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The wine was bitter tonight.
Dahlia swirled the dark liquid in his cup, watching the candlelight fracture through the amber depths like shards of stained glass from the Cathedral windows. The Angel's Share hummed with its usual evening warmth—murmured conversations, the clink of glasses, the distant strumming of a lyre from some corner where a traveling bard had set up shop. All the familiar comforts of Mondstadt wrapped around him like a well-worn cloak, soft and suffocating in equal measure.
He should have been content.
Should have.
Instead, his fingers tightened around the stem of his glass until the delicate crystal creaked in protest. The muscles in his jaw ached from clenching. His throat burned with words he'd swallowed so many times they'd left scars.
Three months. Three months since he'd last seen that shock of orange hair, since he'd last felt those calloused hands on his skin, since he'd last heard that voice—smooth as silk and sharp as a blade—whisper promises in the dark.
Three months since Ajax had walked out of Mondstadt without looking back.
"Drinking alone, Deacon? How unlike you."
The voice came from behind—smooth as silk, edged with that particular brand of mischief Dahlia had once found endlessly charming, now found agonizing. He didn't turn. He didn't need to. He knew the shape of that shadow, the weight of that presence, the way the air seemed to shift and hunger whenever he entered a room. The hairs on the back of Dahlia's neck stood on end. His heart, that traitorous organ, lurched violently in his chest.
"Ajax." The name left his lips like a prayer he'd long since stopped believing in. Something caught in his throat—a sob, a laugh, a scream—and he swallowed it down with the last dregs of his wine. "I thought you'd left Mondstadt."
"I did." The Harbinger slid into the seat across from him, all easy grace and practiced nonchalance. He moved like water, like wind, like something that had never known how to stay still. His bright orange hair caught the firelight like flames licking at the darkness, and those dull blue eyes—gods, those eyes—fixed on Dahlia with an intensity that made his chest ache and his stomach churn. "But I heard there was an interesting development at the Church. Something about a deacon who's been spending rather a lot of time in taverns lately."
"News travels fast."
"It does when it's you."
Dahlia finally looked at him properly. Tartaglia. Childe. Ajax. All the names he wore like masks, each one a layer of armor that Dahlia had spent years trying to peel back. The man sitting across from him looked exactly as he always did. Sharp. Dangerous. Beautiful in the way a blade was beautiful, all cold edges and the promise of pain. His fair skin was flushed from the cold outside, and there was a faint smudge of something dark on his collar.
Blood, perhaps. Or just dirt. With Ajax, it was always hard to tell. He was always returning from somewhere, always wearing the evidence of violence like a second skin.
"You shouldn't have come back," Dahlia said quietly. His voice was steadier than he felt. A small mercy.
"Shouldn't I?" Ajax leaned forward, his elbows on the table, that predatory smile curving his lips. It was the smile of a man who had never been told no, who had never encountered a door he couldn't break down, who had never met a heart he couldn't—eventually—shatter. "I was under the impression we had unfinished business."
Unfinished business.
Dahlia laughed—a hollow, brittle sound that made the nearest patrons glance their way before quickly looking elsewhere. Even they could sense the tension crackling between them like lightning before a storm. "Is that what you call it? I called it everything. I called it—" He stopped. Pressed his lips together until they went white. Shook his head slowly, deliberately. "It doesn't matter now."
"Doesn't it?"
"No."
Ajax's smile didn't waver, but something flickered behind those eyes—something that might have been hurt, if Dahlia didn't know better. If he didn't know that the man across from him was incapable of feeling anything beyond the thrill of battle and the hunger for conquest. A weapon forged in the Abyss, honed by the Fatui, pointed at whatever target the Tsaritsa deemed worthy of destruction.
And yet.
And yet Dahlia had seen the cracks. He'd seen Ajax fall asleep with his head in Dahlia's lap, his expression soft and young and vulnerable. He'd seen him laugh—really laugh, not that sharp-edged thing he wore like armor—at something stupid Dahlia had said. He'd seen him hesitate at the city gates, a war between duty and desire written in every line of his body.
He'd seen the man beneath the weapon.
And he'd watched that man walk away, over and over and over again.
