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Thoma’s not the sun itself, but he could very well eclipse it. He does, somehow; Ajax still doesn’t understand how he does it at all, but everything slows down when he’s near. When Thoma’s hand is on his, when Thoma’s lips curls; flames, he thinks, and maybe that’s what’s in it. Swirl is a thing that doesn’t happen when hydro meets pyro, but God, he’s taken away in the waken of Thoma’s fire just like that. It stings and it bubbles, and he thinks he’s going crazy, but it feels so damn good.
He lets himself be swept away by Thoma’s flames, until it gathers and gathers and keep gathering, enough that Thoma’s flames are, now, his second, personal sun.
Thoma’s obviously drowning in his waters, and it should make them be in equal ground. They should call it quit and keep going.
They have been doing it, for a long while now.
-
When Tartaglia comes home is a happy occasion. Thoma’s never waiting him at all, but never not-waiting, either. He’s always ready, prepared to the waves that will cause havoc within the four walls of their safe heaven.
Childe got a house for them both, fabricated with the very requisites & needs & desires & dreams each had; they made it together from the blueprint, and even if Thoma gets in to clean it at least three times in a week, it doesn’t mean anyone uses it at all.
It’s there, left there to symbolize something that Childe once meant, and that Thoma once meant, but now both of them sees more as a burden than as a promise.
So, when Childe comes, he doesn’t even think about heading to that house, not anymore. His steps bring him to the teahouse he first meets Thoma in, to the barks of a dog and a smell of Sakura and tea and sun-bathed skin, because that’s the smell of Thoma. Used to be the smell of home; it still is. He swears it still is.
“Hey, sunshine,” echoes from his lips and he meant every word. Tartaglia doesn’t know what else Thoma could ever be but a sunshine, and the way the blond light up to the nickname, to him, is more than enough proof that he will never be anything less than the rays of the sun.
Plants need sun to feed of, but for humans, the sun is a choice. Childe approaches the sun enough to burn himself on it, burn himself on its warmth & flames & bright, oh so bright light. There’s no universe in which stars don’t shine, but no one shines quite like Thoma does.
Those blue eyes of his will likely never meet anything else with such resplendent bright, but some creatures worship the moon for the same reason. The sea follows the course of another light, one derived from the sun but not quite it.
Childe tells himself he doesn’t need the moon because he has the sun, the real thing, the original glow, but he’s the tide, and the tide does not follow the sun.
The sun doesn’t follow the tide, either. They are things that exist, things that are placed in the same universe, things that are just there; they kiss two times a day, at sunrise and sunset, but no one ever said it was a romantic necessity.
When he slots his mouth on Thoma’s, drives his hands through the curves of his hips, tugs him near and falls headfirst in this gentle warmth, he thinks that maybe the sun and the sea were lovers, once. They still are, but love doesn’t come in the same way, doesn’t stay in the same way. The sea will never stop loving the sun, even if the particularity of said love changes, shifts, takes turns, never coming back to what it once was. The sun knows, because oh, those jade eyes of his know everything.
Childe kiss like he misses home, and Thoma happily obliges; is not like he has forgotten what it is to kiss Childe, because that would be too much of someone like him, but he’s still chasing something he cannot quite pinpoint. Childe slots a leg between Thoma’s, part his lips with his tongue, plays and plays and plays as if he isn’t chasing something that he, too, will not find. Still, they dance; still, they laugh. “I missed you” is whispered by the blond, as if they are sharing a secret, and Tartaglia wonders just how much of this thought is true. “I’m happy to be back to you,” Tartaglia says, because both him and Thoma knows he can’t say he’s back home. Thoma’s arms will always remember home, but not quite feel like it. They never did.
But they are fine, because they have each other.
Instead of kissing their missing days away, they talk. Tartaglia speaks of the places he has been, of the things he tried and the situations he found himself in, showing pictures of the new areas & sights his job brings him; Thoma’s just glad he’s still alive. They don’t focus on the subject of Thoma never coming with him, not even to meet his parents, not even to another country that wouldn’t be too dangerous like Snezhnaya is even if you have the my-boyfriend-is-a-fatui-harbinger trump card in your sleeve. Thoma send them his regards, and they send Thoma theirs, because they want Tartaglia to be happy in whatever disturbed way he finds it.
They talk over tea, and they roam through the city to pick up snacks. Then Thoma goes to ask for a day free to his master; he leaves everything ready even though Tartaglia’s waiting for him, because he cares not only about the Kamisato siblings, but about everyone within the Estate.
Dearest Thoma; he always cared too much.
Tartaglia praises his fervor, because he has it in himself, too, and isn’t hypocrite enough to point it out. He’s the one that’s always leaving; what’s so wrong with waiting his boyfriend finish up his work? He wakes up in a house inhabited by ghosts of what they could’ve been, untouched and clean, so bare of dirt that it screams disuse.
Thoma’s watering the flowers and cooking breakfast when Tartaglia raises from their bed, hand outstretching to touch an empty pillow; there’s not even wrinkles telling if a body was once there. He picks himself up, wraps his naked body on a sheet and raises to greet the sun; suddenly it’s dawn, because the sun meets the sea, and they smile. They kiss good morning, share a moment of just taking in each other’s scent, breath, and Childe can’t help it when he wonders just how much of Thoma’s scent is found in Ayato’s bathroom.
How much of what his lover is belongs to another?
The morning is lazy, with slow, languid kisses, fingers brushing strands of hair, open gifts left over tables, skin on skin. Stories shared here and there between tangled limbs.
When Tartaglia slips a finger inside Thoma’s mouth, it still burns with desire. It still burns with lust, with need.
It doesn’t burn with passion, at all.
They keep going anyway, pushing forth, branching through the heavy walls of what they know to be weighting over them, covering the bruises and wounds with tissues made of promises that are more like burden.
“I will love you until the day I die,” Tartaglia has promised, and he still does. There’s no doubt in it: he will still love Thoma, no matter what. Doesn’t mean this love will be the same kind of love it was once.
-
Two days after, and the sun is yet again left behind. Tartaglia follows the moon towards somewhere he doesn’t know with a heavy heart, because it’s not easy to be the one that leaves, either. He hears enough about the people that’s left behind, understands them, understands Thoma, but gods, it’s not easier to be the one that leaves.
The sun comes and goes; Childe’s the tide, so he cares for the moon. He follows her, follows her pure, snow-white gleam, even if he doesn’t know to what in exact she’s guiding him. He never tried to touch the moon; will it burn like the sun? Will it burn like touching Thoma? Tartaglia has his own masochist streak, something only him, the gods, and Thoma know, but burning himself never felt quite pleasing. Burning himself never quite felt like leaving, and yet right now, he wonders if these flames are finally getting to the asphyxiation part of the stages that burning alive goes through.
