Archive of Our Own ^beta

In the Night Kingdom, time doesn't pass.

Like the calm lake the gushing rivers flow into, time is still, motionless, and abundant. Centuries pass in the blink of an eye, seconds stretch into years. The present conjoins with the past and the future in a melting pot of possibilities. Cause and effect are illusions, the future shapes the past, and everything leads to nothing. 

In this chaotic yet stagnant peace, a soul sleeps. It has endured many a hardship and suffering, a long-short time ago, and has grown weary. The Lord of the Night cradles it in her bosom, gentle and soothing. It hasn’t known sleep for centuries, after all, and deserves a good rest. 

***

In the Night Kingdom, time is turbulent. 

It is a shapeless, wayward thing. In the world of the living, it is a stream, linear and constant. It is predictable and measurable, an unstoppable force domesticated. It files off mountains, yellows dog-eared pages of beloved books, and chips away at souls, little by little. In the Night Kingdom, however, it is a hurricane. It flows one way and then another like erratic gusts of wind, hurling you to tomorrow one moment and then to yesterday another, and if you manage to stand in the eye of the storm, leaves you untouched, in a solitary moment, severed from continuity and motion. All the while silent, silent as the dead. 

The soul, if left unattended, would be left to its own fate at the capricious, fickle hands of time. Thus, the Lord of the Night holds it tight, shielding it away from the vortex. For she and the soul are one, intertwined irreversibly, her life feeding on his immortal being like an ivy wrapping its tendrils around the Tree of Life. She knows everything it knows, everything it has seen, every thought and memory laid bare. It has lived a life too long, too painful to recount, and endured it so bravely that she can’t help but feel admiration for it. Affection, even. She protects it like a treasure, safe within her own being. 

She holds it until its weariness washes away, for centuries-seconds. 

***

In the Night Kingdom, a soul awakens from a dreamless sleep. 

As the drowsiness dissipates bit by bit, he takes in his surroundings. The bruise-purple sky, winding pathways with lilac, luminescent flowers growing beside them, all subject to the whims of time that reroutes the roads and blooms-unblooms-decays the blossoms as it pleases. 

“You are awake,” says an echoing voice. The Lord of the Night. “Have you slept enough?”

He doesn't know. He feels… different. He now remembers his life, the constant ache of his corrupted body, the unending screams of agony echoing in his head, the grief and guilt heavy in his heart. He had grown used to pushing them down and ignoring them, focusing on his mission, putting one foot in front of the other every day. Bear it, you have a duty, bear it! Now, he doesn't have a body to hurt, and his head is silent for once. The woes of his long life seem distant like someone else’s memories. Finally, he is peaceful. It is a foreign feeling. 

The Lord of the Night doesn't need him to answer. She already knows what he thinks. 

“I am glad you are free of your pain. Rest well. You have an eternity to heal.”

He finally speaks. 

“Is eternity enough to heal everything?”

“Only one way to find out,” is her reply. 

His doubts remain. 

***

In the Night Kingdom, a conversation occurs. 

“You are restless.”

The lilac flowers gently sway 

with the winds of time, 

to and fro, 

before and after, 

until and since. 

“You keep thinking about your life. What you left behind.”

The flowers close their petals, 

as if given up of finding the sun 

in the endless night. 

There is little else for me to do. 

Flower, 

reflower, 

all over again, 

like never before. 

Can it, really? 

“Your memories of joy are more vibrant than your worst anguish.”

The flowers open their petals, 

an eager welcome, 

a wonderful sight. 

They have no one to appreciate them here. 

That is the case for most people. 

With no sun to give them strength, 

how do they live on? 

“Really? I don't think so.”

Life will always find a way. 

Or so they say. 

“You miss it.”

The flowers cluster together, as if hurt. 

When faced with nothingness, it is normal to dwell on cherished memories. 

Flower and thorn. 

Which to choose? 

Barely a question. 

Too easy to decide. 

“That’s not the only thing you dwell on.”

The flowers shuffle even closer. 

“You have regrets.”

Two fresh blossoms 

with intertwined fates. 

Doomed from the start. 

“You regret saying goodbye.”

Blossom, 

flower, 

deflower, 

cut from the stem, 

so cruel, 

how could you… 

“You regret not having a chance to.”

Blossom, 

blossom, 

withered before it could bloom, 

what a pity, 

if only… 

“Do you want to go back?”

No. 

“Really?”

There is no point going back. It’s over. 

The

petals 

fall

down

one

by

one

until 

every 

single 

one

is

gone. 

(I do.)

A new blossom. Pale and pure. 

“If you could go back, continue your life as if nothing happened, would you?”

I would. 

The shriveled little petals peek open. 

“Even with your decayed, aching body?”

I would.

A little more. 

“Even if you will get hurt again?”

I would. 

A little more. 

“Do you want to live, Thrain?”

The flowers fall quiet. 

I want another chance. 

***

In front of the Captain’s throne, bright wisps of frost appear. They rise up, merge, and form the shape of a human. A moment later, a man emerges, dropping to his knees. 

He leans forward with hands on the ground, disoriented. After an immeasurable amount of time being incorporeal, having a body feels unnatural. Breathing is a foreign act. He can feel his lungs expand and contract as air rushes through them. His eyes water, the blurry sunlit ground in front of him too bright. His heartbeat is loud as war drums in his ears. He shuts his eyes, and tries to get used to his own body. 

After a while, when the sensations get duller and his body has adjusted to existing, he sits up, opening his eyes. His whole body is bare, the same as the last time he saw himself, cursed and decaying. 

He looks up, and sees himself sitting on the throne. 

“How..?” he asks, voice unused and hoarse. 

The Lord of the Night answers in his mind. “The Ruler of Death may control death, but has no say in the act of creation. Still, I must apologize. The ley lines don’t have a memory of your body before the curse, so I had to use your current body.”

He doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know what can be said when you have been given a new life, a new chance. 

“Live well, without regrets. When you are ready to come back, stand here and call me, and I will take you back into the Night Kingdom.”

With those words, her presence from his mind vanishes. 

He is alone now. He looks over his shoulder, to the mainland shrouded in the morning fog in the distance. 

No regrets this time. 

***

It is the Traveler who brings the news. 

She runs into the Fatui camp with Paimon in tow and pulls Ororon and Capitano's right hand man Tarko aside, explaining how they found the Captain in Ochkanatlan, next to his still breathing body on the throne, unclothed as the day he was born. She asks Tarko for spare clothing the Captain might have, and he rushes into a tent to bring it. 

“It’s so strange,” she says to Ororon then, a crease in her brow. “We don’t know how he came back, how his soul acquired another body. He says he doesn't know either, but I doubt it. Although, I’m content with the fact that he is back at all,” she says, eyes thoughtful.

Ororon doesn't respond.

“In Fontaine, the former Hydro Archon Egeria was punished for ‘creating new humans’ when she turned the Oceanids to people,” Paimon muses. “But Capitano obtaining another body for his soul to reside in doesn't seem to have awakened the Heavenly Principles. Perhaps it’s because his soul was already human, unlike the Oceanids?”

Tarko returns with a new set of clothes, another copy of Capitano's signature mask sitting at the top. “Here it is, Traveler. Thank you for your service to our Captain.”

Traveler takes them and hurries back to Ochkanatlan after a rushed goodbye. 

Tarko watches her go. “Thank Tsaritsa for the Traveler. Without her, we would never know our Captain is back. What do you say, Ororon?”

Silence. 

“Ororon..?”

“...I’m going home. Goodbye.” 

Before Tarko can protest, Ororon walks away. His nails leave crescent shaped lines in his palms. 

***

Capitano. He’s back. Back from the dead. 

How? Why now, after all those weeks? And just why can’t Ororon feel happy? 

As he walks home under the golden light of the setting sun, he ponders. 

The weeks following the Captain’s “death” passed without Ororon's acknowledgement. His memories of that time are blurry; he remembers he tended to his garden, took care of his aphids, went to the tribe to run errands, but his gloomy, empty state of mind followed him around like his shadow. Grief grew roots in his heart and took the joy out of his life, painting everything a soulless grey. 

That was then. Now Capitano is back. Why isn’t he happy? Why? Didn’t he long for the Captain’s presence? Didn’t he wish he didn’t bring him to Ochkanatlan so he would still be here? 

He exhales, and it comes out shaky. A dry ache has settled into his chest. He notices that he is gritting his teeth. With a start, he realizes that he is angry. Like a plant that reveals an intricate root system when pulled out of the ground, this realization pours out the rest of the repressed fury in his chest. How could Capitano just go and sacrifice himself, as if his life is meaningless? How could he leave everyone behind? How could he leave me alone? 

He is startled by the vulnerability, the naked desperation of it. It’s a selfish thought. Capitano did it to restore Natlan’s ley lines and put an end to his own suffering, who is Ororon to decide it’s wrong? Who is he to want Capitano for himself?

He blinks, his cheeks warming up. Not like that, no, Ororon doesn't love Capitano. He just admires his chivalrous character and his fealty to justice. He is a role model to Ororon, someone strong, noble and fearless. Someone worthy of respect and loyalty. Ororon is honored to follow him. 

He reaches his cottage and walks over to check his garden as he always does. After making sure his plants are doing fine, he sits at the bench in front of his flower patch. He sits with his conflicted thoughts until the sun goes down, until the mischievous twinkles of the stars adorn the sky. 

Before the moon is halfway through its path in the firmament, Ororon hears a noise. 

His ears perk up as he slips away from his deep thoughts. He hears footsteps. Heavy, yet slow. He looks at the road passing by his cottage, and freezes. 

Capitano. 

All his jumbled thoughts and messy feelings evaporate, replaced by sheer relief. 

Before he can think, he calls out to him. “Captain!”

Capitano looks up and stops in his tracks, then walks over to Ororon's direction. 

Ororon gets up and runs to him, meeting him in the middle. 

“You’ve come back,” he says, breathless for a reason he can’t discern. He can feel his face burning, luckily he won’t be caught actually blushing thanks to his dark complexion and the darkness of the night. 

“I did,” Capitano says, softer than he has ever sounded before. 

Hearing his voice makes a shiver run through Ororon's whole body. His heart is beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings, slamming into his ribcage like a battering ram. He can’t keep his eyes away from the darkness of Capitano's mask. 

“How is this possible?” he asks, throat dry. 

Capitano turns to look at the moon. His  silhouette against it cuts a stark figure. “A gift from the Lord of the Night. It’s thanks to her that I’m here, that I have a second chance.”

Ororon doesn't understand, not fully, but it's enough for him that he is here now, that he is alive. 

“And what will you do now?” he asks, curious, eager. He would aid Capitano in whatever task he undertakes, whatever challenge he rises up to. 

Capitano pauses for a moment. “I’m… not too sure,” he confesses. It’s the first time Ororon has heard uncertainty in his voice. This rare moment of vulnerability breaks his heart. 

“Maybe you should take a vacation, Captain.”

“Vacation?” Capitano says as if the word is foreign to his mouth. It probably is. 

“Mm-hm. You could go to the People of the Springs. The hot springs there will rejuvenate you like nothing else.”

“Do I look like a man who enjoys hot springs?” 

“If that’s not your thing, you can stay at my cottage and help me take care of my garden. It’s quiet and peaceful, no one would bother you out here in the countryside. Besides, working with nature calms the mind and refreshes the spirit, you know.”

Capitano is silent for a bit, looking at Ororon. He then heaves a heavy sigh, looking up at the starry sky. 

“I would like that,” he says, quiet as a whisper, honest as a confession. 

Ororon's heart beats like a clock’s ticking, like the approach of the inevitable. 

***

The very next day, a letter from the Tsaritsa arrives. 

If Capitano happens to return to us, it says, he is relieved of his Harbinger duties until further notice. 

The letter is dated two weeks ago. No one knows how Tsaritsa knew of Capitano's return. No one dares to ask. 

***

The morning Ororon decides his berries are ready for the picking, he fills his basket with the ripest, juiciest ones and sets off for the Fatui camp. 

He has been visiting the camp every other day since Capitano's vacation of sorts started a couple weeks ago. He doesn't go empty handed of course, always bringing some fresh produce with him. He is practically buddies with the cook Andrei now. No one at the camp bats an eye at his presence anymore. The feeling of belonging is comforting, however superficial or fleeting it may be. 

Capitano himself always seems pleased to see him, insisting he stay for meals and gatherings around the campfire. When he’s not busy elsewhere, Ororon likes to accept the invitation and spend time with them. The Traveler herself often drops by, bringing news from around Natlan, tales of new foes she has faced, new domains that have sprung up from out of nowhere. She and Paimon tell the best campfire stories. There are times where the whole camp grows silent, holding their breath as the two recount a particularly dangerous or entertaining story, oftentime their banter overshadowing whatever it is they are talking about. It’s never boring with them around, that's for sure. 

As he approaches the camp, he catches sight of the signature white dress of the Traveler. She’s talking with animated gestures to the Captain, who seems to listen to her intently. 

“And after we defeated that giant, abyssal whale– Oh, Ororon's here!”

“Hi, Ororon!” Paimon chirps as she waves at him, while Capitano greets him with a nod. 

“Good morning. I’ve brought some berries, feel free to help yourselves,” he holds up the basket. 

“Oooh, they look delicious! You’re the best, Ororon!” Paimon squeals and starts stuffing her face to her heart’s content. 

“What were you guys talking about?”

“I was telling the Captain about how we helped save Fontaine. An… acquaintance of ours who helped us there sent us a letter, he’s coming to visit us in Natlan.”

Ororon is intrigued. Traveler tends to befriend people from all walks of life, ranging from eccentrics of the highest caliber to government officials with high societal status to even Archons. When she talks of an acquaintance, it's hard to know what to expect. 

“Who is it? Someone from Fontaine?”

“No, he’s actually from…”

A rush of cold air blows through them, sharp and chilling. 

What happens next occurs in the blink of an eye. 

Someone dashes to them and grabs the Traveler, lifting her to the air and spinning her as if she weighs nothing. She yelps in surprise, grabbing the man’s shoulders. 

“Traveler!” exclaims a boyish, unfamiliar voice. 

“You are absolutely incorrigible, Childe. Put me down!” Traveler demands, though despite her scolding, the smile that she tries to hold back gives her happiness away. 

As the man complies, Ororon takes him in. 

It’s a young man in his early to mid-twenties, around the same age as Ororon. He is tall and lean, his body noticeably in shape under his light grey uniform, his unbuttoned shirt allowing a glance of his toned stomach and abs. A Hydro vision from Snezhnaya sits on his belt. His bare forearms are littered with scars, telltale signs of an eventful life despite his young age. His tousled ginger hair, his excited smile and his handsome face with a childlike air almost make him look friendly and trustworthy. Almost. That impression disappears the moment you see his eyes. Deep, blue, lightless eyes, bottomless as the Dark Sea. They catch your attention and take you away like turbulent underwater currents, disarming you and leaving you disoriented, vulnerable. They are the eyes of a predator. 

Ororon can’t help the shiver that runs through him. 

“Long time no see, Traveler. I missed you.”

“Childe?!” Paimon squeals, “Have you no shame?! You think you can just come here and manhandle–”

“Don’t think I forgot about you, Paimon,” the man cuts her off and steps forward to pull her to his chest in a tight hug, ruffling her hair at the same time. 

“Hey!!! Who do you think Paimon is, a stray cat?! Have some dignity!” Paimon screeches indignantly as she pushes him off. 

“Hey, all this time apart and you haven’t missed me? You’re breaking my heart,” he says, looking completely unaffected by their scolding. 

Ororon gets the impression that this guy is not just happy to see them, but also likes to show this by pressing their buttons and annoying them. 

The man glances at Capitano for a moment, who Ororon notices is still as a statue with his hands in fists, but before he can figure out the reason for it, the man turns away to face Ororon instead. He fixes his eyes to Ororon's with a focus reminiscent of a bird of prey. Ororon tries not to feel like a defenseless bunny. 

“You must be a friend of the Traveler. I’m Tartaglia, 11th of the Fatui Harbingers. And you are…?” He casually drops that bomb and extends his hand to Ororon. 

A Harbinger. Ororon had thought about the variety of the Traveler’s friends, but had failed to account for the fact that she might know Harbingers other than Capitano. Now the sheer amount of danger this guy exudes makes more sense. Ororon has heard of the evil deeds of the Harbingers across Teyvat, but trusts the Traveler to choose her companions carefully. Although, to be sure, Ororon can check his soul to see for himself… 

“I’m Ororon, a shaman from the Masters of the Night Wind. Pleasure to meet you,” he replies, then shakes his hand. 

It happens right then. 

Ororon is absolutely bombarded by the sheer chaos radiating from Tartaglia’s soul, like a wild vortex under the water’s calm surface waiting to drag you down, like an unending hurricane, like blood splattered on fresh snow, like the screams of a creature out of this world, and something much more sinister underneath, something corrupted, abyssal–

Ororon yanks his hand away. 

Everyone is staring at him. 

His heart is racing, he’s short of breath. 