"Come now, Dahlia." Ajax reached across the table, his fingers brushing against Dahlia's wrist. The touch was electric, familiar, agonizing. Calloused fingertips against soft skin. A ghost of warmth that made Dahlia's breath catch despite everything. "Is this about the last time we spoke? I told you, the mission—"
"You always say that." Dahlia pulled his hand away, cradling his wine glass like a shield between them. The crystal was cold against his palm. He was cold, down to the bone, had been cold since the moment he'd watched Ajax disappear over the horizon. "There's always a mission. Always a reason why you have to leave. Always something more important than—" He stopped again. Swallowed the words that threatened to spill out like poison. "It doesn't matter. I said that already."
Ajax's expression shifted—a crack in that careful facade, a hairline fracture in the porcelain mask. "Dahlia."
"I prayed for you, you know." The confession came out before Dahlia could stop it, tumbling from his lips like water through a broken dam. "Every morning. Every evening. Every single day you were gone, I stood before Barbatos's statue and I begged him to keep you safe. I burned candles until my hands were raw. I sang hymns until my voice gave out. I—" His voice cracked, and he hated himself for it, hated the weakness that made his eyes sting and his hands tremble. "I did everything I could to bring you home."
"Here I am."
"Are you?" Dahlia met his gaze, violet eyes blazing with a pain he'd been holding back for months. Months of waiting. Months of hoping. Months of watching the horizon and seeing nothing. "Because the Ajax I knew—the one who laughed at my jokes and let me drag him to choir practice and stayed when he said he would—he didn't come back. The man sitting across from me is a stranger wearing his face."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Somewhere across the tavern, a glass shattered. Dahlia barely heard it. He could only hear the ragged sound of his own breathing, the frantic beat of his heart, the sickening realization that he was saying everything he'd sworn he'd never say.
Ajax's mask had slipped completely now—that easy confidence replaced by something raw and unguarded. He looked younger like this. More vulnerable. More like the man Dahlia had fallen for, despite every warning his heart had given him. There were shadows under his eyes. A tightness around his mouth. He looked tired, in a way that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion.
"You think I wanted this?" Ajax's voice was low, almost inaudible. His hands, usually so steady, were shaking. "You think I chose to become this?"
"I think you did." Dahlia set down his wine with a click that echoed in the sudden quiet. He stood up, the chair scraping against the wooden floor. The room was spinning slightly, but he didn't care. Couldn't care. "I think every time you walked away, you made that choice. I think every time you chose the mission over me, over us, you carved another piece out of whatever we had. And I—"
He couldn't finish. The words were too heavy, too sharp, too real. They lodged in his throat like broken glass.
"Dahlia—" Ajax rose to his feet, reaching for him.
"Don't." Dahlia stepped back, his hip catching against the table edge. His wine glass wobbled, threatened to fall. "Don't touch me. Don't—" He pressed a hand to his chest, where his Vision rested warm against his skin, pulsing with his heartbeat. "I can't do this anymore. I can't keep waiting for you to come back just to leave again. I can't keep pretending that you'll ever choose me over the Tsaritsa, over the Fatui, over war."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" Dahlia laughed again, but there was nothing funny about it. It was the sound of a man breaking apart at the seams. "Tell me I'm wrong, Ajax. Look me in the eyes and tell me I'm wrong." He took a step forward, his voice rising. "Tell me you'll stay. Tell me you'll give up the blade and the blood and the endless thirst for battle, and I'll—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I'll forget everything. I'll start over. I'll believe you."
Ajax's jaw tightened. His hands, those beautiful, terrible hands that had held Dahlia so gently in the quiet hours of the night, curled into fists at his sides. The knuckles went white. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
"You know I can't do that."
"I know." Dahlia's voice was barely a whisper now, barely human. "That's the worst part."
He turned away. He couldn't look at Ajax anymore—couldn't bear to see the conflict in those dull blue eyes, the war between duty and desire that he'd already lost. Couldn't bear to see the ghost of the man he'd loved, wearing the face of a stranger.
"Goodbye, Ajax."
"Wait—"
But Dahlia was already walking away, his footsteps echoing through the suddenly silent tavern. Everyone was watching. He didn't care. He couldn't bring himself to care about anything except the slow, agonizing tear of his heart splitting in two.