-
Thoma would fit perfectly in the space of the kitchen of his parents, Tartaglia gets himself thinking. Thoma would fit perfectly in his room, on his bed, on him. They’d laugh and talk all night, enlace their fingers and cry on each other’s shoulders. They do it, just not here, where what would be around them is snow instead of petals of Sakura.
Childe understand, he swears he does. He understands so much that, when he gets back to Inazuma two months later, he goes to the Kamisato Estate instead of the teahouse. Thoma’s room has plants on it, when he sneaks in through a window. Thoma’s smile is not quite like the way he smiles to Childe when he smiles to the Yashiro Commissioner.
Thoma’s smile is very different when he smiles to some persona-non-grata in Snezhnaya.
Childe’s left so surprised that he even slips from his cover, closer enough for those sharp senses of the redhaired, and then Thoma’s gaze is also on him. The sun meets the sea, but when they kiss this time, it’s goodnight. Tartaglia approaches, because he’s left nothing else to do, because he doesn’t want to be seen as weird, as jealous, as—
As everything he has already shown. He trusts Thoma; he doesn’t trust himself. “Childe, you’re back!” An arm is around his shoulders, and his hands find place (place, not home) on Thoma’s waist. His sun eclipses everything like always, like he did since the very start, even if now it has a different meaning. He’s still dazzling, because of course he is; that’s the whole thing about the sun. “Mhm. Missed you, sunshine.”
Carmine eyes burn on him, analyzing, and instead of showing his claim, showing who owns who here, the ginger just points with his head to the other. Thoma doesn’t seems like he misses the ‘welcome home’ kiss; maybe because there’s no ‘home’ here to be welcomed into, not with a kiss. Maybe because hasn’t been having a home to come back to, since a while. “Me too,” Thoma whispers, and then turns towards the other person that watch their exchange. “This is Mr. Diluc Ragnvindr, from Mondstadt. He runs a winery that does businesses with the Yashiro Commission.” Said Ragnvindr does not outstretch his hand in greeting, what Tartaglia finds very rude, but then he remembers he’s Fatui, and that’s expected, even if he has never put a foot of his in the city the other comes from. Snezhnaya is a whole thing and hate against one of them leads to hate towards them all.
Childe waits for Thoma to give in a word about his person, so the blond does; “this is Childe, my boyfriend.” His heart shouldn’t beat stronger in his chest by those words being said by Thoma’s mouth. For some reason, he was expecting Thoma to present him as a friend. Not even as this, perhaps. Throw his title as Harbinger and leave it like that. Cut connection between them. It’s not quite happiness what thrums through his veins as he smiles, physically restraining himself from looking back at Thoma with a question in his eyes. It’s not pride; it’s not want.
How long has it been since he didn’t feel possessive over Thoma?
The ginger push through his thoughts and greets the other with a nod, since the redhead kept his arms firmly crossed over his chest. He does seem a bit affected by the news though, and Tartaglia wonders just what, in exact, he’s trying to reach by these trades with Kamisato Ayato.
“A pleasure to meet you, mister Ragnvindr.” He gets something akin to the same line out of the redhead, before Thoma excuses himself to attend to Tartaglia. He checks the new wounds, kisses him properly, and for a moment maybe they are back to where they started. Until they run into Ayato, to which Childe waves a hand; there’s accusation in those eyes of the Yashiro Commission’s head, words he won’t hear, but that he can read.
What have you done?
What are you doing?
How dare you leave behind the best thing that could possibly happen in your miserable life?
Childe answers with unsteady ‘I don’t know,’ and then the moment is gone.
That night they stumble through their shared home, still as clean as always, with Thoma’s plants as witness of their eagerness. It’s not quite passion; it’s need. They’ve both been left to their own hands for too long, and Childe wants to make up to it. Not because of the eyes of Ragnvindr, so obvious in their conclusion that he could take a better care of what’s Tartaglia’s. Not because the accusations of Kamisato, either; he’s tired of doing things for others.
Childe kisses Thoma with want. He kisses Thoma breathless, then lowers to remove any kind of oxygen off Thoma’s skin. There’s no place his lips don’t touch, his teeth don’t rasp, his fingers don’t grab. They still know how to move together, just as they do when they cook together. They always have been good in this kind of thing: spreading their fingers simultaneously, never quite touching unless they wanted. Never quite being subtle about wanting to. Tartaglia wonders if, since the start, they have functioned together or were just pushing it through the expectations.
Fall in love with the sun was so, so easy. It felt right, too, even if they kissed only two times a day. Now he spends the night making love to Thoma as if he’s the moon, but there’s a difference in reach between the sun and he moon. There’s difference in their gravity.
The ocean is blue because it’s the stronger color that pass through the waves, and the sky is blue because it reflects the ocean, but the light of the sun doesn’t carry only blue.
It’s all a question of attraction, he tells himself, but knows it’s not quite it.
Tartaglia spends the whole next day following the marks he left on Thoma’s skin, and the blond laughs, joyful. Did Thoma’s laugh always sound like that?
By like that Tartaglia means different. It’s not really what he remembers.
It’s not quite like love.
They cook together and they fit in their kitchen just as they thought it would be when they planned it. Tartaglia goes to play with Thoma’s animals, take some cats and dogs between his arms, tells Thoma he looks like them. He licks Thoma’s cheek like he’s one of his dogs, and they roll on the mud of their little world. Thoma tastes the same when Childe kisses him, sun-bathed petals of Sakura; warm, warm, warm.
Childe wishes this warmth was with him in the cold nights within his homeland, but he will take what he can, now.
In this now, this lapse of time, this second reality, he loves Thoma, and Thoma loves him.
Four days later he’s back in the sea, within a small ship that takes him to yet another place way too far from where Thoma is, and what greets him is not warmth when he looks at the moon.
But the fate of the tide is to follow the moon; not the sun.
Never the sun.
-
Tartaglia spends six months without stepping a foot in Inazuma, and when he does, he heads to the Kamisato Estate. No one knows he’s here, because he has come by through the shipping route that still bring supplies for the scarce Fatui soldiers distributed through the islands composing the nation of electro.
He doesn’t jump straight between Thoma’s arms this time; he’s ready to face what he wants to see, so he watches it unfold from the safe afar.
Somehow, Kamisato Ayato finds him at the awake of the night, and joins his stalk on Thoma’s person.
“He may be happy that you are still alive, but I do not quite share the opinion,” the man says. Tartaglia cannot even blame him for being this brute with his words; he actually likes it better when Ayato stops flourishing his phrases. “Sad for you, because I’m not planning to die any time sooner.” They share the silence that comes after a long, tired sigh from the blue haired, and Tartaglia’s eyes finally descend from Thoma’s back to watch the one right at his side: that same persona-non-grata.
“What do you think of Ragnvindr?” Childe says, even if what he really means is ‘does he take a good care of what once was mine?’