Tartaglia’s friendly expression turns into something unreadable as his eyelids lower. He drops his hand. 

The air between them is frigid. 

Traveler comes to their rescue. 

“Ororon is sensitive to souls, you see. He probably sensed something, uh, violent in yours, Childe. Don’t take it to heart.”

Something in Tartaglia’s eyes shifts. “Ah. I see.”

“Aren’t you going to greet the Captain, Childe? I thought you two were on good terms,” Paimon says, confused. 

Tartaglia looks at Paimon. “Who?” he says innocently, then finally turns to Capitano. “Oh. You.” 

His voice is absolutely dripping with venom. His eyes burn with a cold fury, lips pressed into a thin line. Ororon instinctively recoils. Capitano is in big trouble. 

“It’s good to see you,” Capitano says quietly. His voice is laced with guilt, and something soft Ororon can’t discern. 

“Hah. Hah hah! Good to see me? Good to see me?” Tartaglia’s high, incredulous voice drops to a snarl. “Tell me, was it good to go and die on everyone? Was it worth it to make people grieve for you? How do you think I felt when I heard the news that you went off and martyred yourself, when you said goodbye to me with a fucking letter?!” 

It’s dead quiet. 

Ororon is speechless. 

When Capitano speaks, he sounds desperate. “If you would give me a chance, I can explain.”

“You better explain.” Tartaglia turns to the others. “Please excuse us,” he says politely, as if he didn’t just chew out the First of the Fatui Harbingers in front of everyone, then walks out the camp. Capitano follows him wordlessly. 

“Paimon has never heard him sound that angry before,” Paimon whispers with a quiet fear, hiding behind the Traveler. 

“Me neither,” Traveler says thoughtfully. “He must be very hurt by what the Captain has done.”

Ororon stays silent. Seeing his own anger at the Captain reflected in Tartaglia is a strange feeling. While his anger was overshadowed by the happiness of seeing him again, it seems Tartaglia’s isn’t as easily forgotten. 

Still, they seem close. Ororon hopes their friendship doesn't suffer, and Tartaglia finds it in himself to forgive the Captain. 

***

When Ororon leaves the camp and sets off for home, his head is full of thoughts. Tartaglia is a striking man, his friendly, approachable demeanor not quite able to hide the danger lurking within. It’s a complete contrast to Capitano, who seems intimidating and distant at first, but is kind and dependable once you get to know him. 

He thinks of Tartaglia’s dull eyes full of happiness, then ablaze with rage. It feels like he has seen Tartaglia at his extremes, bright smile of joy and fists tight with fury alike. He wonders what his eyes look like when he is sad. 

As he passes by the river not that far from his house, he hears something. His sharp ears catch bits and pieces from a distant conversation. He looks at where it’s coming from, and sees them. 

Capitano and Tartaglia are sitting on a log near the river, watching the stream. Their backs are turned to Ororon, they don’t notice him coming. 

Ororon walks faster to get away quickly, but still can’t help but overhear some of their conversation. 

“Do you think you can forgive me?”

“...Probably. It will take time, though.”

“I’m grateful regardless.”

“...”

“...” 

“You never told me about the voices, you know.”

“...”

“The voices, the souls. Why you never slept. I never knew how much pain you were in. How much you suffered.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to burden you with it.”

“That’s the thing. I wouldn't mind you burdening me. After all, you're my…”

Ororon can’t hear the rest of it. He’s out of earshot now. He tries not to think about what he heard, and heads for home. 

That night, he dreams of a blizzard in a frozen tundra. 

***

Tartaglia seems to have gotten out of a recovery period recently, and having been given no current assignment by the Tsaritsa, he is free to stay in Natlan as much as he likes. He stays in the Fatui camp, sharing the big personal tent of the Captain with him. This has surprised some people, Ororon included, considering the fact that no one is allowed to enter the Captain’s tent under any circumstances. Cook Andrei tells Ororon the story of how Tartaglia settled into the Captain’s tent over a cauldron of borscht. 

“It was his first night here, Ororon,” Andrei starts, stirring the broth. “He and the Captain returned to the camp near sundown. You know Helene from logistics, right? She had some things to discuss with the Captain, something about supplies, so he went with her. Then Anatole, you know, the blond agent with the pomade? No? Anyway, he approached Lord Tartaglia and told him he could set his tent right away, and asked him if he had any preferences. Then Lord Tartaglia went ‘Leave it to me, comrade. Show me where you keep the beds.’ Anatole took him to that tent, and Tartaglia took a toolbox and materials for a bed frame– Did you know that Harbingers get actual bed frames for long term missions? They don’t have to sleep in sleeping bags like the rest of us commoners. I’m joking, of course. Anyway, where was I?”

“He took materials for a bed frame, you said,” Ororon supplies helpfully. 

“Ah, right, right. He took his materials and in front of everyone strode right into the Captain’s tent, the forbidden zone. Me and the couple people who saw that, we all stopped in our tracks and got reaaal quiet. Not a moment later, hammer sounds came from inside the tent! He actually built it himself! Wait, wait, there's more. After a while, he got out and returned the toolbox, then took a mattress and beddings. When he was going back to the tent, he came across the Captain. I’m telling you, everyone in the main clearing held their breaths. The Captain asked him what he was doing. Lord Tartaglia said ‘I’m making myself comfortable in your tent,’ all brazen and casual. You could hear a pin drop, Ororon. We thought Ohh, he’s done for. You know what the Captain did? He took the mattress from his hands and carried it to his tent himself! Now I haven’t seen them together before, but I’ve heard they have worked together in quite a lot of missions in the past few years. They must be good pals for sure.”

“You think so?” Ororon says, eyes on the broth. 

“That’s what the veterans say anyway. The next day at dinner a brave soul asked about it, a newbie like me, and none of the soldiers who have been with the Captain for a long while seemed fazed about it. Bezukhova, you know, the big pyrogunner sharpshooter? She told us that those two have been chums for at least, like, five years? I might be wrong. Anyway, she then said ‘He probably knows what the Captain looks like under the mask, that's why they can share a tent no problem.’ She then told us to gossip about the Captain in private, not out in front of everyone. Which, yeah, fair. So, what do you think of all this? You think they stay up at night talking about their crushes? Heh heh…”

Ororon is silent. The thought of Tartaglia having seen the Captain’s face stirs a bitter feeling in his gut, like nightshade vines wrapping around his heart and squeezing. 

***

In the weeks following Tartaglia’s arrival, Ororon gets to know the Harbinger better. 

Tartaglia is easygoing and confident, able to get along with people and good with his words. It feels like there is no one he can’t strike up a friendly conversation with. He talks to soldiers he knows from past missions like old friends, but makes an effort to get to know new additions to the Captain’s platoon as well. 

Another thing about him is that he never seems to sit still. He is always busy with some work or other in the camp, and if he can’t find a way to work his body, he works his mouth, chatting up the soldiers, the Captain, the Traveler, or even Ororon. No matter how often it happens, Ororon never seems to be able to fully relax in his presence, with those deep, lightless eyes focused on him. 

And here’s the deal: Tartaglia is not humble. Ororon has seen that his confidence often borders on arrogance, that he doesn't bother to hide the pride he has for his own abilities. But seeing how he talks to people leagues below his rank like he is one of them, how he never refrains from getting his hands dirty with common tasks, actively seeking them out even, Ororon can’t help but get the impression that under his carefree demeanor, playful nature and seemingly endless thirst for battle, Tartaglia is down to earth and mature.

Slowly but surely, Ororon's initial fear of Tartaglia gets replaced by respect. If only he could stop shivering when those blue eyes find his own… 

***

One evening, as Ororon visits the kitchen tent, he finds Tartaglia next to Andrei, stirring a cauldron of stew, wearing an apron. 

“You are a godsend, Lord Tartaglia!” exclaims Andrei, looking giddier than Ororon has ever seen him. “I haven’t tasted a zharkoye this good in my life!”

“It’s my mother’s special recipe, no one can beat her homemade stew,” boasts Tartaglia with a proud smile. 

“Good evening,” Ororon greets them as he approaches the cauldron and takes a whiff. “Smells delicious.”

“Ororon! Try this stew! Try it!” Andrei thrusts a ladle into Ororon's hands. 

He dips the ladle into the stew and takes a sip. His eyebrows immediately rise. It might be the best stew he has ever tasted, with its rich flavor, spicy yet mellow. 

“It’s very good. I’m impressed.”

“Glad it has your approval,” Tartaglia smiles at him. 

“Is there work to do, Andrei? I can help,” Ororon asks him. 

“When is there not work to do? This is only the first cauldron, it won’t feed half of the soldiers. Ororon, are your hands washed? Good, good. Take these carrots and chop them,” Andrei rushes him to a table with cutting boards and knives. 

Ororon takes off his gloves and stuffs them to his pocket, then takes a carrot in his hand, inspecting it. It’s a perfect specimen, long and thin, slightly bent at the bottom. It could very well be one of his own carrots from his garden. 

“Thank you,” he mutters, then starts chopping it. 

“Did you just thank the carrot?”

Tartaglia comes up to Ororon's side and takes one of the carrots to his own cutting board, chopping it with practiced ease. He sends an amused, curious look to Ororon, a small smile at his lips. 

“I did.”

“Do you always do it?”

“I do. This carrot will go on to add a beautiful flavor to our meal and fill our stomachs. It's only fair to thank it before cutting it, and then be gentle while doing so.”

Tartaglia hums. “I see. It never occurred to me to be gentle to carrots.” 

Ororon looks at Tartaglia’s board. “It shows. You’re cutting that carrot like you’re trying to murder it,” he points to it with his own knife. “It’s a kitchen, you know, not a slaughterhouse.”

Tartaglia blinks, looking at his board, then bursts out laughing. 

“You– You say I’m desecrating this carrot’s body? How am I supposed to cut it while being respectful to it?”

“Well, for starters, you can try not to visibly enjoy wielding the knife. I can sense your thirst for violence from here, at least don’t direct it to the poor carrot.”

“I see…” Tartaglia says, a sharp smile on his lips. “Should I do it like this, then?”

He starts to chop the carrot with slow, deliberate motions, as if savoring it. 

Ororon doesn't pay attention to it, he is too busy looking at Tartaglia’s hands. 

This is the first time he has seen Tartaglia without his gloves. He has strong hands, callused by years spent wielding weapons. His fingers are slender, nails blunt. Under strong Natlan sun his forearms have gotten darker, but his hands have stayed pale. Like the rest of his arms, his hands are marked by scars, ranging from tiny silver nicks to a pink, raised scar that starts from his knuckles and ends near his wrist. The mastery with which he wields the knife is eye-catching, distracting. 

“...Ororon?”

He blinks.  

Tartaglia is looking at him with curious eyes, eyebrows slightly furrowed. “What do you even see in that carrot?”

“I…”

“No dilly-dallying in my kitchen!” Andrei’s booming voice makes Ororon jump. “Those carrots won’t chop themselves! March march!”

They share a guilty glance, then quietly get back to work. 

After they finish helping Andrei, Ororon eats his share of the stew with Tartaglia, sitting next to him in the kitchen tent. The stew tastes even more delicious than before. Maybe because he helped make it, maybe because of the good company. 

***

Now that he is relieved of his duties for the foreseeable future, the Captain has ample free time in his hands. Still, he doesn't seem to know how to relax, busying himself with the affairs of the camp rather than focusing on himself. Seeing this, Ororon has made it his mission to ensure that he gets a proper rest and calms his mind. However, the Captain is not the kind of person to sit down and do nothing, he gets agitated at stagnation and quickly finds himself another task. That’s why Ororon has started to invite him to help him take care of his garden. 

The first time, he cunningly framed it as if it was himself who needed the help, and the Captain of course didn’t turn him down. He carefully listened to Ororon's explanations of what to do, which plant needs how much water, how to prune the tomato plants, how to tell if a plant is diseased from the markings on the leaves. At first he was hesitant, looking at Ororon for approval with everything he did, probably afraid of doing something wrong and ruining Ororon's precious plants. He is a quick learner though, and over time, he has become more confident in his gardening skills. Ororon can tell that he is truly at peace while taking care of the garden, and it fills his heart with a giddy joy that he is able to give him a quiet, serene place to relax and enjoy himself. 

On a gardening day such as this, they walk to the river close to Ororon's cottage together to get water for the plants. 

“They’re called four o'clock flowers because they bloom in the evening and night, then close their petals when the sun is up,” Ororon explains, gesturing with one hand, carrying an empty bucket with the other. 

“I see,” Capitano says. He looks up at the bright august sun, then lowers his gaze to the bucket in his hands. “Having experienced the intensity of the Natlan sun, I understand those flowers perfectly.”

Ororon can’t help the giggle that escapes him. “Yeah, it's particularly hot today, isn’t it? I heard–”

He is interrupted by nearby shouts and talking, voices familiar. 

As they approach the river, they see some familiar faces. 

Tartaglia has discarded his grey jacket and is in a burgundy shirt, his trousers folded up to his knees and standing barefoot in the water that reaches his ankles. More importantly, he is aiming at the river with a bow. 

“I’m telling you, comrade, it's much more efficient than casting the bait and waiting.”

“Do it then, let’s see you actually get a fish,” Traveler goads him on. 

“This is impossible! Paimon can’t even see what’s inside the stream!”

Kachina is with them too, Ororon realizes, looking at Tartaglia with excited eyes. “You can do it, Mister Tartaglia!”

The twang of the bow string, the whoosh of the arrow, and a splash. The arrow has lodged into a fish, swinging the arrow shaft as it flounders. 

“Yes!”

“No way!”

“Well done, Mister Tartaglia!”

“Ah, it’s nothing, no need for applause,” Tartaglia says with a playful faux-humbleness as he wades into the water to get his catch. He lifts up the arrow and shows the fish, a silver bass the size of his forearm. 

At that moment, Tartaglia notices them coming. “What a sight for sore eyes! Come for the feast, did you?” he calls out to them. 

The others turn around to look at who he’s talking to. 

“Hi you two!” Traveler says as Paimon and Kachina wave at them. “You came at just the right time, we’re gonna grill some fish!”

Ororon looks at Capitano. “Shall we make a detour?”

Capitano nods. “I won’t be eating, but it won’t hurt to enjoy their company for a while.”

Traveler calls out to Tartaglia. “That fish won’t even feed Paimon, you gotta get us some more!”

“Your wish is my command, my lady,” Tartaglia says, then casually leans down and spears another fish with the arrow in his hand. 

After he catches a few more with his questionable method, they sit together and clean their catch, then they grill them on spits over the fire. The taste is rich and earthy in Ororon's mouth, perfectly cooked. 

By the time they finish eating, it's noon, and the heat has become sweltering. 

“It’s so hot… Captain, how have you not had a heatstroke in those thick clothes yet?” Ororon asks. 

“Persistence,” he simply says. 

“But isn’t wearing thin clothes easier?”

“I already have my ice powers to chill me. Much more practical than changing clothes from nation to nation.”

“Our Captain wants to serve looks everywhere he goes, no matter the weather,” Tartaglia jumps in. “It’s an intimidation tactic. His opponents see he can wear a winter coat in the Natlan sun and cower in fear.”

Ororon decides to join in on the fun. “He can intimidate, but he can also impress. With his dashing looks, he doesn't even need to lift a weapon, he can defeat an entire army with the power of his charisma alone.”

Capitano seems flustered. “Stop it, you two.”

Ororon shares an amused look with Tartaglia. The Captain sounds cute when he’s shy. 

“For those of us who aren’t blessed with ice powers, I suggest a dip in the river,” Traveler says. 

“Ooh, count Paimon in!”

Kachina seems hesitant. “It might be better if I stay here…”

“Why is that? You can't swim? We can teach you,” Tartaglia turns to her, an attentive look in his face. 

“I can, I just… I’m not very good at it.”

Tartaglia sends her a gentle smile. “Don’t worry. If you want, I can guide you through it.”

“Oh! Uh, no, I wouldn't want to bother you…” Kachina looks down at her feet. 

“Nonsense. I taught my little siblings how to swim, I’m a really good coach. Besides, I would feel guilty if you got left out.”

“Oh… In that case, I’ll take you up on that. Thank you, Mister Tartaglia!” Kachina beams, then joins the Traveler and Paimon who are getting rid of their excess clothing. 

“Don’t be afraid to get your clothes wet!” Traveler calls out. “Now that I have both anemo and pyro, I can dry your clothes no problem!”

“You’re the best, Traveler!”

Tartaglia gets up and takes his vision out of his belt, then casually tosses it to the Captain, who catches it with ease. 

“Are you coming, Ororon?” Tartaglia asks, then pulls off his shirt. 

It has been obvious from the start that under his uniform, Tartaglia is built; however, it’s a completely different sight to see it bare. He is wiry, lean muscles proof of years of training his body in the art of violence. His shoulders, arms and the upper parts of his chest are adorned with freckles. What catches the attention when you look at him, however, is his scars. His chest, his abdomen, his arms, everywhere the eye can see is covered in battle scars of various sizes. The amount of opponents he must have faced, the battles he must have gone through is staggering, especially considering his young age. 