The door swung shut behind him, and the cold night air hit his face like a slap.
He didn't look back. He couldn't. Because if he looked back, he would see the truth—that Ajax's face had crumpled like paper, that the mask had finally shattered, that maybe, just maybe, he'd loved Dahlia too.
But love wasn't enough.
It never was.
.
The wind outside the Angel's Share was cold, but Dahlia barely felt it.
He walked through the empty streets of Mondstadt on autopilot, his feet carrying him past familiar landmarks without conscious thought. The fountain in the plaza, where he and Ajax had once sat side by side, sharing stories of their childhoods. The steps of the Cathedral, where they'd watched the sunrise together, wrapped in each other's arms. The alley behind the Good Hunter, where they'd shared their first kiss—clumsy and unexpected and perfect.
Every corner of this city held a memory of him.
Dahlia pressed a hand to his mouth, stifling the sob that threatened to escape. His shoulders shook. Tears burned in his eyes, hot and shameful, and he let them fall because there was no one here to see.
Three months.
Three months since he'd last seen Ajax. Three months since he'd lain awake at night, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment they'd shared. Three months of convincing himself that this time would be different, that this time Ajax would come back and stay.
And when he'd finally walked through that door, Dahlia had been waiting.
He'd been waiting since the moment Ajax had left.
Stupid. So stupid.
Dahlia sank onto the steps of the Cathedral, his legs giving out beneath him. The stone was cold through his robes, but he didn't move. Couldn't move. He pressed his palms against his eyes and let the tears come, silent and shaking.
All those prayers. All those candles. All those hymns, sung with desperate hope that Barbatos would hear him, would answer him, would bring his love home safe.
And what had it gotten him?
A stranger wearing Ajax's face. A man who looked at him with those dull blue eyes and felt nothing but the pull of duty.
"You think I wanted this?"
No. No, Dahlia didn't think Ajax had wanted to become what he was. But wanting didn't change anything. Wanting didn't undo the choices that had been made, the paths that had been walked, the bridges that had been burned.
"Tell me you'll stay."
The words echoed in his mind, hollow and aching.
"You know I can't do that."
Dahlia laughed through his tears, a broken, bitter sound. Of course he knew. He'd always known. From the very beginning, he'd known that loving Ajax meant loving a man who would never choose him first.
And he'd done it anyway.
Stupid. So, so stupid.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of dandelions and distant rain. Dahlia wrapped his arms around himself, trying to hold himself together, trying to keep the pieces from scattering.
He thought about the first time they'd met. Ajax had been drinking alone in a tavern, a bewildering array of empty bottles laid out before him. Dahlia had approached, drawn by curiosity and something else—some strange pull he couldn't explain. He'd expected a frustrated artist, drowning his sorrows in wine. He'd offered a sympathetic ear, a friendly smile.
Instead, he'd found a warrior. A weapon. A man who wore his danger like a cloak and his loneliness like a wound.
And Dahlia, fool that he was, had fallen anyway.
He thought about the night Ajax had told him the truth. About the Abyss. About the swordswoman. About the darkness that had swallowed him whole and spat him back out, changed in ways he couldn't articulate.
"I'm not a good man, Dahlia."
"I don't care."
"You should."
But Dahlia hadn't cared. He'd seen the cracks in the armor, the fragments of something softer beneath the violence. He'd believed—foolishly, desperately believed—that love could heal those wounds. That love could bring Ajax back from the brink.
Love couldn't do anything. Love couldn't change who Ajax was. Love couldn't compete with the Tsaritsa, the Fatui, the endless hunger for battle that burned in his blood.
Love couldn't make him stay.
Dahlia's chest heaved with a sob he couldn't contain. The tears fell faster now, hot and relentless. He pressed his forehead to his knees and let himself break.
He'd spent so long being strong. So long holding everything together. The Church. The choir. His own shattered heart. He'd stood before the congregation with a smile on his face, leading prayers he no longer believed in, offering comfort he no longer felt.
And now—
Now there was nothing left. No hope to cling to. No prayer to whisper. Just the cold, empty truth that the man he loved would never be his.
Ajax stood in the middle of the tavern, frozen.