“He looks at Thoma with the same eyes as me. The same eyes as you once had when you looked at him, too.” Childe can see it even if Ayato wouldn’t have pointed. He can see the way Diluc touches Thoma with careful hands, even if it’s a small, feeble contact. Their hands search for each other, Tartaglia thinks, and surprisingly, it’s not a sour thought.
The ginger bites his lip, brows furrowed, and even if he knows what he feels now, it’s so hard to express. To talk is to bring it to reality, and that’s precisely why he’s been avoiding talking with Thoma about it at all. It hurts all the way from his toes and fingertips, builds up within his veins and sets heavy within the cavity of his heart. It bubbles from his throat differently from the laughs he has shared with Thoma, and if Kamisato notices the solitary tear rolling from his eyes, he’s kind enough to pretend he doesn’t.
“Yeah. He does.”
-
It takes him a whole new day, but ultimately, Tartaglia approaches Thoma when he’s alone cleaning the dust that stick like glue to some shelves. Thoma flinches at the thud of his shoes when they make contact with the wooden floor, and he smiles his relief as he goes running to Tartaglia’s side. “Hey, sunshine,” the ginger breathes, & those warm hands (plus the wooden rood of aforementioned duster) press against his cheeks & squeeze.
“Gods, I was worried about you!” Thoma means it, and Childe knows. He smiles, the corner of his lips stretching between Thoma’s palms, making a funnier view of himself. To be without news about Tartaglia for so long should mean something else besides he wasn’t in the mood to write.
It’s just that, he really wasn’t in the mood to write at all. These past months have been hard to run from his own thoughts, so much that sometimes these thoughts did indeed catch up to him. He’s here partly because of this, too. “Sorry,” Childe says as he brings both hands to Thoma’s own, lowers it until Thoma’s skin make contact with his lips, and he kisses with a reverence that doesn’t scream passion at all.
Hasn’t been, since a while now.
Something in Thoma’s eyes says that he knows it, too.
Childe shifts and twists Thoma’s fingers as he pleases, pressing kisses on each knuckle before changing to the pads, dragging the moment as long as he can because it’s so fucking hard to say what he has come here to say. It’s so hard to do what he has come here to do.
“Can you come out with me tonight?” His voice should not sound this small, should not sound like he’s tearing apart. Because yeah, he may be doing exactly that, but he doesn’t mean for Thoma to know. It hurts more knowing the pressure he puts over Thoma because he’s the one that leaves, even if he knows that Thoma will stay waiting until he returns, and gods, it needs to end.
“Of course. Give me five minutes?” There’s something in the way Thoma’s eyes gleam with a sadness that Tartaglia recognizes to be his own, and he finds all his fears and regrets mirrored in Thoma’s jade-like irises when he looks at it. They are in the same boat; haven been, for a long while now. It’s finally the time to jump off it.
Childe nods and lets go of Thoma’s hands slowly. He needs his limbs to be able to circulate through the house, so Childe lets him. Anxiety crawls from his chest, weights heavy with the amount of words he wants to say & express & convey; there’s so many things to be told, even if they both already know. The two of them are too good at this game of knowing each other; the sun and the sea spend a lot of time looking at one another. It doesn’t mean they can just don’t talk it through. Some pain is necessary in life, and it just happen that they will need to add their relationship to this list.
Thoma’s back to collect Childe a few minutes after, and they stroll aimlessly downwards the Kamisato Estate. The forest is silent, but nothing like them. Childe sneaks a hand to Thoma’s own, skin meeting skin and for a moment he swears steam will rise up because Thoma’s flames are drowning in the sea of his being and that’s just what it should be. He’s surprised his fingers stop trembling as soon Thoma’s own curl around his knuckles. Blue eyes shift to take in the sight of that person they’ve been deprived from for far too long; the golden hair, disheveled but mesmerizing all the same. The sharp of his jawline, the curve of his collarbones, the bridge of his nose. The way his bandana is inches afar from his eyebrows, the curls of locks around it, the redness of his ears.
The red earring that sits there, even after all this time.
Childe stops abruptly, and Thoma’s head turns to him, body following a while after since Tartaglia doesn’t seems like moving at all. They are still at the stairs of Chinju Forest, the river going closer enough to be heard and seen. There’s the sound of some animal hiding inside the bushes but neither of the men care about it. Tartaglia’s free hand runs through the expanse of skin of Thoma’s cheek, feeling the heat of someone he once vowed to love eternally.
He still does.
Gods, he still does.
“I will love you forever,” Tartaglia whispers suddenly. It’s not a promise; no, he already gave off that one. It’s a statement, this time. He’s simply saying the truth; the mountains will not move, and the wind will not stop blowing. The birds will not stop flying, the waves will not stop following the moon; Ajax will not stop loving Thoma. “You and I, we were meant to be, Thoma.”
He doesn’t mean the tears that are gathering on Thoma’s jade eyes, really doesn’t. He’s the tide, but he’s also these tears between Thoma’s lashes. They are warm, like himself when he’s near Thoma. They roam down Thoma’s cheek, rolling like a river, leaving, and Ajax doesn’t stop them just as he doesn’t stop himself. He doesn’t stop his owns, neither. “‘Jax, don’t—” It’s a finger of his that silences Thoma’s words. He knows what the blond will say, because he knows Thoma like the back of his hand. Knows Thoma’s mind just as he does with his body; has mapped him inside out, committed to memory, printed on his bones. Some things nothing can erase from someone’s memory, not even erosion itself.
“Shh.” The finger between Thoma’s lips changes, and now it’s Tartaglia’s thumb. His hand open like a flower, except the touch is nothing petal-like. He holds Thoma’s chin there, holds his face near his own, feels their tears about to touch. “It’s alright, we need to face it. You are the best thing that happened to me in a very, very long time, and we’re indeed meant to be, you and I, but baby, we aren’t meant to last.”
Childe doesn’t run, this time. Doesn’t find excuses on his work, doesn’t change subject, doesn’t flourish his words. He has done it long enough, more than he should, and knows it. A part of Thoma will always be by his side, just like one of his will always be by Thoma’s, but not their wholes.
No, not their wholes.
There’s salt on his mouth when he kisses Thoma’s lips this time. No tongue nor teeth; just the slide of his lips, just his hands curling around whichever part of Thoma he’s able to find. They are not in same level, with Ajax one step up the stairs, so he needs to curl towards Thoma like he does when they sleep together. Those strands of sun are soft on his skin, but they don’t burn like they did once. The warmth of Thoma’s body doesn’t burn him anymore. The tide has successfully drowned the sun, and now this star of jade needs another one to heal from the loss.
Thoma’s hands aren’t immobile either. Tartaglia feels his fingers taking in the expanse of skin of his neck, brushing the back of his nape, holding his head there because he, too, wants this kiss to last forever. They are in the between; whilst their lips are connected, whilst their skin is pressed on one another, whilst they are sharing the moment, they are eternal, and maybe just a bit longer of this eternity is all what he can bear to ask.