Ororon's pulse speeds up, an overwhelming feeling similar to panic settling in his chest. 

“Ororon?”

He finally tears his eyes away from Tartaglia’s chest and looks at his confused, considering face. 

“I– No, I’m fine here.”

Tartaglia looks at him, a slight frown in his brow. “Suit yourself,” he says, voice tight, then walks away to join the others. 

Ororon blinks. Did he do something wrong? 

Tartaglia seems back to his usual, cheery self, however. He seems to be having fun with the others. 

“Hey, quit it!” he laughs as the Traveler and Paimon splash water at him with all their might. 

“Show no mercy, Paimon!” Traveler says as Paimon cackles maniacally. 

“I’ll help you, Mister Tartaglia!” Kachina says as she joins the splash war on Tartaglia’s side. 

The victor is decided when the Traveler summons a wave to unleash it on top of Tartaglia and Kachina. 

“Hey, that's cheating!” Tartaglia says as he wipes the water from his eyes. 

“If you had your vision, you would have done it too,” Traveler says cheekily. 

“Still, you need to beat us fair and square. I challenge you two to a chicken fight!”

“Hey, that's not fair at all, you and Kachina are way taller combined than Paimon and I!”

“Are you backing down, Traveler? My, my, I never thought you were a quitter.”

“You know what, bring it on! We’ll defeat you despite the disadvantage!”

Tartaglia scoops up Kachina to his shoulders, making her giggle, meanwhile Paimon floats up and sits down on the Traveler’s shoulders. 

From the moment they start the fight, it's clear who’s going to win. Tartaglia and Kachina are comically taller than the Traveler and Paimon. Kachina and Paimon grapple, trying to topple the other as the other two try to stand still and steady in waist-deep water. 

“Paimon,” Traveler grits out. “If we win this, I’ll cook you an Adeptus’ Temptation.”

“What?! No one can come between Paimon and her food!”

Suddenly overcome with immense, godlike power, Paimon knocks down Kachina and Tartaglia into the water. 

“Yes!”

“Well done, Paimon!”

The losing duo emerge, Tartaglia first, followed by Kachina, who starts coughing as soon as she breaks the surface. 

Tartaglia’s whole mood switches as he scoops up Kachina so she doesn't have to swim, hitting her upper back a couple times to help the water come out. 

“There, there. You okay?” he asks quietly, concern evident on his face. 

Kachina coughs a few times more. “I'm– I’m fine. Thank you. It wouldn't happen if I was more used to swimming, though.”

“Then how about I give you a few lessons?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d love to!”

Kachina gets back into the water, and Tartaglia guides her form and watches over her as she practices her strokes.

Ororon watches silently. When he and Capitano set off for his garden with full buckets in hand, his mind is still back at Tartaglia, thinking of his concerned, attentive demeanor when taking care of Kachina. He mentioned having little siblings, right? It’s a novel thought, that a powerful, dangerous Harbinger like him could be good with kids. But as he thinks back to the soft, caring look in Tartaglia’s eyes, he decides that it suits him. 

***

Raising phlogiston aphids is a common practice among Masters of the Night Wind. The phlogiston processed by them is valued by the tribe due to its high quality, and used in phlogiston engraving and various spells as a result. That’s one of the reasons Ororon himself raises aphids, but deep down, it's the same as growing vegetables for him: He does it simply because he enjoys it. Ever since he was a kid, he has always loved these lovely little creatures; their round, glowing bellies, their thick antennae with turquoise accents, their sluggish, leisurely way of flying around… They are simply adorable, and Ororon takes great care of his own little bunch. 

That night, like many others, he puts a phlogiston-rich ore into a plate and leaves it out for his aphids. He opens the door of their little nest –which he built himself– and watches as they slowly start to take flight and fly toward their meal at an unhurried pace. 

Ororon walks to the bench near his flower patch and sits down, leaning forward with elbows resting on his knees. His eyes are on the aphids, who have started to surround the ore to suck the phlogiston energy right out of it, but his mind is elsewhere. 

It was only yesterday when he and the Captain joined Tartaglia and the others to spend time on the riverside. It was a pleasant experience all around, but there's something he can’t put his finger on. When he forgot himself and gazed a little too long at Tartaglia’s bare torso, something about that seemed to upset Tartaglia. Ororon's reaction to him is another story; he has known since he was a teenager that he likes men, and while he didn’t realize it yesterday, now he can clearly see that he had a moment of attraction that resulted in, well, Ororon gaping dumbly at Tartaglia’s chest. Guilty as charged. 

What he can’t figure out is the reason for Tartaglia’s response to it. He doesn't seem like the type of person to be uncomfortable when people look at him, evident in the way he casually took off his shirt and the fact that he walks around in general like he has a personal vendetta against buttoning shirts properly. Was he uncomfortable because Ororon is a guy? He doubts it, something about Tartaglia tells Ororon he wouldn't be bothered by this sort of thing, flattered, even. Call it clairvoyant instincts. 

Unless, his gaze wasn’t interpreted as appreciative..? 

Ah. It makes sense now. 

Ever since he was little, Ororon has had difficulty showing his emotions with facial expressions. He was always told that his neutral expression looks like he is thoughtful, displeased even. He doesn't know how to fix it. Conveying their feelings seems to come so naturally to others, but Ororon always has to put in extra effort, be constantly aware of how he must look like to others, take care to express his surprise or happiness, and it drains him. So he doesn't bother. The people close to him don’t mind anyway. 

Tartaglia, not knowing this, probably thought Ororon was disturbed by his scars. Or worse. Ororon was panicking, too, wasn’t he? Gods, he’s a disaster. Why was he acting like he was seeing an attractive man for the first time? Because of his stupid reaction, Tartaglia most likely thinks Ororon was scared of his scars. He needs to fix his error as soon as possible. 

Although, how is he even going to explain himself to Tartaglia? Sorry, I don't think your scars are unseemly, I was just distracted by how hot you are. Even the thought of it makes his cheeks burn. It’s not like he likes Tartaglia or anything. He can appreciate someone's attractiveness from afar, while harboring no feelings for them. It happens all the time. 

He sighs, resting his chin in his palm, and listens to the crickets in the distance. The night air is refreshing after the sweltering heat of the mid-august sun, the breeze gently playing with his hair. 

And then, a rush of cold air. 

“What are you doing at this hour?”

Ororon is startled away from his thoughts by the familiar voice. 

It’s Tartaglia, with two full sacks slung over his shoulder. In the moonlight, Ororon can barely make out the faint, almost hesitant smile on his face. 

“Feeding my aphids,” he says, gesturing to them. “I could ask you the same.”

“Spent the whole day gathering quenepa berries. Traveler’s orders.”

Ororon raises his eyebrows. “What is she going to do with two sacks of it?”

“Don’t know. Traveler stuff, I guess. She’ll find a use for them.”

“Probably.”

“Mm-hm.”

An awkward, tentative silence. What transpired between them yesterday casts its shadow on them. 

“Well, I’d better get going–”

“Would you like to sit down?”

Tartaglia stops. “What?”

Ororon pats the empty space on the bench next to him. “You must be tired from gathering those all day. Sit down for a bit. We can watch my aphids together.”

Tartaglia pauses, considering, his eyes thoughtful. Then he walks over and sits down next to Ororon, putting his berry sacks at his feet carefully. 

“Open your palm.”

Ororon does as he’s told, watching as Tartaglia takes out a handful of berries and puts them in his palm. “Aren’t these the Traveler’s?”

“These are extra. I gathered them for myself.”

“In that case, thank you.”

They sit together in silence, enjoying the sour, tangy flavor of the berries. Ororon has to admit, it's far more pleasant than sitting alone with his thoughts. 

After a while, Tartaglia speaks up. 

“Look, I’ll be honest. If you’re uncomfortable around me, you can tell me, and I’ll stop bothering you,” he says, eyes at the aphids, not looking at Ororon. “You don’t have to go out of your way to be nice to me.” 

What? 

“Where did you get that idea?” Ororon asks, surprised. 

“You always flinch when I look at you. Also, I noticed the way you looked at my scars yesterday. I don't know what you saw in my soul or whatever, but it can’t have been pleasant. So. If I scared you, I’m sorry. I’m not someone everyone can handle.” His voice is controlled, nonchalant, as if talking about something impersonal. 

Ororon is quiet for a bit. He fixes his eyes to the aphids, who have finished their dinner and started to wander around in the garden, their tiny yellow glow mirroring the starlight. 

“I was scared, at first. Your soul is intertwined with a strong current of violence, the likes of which I’ve never seen before. But seeing that the people I trust like the Captain and the Traveler also trusted you, I decided to get to know you. Now, I know that behind that capacity of violence, you have an even stronger ability to control it, to keep it at bay when needed.”

He glances at Tartaglia, and finds him already looking his way, with questioning, waiting eyes. “I’ve seen the way you respect your subordinates, treat your friends with care, and be gentle and brotherly with a little girl you’ve just met. These are acts that merit respect, not fear.”

Tartaglia averts his eyes, looking down at his feet. “Thank you. Still, it’s not easy to overlook someone's violent nature. You’re being too kind.”

Ororon hums. “A person with a gentle nature can still hurt someone. An ill-natured man can still choose to do good. Humans are capable of defying their nature.”

Tartaglia looks up at him with a playful smile. “Or, maybe it’s in people’s nature to be defiant?”

Ororon can’t help the smile that spreads on his face. “Who knows.”

“Also,” he adds, while he has the chance. “Yesterday, I thought you looked cool. That’s why I was looking. So…”

“Oh. In that case, sorry. I misunderstood, because…”

“I know, it's my face. People say I look like I don't like them.”

“I don’t think so at all,” Tartaglia says, looking at him with a gentle, soft smile, so different from his usual sharp grin. 

Something shifts in Ororon's chest. 

At that moment, an aphid flies between them. 

When they look up, they see that the aphids have gathered in the air around Tartaglia, surrounding him. 

“Ororon, be honest. Am I about to be jumped by bugs?”

“No, they’re very gentle, don’t worry,” Ororon says. 

“Then why are they suddenly interested in me?” Tartaglia asks, right as an aphid perches on his arm. 

“They must be attracted to your abyssal energy. In any case, they don’t bite, just be careful not to hit them.”

As if they have gotten confirmation from the first aphid that Tartaglia is safe, the other aphids perch on him one by one, on his arms, on his hair, his shoulders, until he is glowing like festival lights. 

Ororon bursts out laughing. 

“Ororon, save me. It’s not funny,” Tartaglia says, distressed, standing still not to disturb the aphids. An aphid perches on his nose. 

Ororon tries to apologize, but can’t get the words out. His eyes tear up as he gasps for breath, wheezing. 

“I’m– I’m so sorry, it's just– It’s–” Gods, his stomach hurts. He is crying. 

When he finally calms down, he breathes deeply as he wipes his tears. “I’m sorry, I couldn't help myself. I’ve never seen them do that before. I’ll get them off you in a minute, promise.”

No response. 

“Tartaglia?”

When Ororon finally looks at him, he is met with a focused, almost dazed gaze as Tartaglia stares at him, still as a statue. 

“Are you okay?”

Tartaglia blinks. “Ah. Yeah, yeah, I’m… I’m fine. I’m sorry, thank you, I mean– Yeah.”

Ororon must have really weirded him out with his outburst. 

He reaches out and plucks the aphid from Tartaglia’s nose, then gets up to take the plate he had put their meal on. He discards the ore he had put there and gently picks up every aphid one by one, putting them on the plate, while Tartaglia sits there not moving a muscle, a weird, distant look on his face. 

When it’s finished, Ororon puts all the aphids in their nest. “I'm sorry for the trouble, really. I forgot to take your abyssal energy into account.”

“It’s fine,” Tartaglia says as he gets up and lifts the berry sacks to his shoulder, still a little out of it. 

“Are you okay?” Ororon asks, concerned. “If you don’t like bugs, it's okay, you can tell me.”

“No, no, I– I love bugs. I just– I’m really tired. I should head back and… do stuff.”

“Okay, take care then. Goodnight,” Ororon says with a little wave. 

Tartaglia lifts his hand in lieu of a goodbye, and walks away. 

Tartaglia seems to act weird around bugs. Ororon should take care not to bring them out if Tartaglia stops by again. 

***

The very next day is another gardening day with the Captain. After weeks under Ororon's tutelage, Capitano has proven himself to be an exceptional pupil and has become quite the gardener himself. He is more confident in his skills too, taking care of the plants without seeking Ororon's guidance. Ororon is proud of how far he’s come. 

The Captain seems to be particularly fond of flowers. Today, like usual, he waters the flower patch carefully, then sets the watering can aside and crouches down, watching the pink and red geraniums sway gently in the breeze. 

Ororon watches him from the vegetable patch, gardening hoe in hand. It fills his chest with a warm feeling to see him at peace like this, doing something he enjoys. 

Capitano reaches out to touch one of the flowers, but an inch away from the petal, he hesitates, dropping his hand. 

Ororon's heart breaks. It hasn’t escaped his notice that Capitano avoids touching the plants directly whenever he can, even with gloved hands. Is he afraid that his touch will harm the flowers? That his corruption might taint them? Ororon wants to reassure him that he doesn't need to hold back, that he is allowed a gentle touch with a pretty flower, that he isn’t a danger to the things he loves. He just doesn't know how to. 

He hears a tiny squeak, then something perches on his shoulder. 

He turns his head, and is greeted with the sight of a familiar flying squirrel. 

“Hey, Squeaky.”

“You know it?” Capitano asks, standing up and approaching him. 

Ororon holds up his arm to Squeaky, and he jumps on it. “Yeah, let me introduce you to him. Captain, this is Squeaky, my neighbor, of sorts. Squeaky, this is the Captain. Say hi to him.”

Squeaky doesn't seem to understand, but seems happy regardless, chirping joyfully. 

“Nice to meet you,” says Capitano, a touch of humor in his voice. “He seems used to humans. He didn’t run away from me.”

Ororon scratches Squeaky’s head, who closes his eyes and basks in the attention. “Yeah, we found him last year with a broken leg. Ifa and I took care of him for a couple months until it healed, that's why he’s used to people. He lives near that small copse across here, and visits me frequently to get some treats and pets. Don’t be fooled by his cuteness, he’s such a little rascal.” 

An idea pops into his head then. 

“Wanna pet him?” he offers his arm to Capitano, Squeaky directing his beady little eyes at him. 

“I… don’t think he will enjoy that,” Capitano says, reluctant, uncertain. 

“Squeaky? Refusing pets? Nonsense. This little guy is crazy for them, even with strangers. Besides, you never know unless you try, right?”

Capitano seems to consider it. Slowly, he raises his hand, bringing it close to his little face to let him smell it. Squeaky sniffs it for a bit, tiny nose and whiskers twitching. Then he chirps, putting his itty bitty paws on his knuckles. 

Capitano exhales sharply, then starts to scratch between his tiny ears. “You are adorable, aren’t you?” he says quietly, voice soft, fond. 

Ororon's heart speeds up for no reason. 

Squeaky seems to enjoy the pets at first, but suddenly jumps on the Captain’s extended arm. 

“Ah,” the Captain lets out a surprised noise. 

Before either of them can say anything, Squeaky climbs up to his shoulder, sniffing his mask. 

Ororon can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. “See? He likes you.”

Squeaky, ever curious, starts to look inside Capitano's mask, paws on its edge. 

“Ororon. I… might need your assistance,” he says, sounding distressed. 

“Let me get him. Squeaky, come here,” Ororon reaches out to grab him. 

Squeaky seems to have other plans. He runs away from Ororon's hands and climbs on top of the Captain’s head. 

Now it’s Ororon's turn to be distressed. “Squeaky, get back here! You're embarrassing me. I’m so sorry, he’s not usually this naughty with strangers.”

He tries to get him, but he’s out of reach. The Captain is just too tall. 

He steps closer to Capitano and tries again. “Could you lean down a bit?”

Capitano complies. “Like this?”

Ororon fails to respond. 

He is almost face to face with the Captain, the void of his mask right in front of him. He feels his warm breath on his face, and it dawns on him how close the Captain’s face is under the mask. His breath gets stuck in his lungs. 

“Did you get him?” Capitano asks, and his voice sounds strangled. 

Oh. 

He quickly grabs Squeaky and takes him off the Captain, holding him against his chest. 

Capitano straightens again. They are standing so close, barely a handbreadth apart. 

At that moment, Squeaky decides to abandon Ororon to his fate, wriggling free and flying away. 

Silence. 

Neither of them say anything. Neither of them move. 

Ororon can feel his heartbeat in his ears, fast and deafening. Standing this close to the Captain, he can almost hear his, too. 

He should say something. He should move. He realizes with horror that he doesn't want to. 

He wants to stay. Wants to be close to Capitano. It’s terrifying. 

He gathers his courage, and lifts his eyes to Capitano's face, to the darkness of his mask. He can feel his gaze on him, strong and focused. What would he look like, if he took off the mask just now? Would he frown? Or would he look at Ororon with fondness, a soft glint in his eyes? Would he bless him with a smile? 

