabric lays one of his military aglets, the golden braid twisted to perfection. Tartaglia frowns. This went missing months ago. He doesn't need it, no, but he still noticed when fussing about in his closet. Odd.

Tartaglia digs deeper and finds more—one of his medals, an old hairbrush he thought he'd misplaced, his favorite book that Morax had borrowed and never given back. A crusted, wrinkled handkerchief that Tartaglia knows he last used during a terrible cold.

He tugs a bundle of cloth from the trunk, shaking it out, revealing a rank, soiled shirt. Tartaglia's gaze narrows. "This is..." That early morning spar where they frotted in the training yard. Morax had tucked Tartaglia's clothing away saying he'd take care of it. "Disgusting," he murmurs, taking a sniff before gagging.

Trinkets and trash alike are tossed in the trunk as well, random things pilfered by Morax's apparently kleptic hands. Old, used wrappers from kitchen candies, napkins, and utensils, more of his clothing.

It is a shrine of Tartaglia's... used things, and whilst mildly horrifying, Tartaglia still finds himself a little amused and certainly confused. He picks up a sock and dangles it between thumb and forefinger. "There you are, you little bastard," he mutters. His nice woolen one, knitted by his mother, and perfect for the cold weather. Katya swore up and down she hadn't seen it.

And luck would have it that Morax would open the door right then. They meet gazes. A moment passes and Morax blinks. Then his cheeks pink and he slams the door shut.

"I—?" Tartaglia is baffled. He has seen Morax in a multitude of ways; angry, passionate, lost in his lust.

Never embarrassed.

He has the distinct impression that he's accidentally come across something important. He could steal his sock back but instead, he folds it up and nestles it between his soiled clothing. Later, he thinks. He'll bargain for it later after Morax explains whatever this hoard is.

#

Later comes in the form of Morax sneaking into Tartaglia's office.

They are not avoiding each other—Tartaglia genuinely got busy with paperwork after having put it off too long. Morax was the one who made himself scarce due to his embarrassment, but Tartaglia knew he wouldn't stay away. For all the strangeness between them at times they are hopelessly tied together.

The door opens quietly. Morax pads across the room on slippered feet. One hand, soft against Tartaglia's shoulder, and then the other before squeezing those tense muscles. "I apologize," he murmurs, dipping close until his chin rests against the crook of his neck.

"For what?"

"I... Earlier. When I—"

"I shouldn't have been rooting through your things," cuts in Tartaglia.

Morax chuckles against his ear. "My things are yours, darling. And besides, even if they weren't, everything found within my nest certainly belongs to you."

Nest. This must be something dragon-y-related. Tartaglia finally turns to him fully. "Yeah, so, what is that all about?"

A beat passes between them. Morax kisses his cheek and then pulls away, skirting around his chair to lean against the edge of Tartaglia's desk. He's dressed down, draped in his sleeping robes. Not the sorts of things he typically runs around the palace wearing for others to see. He must be haphazard and tired, no doubt worried about whatever runs through Tartaglia's mind.

"We haven't talked much about it," says Morax. "These old instincts of mine. The impending heat, the wish to be bred—"

"Is this part of that?" Tartaglia is genuinely curious.

Morax's throat bobs as he swallows. "Yes and no. We dragons tend to hoard that which we love. I've been borrowing your things since before I realized just how I felt. As that connection deepens, though, it turns into..." He pauses, trying to phrase it. "Nesting tendencies. That trunk is filled with things that bring me comfort. Ideally, I would surround myself somewhere that I could lie about them, but I didn't want to..."

He trails off and Tartaglia realizes just what about this whole thing embarrasses him. Morax is a man of many sides. The discovery of his hoard isn't what unsettles him, it is the vulnerability of his neediness that makes him hesitate.

Tartaglia reaches out and takes his hand. A quick tug to his mouth for a kiss to the knuckles before nuzzling the skin there. "Tell me more."

Morax's gaze shifts. Logically he knows that Tartaglia will not care. He knows that all he had to do was explain and Tartaglia would just offer him these gifts to hide away, but the vocalization of it eases the weight off of Morax's shoulders.

"Our bed," he replies softly. "That is where I would put your things, piled high until your scent permeates the space. I would never be without you. And perhaps it is a silly thing—"

"It's weird—" Morax scoffs at that. "—but not silly. How many times have I told you that I love these bits of yourself."

"I am a greedy creature. I do not think that you are prepared to what extent."

Tartaglia laughs and stands, stepping between Morax's legs the moment he spreads them. "And what about my greed?" Their foreheads knock together. Mouths linger closely. Morax smells like soap and Tartaglia wonders if the need to bury his face into Morax's skin is similar to those instincts that run wild.

For a moment, Morax's pupils go narrowly slit. "To think that you come close to the way I wish to consume you," he replies. "Ajax, you cannot begin to fathom."

"You're right. My come-stained clothing? Zhongli." The moment is broken as Tartaglia bursts into laughter. Morax shakes his head, pupils rounding out before he frowns. Tartaglia pouts. "Wait, no, don't give me that look. It's cute."

"It is not cute."

"I swear that it is."

"You looked horrified."

"I mean, have you smelled what's in there?"

Morax huffs. "That is the point, isn't it? It smells like you."

"The worst parts—"

"I beg to disagree."

"I can give you fresh clothing—"

"That would defeat the purpose."

Tartaglia hides a grin. "So what, you like me all sweaty and gross?"

Morax does something Tartaglia doesn't expect—his mouth curls into a dangerous grin and the skin around his eyes wrinkles. He presses a hand against Tartaglia's sternum, fingers just barely slipping into the open collar there. He dips close and presses his face into his nape, inhaling deeply. And then he peels back.

"I like you in any way that I can have you. What a pity that we are in your office at the moment." Then, he stands, extricating himself from Tartaglia's hold. "That would be what the nest is for, though."

"Wait, what? Where are you going?"

"You have work to do. Katya already told me that she won't let you leave until it's done. Until then I'll be in my chambers commiserating."

"Commiserating?"

Morax's golden eyes flicker to him one last time. "Think, darling. What is it that you do when you are lonely and miss me?"

Oh. It's Tartaglia's turn to be embarrassed about the what and when of it all.

Morax laughs at his expression. "Stay with me tonight."

"Yes."

"A kiss?"

Tartaglia leans forward at the request and they share a sweet, lingering thing until Morax raises a hand and grips his chin tightly. "Joking aside," he murmurs against Tartaglia's mouth, "I am not willing to part with those things that I've so carefully coveted until now. Surely you understand."

"Zhongli, I really don't mind. Also, you don't need to hide it all in a trunk."

Morax's gaze softens as he traces Tartaglia's lip with his thumb. "Such a good mate to me."

And with that, he pulls away and leaves the room, leaving Tartaglia flustered.