Childe’s not expecting Thoma to be the one giving voice to his selfish desires, but maybe they are just way too good together. (Always have been.)
“Let me take you home tonight?” Are words pressed on Childe’s skin whilst they refuse to peel from each other. Like the clothes he wears, Tartaglia’s hands find purpose when they are on Thoma’s body, and so does Thoma’s.
The ginger can only nod, because he doesn’t trust his own words right now. Even Thoma’s sounded shaky, rushed, and they both know it’s not because he’s breathless.
They don’t break contact whilst they get down the road, not even once. They don’t break contact when they evade the city in favor of following the path to that same house they have build together. They don’t break contact when Thoma opens the door, even if Childe doesn’t instantly press him against the first surface he finds. Instead, he runs a hand between Thoma’s ribs and waist, walking him to the bedroom without any word. They’ve always been so good with their words, always communicating, always sharing things in the between, but right now, with tears falling from their eyes, they don’t trust their voices.
So, they speak with their skin.
Childe’s fingers, gloveless since he left Kamisato estate, roams through the clothes covering Thoma’s skin, not quite teasingly. He has committed it to the memory, yes, but some part of himself wants to prove he’s wrong and he should keep great attention to anything and everything, so he does. He’s the one to start undressing Thoma, and even if he finds hands undoing the clasps of his jacked and following the lines of his harness, Thoma lets him map out his muscles and shapes over his clothes. Tartaglia’s fingers slide carefully the red jacket off, pads around the skin he’s able to feel as he brings the cloth to pass down Thoma’s wrist, but doesn’t take his hand; instead, they do the road backwards, pressing on Thoma’s shoulder, down to his chest. He grabs the amount of muscle that are Thoma’s pectorals, feels it giving in to the pressure of his fingers, and toys with a nub that perks up. They may have fall out of passion, but the touches they leaven on each other’s body will not stop burning this soon.
Fingers find Thoma’s waistband, lurking underneath it, and the blond raises his arms to allow the piece of fabric to be removed. They eyes meet when Tartaglia’s hands tug the cloth over Thoma’s head, and he cannot help as he smiles with the way Thoma’s bandana also falls from its spot when the shirt is removed. But that’s a good thing, because it is a ‘goodbye’ as much as it is a ‘I love you’. They shouldn’t treat it as something this heavy, like a burden. Tartaglia’s hand find the curve of Thoma’s cheek, brushes his calloused fingers there before going towards his scalp, undoing the hair tie whilst looking over his lover with all those sentiments he has had for him, years ago. They are still in him, just not meaning the same.
“I love you,” the ginger whispers, and there’s not even a fiber of Thoma’s body that doesn’t believe he does. Their mouths slot together once Thoma says the same, like they belong there, like they are meant to be. Because they are. (Were.) This time, Tartaglia’s tongue sneaks in, even if he doesn’t bite. Thoma’s own reach for him, seeks out his contact, the sun meeting the sea. That muscle roams through Thoma’s mouth, licks behind his teeth, on the meat of his cheek, up the sky of the cavity. They lace their tongues and dance, dance, dance. Tartaglia’s invite Thoma’s to play in his own mouth, as if he doesn’t need to breath just because that’s like things are when Thoma is this close to him.
But Thoma is his sun, not the moon, not the wind, so ultimately, they need to part, if only to catch their breaths. Ajax takes this chance to lower Thoma over the sheets of their bed, golden hair hallowing his head, jade eyes half-lidded and dark with lust. Need, desire. Love.
Not quite passion.
Childe knows he’s a mirror to Thoma’s feelings, because that’s what water always has been to the sun, so he doesn’t mind. For once, gods, he doesn’t mind.
The sounds he’s able to coerce out of Thoma’s lips when his own meets that sensible spot right under his earlobe is enough to calm down that urge of proving to himself he still remembers. Still knows, still hasn’t forget. He wonders if this urge will one day subside, and honestly doesn’t know how he will deal with it if it doesn’t, but that’s a problem for his future self, so he commits his lover’s shape & pleasure to the memory all over again with the press of his lips on Thoma’s skin. Childe trails kisses on each inch of skin he has at his disposition, even if refuses to bare his teeth and claim marks of ownership over Thoma’s body. He’s gentle, but not quite like always, even if he wants to pretend.
There’re hands pulling on his harness, and Childe hears the snap more than he feels it. The ginger huffs lovingly on Thoma’s hair, kisses the shell of his ear and place both his knees on the edge of the bed, between Thoma’s parted legs. “So, it still retains its charm,” he hums, even though his hands leave Thoma’s skin to remove said charming thing.
“You could’ve let it on,” the vixen on his bed replies, and there’s teeth on Childe’s smirk. The dog-tag around his neck is fully exposed when his shirt is ungracefully removed, and the ginger can feel the burn of those jade eyes taking in the sight.
He’s anything but shy, so instead of feigning coyness, Childe relishes on the silent praise of Thoma’s glance. There’s tongue licking lips, and although the sadness of their goodbye is still sitting thick between them, they both know better than to allow it to ruin their last memory. “Stop drooling and put this mouth of yours to better use,” the ginger laughs, and Thoma does exactly it: he raises from his spot on the bed, long strands of golden hair covering an inch of his eyes, hands firmly pressed on Tartaglia’s sides. There’s mouth on Childe’s pecs before he can react, and those eyes of Thoma burn when the sun meet the sea in their shared bedroom.
Tartaglia moans, a raspy, needy thing that has his hips bucking in search of Thoma’s skin, hands reaching out to grab Thoma’s head and keep him there. It has been so long since he has had a lover for his nights, so long with nothing but the memory of Thoma’s lips & hands & warmth on him, that even something so small puts Tartaglia on the edge instantly.
Thoma’s hand on his other nub flicks and twists the way he knows Tartaglia likes, the same way he does with his tongue, even if the effect of a hot mouth on Childe’s skin is obviously different from the rough contact of Thoma’s pads. The blond shifts his lips to the other nub, willing to give equal love to Childe’s nipples, and the ginger lets him have his way with him. He lets Thoma have everything he wants; its likely the last chance he will have to do so. It’s his fault, Childe knows it, and the fact he was the one to drown his sun does burn, but he also knows Thoma’s not the only victim here. One leaves and one waits, one comes back, and one is still waiting. To wait may not be to leave, and to leave may not be to wait, but neither is chase.
“You look like really could cum from me playing with your nipples today,” comes Thoma’s voice. It’s less broken and fuller with arousal, what Tartaglia guesses to be the only way for the blond to sound this steady. They tried it before, but it never really worked, not the way it did when Tartaglia’s mouth was on Thoma’s nipples, but that’s expected because he doesn’t have this much sensibility on his body.