It’s Capitano who breaks the silence. 

“Thank you for today. It was very pleasant.” 

It’s no different from his usual parting words, yet the quiet, gentle way he utters them makes Ororon shiver. 

“Likewise,” he practically whispers, throat dry. 

Capitano stops for a moment, as if he wants to say something, but seems to decide against it. 

“I better go back. Take care.” 

With those words, he turns back, and walks away. 

He takes half of Ororon's heart with him. 

***

Ororon can’t sleep that night. 

He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. He can’t relax, can’t calm the storm of thoughts in his head. He tries to clear his mind, but his thoughts keep straying back to what happened today. The Captain, standing a few inches away, looking at him. The silence between them, the palpable tension. The realization that shook Ororon to his very core. 

He loves the Captain. 

Despite Ororon only noticing his feelings today, it doesn't feel like a new development. It feels familiar, same as what he felt for him before, just increased in intensity. The seed of his devotion growing up and blossoming into the flower of his desire. 

He wants to stay close to him, wants to see what he looks like under the mask, wants to know everything about him. Moreover, now that he knows he loves him, it’s like a door in his mind has opened, secret desires he had hidden even from himself pouring out into the open. He wants to hold his hand, his face, wants to gently caress his corrupted flesh, to show him that he’s deserving of love. 

On the flip side, he wants to be loved by him, too. Would Capitano hold him? Intertwine his fingers with Ororon's? Would his eyes look at him with affection? Would he kiss him? 

He closes his eyes as if shooing away the mental image. It feels shameful to think of him so intimately. When they first met, Capitano gave him a purpose, treated him as an equal, trusted him, even saved his life. After the War, he offered him his friendship, welcoming him into the camp as if he belonged there, and gracing him with his company by gardening with him. After all Capitano has done for him, he can’t help but feel guilty for wanting more. 

Ororon has never fallen in love before, has never been in a relationship even. Leave it to him to choose the First of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers, Il Capitano as his first love. Granny would kill him if she knew. 

He sighs, opening his eyes. It seems he won’t be able to sleep anytime soon. He’s tired of tossing and turning in bed, battling his thoughts, trying to reach a sense of rest and ease that just won’t come. 

He gets up, and after putting on his boots and cloak, he gets out of his cottage. 

The cool night air is a welcome sensation on his skin. The moon is big and bright, painting the world a soft silver. He decides to take a walk, and his feet take him to the path that passes by the river and leads to the Fatui camp. Why is he going there at this hour? Will he wake up the Captain just to confess his love to him? Of course not, he will turn back before he reaches the camp. Is he planning to confess at some point, then? Capitano didn’t step away, didn’t turn him down. He spoke to Ororon very gently, too. Could he have feelings for Ororon? It’s all very confusing. Ororon isn’t even good at figuring out his own feelings, how is he supposed to figure out someone else’s? 

He startles away from his thoughts by the sound of talking. 

He looks for the source. Who could it be at this hour? 

By the river, sitting on a log and facing each other, are Capitano and Tartaglia. 

Ororon stops in his tracks like a startled deer. What should he do? Should he go say hi? No, they seem to be talking about something private. Should he leave? Can they see him? He hides behind a couple trees by the path, self-conscious. It’s better if he waits for an opportune moment to go and greet them. 

“Then, should I tell him?” Tartaglia asks, voice hushed. 

“It’s better if you do it,” says Capitano, equally quiet. 

“Alright, then leave it to me.”

“Also, I must thank you for being understanding about this.”

Tartaglia sends him a mischievous smile. “No need for thanks,” he says, voice airy. “That’s just another thing that makes me so great.”

“Truly, I’m lucky to have you,” Capitano says drily, yet a touch of fondness makes itself known. 

“Of course you are,” Tartaglia winks at him playfully. 

Capitano is silent for a moment, then slowly reaches out and cups Tartaglia’s cheek, thumb caressing it gently. 

The look in Tartaglia’s eyes grows impossibly soft. He holds Capitano's hand and kisses his palm, eyes closed, reverent. 

Ororon's whole world screeches to a halt. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Everything falls into place in his head. Tartaglia’s reaction to Capitano sacrificing himself, them staying in the same tent, the casual way they act around each other, familiar, domestic. 

They are together. 

Ororon can’t breathe. 

Silently, he escapes. 

He goes home, gets in bed, and quietly cries himself to sleep. 

***

The next morning, his eyes seem to have dried up. He doesn't cry, doesn't weep. He just sits there, an impossibly heavy weight in his chest. 

It’s over before it even started. The Captain loves another. 

It’s the only thing he can think about. That, and Tartaglia’s affectionate eyes as he gazed at the Captain. 

He doesn't know what to do with the quiet despair that has settled in his heart, the constant ache in his chest. He is sick of it. 

He decides to deal with it the only way Granny taught him how. 

***

The Weary Inn. The clinks of glasses, the chatter of customers, the too-bright torches lighting up the room. 

Through the haze, a voice calls out to him. 

“Ororon?”

He lifts his gaze from his half-empty glass to the owner of the voice, vision blurry. When it focuses, he recognizes the blonde hair and golden eyes, looking at him with concern. 

“Traveler,” he slurs. “Welcome. Did you… need something? Do you want some vegetables? Not that I have any with me right now… Life is often full of unpleasant situations like this. Like a stew with no vegetables. Come to think of it, we are all vegetables in the stew of life… You'd make an exceptional radish.”

“Gods, Ororon, you're drunk. Wait, that bottle… Don’t tell me you drank it all by yourself,” she says in disbelief. 

“Oh, you wanted to drink too? I’m sorry… I didn’t think you were the drinking type. Or age. It’s rude to ask a lady her age, so I never did. Should I have?”

“Never mind that, it's nearly three at night. Do you have someone to get you home?”

“No…” he sighs, resting his chin in his palm. “It’s just me here. And my despair…” He hiccups. 

“Okay Mister Despair, time to get up.”

Traveler helps him stand up. His vision sways, colors and shapes swirling together. His stomach lurches. His legs fail to keep him upright. 

Traveler takes his arm and drapes it over her shoulders as she supports his weight. “Paimon, get his other arm.”

“Who do you think Paimon is, Rex Lapis?! How is Paimon supposed to carry a grown man?” she complains, but does as she’s told anyway. It doesn't seem to be of much help in any case. 

Ororon's head grows fuzzier by the second. It’s so hard to keep himself standing. He vaguely hears the Traveler’s voice through the thick fog in his mind. 

“Alright, Ororon, let’s get you home.”

***

The next day, Ororon wakes up in his bed with a massive hangover. 

The light streaming through the closed curtains hurts his eyes. There is a horrible taste in his mouth. His head throbs, like someone is beating it with a club. Wait, no, somebody is knocking on the door. 

He groans, burying his face in his pillow. “Go away, I’m dead,” he says, muffled. 

Knocking again. A familiar voice calls out his name. The noise reverberates inside his skull, the sensitivity of his ears making everything worse. Just make it stop. 

With another groan, he forces himself to his feet. He sways where he stands for a moment, trying to find his balance. He holds back the urge to retch. He feels disgusting. 

He gets out of his room and walks to the door, rubbing his eyes, steps slow and careful. Before his brain catches up to him, he opens the door. 

He immediately gets blinded by the bright afternoon sun. 

He hisses, lifting his hand to cover his eyes, brows furrowing. A sharp ache sinks behind his eyelids. His head is splitting. 

“Ororon?” asks the familiar voice. “Are you alright?”

He peeks behind his fingers, and his heart jumps in place upon seeing who it is. 

Tartaglia. He is standing in front of him, a concerned expression on his face. 

Ororon closes the door to his face. 

A moment of confused silence. 

What is he doing?! 

He opens the door again and gets blinded a second time. 

He is the stupidest person ever to walk the earth and fall flat on his face. 

“Uh, hello,” he says, rubbing his eyes. His voice sounds strange to his ears. “Welcome. Did you need something?”

Tartaglia seems surprised, but still worried. “Were you sleeping? I’m sorry if I woke you up. Can I come in?”

“Sure, make yourself at home,” Ororon says, stepping aside. 

Tartaglia steps inside, with a bag of groceries in his hand that Ororon has just noticed. He realizes that’s not the only thing that escaped his attention as Tartaglia takes a look around the house. The house is the same as he left it yesterday, untidy, his stuff thrown haphazardly on the couch and chairs. He hasn’t cleaned either. Oh, he is the worst, truly. How is he supposed to host Tartaglia with the state the house is in? The state he himself is in? 

“Sorry for the mess, it's… I wasn’t prepared to receive guests today.”

Tartaglia turns to look at him. “You think I came as a guest? I’m here as a caretaker.”

“As a… what?”

“Traveler told me that you were drinking yesterday and she was going to check up on you, but I took the task unto myself. Now I’m glad I did. You look really worse for wear.”

He has done it again, hasn’t he? He’s made others worry for him. His throat feels tight. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to bother anyone–”

“Hey, hey, look at me,” Tartaglia grabs his shoulders, eyes on Ororon's, voice gentle. “It’s not a bother for me at all. I’m doing this because I care for you. No need to feel bad, okay?”

Ororon's heart speeds up, beating strongly as if throwing itself against his ribcage to damage itself. His mouth is dry. He wants to cry for some reason. He is so confused. 

He averts his eyes, away from Tartaglia’s deep, soft gaze. He manages to nod, small, uncertain. 

Tartaglia lets go of him and takes his bag of groceries to the kitchen. “Alright, leave it all to me. You should go to your room, I’m coming in a minute, too.”

Ororon has realized, despite the slow pace his brain works today, that it’s better to do as Tartaglia says. He gets to his room and sits on his bed. 

As he considers whether he should lie down or not, Tartaglia comes into the room with a tall glass of water. 

“Here, drink this. We need to keep you hydrated. I’ll be in the kitchen to prepare something for you to eat. In the meantime, you can change into something more comfortable. If you need anything, just call out to me.”

With those words, he leaves. Ororon drinks the water with slow sips, savoring the refreshing taste. Then he gets up and changes into his sleeping pants and a loose tank top, it's clear that he won’t be going out anytime soon. He lies down in bed, on top of the covers he slept on last night. He takes his pillow and puts it on top of his face to prevent any light from reaching his eyes. 

After an amount of time Ororon's brain fails to measure, he hears footsteps entering the room. 

“Rise up, sleepyhead, breakfast time.”

Ororon puts away the pillow and sits up. Before he can try getting up to go to the kitchen, Tartaglia puts a tray on his lap. 

“Oh, you didn’t need to–”

“It’s nothing,” Tartaglia dismisses casually. “Now eat. I hope you like it.”

Ororon takes a look at the dish. It’s a soup, pieces of meat of different kinds, carrot, tomato, pickle and olive peeking out of its red broth. 

“It’s solyanka. Back home, we also refer to it as hangover soup. Try it.”

Ororon takes a spoonful and tentatively brings it to his mouth. He is pleasantly surprised by the taste; salty and sour, rich in flavor. His stomach growls, as if just noticing how hungry he is. 

“Thank you, it's delicious,” he says, then slowly eats it, savoring the taste, while Tartaglia watches him, clearly pleased. 

When he finishes it, Tartaglia takes the tray away, then comes back with another glass of water he sets on Ororon's nightstand. 

“You should rest now. I suggest you sleep it off. Drink this water when you wake up.”

After the warm soup, Ororon feels drowsy, so sleeping is a perfect idea. He gets under the covers, wrapping the blanket around himself like a cocoon. 

“There you go, snug as a bug in a rug. Do you need anything else from me?”

Ororon shakes his head. “I'm good. You don’t need to stay with me all day, I’ll just sleep here.”

“If you’re sure, then alright. I’ll leave after washing the dishes. When you wake up, you can heat up the rest of the soup.”

Ororon nods. 

“Alright, have a good rest. I’ll see you at the camp later, then?”

Ororon nods again. 

“Good. Sleep well,” he says, then turns to leave. 

“Tartaglia?” Ororon calls after him. 

Tartaglia turns back. “Hm?”

“Thank you,” he says, voice small. 

A soft smile spreads on Tartaglia’s face, incredibly tender. “Of course.”

As Ororon drifts off to sleep, he vaguely hears something hushed, as if muttered under one’s breath. 

“Another day, then.”

***

When Ororon wakes up with a clear head, the night has fallen. 

He takes the opportunity to reflect on things as he waits for the leftover soup to heat up. 

He is sad. Confused. Angry. Resigned. His dreams have been crushed without even having a chance to take root. His love, a newborn, fragile thing, directed at someone whose heart belongs to another. Moreover, he can’t even direct his frustration at someone, a culprit who is to blame for Ororon's woes, an easy target for his anger. No, it's not that simple. 

The truth is, he can’t bring himself to think badly of Tartaglia. How can he, when he keeps being so nice to him, coming to his home to check up on him, making him soup? It’s true, he might have had a chance with Capitano if it weren’t for Tartaglia, but he can’t find fault in him either. Whenever he thinks of him, his heart speeds up as a faint ache settles in his chest, almost like… longing. Longing for what? For a chance to be in his place, with Capitano? Is this what jealousy feels like? It must be. 

He sighs, closing his eyes. He can’t blame the Captain for loving Tartaglia. He is handsome and capable, with deep, mysterious eyes and a mischievous smile, his scarred hands able to hurt but also hold gently. He has a certain charisma to him, an ability to shift the conversation however he likes, confident and playful. He, like all sharp things, evokes a certain curiosity, a desire to reach out and touch the cutting edge, to test it, to see if it actually breaks skin. Completely at odds with the softness in his eyes when he looks at people he cares about, with the devoted way he kissed his lover’s hand. 

Ororon can’t be like him. He is not what Capitano is looking for. 

He silently eats his soup in the dark kitchen, alone. 

***

The following days, he doesn't leave home except to tend to his garden. Doesn't visit the village. Doesn't even think about the Fatui camp. 

He isolates himself. Doesn't talk to his plants or his aphids. Just goes through the motions, without gratification, without peace. 

He tries to hide until the pain goes away. 

He fails. 

***

“You didn’t come.”

The sudden, familiar voice almost makes Ororon drop his gardening hoe. Dread and shame spread inside his chest like fresh poison. 

It’s him again. 

He slowly stands up. He prepares himself for the sight of him, and with a deep breath in, he turns back to face him. 

There Tartaglia is, shoulder leaning against the gardening shed, arms folded. His sharp eyes, fixed on Ororon, are softened by the thoughtful look on his face. 

“You said you would come to the camp. You didn’t.” 

He doesn't sound accusing or angry, no. His voice is enveloped in an emotion hard to describe. Is it sadness? Wistfulness? Worry? 

Ororon hates it, hates having disappointed him. 

He silently nods, averting his eyes. 

A beat of silence. 

“Did I do something wrong?”

Ororon shakes his head. He doesn't think he can speak without his voice shaking. 

“Then what is it? What’s eating at you like this?”

No response. 

Tartaglia’s eyes are still on Ororon. He taps his finger to his bicep once, twice. 

“The Captain asked after you, you know.”

Ororon's treacherous heart leaps in his chest. He grips his gardening hoe tighter, pressing his lips into a thin line. 

“He said he missed you.”

Blood rushes to Ororon's head. Did he? Did he really say that? Ororon finds it hard to believe that a man who rarely voices his emotions like Capitano would admit something like this aloud. But, to his lover, perhaps… 

“...He did?” he asks, unable to keep the hope out of his voice. 

Tartaglia nods, a mysterious twinkle in his eyes. “Yeah. Don’t you want to see him?”

He wants to see him. He is too scared to see him. Scared of what he will do in front of him, scared of his emotions, of exposing himself. 

“I shouldn’t– It’s better if I don’t.”

Tartaglia is looking at him with those sharp, analyzing eyes, as if trying to see through him. Then, the corner of his mouth curls upwards, barely visible. 

Ororon's blood freezes. Why is Tartaglia looking at him with that knowing spark in his eyes? Has he figured out Ororon's secret? 

Tartaglia unfolds his arms and starts walking with a slow, purposeful stride. 

“Say, Ororon. Why do you live out here by yourself, away from your tribe?” His eyes are still on Ororon, watching, waiting. 

The sudden change in topic makes Ororon uneasy. Why is he asking him this now? Is there something Ororon is missing? 

“I prefer the peace and quiet here.”

Tartaglia hums. With a start, Ororon realizes that he is walking a circle around him. He swallows, trying not to feel like a small fish being circled by a shark. 

“I see. Doesn't it get lonely, though?” Tartaglia asks from somewhere behind him. Ororon keeps looking ahead, keeps standing still. He feels exposed, vulnerable. 

Tartaglia sounds attentive, caring, but with an underlying tone of… intent. Ororon can’t understand it. He can’t help but feel like Tartaglia is luring him into a trap with his words. 

“I am content with my solitude.”

“Really?” Tartaglia asks, unsurprised. His footsteps get closer. 

“Don’t you ever wish for… companionship?”