The door had swung shut behind Dahlia, and the sound of it had felt like a gunshot. Like something irrevocable. Like the end of a world he hadn't known he was clinging to.
"Dahlia—"
The name came out wrong. Broken. Desperate.
The other patrons were staring at him. He could feel their eyes on his back, their whispered speculation, their judgment. He didn't care. Couldn't bring himself to care about anything except the fact that Dahlia had walked away, and Ajax had let him.
No. Not let. I—
He hadn't done anything. He'd stood there like a statue, like the weapon he was, and watched the only person who'd ever seen past his masks walk out of his life forever.
"Tell me you'll stay."
The words haunted him. Dahlia's voice, breaking on the edge of hope, desperate and raw and so fucking beautiful.
"You know I can't do that."
Ajax's hands were shaking. When had they started shaking? He clenched them into fists, feeling his nails dig into his palms, the sharp pain grounding him in the present.
He was still in the tavern. Still surrounded by staring faces. Still breathing, even though his chest felt like it was caving in.
He needed to move. Needed to follow. Needed to—
But his feet wouldn't obey. His body was frozen, paralyzed by the enormity of what he'd just lost.
Three months.
Three months he'd been away, and all he'd thought about was coming back. Coming home. Seeing Dahlia's face light up when he walked through the door, feeling those arms wrap around him, hearing that laugh—
And instead, he'd found a stranger wearing Dahlia's face. A man with hollow eyes and a broken voice, who looked at Ajax like he was already gone.
"The man sitting across from me is a stranger wearing his face."
The words cut deeper than any blade ever had. Deeper than the Abyss. Deeper than anything Ajax had ever felt in his life.
Because it was true.
He'd become a stranger. He'd let the mission consume him, let the darkness swallow him whole, let himself become the weapon he'd been forged to be. And in doing so, he'd lost the only person who'd ever seen him as something more.
"I prayed for you, you know."
Ajax's knees buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the table, the wood groaning under his weight.
Dahlia had prayed for him. Every morning. Every evening. Burned candles. Sung hymns. Begged Barbatos to keep him safe.
And Ajax had repaid that devotion with absence. With silence. With the cold, hard truth that he would always choose the mission over the man who loved him.
"Tell me you'll stay."
The words were a knife twisting in his chest. He could still see Dahlia's face, could still hear his voice breaking on that last desperate plea.
"I can't."
The answer he'd given. The only answer he could give.
But as Ajax stood there, drowning in the wreckage of his own choices, he wondered—what if he'd said something else? What if he'd told Dahlia the truth?
What if he'd told him that every time he walked away, it felt like tearing out his own heart? What if he'd told him that the mission wasn't a choice, it was a compulsion, a hunger he couldn't control? What if he'd told him that he wanted to stay, wanted it more than anything, but he didn't know how?
Would it have made a difference?
Ajax didn't know. Would never know.
Because he hadn't said any of that. He'd stood there, silent and frozen, and watched Dahlia walk away.
"Goodbye, Ajax."
The finality in those words. The utter, devastating certainty.
Ajax had been in countless battles. Had faced down monsters and gods and enemies beyond counting. He'd stared death in the face more times than he could remember.
But nothing—nothing—had ever hurt as much as hearing Dahlia say goodbye.
"I can't do this anymore."
Ajax staggered toward the door, pushing past the patrons who stared at him with wide eyes. He didn't care about them. Didn't care about anything except getting out, getting air, getting—
The night hit him like a physical force. Cold and sharp and utterly indifferent to his pain.
He stood in the middle of the street, gasping, his hands pressed to his knees.
Where was Dahlia?
He looked around wildly, his eyes scanning the empty streets. Nothing. No sign of that soft pink hair, those violet eyes, that familiar silhouette.
Gone.
Ajax sank to his knees in the middle of the cobblestone street, the cold seeping through his clothes. He didn't care. Couldn't bring himself to care.
Gone. He's gone. He's really gone.
The tears came without warning, hot and shameful. He hadn't cried since he was fourteen years old, since the Abyss had swallowed him and spat him back out, changed forever. He'd thought he'd forgotten how. Thought he'd become something that couldn't cry, couldn't feel, couldn't hurt.