“Perhaps I will let you try later.” The ginger is the one to peel himself off Thoma’s hold, because no matter where he’s always the one that’s leaving, so why not follow suit here, too? His boots get off his foots whilst his hands get rid of his belt and slacks, and Thoma’s back laying on the bed again, leaning the weight of his thorax on his elbows to watch the show of Tartaglia getting undressed for him. He doesn’t make a move to remove his own lower clothes, because he knows Tartaglia would stop him anyways. So, he waits, take in the sight, commit Tartaglia to the memory just as the other is doing to him.
Only when the Harbinger is left on his underwear that he approaches Thoma again, the line of his cock tenting from where it rests under the black piece of cloth. Childe smirks as he follows the gaze of his boyfriend, because that’s what they still are, not quite totally strangers just right now, with some strings still attached to each other. The Inazuman folk tend to say red lines connect lovers to one another no matter in which part of the world they are, and Childe has seen said red line between him and Thoma once, even if now its color is pink. Distance did a number on them, but the ginger doesn’t doubt its not only the distance acting up, in their situation.
Tartaglia knees near the bed and starts to play with the threads around Thoma’s weird, absolutely stupid boots, that somehow still manage to look attracting because its only quality is to be attached to Thoma’s ankles. He spends his time playing with it, loosening it up and carefully removing it from Thoma’s foots. Does it with one, then the same thing with the other. And then Thoma’s socks follow, with Childe bringing his lover’s foot to his lips, kissing each pad even if Thoma chimes that it’s dirty and he shouldn’t.
It doesn’t matter to Tartaglia at all, not when it’s the last time he’ll be able to touch Thoma here. So, he kisses Thoma from bottom to top, massaging his foots as his head slots itself between Thoma’s thighs and his mouth goes upwards. Childe kisses the sharps of Thoma’s hips, press his cheek on Thoma’s cock even though its still buried in his clothes, and toys with what he has in his front until impatience wins. Thoma’s moans don’t really help him with his raising eagerness, so he’s also subject to blame when Tartaglia’s mouth opens to allow his tongue to sneak out, licking Thoma’s navel, and the sound he gets is so sinful that has the ginger bringing his hands back to undo that thread of things around Thoma’s hips in a hurry.
Unlike with himself, he leaves Thoma bare. Nothing more than skin on skin, and skin on sheets, or saliva on skin or skin on tongue. Childe burn kisses on Thoma’s whole, places his mouth on every inch, but this time he doesn’t leave marks.
Thoma will be released clean.
That’s the minimum he can do for the blond, really.
His kisses keep going, going & going & going until he knows he already has kissed these inches of skin. Childe kisses it again anyways, because he can. Because he wants. Thoma doesn’t stop him, even if he whines & shivers & moans on his spot. He’s clearly in need of something more, but like a good boy, steels himself to don’t tug Tartaglia closer with his legs. Forces himself to don’t impose, to don’t speed Tartaglia off his own indulgence. They have time, at least tonight. Whilst the sun doesn’t meet the sea for dawn, they will be able to make their shared bedroom shine like it does.
Thoma shudders at the contact of Tartaglia’s (Thoma’s) dog-tag on the warm skin of his loins as Childe crawls his way up, then smooths his hands on Tartaglia’s hair, tugging in a non-imposing way, showing desire all the same. When Tartaglia takes Thoma’s leaking cock in his mouth, its heavenly, and Tartaglia knows it by the loud moan that worms its way out of Thoma’s lips. The ginger has always known how to use his assets, tongue and cheeks and throat and teeth alike, leaving Thoma putty on his touch. He does go slowly though, just as his ministrations on Thoma’s skin, and its so different from the mess of eagerness Thoma knows Tartaglia to be that he cannot help but feel the love the ginger pours down on him. Its sitting there, and if Thoma reaches a hand, he will be able to touch it.
In the first time they’ve shared a bed together, Tartaglia asked Thoma what he likes. The information has been repeated and reaffirmed through their encounters, so much that now little to no questions are needed to be proffered, and yet Tartaglia’s mouth still slides off Thoma’s cock with a smirk, questions ready under his tongue, waiting their time to be said. Tartaglia has always relished in the praises, those coming from Thoma all the more important, and even knowing what’s ready to happen, Thoma doesn’t stop him. He could’ve shoved Tartaglia’s head down his cock, kept him there and fucked his throat, because Thoma knows Tartaglia wouldn’t mind, either, but that’s Tartaglia’s demeanor, not his. So, he lays there with both hands around Tartaglia’s head, allows him to pull off, watch those swollen lips breathing inches afar from where he needs it, and waits.
“In the mood for some begging, sunshine?” Part of Tartaglia’s smile is hidden behind the cock he’s working on, and he knows where Thoma’s eyes are fixed. To make his point even more clear, Tartaglia’s tongue laps around the head of Thoma’s cock, lowers his ministrations until he has his mouth full of Thoma’s balls, and sucks carefully. He’s mindful enough for the exchange to be pleasuring. The hands on Tartaglia’s auburn hair are now fisted, but the jade within Thoma’s irises is still seen through his heavy blond lashes.
“Aah— always so… mean,” moans Thoma, unable to keep his voice steady for absolutely different motives.
Tartaglia slides off his balls, licks his way up and part Thoma’s legs. He smiles that eager, thrilling, dangerous thing, and then his fingers are pressing on Thoma’s perineum, not yet where Thoma wants them to be, but the promise is clear. “You can’t blame me for wanting to hear your cute voice begging mindlessly,” the other points, and Thoma really cannot. Knowing just how much Tartaglia gets off in this stuff, knowing that this is the last time he will have the chance of hearing Thoma begging to him, the blond concedes way easier than what a normal situation would require.
“Please,” Thoma breathes out, and then Childe’s lips are around the head of his cock again, lapping at his slit and making Thoma’s toes curl with pleasure. “Ajax… fuck— p-please!”
All the vibrations of Tartaglia’s throat are around Thoma’s cock when he hums next. The warmth of Tartaglia’s mouth is indescribable, but those fingers of his, slicked with the power of that damned hydro vision, tempt Thoma when he’s asked to choose. Childe sucks him in with expertise, his nose pressed on Thoma’s pubic hair, almost as if he has no gag reflex even after all those months away. Thoma knows it’s just because the ginger is working hard for it; Tartaglia would never cheat on him. This is the level of trust they place over one another.
But that demon decides he’ll not sink his finger in, instead bypassing the wrinkling, tight hole, occasionally tugging at the rim. He dips the pad of his thumb and pulls out. Their eyes meet, and behind the tears gathering on the corner of his lightless eyes, Tartaglia’s demand is clear. He has always been the one in charge when it comes to their bedroom affairs, having his way with Thoma’s body as he pleases, no matter in which position they are in. The blond whines, holds his breath for a while, but every next second is harder to don’t just give in. So, he does.