Closer. 

“Someone to stay with you?”

He steps into view and stops right in front of Ororon. “Someone to brave the cold nights with?”

Ororon drops his gardening hoe. 

Tartaglia is standing so close, their chests only a few inches away from touching. Ororon can’t look at his face, he just can’t. He fixes his gaze to his collarbones peeking through his grey jacket. His heart is banging frantically in his chest, his breaths shallow. Tartaglia can’t mean what he is implying, there is no way… 

Tartaglia reaches out and holds his cheek gently, guiding his face up to face his own. 

Ororon can’t breathe. 

Tartaglia’s rough, calloused hand is careful, gentle on his skin, but it has nothing on the look in his eyes. It’s full of a quiet, disarming tenderness, leaving Ororon helpless in the face of its intensity. Tartaglia says nothing, just waits, a question hidden in the nearly imperceptible lift of his brows. 

Involuntarily, Ororon's gaze falls down to Tartaglia’s lips. 

A small, gentle smile graces those pink lips, and it’s impossible to look away. Then his lips part, to– to what? To say something? To kiss him? 

With a sudden move, Tartaglia’s eyes fix on something behind Ororon. He immediately takes a step back, letting his hand drop. 

Not a second later, a shout comes from afar. 

“Hey, Ororon! Childe!”

Tartaglia’s lips press into a thin line, visibly clenching his teeth, then his expression turns into a pleasant one with a forced smile. 

“Hello there, Traveler! What a surprise to see you here. Did you need something?” He says cheerfully as he walks towards the traveling duo. 

As he walks past Ororon, he reaches out and holds his shoulder, squeezing lightly. The meaning is clear to Ororon. Later. 

“We came here to check up on Ororon, but while you’re here…”

Ororon doesn't wait. While they talk, he reaches into the pocket he keeps his special illusion powder in and quietly slips away. 

***

Ororon spends the rest of the day wandering aimlessly in the wild like a madman. He might as well be one with the hurricane of panicked thoughts bombarding his mind. 

Tartaglia. He just flirted with Ororon. Propositioned him, even. Tartaglia, who is together with the Captain. At least the last time he checked. Ororon can’t understand him. He has the noble, gentle, capable Captain as a partner, yet goes and expresses romantic interest in someone like Ororon? It must be his fault. He must have encouraged Tartaglia somehow. Must have made him think it’s okay to pursue him. Why else would he do what he did? Oh, it's just terrible. It’s Ororon's fault that this is happening. He caused instability in Capitano's relationship! Maybe even caused them to break up! He’s a homewrecker! 

Moreover, that's not even the worst part, oh no. When Tartaglia lifted his face oh so gently, Ororon wanted him to kiss him. Like a tiny spark that turns into a forest fire, it lit up Ororon's secret desires, making them impossible to ignore. He wants Tartaglia, sharp blades and gentle touches alike. He wants those piercing eyes on him, softened with affection, his smile playful. Wants to stay close to him, as close as they were when Tartaglia approached him today, and then even closer. Are these feelings the product of what happened today, or do their roots go deeper? All this time he thought Tartaglia was attractive, did he also harbor feelings for him? Why does it take literal months for the news of him liking someone to travel from his heart to his brain?! Ororon honestly can’t stand himself sometimes. 

Now here Ororon is, having given his heart to two different people. Who are together. Who are also Fatui Harbingers. Did he accidentally get sucked into a light novel without noticing? Come to think of it, those light novel protagonists do tend to fall in love with two different people. Maybe he should reread some to consider his options. Although, even without checking them, he knows that those love triangles are solved by the protagonist ultimately choosing one of the love interests. But the thought of giving up one for the other makes his heart twinge. He has loved Capitano for longer, maybe the feelings for Tartaglia are temporary attraction? But it was Tartaglia who showed romantic interest in him, meanwhile he can’t be sure Capitano loves him back. It’s all so confusing. He feels terrible. And selfish. He is definitely being greedy, loving two people at the same time. Guilt washes over him and coils inside his chest, and his steps speed up as if trying to run from himself. 

When he is out of breath and tired from walking non-stop, he stops and takes a look at where he is. He is on the hills surrounding the Stadium of the Sacred Flame, not so far away from the nearest drawbridge. As he looks at the distinct figure of the stadium in the distance, he makes a decision. He is going to deal with this the old fashioned way. 

***

“Here’s your change. Have a nice day!”

Ororon nods politely and takes the bottle of alcohol he just purchased. It’s a strong one, enough to knock him out and make him forget his sorrows. 

The moment he turns his back, he spots the Traveler and Paimon. 

To his horror, Traveler lifts her head from her Adventurer’s Handbook and her eyes find Ororon's. 

Ororon immediately hides the bottle behind him. Did she see it? She looked at his face, not his hands. Maybe he was fast enough? 

Traveler approaches him with Paimon in tow, a knowing expression on her face. 

Ororon plays dumb. “Ah, Traveler. Paimon. What are you doing in the Weary Inn on this pleasant day?”

Traveler raises an eyebrow. “You do realize that we stay here, right?”

Ah. Ororon hadn’t considered that. 

“Um, regardless. It’s nice to see you, but it's getting really late, and I–”

“It’s six in the evening.”

A moment of silence.

With his hands behind him, he could reach the pocket where he keeps his illusion powder, but alas, he has used it all today already. 

He decides to make a break for it. 

Before he can move an inch, Traveler raises her arm and puts a deceptively strong hand on her chest, trapping him. 

“Wait.” 

It’s not a request. 

Ororon does as he’s told. Traveler deserves this much at least. 

Traveler pinches her brow, as if suffering from a headache. “Ororon, who took you home the last time you got drunk?”

His memories of that night are foggy, but he vaguely remembers the Traveler picking him up. 

“You did,” he says, guilty. “I should thank you, you didn’t need to–”

“No need,” she says. “That’s not important. Do you remember how we took you back?”

That, he doesn't. He shakes his head, a foreboding feeling creeping in. 

“We couldn't carry you all the way to your cottage, so we teleported to the nearest waypoint. Then you vomited into the bushes. Then you passed out. Then we had to search your pockets for your keys.”

“Paimon found some berries in your pocket, and she, well, she ate them. Paimon is sorry.”

Ororon wishes for the ground under his feet to break up so he can crawl inside and die. His whole face is burning. He is mortified. He can’t even imagine how much of a trouble it was to deal with him in that state. 

“I’m so sorry, I– I never wanted to be a burden, I was just–”

“Ororon, it's fine,” Traveler interrupts, and her expression softens with worry. “You’re our friend, not a burden. I just don’t understand why you do this to yourself. You seem troubled these days.”

The familiar pang of making others worry for him returns, burning his heart. “It’s nothing. I’m fine, really.”

Traveler frowns. She doesn't seem convinced. 

“You don’t seem fine. You ran away from Childe and I today, and you haven’t visited the camp for days.”

Ororon doesn't respond. He doesn't want to lie to her, but can’t tell her the truth either. 

A tense silence settles between them. 

At last, Traveler sighs. “Is it something you can't tell us?”

Ororon nods quietly. 

Traveler looks down. “Fine. I won’t pry. But on two conditions.”

Ororon is both relieved and nervous. “What conditions?”

“One: If there is any way we can help you, tell us. Even if it’s a small request you don’t want to bother me with, or a big ordeal you can't shoulder alone, it doesn't matter. It would make me very happy to help you in whatever way I can.”

Ororon's vision gets blurry. He presses his lips together to stop the trembling. 

“I will,” he says, barely a whisper. 

Traveler seems pleased. 

“Wait, what’s the second condition, Traveler?” Paimon asks. 

“Oh, right,” she says, and holds out his hand to Ororon, expectant. 

Oh. So she did see the bottle. 

“You know that I am an adult, right? I’m not a child sneaking into his parents’ pantry.”

Traveler raises an eyebrow, wiggling her fingers impatiently. 

“I will drink it at home, without bothering anybody. You won’t have to carry me home again.”

Traveler looks at him, considering, then drops her hand, letting out a sad, weary sigh. She looks so… disappointed. 

Ororon immediately caves in. 

He offers her the bottle, defeated. 

Traveler takes it happily and puts it in her bottomless bag. 

“Alright, it's a deal. Are you heading home?”

“I guess I am.”

“Good, the ley line outcrop we’re going to visit is very close to your place. Let us drop you off.”

Empty handed and aimless, Ororon obliges. 

***

When they leave the Stadium of the Sacred Flame, the sun is on its way down the lower half of the firmament, starting to paint the western sky a soft orange. It’s a beautiful view. Too bad Ororon is too preoccupied to enjoy it. As the Traveler and Paimon talk about adventurer things like improving talents and defeating the Mountain King, he follows them quietly, eyes on the ground. 

He admits that the urge to drink his sorrows away, especially after his recent experience with hangover, was a poor decision made in a panicked and overwhelmed state of mind. But what else is he supposed to do? How else is he supposed to deal with the bizarre situation he has found himself in? Should he go abroad and lay low until everyone forgets about him? They say Mondstadt is lovely this time of year, with the summer harvest and fresh wine. Or he could go to Sumeru to see the giant trees. Are they really as big as a house? Wait, who would take care of his garden and aphids, then? Should he ask the Traveler? She did say she would help him, he should try his luck. What about Granny? She wouldn't hunt him down to the ends of Teyvat, right? Ororon has to be careful not to alert her, or his entire plan could go poof. If this works, he will have to say goodbye to his loved ones for a long time, and never see Capitano and Tartaglia again–

“Childe, Captain! Hi!” Traveler calls out happily. 

Ororon's feet freeze where they stand. 

When he finally looks around, he sees that they have arrived at the entrance of the Fatui camp, near the road that goes to Ororon's cottage. How could he forget about it?! 

To Ororon's horror, Capitano and Tartaglia approach them. 

“Good evening, comrade,” Tartaglia greets them as Capitano gives them a nod. “Where are you off to?”

“We’re going to drop Ororon off at his house, then visit a few ley line outcrops. Busy as usual.”

As they talk, Ororon can feel Capitano's gaze on him. He lowers his eyes, ashamed. 

“Busy, huh? Tell you what, the Captain and I can drop Ororon off, if you want. We had something to discuss with him anyway.” 

Huh? 

Ororon looks at Tartaglia, and finds him already looking his way. 

“What do you say, Ororon?” Tartaglia asks, careful as if trying not to startle him. There is something sad, almost pleading in his expression. 

Ororon could say no. He could run away, avoid them, refuse to talk to them. But seeing them again right now, he realizes he doesn't want to run from this any longer. He wants this to end now, even if he might get his heart broken. Even if they start to fight. Even if he loses everything. At least it will be certain. 

Ororon nods in approval. 

Traveler looks at him inquisitively, then to the Harbingers, but doesn't comment. “Alright, then. Take good care of Ororon, you two. See you all later!”

With those words, she and Paimon take their leave. 

There is a moment of silence between them. Then, Tartaglia gestures to the road. “Well, let’s go then. Lead the way, Ororon.”

Without another word, they set out. 

***

On the way home, they don’t speak. They walk in silence under the soft light of the setting sun. 

Which gives Ororon plenty of time to succumb to the storm of thoughts in his head. 

They want to talk to him. Are they mad at him? Do they blame Ororon for coming between them, maybe even causing them to break up? Ororon can’t think of another reason why they might want to talk to him. But then, why did Tartaglia look at him with that soft, pleading look in his eyes? Maybe he actually has feelings for Ororon and his expression was a reflection of them? Ororon still has trouble believing that notion, even though it was just this morning Tartaglia approached Ororon with romantic intent. Maybe he thinks of Ororon as a distraction, a casual fling to amuse himself with. No, no, it feels wrong to picture Tartaglia as that shallow. Also, if it were about Tartaglia’s feelings, then why would Capitano also be here? The answer feels like the moon in the sky, it seems so close but when he reaches out to grab it he realizes how far away it actually is. 

Before Ororon knows it, they have reached his cottage. 

“Do you mind if we come in?” Tartaglia asks, that quiet softness making an appearance again. 

“Oh, of course not, come in,” Ororon replies as he fishes out his keys and opens the door. 

It’s relatively tidy inside, thanks to his recent week-long self-appointed house arrest and his decision to deep clean the house while he had the chance. He ushers them to the living room opening up into the kitchen and offers them the couch, while he takes the armchair across from them. 

After they all sit down, there is a moment where they look at each other in silence, their nervousness and uncertainty almost palpable. 

Ororon's poor heart can’t take it anymore. 

“I’m… so sorry. Truly,” he blurts out. 

Capitano's reaction is hard to discern, but Tartaglia’s brows furrow in confusion. 

“What are you sorry for?”

“I– I don't know how, exactly, but I think I somehow came between you, or caused you trouble, and I swear I didn’t mean to, whatever I’ve done was completely unintentional, it's just–”

“Woah, woah, calm down!” Tartaglia interrupts him. “There’s been a misunderstanding. You did nothing wrong.”

Huh?

Tartaglia shares a glance with Capitano, then looks at Ororon, guilt apparent on his face. “It’s us who owe you an apology. And an explanation.”

Ororon doesn't understand. He sits there, the fabric of his jeans clutched up in his fists, waiting for Tartaglia to continue. 

Tartaglia looks at Capitano. “Should I?”

Capitano nods. “Go ahead.”

Tartaglia turns to Ororon, tapping his finger to his knee in a nervous tic. “We have two confessions to make, the first of which you might already know. As you probably have guessed, the Captain and I are together.”

Capitano seems content to let Tartaglia do the talking, but reaches out and puts his hand on Tartaglia’s hand, gently stopping the nervous tapping. Tartaglia lets out a breath and turns his hand to lace his fingers with Capitano’s, sending a soft, grateful glance his way. 

Ororon's heart speeds up at the sight of it. So he was right. Relief washes over him at the realization that he didn’t cause them to break up after all. His nervousness slowly starts to dissipate, leaving curiosity in its wake. 

“You didn’t come between us in any way, you don’t have to worry,” Tartaglia continues. “Also, we would appreciate it if this stays between us. We have kept it a secret for years due to our position in the Fatui, and it would have dire consequences for us if word got out. We are trusting you with this, so no telling anyone. Especially Traveler and Paimon. That would be the fastest way to ensure that the entirety of Teyvat learns about it.”

Ah, the disadvantages of befriending a world-famous social butterfly and her flying chatterbox. 

“You have my word,” Ororon says solemnly. 

“Thank you, we appreciate it immensely,” Capitano says sincerely. 

It makes Ororon embarrassed yet giddy that they trust him with something as important as this. 

“As for the second one,” Tartaglia goes on, drawing soothing circles into Capitano's hand with his thumb, “It’s more… complicated.”

For the first time, Ororon sees Tartaglia falter. What could leave Tartaglia, normally confident and self-assured, so unsure and hesitant? 

Capitano gives his hand a squeeze, as if trying to encourage him. Tartaglia breathes deeply, then looks at Ororon with a newfound conviction. 

“I had experience with relationships before Capitano, but it was with him that I truly felt what it means to be in love. And for years, I was convinced no one else could make me feel the same way he did. That changed when I came here and met you. At first you caught my interest, but as I got to know you, it grew into something more. You were completely different from Capitano, yet the feeling of falling in love was the same. So there I was, thinking of how to tell my lover I’ve fallen for another person alongside him, when I found out he had feelings for you too.”

Ororon's whole world stops turning. 

“I’m not good with words, but it's true,” Capitano says. “I have harbored feelings for you for quite some time, even before my death. My heart has found a new kind of love in you, different from the one I have for him.”

“I don’t know why you’ve been down this last week, but if it’s because of us, if we let our intentions show and made you uncomfortable somehow, we are genuinely sorry.”

Ororon feels like he has been transported to another plane of existence. He sits there, gaping at them. There has to be a catch, it's too good to be true… 

“If– If you’re saying this to comfort me, you don’t need to. I prefer the truth over a pretty lie.”

Tartaglia’s face contorts with distress. “Is it really that hard to believe?” he says, voice tinged with desperation. 

It is. Ororon is an orphan, abandoned by his parents as a baby. He was raised by the village as a collective charity case, meaning that no one loved him enough to actually adopt him. He was invited to dinner tables, to guest bedrooms overnight, given whatever the people had that wasn’t needed, not because they wanted him, but because it was the kind thing to do. The instinct to reject what he is given because it isn’t truly meant for him is still strong as ever after all these years. 

But… Those people were never sad when Ororon rejected their kindness. Not the way Tartaglia and Capitano are right now. They were never plagued with the fear of rejection that had Tartaglia anxious and tongue-tied. 

He swallows. “Do you mean it?” he asks, trying to keep his voice steady. 

“Of course we do,” Tartaglia says with genuine sincerity in his voice. 

Ororon breathes deeply, and lets himself believe them.

He lowers his eyes to his hands, unable to hold back the smile that spreads on his face. Now that he has let their words in, a giddy, excited happiness spreads in his chest, making him feel heady. “I didn’t– I never thought that… that you would feel the same way about me.”