But this—
This was agony. Pure, unrelenting agony.
"I'll forget everything. I'll start over. I'll believe you."
Dahlia had offered him everything. Everything Ajax had ever wanted, everything he'd never dared to hope for. A life. A home. A future.
And Ajax had thrown it away.
Because he was a coward. Because he was broken. Because he'd been forged into something that didn't know how to be anything other than a weapon.
"You think I wanted this?"
No. No, he hadn't wanted it. He'd never wanted any of it—the darkness, the violence, the endless hunger for battle that consumed everything he touched. But wanting didn't change anything. It didn't undo the choices he'd made, the paths he'd walked, the damage he'd done.
"You think I chose to become this?"
Yes. No. I don't know.
Ajax pressed his forehead to the cold cobblestones and let the tears fall. He thought about Dahlia's smile, Dahlia's laugh, Dahlia's voice raised in song. He thought about the way Dahlia had looked at him, like he was something precious, something worth saving.
He'd been wrong.
There was nothing worth saving in Ajax. Nothing but a weapon, a tool, a monster wearing human skin.
"Tell me you'll stay."
I wanted to. I wanted to so badly it hurt.
But he hadn't. Because he couldn't. Because the darkness in him was too deep, too old, too much. Because he didn't know how to be anything other than what he was.
And now Dahlia was gone.
Forever.
Dahlia sat on the Cathedral steps until his tears ran dry.
The night had deepened around him, the stars wheeling overhead in their endless dance. The wind had died down, leaving behind a stillness that felt like mourning.
He should go inside. Should find his bed, his blankets, the comfort of oblivion. Should sleep and wake and pretend that none of this had happened.
But he couldn't move. Couldn't bring himself to do anything except sit here, on the cold stone, and watch the stars.
"Tell me you'll stay."
He'd meant it. Every word. Every desperate plea.
And Ajax had said no.
Of course he'd said no. What else could he have said? He was a Harbinger. A weapon. A man who'd been forged in darkness and baptized in blood. He didn't know how to stay. He only knew how to fight, to leave, to destroy.
And Dahlia had known that. From the very beginning, he'd known.
But he'd loved him anyway.
And that love was the most beautiful, most terrible thing Dahlia had ever experienced. It had lifted him to heights he'd never imagined, given him joy he'd never thought possible. And now it was destroying him, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.
"Goodbye, Ajax."
The words echoed in his mind, hollow and final.
Goodbye.
He'd meant that too. Even though it had felt like tearing out his own heart, he'd meant it.
Because he couldn't do this anymore. Couldn't keep waiting, hoping, aching for something that would never come. Couldn't keep loving a man who would never love him back the way he needed.
But he'd loved you. You know he loved you.
Dahlia shook his head, a bitter smile twisting his lips. Yes. Yes, he'd known. He'd seen it in the way Ajax looked at him, the way he touched him, the way he let himself be vulnerable in the quiet hours of the night. He'd heard it in the way Ajax said his name, like a prayer, like a confession, like a secret he couldn't keep.
But love wasn't enough.
It never was.
Stupid. So stupid. You knew this would happen. You knew from the start.
And yet.
And yet Dahlia had let himself believe. Had let himself hope. Had let himself dream of a future that was never meant to be.
He thought about the letter he'd started writing three months ago, on the night Ajax had left. He'd meant to send it, meant to pour out everything he felt, everything he feared, everything he hoped. But the words had failed him. They always did when it came to Ajax.
I love you. I love you so much it hurts. I love you and I hate you and I don't know how to let you go.
But he'd let him go. Tonight, he'd finally let him go.
And it felt like dying.
Dahlia's hands trembled as he reached into his robes, pulling out the small object he'd been carrying with him since the day Ajax had left. A dandelion seed, preserved between two thin sheets of glass, its delicate structure intact.
"When I come back, I'll stay. I promise."
The promise Ajax had made, the promise he'd broken, the promise Dahlia had clung to like a lifeline.
He'd kept this seed as a symbol of that promise. A reminder that hope existed, that love existed, that something existed beyond the pain.
But hope was poison. Love was poison. And Dahlia had drunk deeply of both.