“Please, Ajax… I’ve been so good, please— please!” Because Thoma does deserve a reward, Tartaglia complies. He focuses himself on breathing through the little space Thoma’s cock give him, moving his head & tongue with more vigor when his first finger branch the muscles of Thoma’s ass. The finger goes all the way in, though with some resistance, and it shows that Thoma hasn’t been playing with himself either. Just how much has this relationship fucked up things for the both of them? Was it worth all this changes they went through?
Due the littles ‘yes’ & ‘please’s coming from Thoma’s lips, head back on the mattress, eyes no doubt shut, enjoying the last thing Childe can give him, the ginger gets to the conclusion that yeah; they may not belong to each other anymore, but he did not lie when he told Thoma that they were meant to be. Once.
Childe’s finger has prodded its way around enough that soon after Thoma’s insides are ready to welcome a new one. Undoubtedly, there’s the stretch, and the pain that accompanies, but Thoma goes through it anyways, just as much Tartaglia will later on. It is their last night, and he will have Thoma in all the ways he’s able to. The first hard tug on Tartaglia’s hair happen when he crocks his fingers, dead right over Thoma’s sensible spot. He knows Thoma’s insides as he does with his owns, and even if time is likely going to erase it, right now Tartaglia makes use of his knowledge.
“Ajax, if— if—” jade eyes look up to the visage of Tartaglia’s mouth working on his cock, hips taunt, ready but restrained, because he is a good boy. The fox has its mouth full of dick but still manages to look like smiling, or maybe it’s Thoma’s mind creating such fantasy because he cannot bear to think otherwise when Childe’s hand speeds up and abuses its power within Thoma’s ass. “Ajax, I’m gonna c-come, Ajax… ‘Jax—” Childe wonders if, when Thoma’s hands leave his scalp, some strands of ginger hair will follow, so strong is his grip. That’s kind of hot, so he licks the underside of Thoma’s cock with more fervor, shoves it inside his throat and keep him there, fucking his fingers roughly, faster, until he’s hearing a scream out of Thoma’s lips that vaguely sounds like his name, and then keeping his throat relaxed as maximum he’s able to so he can swallow what shoots into it.
Tartaglia slowly sets Thoma’s cock free, just enough to allow the blonde’s come to fall in his mouth; this time he does not swallow it, even if he keeps driving Thoma’s orgasm on and on, coercing more pleasure out of the blissful feeling with both fingers & mouth. Jade eyes turn back to watch Tartaglia once the waves of pleasure start to turn into overstimulation, but he doesn’t pull Childe off even if he starts to wriggle on his grasp. The ginger take pity on him and at least allows his cock to slip off his mouth, raising himself without leaving Thoma empty, back up to claim those sinful lips of his loved one.
There’s something in the way Thoma’s kisses manage to affect and, at the same time, don’t affect Tartaglia that drives him insane. It wasn’t like that in the start, wasn’t like that in the middle. It is what it is, in the end.
Tasting himself wasn’t usual for Thoma until he has meet Tartaglia. Ajax, as he once presented his name under the sheets of Thoma’s bed, hugging him tight. Same sweet lover was this kinky partner when comes to bedroom affairs, and the blond will never say he didn’t enjoy his time with every new idea Tartaglia brought up from somewhere, even though Thoma didn’t wanted to know its origins. (Specially not when some books coming from Yae Publishing House stacked up the table of the living room hours before Childe propose something).
Now, they tangle limbs as Tartaglia’s cum-coated tongue demands Thoma’s attention, forces him to surrender, shoves a mix of his saliva & Thoma’s spent down Thoma’s throat. They suck on each other’s tongue until there’s nothing left, until they are both clean, until they both taste the very same. It’s the sun what colors the sea, Tartaglia thinks as his own dick brushes his beloved’s abs, just the wet tip leaking through his underwear over the already explored, but not less unblemished skin. He’s dirtying Thoma in the worst way possible, knows no amount of cleaning will ever remove these deeds of his, but the blond is still there, taking it, asking for it.
If give himself to Tartaglia wasn’t love, then what else would it be?
The fingers inside Thoma’s ass changed its way of thrusting; now, the ginger is fully focused in spreading Thoma apart. Childe scissors his fingers, gentle in a way he usually isn’t, taking his time to allow Thoma to fully relax and accept and enjoy. Is not like the blond hasn’t enjoyed when the other is demanding, either, but then again there’s something else into this sex besides need. Only when the blond has both hands on Childe’s shoulders, using the sturdy body as leverage to stills himself and roll his hips in a plea for more that Tartaglia allows a third finger in.
Hear Thoma mewl for him was one of Tartaglia’s favorite pastimes, so he keeps himself up, lips rooting on the holy ground of Thoma’s chest, licking his way around Thoma’s stiff nubs. Tartaglia needs his free hand for leverage, so he cannot cup Thoma’s chest and give attention to both nipples, what is really a pity— but he compensates with those three fingers spreading Thoma open for him, avoiding intentionally to press on Thoma’s prostate as he was doing before. The blond hasn’t got to overstimulation-point, but he will have to face it earlier than later, and the two of them know it.
Thoma’s breathing picks up, and he fists Tartaglia’s hair, keeping him on his chest. The Harbinger shifts, pushes himself to a better angle, parting wider Thoma’s thighs, and then their cocks are brushing on one another, a layer of clothing keeping their skin apart. Blue eyes glace down and Tartaglia use the momentum to change which nipple he’s sucking on, finally peeking up at Thoma’s face; their eyes meet, and Thoma’s lips part. “Please” is the only thing Thoma seems to be able to say, so Tartaglia obliges, just not quite like Thoma was expecting him to. A fourth finger branch Thoma’s walls, because Tartaglia knows he can take it, knows he could take more, and tease them both with a slow rhythm of grinding.
Denying Thoma has always been the equally same as denying himself, a double-edged sword. It’s thrilling to push on his limits, knowing the blond under him has the very same ones. Tartaglia can throw and play with Thoma as much as he wants; never once has Thoma made use of their safe word, even when the overstimulation had him tearing up. Thoma begs him to stop teasing, to stop being mean, and Tartaglia obliges more because he cannot control himself than because of Thoma’s half-hearted begs.
That’s the case when the ginger finally removes his fingers, carefully on their way out. He pulls off Thoma’s chest with a lewd, slicky sound, and grins at the sight of Thoma’s face. His loved one is a mess under him, with or without passion. Sex has always been something that happens because two people are compatible, and its undeniable that Tartaglia & Thoma are perfectly made to dovetail each other.
“So pretty for me,” the ginger praises on Thoma’s ear at the same moment his free hand gets rid of his underwear. He snuggles up, kisses those spots on Thoma’s neck, follows the line of his jaw, and once he's bare, his slicked-up hand takes their cocks together to give some steady, firm strokes. “You are perfect, so good, so sweet.” Tartaglia takes Thoma’s lips, but not to claim as his. He pours his love onto the kiss, pours his desire among the feelings; they tell each other about their love with their lips, and it is on them, both around & within.