Capitano’s free hand clenches as he perks up where he’s sitting, meanwhile Tartaglia’s face brightens up with a hopeful kind of joy. “Really? Both of us?”

Ororon nods bashfully. “Yes, both of you. It took me a while to realize how I felt, but I'm sure of it now.”

His previous shame about loving two people seems so distant now. Yes, multiple people can be in a relationship, he has seen that one Qucusaur rider from the Flower Feather Clan and her wives, hasn’t he? Why didn’t it come to his mind while he was having his crisis earlier today? Probably because he was too busy blaming himself, as usual, but he knows that's not the whole story. He had never considered that the objects of his affection might also have feelings for him. Ororon had never counted on being wanted. To think that his feelings are requited, that they felt the same way about him all along… 

“Ah there it is,” Tartaglia grins, “That smile. I had started to miss it.”

“It’s good to see you happy again,” Capitano adds. 

Ororon resists the urge to cover his face with his hands in embarrassment, cheeks warm. “Stop it…”

“Okay, okay, sorry. I should ask, though, have you ever been in a relationship with multiple partners before?”

Oh, they have no idea how deep Ororon's inexperience in relationships goes. 

“No. Actually, I’ve never… I mean, before this, I didn’t– wasn’t with anyone. Like, ever.”

Before he can stop himself, he adds quietly, “I haven’t even kissed anyone.”

“Oh?” Tartaglia says, voice intrigued, full of intent. “Would you like to?”

Ororon nods, heart in his throat. 

Tartaglia leans back, then beckons Ororon with a finger. 

Ororon's pulse practically doubles. 

He stands up slowly, walks over to Tartaglia, then in a bout of courage, he sits on his lap, holding onto his shoulders. 

Tartaglia’s brows rise in surprise, though he holds Ororon's waist all the same. “My, my, are you sure this is your first time?”

Now even Ororon's dark skin can’t conceal his blush. “There was nowhere else to sit,” he says dumbly. 

Tartaglia chuckles, a fond look in his deep, bottomless eyes. He holds Ororon's cheek gently, then guides his face close to his own, giving Ororon his first kiss. 

Ororon had imagined what it would feel like, on lonely nights where he wished for another’s touch. It is both similar to and vastly different from his fantasies. Tartaglia’s lips on his own, at first pressing chastely, then moving slowly, his closed eyes and ginger eyelashes right in front of his vision, his hand on his cheek, his gloved thumb caressing his skin… Ororon is overwhelmed, yet captivated, and–

It’s over too soon as Tartaglia pulls back. 

“Did you like it?” he asks, voice quiet. 

Ororon feels lightheaded. Even a short kiss like this was enough to leave him breathless. He can feel Capitano's gaze on him, but doesn't have the courage to face him. 

He nods. “Could you… do it again?”

Tartaglia smiles, knowing, then slides his hand on Ororon's cheek to his nape to pull him into a kiss again. 

This time Ororon closes his eyes, and lets the wave of sensation drift him away. The slow, savoring way Tartaglia kisses him lulls the thoughts in his head into a quiet stupor, making it hard to think. He tries to kiss back clumsily, which earns him a pleased hum from Tartaglia. He can feel it as it travels from his lips to his whole body. He shifts in place, trying to settle onto Tartaglia’s lap properly. 

Tartaglia pulls back, but before he can say anything, Ororon mindlessly chases after him, pressing his lips to Tartaglia’s, inexperienced yet eager. When Tartaglia kisses him again, it’s harder than before, as if he has abandoned his restraint. Before Ororon has a chance to get used to it, he parts his lips and licks over Ororon's lips, making Ororon open his mouth in surprise and then slipping his tongue inside. These new, open mouthed kisses make Ororon's head spin, caught wholly unprepared. He feels dizzy, unable to collect his thoughts, meanwhile his stomach swirls with something akin to pleasure, gathering low and traveling further down to–

Ororon yanks himself away. 

Tartaglia is looking at him with a satisfied, mischievous grin, his lips glossy with spit. 

“Did you enjoy yourself, darling?”

Ororon wants to curl up like a roly-poly and roll away into the distance. There is no way he got hard during his first kiss. 

He covers his face with his hand. “Just… Ignore that. Please.”

“Haha, don’t worry, I don't mind,” Tartaglia reassures him, the hand in Ororon's nape sliding to his jaw to caress it. “I have to ask, though, do you want to take this a step further? I would be down to do so if you’re okay with it.”

Ororon has never let his thoughts wander in this direction, even when he was considering being in a relationship with them. But now, seated on Tartaglia’s lap, body warm and thoughts fuzzy in the wake of the kiss, he can imagine it; Tartaglia’s scar-covered chest under his hands, those sword-calloused hands on his waist traveling through his body, his thighs, then higher–

He swallows. He does want it, to be intimate with them, to be the cause of their pleasure, to be desired in return. Is he being too rash, jumping at the opportunity the moment it is offered? He has no idea if it is normal to have sex before talking things out in a more detailed way, real life isn’t like the light novels he reads. In any case, Tartaglia seems genuine, and Ororon is willing, so what’s stopping him, really? 

“I do,” he says, then finally looks at Capitano. “But if you want to as well.”

Capitano is silent, as if hesitant. After a moment of consideration, he seems to make up his mind. 

“Very well.”

Ororon can tell that Capitano has some doubts. Perhaps he doesn't feel as wanted because Ororon kissed Tartaglia and not him? He seemed content to follow Tartaglia’s lead and leave the talking to him, but maybe he feels ignored somewhat? Or is it something else that troubles him? Whatever the reason may be, Ororon wants to make sure he feels wanted and comfortable. 

He gets off Tartaglia’s lap and reaches out to hold Capitano's gauntlet-clad hand. 

“Come on, then.”

Capitano hesitates a moment, but gets to his feet regardless and lets Ororon guide him to his bedroom, Tartaglia following after them. 

Once inside, Ororon lights up his bedside lamp, then makes sure to lock the door, even though no one else has the key to his cottage and they have almost zero chance of being walked into. You can never be too careful, after all. The real challenge comes right after it. What should he do now? This is the first time he has other people in his bedroom with the intent to spend the night here. Do they just go at it and strip now? Or are there some arrangements he needs to make before that? The sun has already set, so they will definitely sleep here. Will they all fit in Ororon's bed? They might if they all snuggle close enough. Does he need to provide them with night clothes? No, no, that's probably unnecessary. Besides, he has nothing that would fit Capitano without getting torn to shreds or looking ridiculous. Maybe–

Tartaglia silences the cacophony of thoughts in Ororon's head by taking off his uniform jacket and harness, then pulling his burgundy shirt over his head. 

One would think that having seen him shirtless before would make Ororon somewhat immune, but alas, he can’t help but stare at his lean muscles, the scars adorning every inch of his skin, the freckles on his shoulders. 

Tartaglia wakes him from his momentary reverie with a small laugh. “Your face looks exactly the same as the last time you saw me shirtless. No wonder I thought you were disturbed by it, you look like you’re about to make a run for it.”

Ororon tries to adjust his expression into a neutral one. “Sorry, that's just how I look I guess.”

“Yeah, you told me. That’s the face you make when you, ah, what was it, think someone is ‘cool’?” Tartaglia says with a mischievous grin. 

Capitano lets out a small huff of laughter as he takes a seat on the bed. 

Now they’re both laughing at Ororon. He’s been betrayed. 

“Fine, I thought you were hot back then,” he acquiesces, “You’ve figured it out, congratulations, you win.”

“I win? What’s my prize then?” Tartaglia says slyly as he gets in Ororon's personal space, looking down at him with an expectant smirk. 

Ororon decides to skirt around the obvious implication to save himself the embarrassment. 

“I could give you some radishes from my garden?” he offers with an innocent smile. 

Tartaglia’s smug expression fades as his face goes slack momentarily, then he wheezes out a laugh like he can’t help himself. 

“Gods, why are you this cute?” he says as he holds Ororon's cheeks with both hands, an impossibly fond smile on his face. 

Ororon's giddy with joy at the compliment, but the question has him think for a moment. “I don't know. I don't purposefully act cute, and no one calls me cute, so perhaps you think I’m cute because you like me?”

Tartaglia huffs out a laugh. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. So cute,” he says and leans in to press a short, chaste kiss to Ororon's lips. 

Ororon feels elated, excitement and relief mixed in as a warm feeling in his chest, but there's still something bothering him. Why is Capitano so quiet? Does he not want to join? Maybe he’s just content to watch? Whatever it is, it doesn't sit right with Ororon. He wants to be close to him too, do the same things he did with Tartaglia with Capitano as well. 

He looks at Capitano where he’s sitting on the bed. “I would kiss you too, but, you know, the mask.”

“Right,” Capitano says, sounding reserved, reticent. 

Ah, Ororon gets it now. He must be reluctant to remove the mask. 

He steps away from Tartaglia’s grasp and sits next to Capitano on the bed. “Could you take it off? I want to see you,” he asks gently. 

Capitano's hands are fisted on his lap. “It’s… not a pleasant sight.”

Ororon considers. “Are you some kind of hyper-intelligent saurian underneath?”

“No..?” Capitano blurts out, sounding offended at the mere suggestion. 

“Then I think I can handle it.”

“You can't know that,” Capitano protests bitterly. 

“You're right, I can't,” Ororon admits. “Not unless you give me a chance.”

Capitano is silent for a moment, contemplating. Both Ororon and Tartaglia watch him quietly, waiting for his decision. 

Slowly, wordlessly, he reaches out and removes his mask, leaving his face bare. 

Ororon's heartbeat doubles at the sight before him. 

Capitano's entire skin has turned a dull black teetering on the edge of dark grey from centuries of abyssal corruption, with streaks of glowing indigo running through it like rivulets of rainwater, like tendrils of ivy wrapping around a tree. The white of his eyes has turned pitch black, his icy blue irises around his star shaped pupils almost glinting in the dim light. His left cheek is cut open with a gash that narrowly missed his lips but tore out a big chunk of the flesh, revealing his teeth. Once you get past the effects of the curse, his actual features catch the eye; his high cheekbones, straight nose, thick eyebrows and strong jaw. He must have been quite handsome before the curse. 

He still is, Ororon decides. 

“Can I touch?” he asks gently. 

Capitano seems hesitant, but nods regardless. 

Ororon reaches out and delicately cradles the cheek that is still intact, in case touching the wounded one is painful. He swipes his thumb over the corrupted skin, feels the thrum of energy from the indigo streaks tingle his skin. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“Hardly,” Capitano replies quietly. “I’ve gotten used to it.”

Ororon wishes he could take the pain away from him, to make him forget his troubles if only for a moment, but if the best he can do is be a momentary happiness to counter his endless pain, then he will have to accept it and make the most of it. 

“Is it hard to eat like this?”

“I just chew with the other side,” Capitano admits sheepishly. “But I don't need sustenance to keep on living.”

There are other questions on Ororon's mind: Is the rest of his body like this? Does he see differently with those eyes? Can he finally sleep? But he decides that his curiosity can wait, the important thing right now is to show Capitano he’s not disturbed by or scared of his face. 

Which he does, by leaning over and pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

Capitano's eyes widen with shock, but his expression immediately turns into a bashful one. “I– You're too kind.”

Ororon had thought he sounded cute when Capitano got shy before, and now he can decidedly say he looks cute as well. 

Tartaglia chuckles and comes next to them with a couple steps. “See, what did I tell you? He took it just fine,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of Capitano's head. 

Ororon can’t help the proud smile spreading on his face. The fact that both Tartaglia and Capitano trusted him with something as important and personal as this, and that he handled it without letting them down makes his heart flutter with joy. 

Tartaglia’s eyes find Ororon's. “Do you still want to continue?”

Oh, right. What they came here to do had almost slipped Ororon's mind. 

He swallows. “Yeah, I do. Do I take off my clothes too?”

“Sure, whenever you feel ready.”

Ororon stands up and takes off his cloak, draping it behind a chair, then removes his vest and tank top. 

Under the gaze of two pairs of eyes, he starts to feel self-conscious. Capitano has the courtesy to not ogle him openly, but Tartaglia doesn't seem to have such qualms, judging by the way his gaze lingers on his arms, his torso, his shoulders appreciatively. Ororon can feel his cheeks getting warm. 

“Hold on, could you turn around?” Tartaglia asks. 

Confused, Ororon does as he’s told. 

“Wow, didn’t know you had tattoos on your back too.”

Ah, those. Ororon usually forgets they even exist. For good reason too, since he prefers to keep the memory of getting them buried in the depths of his mind. It was years ago, when he had recently come of age to get tattoos. He had gotten the ones on his arms done, and wanted some on his upper back as well, but when he went to the tattoo artist, something unexpected happened. The moment her hand touched his back, he flinched hard. She seemed concerned, but Ororon brushed it aside and told her she can continue, thinking he could handle it like his other tattoo experiences. What followed was hours of misery as Ororon sat there, hands in fists, trying to stop the urge to bolt to the door. The problem wasn’t the needle, he had gotten other tattoos done and he could handle the pain just fine. No, the problem was the feeling of a stranger’s hands on his bare back. It made his skin crawl, made him want to scratch those places until the feeling of being touched was gone. He kept fidgeting with his hands, anxiously trying to parse how far into the tattoo the artist was, when it would be finished. It got so bad that he ended up in a state of blur, thoughts unfocused, untethered from reality, until he came to himself by the concerned voice of the tattoo artist repeating his name. 

He comes back to reality with Capitano’s voice. 

“They look beautiful,” he says sincerely. 

Before Ororon can thank him, Tartaglia speaks. “Can I touch them?”

Ororon swiftly turns to face them, suddenly panicking. 

“I– It’s better if you– I mean–”

“Hey, hey, it's fine, I won’t touch,” Tartaglia tries to calm him down. “You don’t like being touched there?”

Ororon breathes deeply. Tartaglia seems genuine, so it must be fine, right? 

“Yeah. I mean, I’m not used to being touched in general, but my back is especially bad. I don't mind being touched in other places if I know the person touching me, but… I just can’t stand the feeling of someone else’s skin on my back.”

Tartaglia hums, considering. “I see. We’ll find a work-around, don’t worry.”

Ororon feels himself relax a little. Neither of them seem bothered by it, so maybe it really is fine. 

“Thank you,” he says, trying to convey his genuine gratitude. 

Tartaglia chuckles. “Don’t thank me for the bare minimum. The whole idea is that you have a fun time. Speaking of which…”

He steps forward, stopping before Ororon and grabbing his jaw gently, his eyes on Ororon's. “How do you want to do this?” he asks, voice low and smooth, as if trying to coax the answer out of him. 

Ororon is practically clueless. His knowledge of sex comes entirely from the light novels he’s read and his own experiences in pleasuring himself alone. He’s never slept with anyone, let alone multiple partners. He’s not sure how it even works logistics-wise. 

“I– I’m not sure.”

“How do you do it by yourself?” Tartaglia offers. 

Ororon feels himself blush, but presses on. 

“With– With my fingers. Inside.”

“Very good,” Tartaglia purrs, as if pleased not only by the answer, but by the fact that Ororon answered truthfully despite his embarrassment. 

The praise goes straight to Ororon's belly, swirling with excitement. 

“Since it’s your first time, it's only fair if we guide you through it. Are you alright with that?”

“Yeah,” he manages. It’s hard to concentrate with Tartaglia’s eyes right in front of him. 

“Good. One last thing, because I feel obligated to say it.” His face goes serious. “You have to tell us if you like something or not. If you’re not comfortable with something, don’t be afraid to say so. Do you promise?”

It makes Ororon's heart ache with gratitude that they are being so patient with him. 

“Promise.”

“Perfect.” Tartaglia leans down and presses a quick kiss to Ororon's forehead. “If you’re ready we can undress properly.”

Ororon nods, and they get to work. 

He doesn't feel anxious as he takes off his pants and underwear, but the nerves show up once he’s left naked in front of them. Thankfully he is distracted by Tartaglia’s naked form; he doesn't have much in terms of thighs (or butt, his brain supplies), but he makes up for it with his lean, muscled legs and toned ass. It complements the rest of his body and shows his identity as a warrior, exuding strength and experience. 

His nervousness returns the moment he notices him and Capitano checking out his now naked body. Tartaglia looks up at his face and winks at him with a smile, and it somehow eases Ororon's mind, making him smile in return. It seems Ororon's awkwardness is no match for Tartaglia’s confidence. 

While Tartaglia and him are fully undressed, Capitano has only taken off his jacket, boots and gloves, sitting there in a black shirt and slacks. 

“Are you not going to take those off?” Ororon asks. 

“I prefer to undress when it’s necessary, not before it,” Capitano simply says, folding the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, revealing blackened arms with indigo streaks just like his face. 

“Hear that, Ororon?” Tartaglia looks at him with a playful smile, “We gotta make it worth the Captain’s time.”

Ororon can’t help the grin spreading on his face. “Of course, anything for the Captain.”

Capitano’s expression turns into a mix of shy and grumpy, his version of a pout most likely. “Now there's two of them,” he mutters to himself. 