He opened the glass case, letting the seed fall into his palm. It was so small. So fragile. So easy to crush.
And crush it he did.
The seed disintegrated between his fingers, reduced to dust by the pressure of his grip. He watched the fragments scatter on the wind, carried away into the night.
Goodbye, Ajax.
He let the wind take the dust.
And he let himself break.
Dawn found Dahlia still on the Cathedral steps.
His eyes were red and swollen, his throat raw from crying. His robes were damp with dew, and he was shivering, but he couldn't bring himself to move. Couldn't bring himself to do anything except sit here and wait for the sun to rise.
Maybe Barbatos would answer him today. Maybe the wind would carry an answer, some sign that everything would be okay.
But Dahlia knew better. Knew that the wind was just wind, and the gods were just stories, and no amount of prayer would bring Ajax back.
"I prayed for you, you know."
He had. Every day. Every night. And what had it gotten him?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
The sun crept over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink. Dahlia watched it, numb, hollow, empty.
He didn't know what to do now. Didn't know how to fill the hours, the days, the weeks that stretched ahead of him like an endless void.
The Church would need him. The choir would need him. The people of Mondstadt would need him.
But Dahlia didn't know if he had anything left to give.
He pressed a hand to his chest, where his Vision pulsed faintly. The hydro symbol glowed, responding to his pain, his grief, his despair.
"The wind is free, Dahlia. It can't be held. It can't be kept. It can only be felt, cherished, and let go."
Barbatos's words, whispered on the wind one night when Dahlia had been at his lowest. He'd taken them as comfort then. As wisdom. As a sign that everything would work out.
But now—
Now they just felt like another lie.
You can't hold the wind. You can't keep it. It'll always slip through your fingers.
Just like Ajax.
Dahlia laughed, a broken, bitter sound. The irony was almost too much to bear. He'd devoted his life to the Anemo Archon, the god of freedom, the god of the wind. And in doing so, he'd fallen in love with a man who embodied everything the wind represented—elusive, untouchable, impossible to hold.
"I'm not a good man, Dahlia."
"I don't care."
But Dahlia should have cared. Should have known that loving Ajax meant loving a man who would never stay. Should have protected his heart, guarded his soul, kept himself safe.
Instead, he'd opened himself up completely. Given everything. And now he had nothing left.
Nothing.
The sun rose higher, chasing away the shadows of the night. Dahlia watched it, feeling nothing. Not hope. Not despair. Just... emptiness.
This was what it felt like to let go.
This was what it felt like to die…
.
Ajax found him on the Cathedral steps.
Dahlia was sitting in the morning light, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his expression utterly blank. He looked like he'd been hollowed out, like everything that had made him him had been scooped away, leaving only an empty shell.
"Dahlia."
The name came out rough, broken. Ajax had spent the entire night searching, combing the streets of Mondstadt, calling out into the darkness. And now—
Now he'd found him.
Dahlia didn't react. Didn't look at him. Didn't acknowledge his presence at all.
Ajax's heart clenched. He dropped to his knees in front of Dahlia, his hands reaching out to cup his face, to tilt it toward him.
"Dahlia, look at me."
Slowly, so slowly, Dahlia's violet eyes focused on his face. There was no recognition there. No warmth. No anything.
Just emptiness.
"I can't do this anymore," Dahlia whispered, repeating the words he'd spoken in the tavern. "I can't—"
"I know." Ajax's voice cracked. "I know, Dahlia. I know. But I—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "I can't let you go. I can't. I won't."
"Then stay."
The words were soft, almost inaudible. A whisper of hope, fading even as it left Dahlia's lips.
Ajax's hands trembled against Dahlia's cheeks. He wanted to say yes. Wanted to promise forever, to give Dahlia everything he'd ever wanted, to be the man Dahlia deserved.
But he couldn't. He was what he was. And Dahlia deserved better.
"Please," Dahlia begged, his voice breaking on the word. "Please, Ajax. Stay. Stay."
"I can't."
"Then go." Dahlia pulled away, his eyes shuttering. "Go back to your mission. Go back to your war. Go back to—"
"I want to stay."
Ajax's voice was raw, desperate, stripped of every mask he'd ever worn. He reached for Dahlia again, his hands gripping his shoulders, holding on like he was drowning.