For once, Tartaglia doesn’t force Thoma to beg. He pulls himself away from Thoma’s lips, spread those gorgeous thighs even more, sinks his thumb in Thoma’s rim and watch the greedy, loosened up hole trying to suck it in. Tartaglia press the pad, looks at the opening getting wider, and swallows hard before lining himself with it. As much as the Harbinger stares down, he also stares up. Taking in the sight of Thoma’s expectant gaze, a needy puppy just waiting. Thoma may not say it out loud, but he likes to be used and commanded. He likes to follow orders, to please. Tartaglia really hopes Ragnvindr will be able to keep up with this lost puppy, because he wants Thoma to be the happiest he’s able to. He loves Thoma, and love isn’t selfish.
They both sigh when Tartaglia presses in, slowly. Has been a while, so he needs to be gentle, even if he’d still be gentle if that wasn’t the case. The drag of his cock in Thoma’s walls feels amazing, and he whispers exactly that on his lover’s lips when he leans down to take a wet kiss out of Thoma. It’s heavenly in all the ways it could be, and the ginger swallows down the sighs and moans Thoma deposits in his mouth. It is his, for the last time but his, and he’ll claim at least those. Tartaglia feel his hips touching the swell of Thoma’s ass, and they both groan at the sensation.
To say that they never had a soft coupling would be an understatement, because Tartaglia’s nothing but a force of nature. He loves with wild passion, just as he carries on with his normal behavior, what doesn’t mean he’s always the same hurricane. It’s very easy to spot how he starts and ends, tell tales to patterns; it just need a keen eye. He’s unpredictable because not even him know what he wants until the time comes, and it just spurs more of love to blossom within Thoma’s heart because Tartaglia’s never been anything less than loving with him. In his own way but loving still.
The first motion is a grind that leave the both of them keening; Tartaglia’s aim with his dick is certainly better than the one with his arrows, even if he claims to have mastered the bow by now. He drags this pace through his own needs, forcing himself to be patient, knowing Thoma would very much have him loosening up instead of holding himself. That’s the goal, here.
Hands are on his face next, cupping his cheeks, warmth spreading through Thoma’s fingertips as they lock eyes. Thoma’s lips are slight parted, flushed cheeks and half lidded eyes; the epitome of desire & need & perfection, Tartaglia muses. They don’t kiss this time, just admiring each other’s faces whilst pleasure courses through their veins. It’s finally Tartaglia’s breaking point, abiding to the pleas he’s able to spot into Thoma’s eyes. The ginger withdraws until only the tip is inside, keeping Thoma open for him and more important, keeping the contact. He slams back in and Thoma trashes his head on the bedsheets, blissed moan dragged out of his lips.
Tartaglia uses the change to readjust himself, kneeling atop his ankles. Those firm hands hook under Thoma’s thighs, slots themselves on Thoma’s ass, forcing his legs to wrap around Tartaglia’s hips so he’ll keep himself secure on his lover’s hold for this new angle. The damned slow pace Tartaglia demands Thoma to take is borderline annoying, but he does so anyways, sinking his short nails at the meat of Tartaglia’s hips in a way of grounding himself. As much as it isn’t fast, it still manages to be enough, for now.
Possessiveness is something that the Harbinger has always been prone to. He’s not jealous, per se; he doesn’t even mind people looking at what’s his. Truth being told, he likes to show off what’s his, so long people know that it belongs to him. Hence why it’s impossible to leave the bedroom without marks, when sleeping with the Harbinger; bite marks usually are a choice, yet the shape of his hands around hips, thighs, waist, sometimes throat & wrists is not an intentional thing. As the pace picks up, so does Tartaglia’s strength over what he’s using to ground himself, not allowing his own waves to overtake him. Thoma’s used to covering marks with both clothing and make up, though the latter hasn’t been needed for a while. This time though, the ginger seems mindful of his grip, and Thoma cannot help but mourn for the marks he’ll not be able to see later on, when he’s alone and thoroughly abandoned.
It's mercy as much as it’s cruelty.
Whilst the line of pleasure and sadness blend through their coupling, the ginger busies himself with faster thrusts, accompanied with slow, sensual grinds. His eyes are focused on Thoma’s face, watching all the beauty glowing from this one which flames are so bright to be compared as the sun’s. There’s more to Thoma’s thoughts than their sex, and the ginger can feel it. So, he leans down, removing his hands from Thoma’s ass to support himself on the mattress, and press his lips over Thoma’s to pick his attention back. Call him demanding; he’s not going to allow Thoma any thought besides him, and their shared contact of now. It seems to work, because of course it would; Tartaglia knows everything it has to be known about Thoma. That’s why he’s still here.
“Got so used with rough fuck that now the slow one makes you bored?” There’s an airy prolongation in Tartaglia’s voice that sounds very much like a laugh, which prompts Thoma to huff a laugh of his own.
“Might have. You spoiled me rotten.” Thoma answers, and then the Harbinger slots his hands on Thoma’s back, forearms under his armpits, tugs him closer and raises with him, sitting back on his ankles whilst Thoma’s left kneeling atop Tartaglia’s lap.
“Come on, then, take what you want” is all the approbation Thoma needs. He’s not one to move on his own, not with a lover like Tartaglia, and maybe that’s on the both of them.
Free to do what & how he wants, Thoma makes use of the chance to coerce Tartaglia into action. He rolls his hips tantalizing, both hands seeking purchase on his lover’s wide shoulders, setting a faster pace instead of going with the one Tartaglia was insisting to keep. Tartaglia sighs whilst Thoma moans, angling himself just right so every descend will shove the thick length of his boyfriend to hit perfectly on his prostate. Tartaglia’s cock is big enough to keep itself pressed where Thoma needs it even if he pulls it halfway back, and the drag has him panting more than the effort his thighs are doing. It doesn’t help that Tartaglia’s lips find their spot on Thoma’s chest, hands back on Thoma’s ass, squeezing but not the right way; he’s holding himself, Thoma knows it, but presses through the burn in his heart and fucks himself harder, faster on Tartaglia’s cock.
They are so close that Thoma’s own cock is sandwiched between his groin and Tartaglia’s abs, the feeling itself coercing Thoma even more into falling headfirst in pleasure. So, he does, allowing himself to let go as the pace of his hips increase. There’s no way his weirdly attentive lover hasn’t notice it, too, and Thoma feels it, when Tartaglia’s hips start to move, meeting him halfway. Thoma’s honestly expecting a hand to curl around his cock and stop him from releasing when he readies himself to let go, but mercifully, Tartaglia lets him.
Maybe it’s the moon, or the accuracy of their goodbye that doesn’t spur Tartaglia’s mean strike into action. He feels himself overflowing, too, and doesn’t know what in exact is spilling from him. So, he ground himself on Thoma, on the rhythm of their hips, and allows it all to run wild. Thoma’s cumming untouched atop Tartaglia’s lap, and that’s when the ginger holds him tight before laying him down, enjoying the blissed-out moans until he shuts Thoma’s lips with his own, authoritarian and demanding in his pursuit of taking to himself the last thing he’s able to claim— Thoma’s moans whilst they make love.