They both chuckle, Tartaglia reaching out and cupping Capitano's jaw and stroking it affectionately. “I assume you’ll tell me when you don’t like something, as usual?”

“Of course,” Capitano says easily. 

“Good.” Tartaglia says, and with that, the fond look in his eyes shifts into a sharper one, full of purpose. 

“You sit by the headboard,” he says to Capitano. It’s not a request. 

Capitano does as he’s told, and Tartaglia’s eyes find Ororon. “Come, Ororon. You can sit in front of him, with your back to him.”

Tartaglia did say that they would guide Ororon, but he hadn’t expected Tartaglia to take the reins by himself. Not that he’s opposed to it; seeing Tartaglia take control of the situation, having someone like Capitano at his command, his demeanor confident and experienced, both excites Ororon and puts him at ease. 

He approaches the bed and sits in front of Capitano, looking at Tartaglia for further instructions. 

Tartaglia’s mind seems to be occupied, his eyes darting between Capitano and Ororon, visibly considering something. 

“Say, Ororon, does it still feel bad when something touches your back with fabric between them? Or if it’s not hands?”

The oddly specific questions make Ororon pause. “I’m… not sure, honestly. Why do you ask?”

“Do you think you could lean back on Capitano, your back to his chest?”

Ororon suddenly feels much more aware of Capitano's presence behind him, his heart speeding up. If Capitano was shirtless it would simply be impossible for him, but given that there will be no actual skin to skin contact, it seems possible that it might turn out okay. Besides, Ororon himself is eager to try it, eager to feel Capitano's presence behind him, to be closer to him. 

“I can try,” he looks at Capitano over his shoulder, a silent request for permission. 

Capitano gives him a small nod. “Go ahead.”

Ororon scoots backwards a little, settling in the space between Capitano's knees, and carefully leans back, angling himself a little to avoid hitting his head to Capitano's chin. When his back meets the clothed chest behind him, he flinches a little, senses on high alert, waiting for an intense wave of discomfort. He waits a few moments, holding his breath. It doesn't come. Just the usual tingling sensation he has when trusted people touch him, not exactly pleasant but far from uncomfortable. 

“I think I’m good,” he says, unable to hold back a smile. 

Tartaglia seems pleased, mirroring Ororon's smile. “Very good.”

Capitano’s hand hovers next to Ororon's waist, hesitant to touch. Ororon reaches out and holds his hand, intertwining their fingers, his own slender fingers seeming small next to Capitano's own long, thick digits. 

Tartaglia climbs into the bed as well, sitting in front of Ororon. “Alright, let’s start slow by getting you used to being touched. Sounds good?”

Ororon nods, heart in throat. 

Tartaglia grabs Ororon's free hand and wraps it around his own. “Here, you can guide my hand, make me touch you however you want.”

Ororon tightens his grip on Tartaglia’s hand. It’s a clever idea, to let Ororon decide how to be touched, able to anticipate it and prepare himself accordingly. 

He tentatively guides Tartaglia’s hand to his chest, where the beat of his heart can be felt. 

Tartaglia leans forward, face an inch away from Ororon's, giving him a chance to protest, and when he doesn't, closes the distance and kisses him, lips moving slowly, sweetly. Ororon tries to kiss back as best as he can, eyes closed, taking Tartaglia’s hand down to his belly, then up again, trying to get used to the sensation. 

He’s always had trouble with skin to skin contact, but a secret part of him couldn't help but crave it, and those two sides warred inside him for as long as he can remember. With Tartaglia’s careful ministrations, however, the unfamiliar sensation slowly turns into a pleasant, pleasurable one. He takes Tartaglia’s hand further down, placing it on his thigh first, dragging it slowly over soft skin, then the other thigh, up and down, shifting it so Tartaglia’s calloused fingertips graze over his sensitive inner thigh, over and over, until the goosebumps breaking over his skin solely stem from delight, until a soft moan escapes his lips only to be stifled by the kiss. 

Tartaglia moves his lips to Ororon's jaw, mouthing at it slowly, as if savoring it, making another soft noise leave Ororon's lips. It feels good, but not enough, and Ororon decides he’s ready to take it further. 

He brings Tartaglia’s hand between his thighs, wrapping his fingers around his half-hard cock, then retrieves his own hand, giving Tartaglia full control. 

Tartaglia begins to stroke his cock, slow and steady, dragging his lips down to Ororon's neck to press chaste kisses all over it. 

Ororon lets out a moan the moment Tartaglia starts to move his hand, squeezing Capitano's hand in his. When he did it himself, he would be able to anticipate how the touch would be, but this is very different. With Tartaglia holding the reins, Ororon has no way to know what comes next, every move of his hand a wave of unpredictable pleasure. 

Tartaglia starts to nibble at Ororon's neck, leaving little bites all over the sensitive skin. Ororon leans his head back to Capitano's shoulder, baring his throat for Tartaglia, encouraging him to continue. After that, Tartaglia doesn't hold himself back, biting all over Ororon's neck, sucking on the barely visible marks, leaving him gasping.

Capitano hovers his free hand above Ororon's stomach. “Can I?”

Breathless, Ororon answers by holding his hand and bringing it close, Capitano’s fingers splayed on his abdomen. Capitano slowly drags his blackened hand up and down, feeling the planes of Ororon's torso, gentle, possessive. It makes Ororon's head reel with delight, his blush most likely visible through his dark skin. 

Tartaglia’s hand on his cock gradually speeds up, producing flames of ecstasy that consume Ororon from inside out. His mind is muddled, he can’t decide if he wants to get away from the overwhelming pleasure or throw himself into it. Capitano is a solid presence behind him, sturdy and dependable, his chest rising and falling with quickened breath, pressed right against Ororon's back. His hand in Ororon's grasp anchors him while his other hand wanders on Ororon's torso, his sword-calloused fingers stroking his chest, his waist. Ororon is trapped between the two of them, he can’t escape. Can’t get away from the cloud of euphoria taking over his mind. Slowly, he becomes unable to stifle the noises that leave his mouth, his moans leaving him unbidden with every stroke of Tartaglia’s hand. 

“I’m– I’m–” he stammers between gasps, grabbing Tartaglia’s shoulder. 

“Are you close?” Tartaglia asks, leaving his neck alone to face him. 

Ororon nods feverishly. 

“Alright, darling, come for me,” Tartaglia says and returns to his neck to bite at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Ororon comes with a sharp cry, his whole body clenching as a strong wave of pleasure washes over him. 

He comes back to himself in time to see Tartaglia cleaning his hand with his handkerchief, Capitano caressing the back of Ororon's hand with his thumb, hands still intertwined. 

“You alright, Ororon?” Tartaglia asks him, “Did you like it?”

Ororon is still struggling to catch his breath. He nods. “Yeah.”

“Did you feel any discomfort in your back or anywhere else?” Capitano asks. 

“No, no, it was fine,” Ororon reassures him, touched that they care so much. 

“Perfect,” Tartaglia leans forward and kisses Ororon's bangs covering his forehead. 

Ororon's body is still thrumming with satisfaction, the effects of his orgasm not yet faded, but there's something he still wants to do. 

He turns back to face Capitano. “I want to touch you. Can I?”

Capitano looks a little surprised, but accepts easily. “Very well.”

Ororon sits facing Capitano, looking back at Tartaglia for approval. 

Tartaglia nods with a smile. “Go on, you're doing great.”

With those words that send a giddy sort of joy through him, Ororon turns to Capitano. He wants to do the same things they did to Capitano, to feel his body, to make him feel good. But where to start? 

He looks at Capitano, at his icy blue eyes watching him intently. “Could you kiss me?”

The look in Capitano’s eyes softens almost imperceptibly. He reaches out to cup Ororon's cheek, leans forward and kisses Ororon gently. 

Ororon's heart soars. After all that time longing for it, it's finally happening. Capitano's lips press against his own, slow and sweet, as if Ororon is something precious to savor. Ororon tries to kiss back to the best of his ability, his eagerness getting to Capitano and making him kiss him properly, passionately, until Ororon struggles to keep up, until his head starts to spin. 

As they break apart to catch their breath, Ororon gently lifts up Capitano's shirt, just enough for his hand to go through. “Can I?”

“Go ahead,” Capitano says, voice a little hoarse. 

Ororon puts his hand under the shirt and presses it to his stomach, trying to feel him better. Capitano is a big, bulky man, and while he’s fit, he’s by no means thin. Ororon can feel both his strong, hard abs, and the healthy amount of fat covering them. Ororon's head spins from how attractive that is. 

He drags his hand through his abdomen, up and down, trying to emulate what they did to him earlier, then toward his crotch, looking at Capitano for approval. 

Capitano nods, breaths slightly faster now, and Ororon gets to work. 

He cups Capitano's crotch and starts to stroke him through the fabric, making Capitano suppress a grunt. He goes on until his cock tents his pants, then he undoes the zipper and takes it out of his underwear. 

As expected, it's black and indigo like the rest of his skin, but he wasn’t prepared for how big it is. Considering Ororon has never done this to anyone besides himself, it's a bit daunting. 

Gathering his courage, he wraps his hand around him, and starts stroking him as best as he can. 

“Is this good?” he asks, uncertain. 

“It’s good,” Capitano reassures him, his quickened breaths proof of its effect on him. “Keep going.”

Having gotten his approval, Ororon continues to stroke him, eager to please, to make him feel good, using every trick he knows, making Capitano let out soft noises of pleasure every now and then and taking them as a reward. 

At that moment, Tartaglia speaks. “Say, Ororon, you said you finger yourself, right?”

Ororon feels himself blush at the blunt phrasing. “Yeah?”

“Would you like me to do that to you while you take care of the Captain?”

Ororon blinks, his blush now even stronger. It’s possible. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossibly erotic, to be on both the giving and receiving end of pleasure, to be in one’s service while in the other’s mercy. Gods help him, he wants it. 

“Sure,” he says, trying to sound unaffected. 

“Very good. Do you have lubricant?”

“Nightstand drawer, in the back.”

Tartaglia gets up to retrieve the half empty bottle, then takes a seat behind Ororon. Ororon instinctively looks behind, his hand on Capitano's cock slowing down. 

“Here,” Tartaglia says, coating his fingers with it and reaching out to Ororon's free hand. “You can guide my hand like before.”

Ororon gratefully accepts the offer and takes Tartaglia’s hand. When the fingertips touch his entrance Ororon flinches a little. It feels weird now, but it will be worth it in a moment, he reminds himself as he turns away and waits to get used to the feeling. 

“I think you can go on,” he says after a moment or two. 

Tartaglia starts slow, rubbing circles around his entrance, getting Ororon used to the feeling of his fingers there. When he finally inserts a digit slowly, Ororon sucks in a breath. The sensation is both familiar and foreign, the intrusion feeling strange coming from someone other than himself. 

“All good?” Tartaglia asks behind him. 

Ororon nods. “You can move.”

Tartaglia slowly starts moving his finger in and out, careful and gentle. Ororon waits until the sensation is familiar, then refocuses on his task, his hand on Capitano's cock catching its previous pace. 

It doesn't last long. After a while Tartaglia adds a second finger, and the stretch and the feeling of fullness Ororon is used to starts to get to him, the thrusts finally eliciting those pleasurable sparks. Ororon feels his breaths speed up and his focus divide into two. He tries not to let it distract him, but it's becoming increasingly difficult with every passing second. Tartaglia’s clever fingers move as if determined to cloud Ororon's mind with pleasure, expertly coaxing little moans out of him. When Tartaglia’s fingertips graze his sweet spot, Ororon flinches as a sudden moan escapes him, the rhythm of his hand stuttering. Tartaglia experimentally presses his fingers to that spot again, holding them there, which makes Ororon sag forward as an embarrassing whine leaves him unbidden, his hand stopping momentarily. 

“Focus, Ororon,” Tartaglia warns him from behind as he retrieves his fingers from that spot, voice low and smooth. “How about this, you make our dear Captain come, and then you can get your reward. Think you can do that?”

The challenge and the promise of reward makes a bolt of excitement go through Ororon. He wants to do it, to prove himself to them. With Tartaglia reducing the distraction by avoiding his sweet spot and switching to slow, shallow thrusts, Ororon redoubles his efforts, pumping Capitano's big cock as best as he can. 

Tartaglia leans forward with his face close to Ororon's over his shoulder, careful not to touch his back. “His chest is sensitive,” he stage whispers conspiratorially, his smile audible in his tone. 

Ororon looks at Capitano and witnesses the moment his face goes slack and his eyes widen slightly, as if caught red handed. 

“Can I?” Ororon asks, hopeful. 

Capitano's expression turns bashful, but he responds by unbuttoning his shirt wordlessly. 

Ororon takes in the blackened torso in front of him, the indigo streaks thicker than the others, the supple pecs, and smooth stomach hiding strong abs, his gaze appreciative. He reaches out with his free hand and strokes his chest, a simple motion down his right pec, yet even that much seems to be effective judging by the way Capitano flinches, inhaling sharply the moment Ororon's fingers drag through his nipple, clutching the bedsheets tightly. Ororon feels his eyebrows rise. Tartaglia was right. 

Intending to use the weak point he’s been given to the fullest, he cups Capitano's pec, squeezing and kneading the muscled flesh at first, then focusing on the nipple, rubbing it with circular motions, eyes on Capitano's face the whole time. And what a sight it is; Capitano's eyes are clouded with pleasure, unable to hold Ororon's gaze and looking down, lips parted with small, vulnerable moans unbefitting of someone of his station escaping him. It’s utterly bewitching. Ororon wants to see him come undone, wants it to be by his own hand. 

He wants to pay attention to both sides of his chest, but his hands are occupied. In a stroke of courage, he leans forward and drags his lips through his left pec, feather-light, giving Capitano a chance to say no. 

Capitano grunts, a sudden and shaky noise, but doesn't stop Ororon. Having gotten permission, Ororon gets to work. 

He drags the tip of his tongue through the nipple experimentally, and hearing Capitano's responding gasp, he wraps his lips around it and sucks. Capitano keens, clutching the back of Ororon's head, and Ororon keeps sucking and licking, falling into a rhythm with his hand working Capitano's cock and his other hand rubbing and pinching the other nipple. Every move of Ororon's hands and mouth is met with a responding moan that rings in his mind. 

“Good, go on like that,” Tartaglia says behind him, still working Ororon's hole casually. Before Ororon can recover from the joy of the encouragement, he feels a third fingertip teasing his entrance, as if waiting for permission. He moans into Capitano's pec, mouth occupied, and thrusts his hips slightly towards Tartaglia, a silent request to continue. 

“Very good,” Tartaglia says and slowly adds a third finger, still careful not to touch his sweet spot as he moves them. 

Ororon's imagination runs wild. Is Tartaglia preparing him for his cock? He’s never had anything bigger than his fingers inside, how would that feel like? To be stretched out around his cock, warm and full? 

His fantasies fuel him and he takes out his cravings on Capitano, moving with added fervor, pumping his cock and playing with his chest, trying to bring him to sweet release. Capitano is panting, moaning with every other move, his reservation completely abandoned, surrendered to the onslaught of pleasure. Ororon pinches his nipple even harder and drags his teeth through his chest, his pointy canines dragging through sensitive skin, then bites. Capitano comes with a broken moan, his hand in Ororon's hair tightening as he rides out his orgasm. 

Ororon pulls back to see Capitano's face, blissed out with eyes closed. He did that to him. 

“Perfect, Ororon,” Tartaglia purrs behind him, voice pleased, proud. “You did so well. You deserve a reward, no?”

His fingers finally find Ororon's sweet spot, stroking it over and over again and making him whine as he sags forward, hands on his knees to support himself. 

Capitano, having recovered, reaches out and holds Ororon's face, tilting it up to face him. 

“You did well,” he says, voice soft and eyes fond, and Ororon all but melts, closing his eyes with a tiny moan, pressing his face against his palm. 

Tartaglia keeps pushing his fingers in and out, aiming for his sweet spot relentlessly as he talks to Ororon sweetly, adding praises to his reward. “So good, so eager for us. You deserve to feel good too. I could do this over and over, make you come on my fingers.”

Ororon swallows to keep himself from drooling. He’d like that, to just let go and let Tartaglia push him over the edge with his skilled fingers and honeyed words. He’d really like that. But… There’s another thing that… 

“W-wait,” he gasps. 

Tartaglia’s hand stops immediately. “What is it?”

Ororon looks at Tartaglia over his shoulder. “Aren’t you going to… you know, put it in?”

Tartaglia pauses. “Do you want me to?”

“I… assumed that's what it all leads to,” Ororon admits, confused. 

Tartaglia seems amused. “And where did you get that idea?”

Ah. It seems Ororon's makeshift light novel sex education has failed him. 

“I’ve… read about it,” he says, trying to be vague. 

Tartaglia presses his lips together to suppress his laughter, hanging his head and wheezing out a silent laugh from his nose. 

“Ah, you're just too cute,” he finally says as he looks up with a smile. “No, it doesn't always end up there. There are many ways to be intimate with someone, anal is just one of them. We can do it, but only if you want to try it.”