"I want to stay. I want to wake up next to you. I want to hear you sing. I want to—" He choked on the words, tears spilling down his cheeks. "I want to be the man you see when you look at me. But I don't know how. I don't know if I can."
Dahlia stared at him, his eyes wide and wounded. "Then learn. Try. For me."
"I'm trying." Ajax's voice broke. "I've been trying. Every day, every mission, every moment I'm away from you, I'm tryingto find my way back. But I don't know if I can. I don't know if there's anything left to save."
"There is." Dahlia reached up, his fingers brushing against Ajax's cheek. The touch was feather-light, tentative, as if he was afraid Ajax would shatter. "There's always something left. As long as you're breathing, as long as you're trying, there's something left."
Ajax's breath caught. He leaned into Dahlia's touch, his eyes closing. "I don't deserve you."
"Probably not." Dahlia's voice was soft, sad, tinged with a humor that didn't quite reach his eyes. "But I love you anyway. I've always loved you. And I don't think I can stop."
"Don't." Ajax's voice was fierce, desperate. "Don't stop. Please. Even if I don't deserve it. Even if I can't—"
He couldn't finish. The words wouldn't come.
Dahlia looked at him, truly looked at him, and something in his expression shifted. Not forgiveness—not yet—but something that might become it.
"I won't wait forever," Dahlia said quietly. "I can't. It's killing me, Ajax. Waiting. Hoping. Loving you and never knowing if you'll come back."
"I know." Ajax's hands tightened on Dahlia's shoulders. "I know. And I can't promise I'll stay. But I can promise—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "I can promise to try. To come back. To choose you, even when it's hard. Even when the mission calls. Even when—"
Dahlia pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "Stop talking."
Ajax fell silent, his eyes wide and uncertain.
Dahlia leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Ajax's. Their breaths mingled, warm and alive. "Just stay with me. Tonight. Right now. Stay with me, and don't think about the mission, or the Fatui, or anything else. Just... stay."
"Okay." Ajax's voice was barely a whisper. "Okay."
And for the first time in three months, Dahlia smiled. It was small and fragile and utterly beautiful.
"Good."
They sat on the Cathedral steps until the sun was fully risen, side by side, shoulders touching.
No words were spoken. None were needed.
Dahlia leaned his head against Ajax's shoulder, and Ajax wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. The warmth was familiar, comforting, right.
This was what he'd been missing. This. Just this.
"I'm going to write to you," Ajax said quietly. "Every day. Letters. I'll send them with the couriers, and you'll write back, and we'll—"
Dahlia laughed softly. "You? Write letters?"
"Shut up." Ajax's cheeks flushed. "I can write. I just... choose not to."
"You choose not to do a lot of things."
"Like what?"
"Like stay."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and fragile. Ajax's arm tightened around Dahlia's shoulders.
"I'll learn," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I'll learn to stay. One day. I promise."
Dahlia didn't answer. He just closed his eyes and let himself believe.
(Extra)
Three weeks later, Dahlia received a letter.
It was crumpled and stained, written on cheap paper in a hand that was clearly unused to writing. The words were simple, halting, impossible.
Dahlia,
I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't be what you need. I'm sorry I'm broken. I'm sorry I'm not enough.
I thought I could learn to stay. I thought I could be the man you deserve. But the mission came calling, and I went. I always go. It's what I am. What I was made to be.
I love you. I love you more than I've ever loved anything. And that's why I have to let you go.
You were right. Love isn't enough. Not for someone like me.
Goodbye, Dahlia.
Dahlia read the letter three times.
Then he set it down, very carefully, and walked to the Cathedral.
He stood before Barbatos's statue, his hands clasped, his eyes closed.
And for the first time in months, he didn't pray.
He just let himself feel.
The wind took the letter from his hand, carrying it away into the sky.
And Dahlia—
Dahlia let it go.
.
He never heard from Ajax again.
But sometimes, when the wind blew just right, he could almost hear a voice on the breeze—a voice that sounded like a prayer, a confession, a love letter never sent.
And he would smile, just a little, and let the wind take it all away.
Because that was what the wind did.
It took everything.
And left nothing behind.