It's the time apart that has Tartaglia losing himself to the warmth and promise of Thoma’s arms, to the feeling of comfort, to the solace of this pattern that finding Thoma’s scent all around him is. His hips speed up just as much as the feeling, panting on Thoma’s mouth, turning their kiss into a messy & wet one, droll falling from both their lips whilst they still keep going because Tartaglia’s still insisting them to. Thoma’s hands fisting Tartaglia’s hair is a mean to say that he wants it, too, and that’s enough for Tartaglia to finally tip over the edge, toes curling in pleasure as he buries himself whole within the warmth of Thoma’s walls. Tartaglia thrusts two, three times more, finally leaving Thoma’s mouth as he trades it for his neck, stubbornly keeping his demeanor of only kissing the skin, even though his teeth require more than such a simple action.
‘Is enough action,’ the ginger tells himself, and Thoma doesn’t deny it. Maybe because he cannot bring himself to. Maybe because he knows. Thoma has always been taking just what Tartaglia gives him, after all. Tartaglia twists his body and falls back on the bed hugging Thoma by the side, keeping him close whilst the two catch their breaths.
Tartaglia kisses Thoma still, whispering sweet nothing on his ears as he clings to Thoma’s body as if it was a lifeline, and Thoma thinks, maybe it is. Right now, he’s inclined to believe.
They may not have passion anymore, but it doesn’t stop Tartaglia’s weirdly quick refractory period to follow its course. Thoma can feel the way the cock hardens slowly, still slotted inside his walls, and then Childe’s hips buck up one last time, shoving back the cum that found a way to leak down, before withdrawing. Thoma sighs as he feels the movement, and once he’s free from Tartaglia’s grasp, the blond roll over in search of their nightstand.
“Oh, come on,” Childe starts, but Thoma shushes him with a scold.
“Don’t ‘come on’ me, liebling, you know I like to have you properly.”
Since that time Tartaglia lost control over his hydro when Thoma got a little too worked up in their coupling, Thoma has been refusing to use the help of Tartaglia’s vision when it’s his turn to lube & open the ginger. But to catch back Tartaglia’s interest, he summons pyro with the aid of his vision which should be somewhere near their bed. As expected, Tartaglia perks up as he watches the oil being warmed, humming his approval at the idea because he knows what Thoma has in mind.
Thoma sets back near Tartaglia, and they lose themselves to each other in the few hours they still have.
-
Childe isn’t good at saying goodbye, so he doesn’t. Is not like he’s never going to see Thoma again, even if the possibilities for such outcome are high. But the sea’s used to the sun, to its warmth, to its presence, to its stare. So, if the sea ever wears away, it shall come as a surprise for the both of them.
Snuggling himself off Thoma’s arms, Childe collects the few things he has scattered through the floor, dresses up, covering the dog-tag with the red cloth of his shirt, keeping it safe. He does stop on the threshold of their shared bedroom, shuts his eyes, thinking about his choices and possibilities and roads and plans, but ultimately, walks forth.
Thoma’s glance follows Tartaglia until he’s out of sight, and only when he hears the door closing with finality, is that he curls himself over the bed, hugging the sheets that smell like the two of them. It’s Childe’s scent as much as it’s Thoma’s, a mix of them both that will forever smell like love. Not home, but love. Childe’s the one to leave, like he always does, and Thoma’s the one to stay, like he always does; no one of them chases.
This time, when the two tear down over the same thing, they are away from each other.
But hey, what is the sun kissing the sea if not an illusion of the eye? At the very end, the sun may never have really touched the sea, at all.
(Except they did. Because Thoma’s not the sun, and Childe’s not the sea, and they loved and were loved, but this love found its epilogue. Some things are just not meant to last, and that’s okay.)
-
Days after, Tartaglia’s ship lands on the greyish port of Morepesok. Inazuma is closer to Snezhnaya when taking the sea, and the ginger couldn’t think of any place to stop by besides the only one he can still call home. Kids run to his arms, but this time he’s there without gifts. Surprisingly, he finds someone else with the kids, and smiles at the small, but not less strong, man that follows the little ones in their welcoming hug.
“Hey, grandpa,” Ajax says, in a tune lower than he’d usually use. Pulcinella’s all-knowing eyes need nothing but to land on him to know something is off.
“Good afternoon, kiddo.” It’s a slight ragged, cool and warm tone that could very well be meaning ‘welcome home, son’. It’s something Ajax doesn’t hear that often, but he likes all the same. Pulcinella’s always been genuine about his affection towards Ajax and his siblings.
They spend some time with the kids, drinking tea and chatting about Ajax’s job and new toys. Teucer is growing up fast, and soon enough Ajax is going to need to face the lies he told to his brother.
Not today.
Today, he sips his tea under Pulcinella’s gaze, until the kids gracefully leave the two alone for some heart-to-heart conversation. Pulcinella is good with his words, but even him cannot help it when he jumps to the main subject.
“Should I make key-questions, to spur out of you what has gotten you so offset?”
Ajax’s lips tighten on a line, blue eyes looking all around, as if he’d find his words written on the walls, the air, the snow. It obviously isn’t, and he’s surprised that there’s still tears to be shed when thinking about Thoma— as if what he has shed in the way back home wasn’t enough.
“It feels like I’ve given up on him,” the boy breathes out somehow, voice raspy. “I had seen myself with him at my side since the first time I wanted to kiss his lips, saw myself looking at the world with my hand on his, saw my nights full of blond hair at the other side of the bed.” Pulcinella says nothing; he doesn’t judge, doesn’t point out anything, just stays where he is and listens. “He smiles like he’s the sun, and I was swept by his glow, and I still am, but at some point everything changed, and I don’t even know how.”
At this point, Ajax doesn’t even make an effort to stop his tears. His gloved hands cover up his face, crying over it until smaller hands take him by the wrists, coercing him to show his face. Pulcinella rests Ajax’s head on his shoulder, like a caring father would. Ajax clings to the comfort, overflowing with a mix of feelings that leaving Thoma has settled into him.
“You are not giving up on him,” the older man whispers. “You aren’t giving up in anything, dear child. Some things just end, and they will end no matter if you wish them to or not.” Ajax cries harder on his grandfather’s shoulder (because that’s what Pulcinella is to him), but he doesn’t say anything more. He knows Pulcinella’s right, and no matter how much he and Thoma had tried, they weren’t meant to last.
Move on is easier said than done, but its truth is still there. Ajax didn’t expect he’d need to move on from the shadow of a future he created with Thoma, yet it doesn’t change the natural order of the things.
The sun has never touched the sea, after all.
He’ll treasure the memories he has with the blond, knows Thoma will do the same with their time together, but they were meant to be, not made to last.