Huh. Good to know. He nods, “Please.”

“Alright, since you asked so nicely,” Tartaglia quips, pressing a quick kiss to Ororon's cheek, then retrieving his fingers. “Turn around, darling.”

After Ororon shows him where the condoms are –gathering dust in his drawer– Tartaglia makes him lay on his back with his head in Capitano’s lap. 

Capitano holds Ororon's jaw and tilts his head back gently, making Ororon look up at him. “All good?”

“Mm-hmm. Although, it’s a bit weird to see you upside down.”

Capitano chuckles softly, running his thumb through his cheek. Ororon's heart swells with affection. 

“Okay, Ororon, eyes on me,” Tartaglia says, pulling Ororon's hips onto his lap, having put on the condom. “I don't know what you’ve read, or what kind of questionable things they’ve taught you, so I’m going to repeat: The moment you don’t like something or it hurts, you're telling me. Don’t feel like you’re going to kill the mood or whatever. The same goes for if you say yes to something but then decide you don’t like it. Don’t be afraid to say no to us.”

Ororon is grateful for it, but it's also a bit humorous to see Tartaglia fretting over him like his Granny. 

“Don’t worry, I promised, didn’t I?” he says with a smile he hopes is charming. 

It seems to appease Tartaglia. “Alright, I’ll hold you to that.”

He holds Ororon's thighs and lines himself to his entrance. “Ready?”

Ororon swallows with anticipation, a little nervous. “Yeah.”

Tartaglia gives him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll go slow.”

Ororon nods, and Tartaglia gets to work. 

He pushes in until the tip breaches his entrance, making Ororon grip the sheets tighter. Capitano reaches out to hold Ororon's hand and intertwines their fingers. Ororon gratefully accepts the support, giving it a little squeeze as thanks. 

The following minutes tick by as Tartaglia slowly pushes in, giving Ororon time to adjust to the stretch before giving him more, while Ororon tries to breathe deeply and get used to the feeling of his cock inside, holding onto Capitano's hand like a lifeline. Little by little, Tartaglia pushes all the way in and bottoms out, hips flush with Ororon's. Ororon closes his eyes. It feels so warm and full, stretching him so wide and deep. The sensation is foreign and a bit odd, but it's starting to feel better. 

At that moment, Capitano brings his free hand to the top of Ororon's head, between his ears, and runs his fingers through his scalp comfortingly. 

The sudden wave of sensation tears a moan out of Ororon. 

Capitano's hand stops and Tartaglia’s brows rise as they all process what just happened. Ororon can practically feel the blood rising to his face. 

Tartaglia looks up at Capitano, who then drags his fingertips through the base of his ear experimentally, as if to gauge his reaction. Another moan escapes Ororon as he clenches around Tartaglia, a delightful sensation running through his nerves like electricity. 

A devilish grin spreads on Tartaglia’s face, and Ororon knows he’s in trouble. 

Capitano starts to stroke the sensitive skin with slow movements, engulfing Ororon's mind with a warm, dizzying feeling that sends pleasant waves all over his body, relaxing his limbs and dropping his defenses, leaving him unable to hold back the small moans that leave him. 

“You like that, Ororon?” Tartaglia asks him, his sly enjoyment obvious through his voice dripping with adoration. “You want us to pet your ears? Like the good boy that you are?”

Ororon keens, lightheaded at the praise combined with Capitano’s ministrations. He feels like he should be embarrassed at the noises he’s making, but it seems that part of his brain has shut down. The pleasure spreading through his body has helped him get used to the feeling of Tartaglia inside, and he can’t help but want him to move, to see how it feels like to be taken like this. 

Tartaglia reaches out and pushes Ororon's bangs back. “Are you with me, darling?”

Ororon nods, trying to catch his breath. “Y-yeah. You can– you can move.”

Tartaglia kisses Ororon's revealed forehead and slowly starts to move, making Ororon let out a soft gasp. Capitano's hand on Ororon's head slows down, but doesn't stop entirely, doing just enough to make it pleasant without overwhelming him. The gentle yet all-encompassing feeling of it helps Ororon relax as Tartaglia pushes in and out, at first measured and careful, then a bit faster, gradually forming a rhythm that has Ororon holding tight to the bedsheets, to Capitano's hand. He likes it, each thrust more pleasurable than the last as he gets used to the cock stretching him wide and good, filling him up like he was meant to take it. 

Tartaglia’s smile is wicked with satisfaction, yet his eyes are adoring as he looks down on Ororon. “You look gorgeous, Ororon, taking me so well. I could do this forever, watch your pretty face as you come on my cock again and again. Would you like that?”

Ororon nods mindlessly. He wants it, to come with Tartaglia inside him, wants to stay like this until he’s completely used up, wants Tartaglia to call him pretty again.

Capitano rubs the base of his ears, as if to reward him. “You're lovely,” he says, voice fond. 

Ororon can only muster a weak, high-pitched little moan in response. He’s distantly aware of all the noises he’s making, but has no presence of mind to close his mouth. His mind has surrendered to the onslaught of bliss, he is merely a thing that feels good and is loved, nothing more. Except… If only… 

With a sudden want to feel him close, even closer, he reaches out to Tartaglia with his free hand, eyes bleary. Tartaglia leans down and mouths at his neck, and Ororon takes the opportunity to wrap his arm around his shoulders and his legs around his waist, ankles crossed. Tartaglia leaves new marks on his neck and kisses the old ones as he keeps thrusting into him, while Ororon's hand wanders on his broad shoulders, his nape, his hair, trying to have him closer, close enough to share a heartbeat, so close that he won’t ever leave him. 

“Gods, you–” Tartaglia grits out, breathing fast and shallow, clearly affected. “I'm close. Come with me, darling.”

He reaches between them to grab Ororon's cock trapped between their stomachs and gives it a few pumps, and Ororon is gone. He squeezes Capitano's hand and grips Tartaglia’s hair hard, his vision whiting out, unable to even make a sound as his whole world explodes with too-bright bliss. 

He’s unable to hear or see anything for some time, slowly floating down from his high to his own body. At some point he discerns hushed talking, feels something wet and soft wiping him down, then he feels himself being tucked into bed, but he has no strength to say anything. 

He tries to open his eyes, but the shapes are hazy and unfocused. 

“Shh, it's alright, darling,” says a familiar voice, quiet and assuring. “You're tired. Just sleep. We’ll be here.”

Ororon closes his eyes back, and vaguely registers soft lips pressing a kiss to his temple before sleep’s silken hands claim him. 

***

When Ororon wakes from a peaceful sleep, the sun has long since risen. He feels warm and content, faintly registering a pleasant smell in the air. He yawns and hugs his pillow tighter. 

It’s not a pillow. 

His eyes fly open. 

He’s cuddling Capitano. He has a Harbinger in his bed. A Harbinger he slept with last night. Wait, just one Harbinger? There should be more. Just how many Harbingers did he sleep with again? When did he become so politically promiscuous? 

Capitano is half reclining with his back resting against the pillow, reading something he likely picked up from Ororon's nightstand. He’s shirtless, the indigo streaks on his blackened skin almost glistening in the sunlight. His face is bare, and the sight of it, of those pitch black eyes with icy blue irises, of the deep gash in his cheek that leaves his teeth and gums bare, makes Ororon remember the events of last night, how Tartaglia and Capitano confessed their feelings for him, the moment he first saw Capitano's bare face, then after that… Huh. He’s not a virgin anymore. Go figure. 

Capitano's eyes find Ororon. “Hm? Good morning.”

“Uhh…” is Ororon's eloquent response. He’s too busy looking at what Capitano's reading. Specifically, a light novel titled I Got Kidnapped by the Terrifying Dragon Knight on the Day of My Arranged Marriage to the Mysterious Count Wolfsbane?!

Ororon's face is on fire. 

Capitano follows his gaze to the cover of the light novel. “I must admit, it has an engaging plot, if not a bit far-fetched at times. You’re a fan, I assume?”

Ororon wants to bury himself into the ground from embarrassment, but as he’s currently cuddling Capitano the only thing he can bury himself in is his chest. A blessing, or a curse? 

“Um, I guess? It’s just a hobby, I swear I read more intellectual things too.”

The corner of Capitano's mouth curls up as he huffs out a small chuckle. “I have no doubt. Did you sleep well?”

Ororon nods. “Mm-hm. I had a very comfortable pillow.”

Another small smile. “Glad to hear it. Any pain or discomfort?”

His ass feels a bit odd, but nothing apart from that. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

“Very well. Are you hungry?”

It’s then that Ororon registers the faint but delicious smell in the air and the small clattering sounds coming from the kitchen, the opening and closing of cupboards and the clinks of tableware. 

His stomach growls audibly, making them both pause a moment. 

“I… I didn’t have dinner yesterday,” he says sheepishly. 

“Hm, we better help ourselves to some of Tartaglia’s cooking then,” Capitano says, placing the light novel on the night stand. 

Ororon sits up, stretching. He must have a shower, but it will have to wait until after breakfast. Also, he’s naked, but he’s too lazy to get dressed, so he just wraps the thin blanket around himself as makeshift clothing. 

He gets to his feet, but a not-so-faint pang of pain in his ass stops him in his tracks. Hm. He hadn’t considered this. 

“Allow me,” says Capitano from somewhere behind him, and in a moment Ororon finds himself in the air, Capitano carrying him like a bride effortlessly. Ororon's arms are trapped in the blanket, he feels like a caterpillar in a cocoon. 

“There’s no need, I can walk, really,” he protests, cheeks burning with embarrassment. 

“Allow me this small joy, would you?” is Capitano's response, and Ororon doesn't have the heart to refuse him, so he lets Capitano carry him to his kitchen without a fuss. 

Ororon was expecting to see Tartaglia, but the sight of the Harbinger in the pink, frilly, Fontanian-style kitchen apron Ifa had bought him as a joke is still a surprise. 

Tartaglia looks up from the eggs he’s frying to glance at the newcomers, and an easy grin spreads on his face. “Morning, princess, did you sleep well?”

Ororon can only nod quietly as Capitano carefully deposits him into a kitchen chair and takes the one next to him. He doesn't know what to say, the situation is completely new to him. They said they have feelings for Ororon, and Ororon has them too, so after a night spent together are they supposed to act like lovers? He’s at a loss for words, fidgeting with the hem of his blanket. 

Capitano leans a bit towards him. “He calls you princess, yet he’s the one wearing pink frills,” he says in an almost conspiratorial tone Ororon has never heard before. It makes him smile despite his nervousness. 

“So what?” Tartaglia answers back, “I look good in this. Even Ororon agrees. Isn’t that right, Ororon?”

Ah, humorous quips. Ororon can play along. “You look like the most handsome princess I’ve ever seen,” he says solemnly. 

Tartaglia shoots him a wink as he fills a plate with fried eggs and brings them to the table. 

“Do you want some coffee, Ororon?” he asks as he opens the cabinet and takes out a mug. 

“Mm-hm, please.”

Tartaglia takes out another mug for Ororon and pours coffee for two. Ororon wonders which one of them it’s for. 

“Two mugs of coffee for my two precious sweethearts,” Tartaglia announces, bringing their coffee to them, leaning in to press a kiss to Capitano's temple and Ororon's cheek. Ororon feels shy, but is happy at the affectionate gesture all the same. 

Tartaglia finally takes off the apron and takes a seat across them. “Breakfast’s all ready, dig in.”

It’s a feast both for Ororon's hungry eyes and his empty stomach. Aside from the perfectly fried eggs, there's small pancakes that Tartaglia calls blinis and toasted corn bread, then sunsettia jam, aphid honey and chocolate syrup to spread on them, with fresh quenepa berries as a finishing touch. His stomach growls again at the sight. 

As he fills his plate, he spies Capitano adding three teaspoons of sugar into his coffee. Capitano notices him watching, and his expression turns bashful. 

“Our Captain has a sweet tooth,” Tartaglia adds with a grin. “How about you, is your coffee to your liking?”

Ororon takes a sip. “Normally I take it black, but I enjoy it like this too. I’m not too picky.”

“Ah, noted,” Tartaglia nods. “I can’t drink coffee in the morning, I start bouncing off the walls. Then I annoy Capitano and he calls me a nuisance,” he says with a dramatic pout. 

“Some of us aren’t partial to sparring matches at seven in the morning,” Capitano replies coolly, taking a sip of his liquid sugar rush. 

Ororon's nervousness slowly eases. This is familiar. This is their usual banter. Getting together with them doesn't seem to have changed the way they interact, besides the casual displays of affection. Relief washes over him. He can get used to this. He wants to. 

They continue their breakfast, occasionally making small talk but mostly focused on their food. Capitano, likely because he doesn't need sustenance to keep living, doesn't eat anything besides a single blini he covers with chocolate sauce. Ororon and Tartaglia, on the other hand, polish off their plates and go for seconds, trying to convince each other to take the last blini but ending up splitting it in half diplomatically. 

Before Ororon can spread some sunsettia jam on his half a blini, Tartaglia leans back in his chair and fixes his eyes on Ororon. “Yesterday we kind of jumped right into things without talking about it, but now seems like a right moment to do so. What do you say?”

Ororon puts down his fork. He’s been wanting to make things clear and have an idea of what to expect in the future, so he’s eager to have this conversation. “I think so too.”

“Good,” Tartaglia leans forward with his elbows on the table. “As we said before, we don’t want yesterday to be a one-time occasion. We would like to have a relationship with you, if you would have us.”

Ororon's heart speeds up involuntarily. It still feels odd to be wanted, to hear it declared so openly. “Yes, of course.”

“Before you decide, there are things you should be prepared for,” Capitano says. “Currently, both of us as Harbingers have a positive relationship with Natlan as a nation. However, it’s not guaranteed that this will remain the same in the future. There may come a time where the Fatui are not permitted to enter Natlan altogether, meaning that we may need to meet in a neutral nation to even see one another.”

Ororon nods thoughtfully. 

“Besides,” Tartaglia adds, “as Harbingers of the Tsaritsa, our work is morally gray in nature. We are prepared to do many things for our duty, to realize her Majesty’s goal. Are you sure you are alright with that?”

Ororon weighs this in his mind a bit, then smiles a little. “I committed treason because I believed it to be the best way to save my nation, but more than that, I did it to feel useful somehow. I can't say that I’m any better, or that I wouldn't do the same.”

Tartaglia smiles at him. “A rulebreaker, huh? Maybe we should make you the Twelfth Harbinger.” 

Ororon chuckles. “I'll have to decline. I’m not quite there yet, both strength and treason-wise.”

“More importantly,” Capitano gets them back on topic, “even though we will stay in Natlan for some time, what you are agreeing to is a mostly long-distance relationship. Both Tartaglia and I have spent months without seeing each other, and it will be even harder for both of us to be free to visit Natlan at the same time. However, since there will be times when Tartaglia and I will get to see each other during Harbinger gatherings or missions and the like, it's only fair for one of us to visit you without waiting for the other. Do you think you can handle this sort of relationship?”

This has Ororon pause a little, eyes on the table. “I’ve never been in a relationship, let alone a long-distance one, so I can't say for sure. Although, I know that no tree bears fruit all year long. Just like I wait patiently for fruits to ripen each year, I’m willing to wait for you.”

He looks up from the table to see both of them looking at him with a bittersweet sort of… adoration? 

“Your will is strong and your soul is wise, Ororon,” Capitano says, his admiration on full display. 

“I’m dreaming of kissing you under the moonlight as we speak,” is what Tartaglia says. 

Ororon smiles at them bashfully, but a sudden thought that comes to his mind erases it from his face. “Oh no.”

Tartaglia seems surprised by the sudden shift in demeanor. “What is it?”

“There’s still one obstacle in our way,” Ororon says, looking at them apologetically. 

“What is it?” they both lean forward slightly, at full attention. 

“My Granny.”

“You have a granny?” Tartaglia asks, meanwhile Capitano's face goes slack. “Oh.”

Tartaglia balks at the blatant dread on Capitano's face. “What, it's that bad?”

“It’s dire.”

“Well, we could try to win her over? What does she like? Maybe some yarn if she likes knitting? I can make her some stew?”

“Granny Itztli is not an ordinary granny,” Capitano says gravely. “She’s an immortal shaman known throughout Natlan. She won’t be swayed by any gift, and will never let two Harbingers ask for her precious grandson’s hand.”

“Oho, I do love a challenge. Maybe she needs to realize that we’re more than just Harbingers, and we’re going to treat Ororon right. Maybe we ask her to prepare us some trials to prove our worth?”

“So she can give us an assignment that lasts decades? No, we need to appease her and win her trust slowly. Only after establishing trust with her should we reveal our relationship with Ororon.”

As Ororon watches the two discuss how to avoid the wrath of his Granny to be together with him, a warm feeling spreads in his chest. Perhaps they will manage to win Granny's approval. Most likely she will hunt them down through Teyvat for daring to even touch her grandson. Despite all this, Ororon has a feeling that things will be okay. Whatever may come their way, they can handle it together.