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Tartaglia finds him as he once had many months ago: in a lone pavilion amidst a sea of night-blooming glaze lilies, their silent, lucent beauty only surpassed by Zhongli’s own. Where the moonlight touches, Zhongli glows—as serene as the unmoving mountains, as unsullied as winter snow. Tartaglia looks at him and feels the weight of long weeks of travel lift from his shoulders.
“Ajax?”
Nearly five years have passed from the moment of their first meeting in this very spot to their reunion tonight. Tartaglia of conquering tides came to Liyue under the banner of peacetime diplomacy; he saw, with his own eyes, their golden emperor’s strength and humility; and with Her Majesty’s blessing, by the turn of the year he bent his knee to the Dragon Throne and declared his intent to court Yanwang Dijun and face the trials of the adepti.
Since then, he has passed three trials of ludicrous difficulty set forth by Yanwang Dijun’s most trusted adeptus generals and advisors. He has ridden away with Zhongli’s small, private smile imprinted on the backs of his eyelids and returned, victorious, to Zhongli’s quiet delight. He has succeeded once. Twice. And now has succeeded for the third and final time.
“Did you miss me?” Tartaglia tries for rakish and lands on something far fonder. Even the uncertain light of the pavilion lanterns cannot hide the look in his eyes. Warmth, certainly. Affection, too, that he does not make an effort to hide.
“I did,” Zhongli returns easily. Golden eyes meet his own and Tartaglia’s breath catches in his throat at the molten intensity he finds there. He has yet to ascend the steps of the pavilion, yet the air between them already feels charged, breathless—the anticipatory moment before the cresting of a tidal wave.
Zhongli rises from his spot at the low table. Instead of the guqin Tartaglia had caught him playing during that fateful first night, there is a beautiful ceramic tea set arranged on a bamboo mat. Zhongli descends the few steps separating them and comes to a stop before Tartaglia’s unmoving form.
Like this, face to face, Zhongli is only a few scant centimeters shorter than him. Tartaglia is still in his heavy winter cloak and riding leathers—he’d barely had enough time to freshen up before answering Zhongli’s summons. Before his rough-shod appearance, Zhongli is only ever more elegant. Flowing layers of golden silk accentuate his graceful figure and bearing. Zhongli reaches to take his hand and his sleeve slides up to expose the smooth, jadeite skin of his wrist.
“Ajax. You have traveled far tonight; you must be weary. Allow this one to soothe your spirits with a cup of tea.”
Even a warrior of the greatest will and most indomitable spirit could not resist such an entreaty. Tartaglia follows Zhongli up the steps, heart suddenly pounding. Zhongli’s hand is light upon his own gloved one. Tartaglia thinks distantly of the day he will get to feel Zhongli’s bare skin against his own; to touch, to explore at his leisure.
(That day is near. It is no longer a dream, he reminds himself. It will come, and when it does, he will savor it as he has savored every other part of Zhongli that he has been granted the privilege of loving.)
Tartaglia watches in silence as Zhongli goes through the motions of the first few steps of Liyue’s traditional tea ceremony. As the Emperor of Liyue, Zhongli would never be the one to serve tea to another—yet here he is tonight, hands steady as he rinses the cups and measures out the tea leaves.
Zhongli doesn’t need to speak for Tartaglia to understand the implication.
As you are mine, I am yours: your lover and your equal.
Zhongli rinses the tea leaves with a practiced motion of the hand, pouring the hot water into the same short ceramic vase he’d discarded the hot water he’d used to rinse the teacups with. His face is as serene as ever—yet in the purse of his lips and the gravity of his gaze, Tartaglia can see hints of his concentration on the task at hand. Tartaglia can’t help a foolish smile from spreading across his face. Zhongli cares so much for him. It is unfairly, helplessly endearing. He breaks the silence before his affection can grow feathers and wings and smother him whole.
“No lecture for me today? You’re usually more talkative than this.”
Zhongli’s amber eyes flick towards him briefly before he refocuses on the task at hand. “...Have you ever tried this tea blend before, Tartaglia?”
Accustomed to Zhongli’s non-sequiturs, Tartaglia takes a closer look at the leaves. They’re the ones he had brought before the imperial court for inspection only hours prior—the very leaves he had cultivated, harvested, and dried by moonlight, following the movements of the stars and the clues buried in ancient poems he’d painstakingly unearthed and studied for weeks. These leaves are the fruits of his success in the third and final trial for Yanwang Dijun’s hand in marriage.
“I haven’t,” Tartaglia admits. “Truth be told, it would surprise me if anyone’s tasted it before. I can’t imagine anyone going to such lengths to regularly harvest it—unless there’s an easier method than the one I used,” he adds wryly. “Have you?”
Zhongli finishes heating the teacups and discards the hot water once more before meeting Tartaglia’s eyes. Quietly, he says, “There is no easier method to harvest and dry these leaves, and the plant itself withers without producing seeds. There has never been one before us that has tasted this blend, and there will never come one after us. It is only for the enjoyment of Yanwang Dijun, and the one that wins his heart.”
Oh.
Oh.
Suddenly Tartaglia’s heart is racing. Suddenly, he is breathless, unable to think through the overwhelming love spreading through his body with every beat of his red, mortal heart. It suffuses him, swallows him whole with its ferocity.
“So I’ve truly won your heart, then,” he says, pulse thrumming too loudly in his veins to manage anything else. He makes an attempt at teasing, at levity; but it comes out soft. Wondrous. Almost disbelieving—that darkest, most doubtful corner of his heart slipping its cobweb uncertainty into his voice.
The answering intensity in Zhongli’s voice knocks Tartaglia’s world askew. “Ajax. Of course you have. You have won my heart in every way—in all the ones that matter and all the ones that none but myself care to know. You won my heart the day you came to me with that second bowl of soup; and you have kept it every day since.”
Years. Tartaglia had noticed Zhongli’s barely-disguised aversion to the seafood in the soup he’d made him, and remade it and brought him a new bowl the next day, years ago. Zhongli has been sure about him for—so long. He had been sure even before Tartaglia began courting him formally.
“I treasure you most ardently. You must know how dearly I cherish the time we spend together, and how I yearn for your presence when you are away. I–” Zhongli breath catches. “I could not imagine loving, and wedding, anyone but you.”
Released by Zhongli’s surety, Tartaglia’s love rushes forth from the last bonds of hesitance holding it back. He reaches across the table to lace their fingers together. “And I, you. Zhongli,” he clears his throat, voice made rough with emotion, “I lack the words to tell you how much I adore you. But I do. I do. I’m lucky enough to have been allowed to know and love you. To receive your love in return remains the greatest of gifts bestowed upon me.”
Zhongli’s gaze softens. “It is this one who should be speaking those words.”
“Hm. Looks like I beat you to it.” Tartaglia grins at him, enamored. He glances down at the table, only just remembering the tea Zhongli had brewed for them. “Shall we–?” He releases Zhongli’s hand.
Zhongli hums in assent. “Allow me.”
The tea— their tea—is perfectly steeped. It is light yet earthy, and slightly sweet, carrying the aroma of the qingxin Tartaglia had infused it with but none of its bitterness. Tartaglia closes his eyes and revels in its exquisite smoothness. This cup of tea, prepared by Yanwang Dijun himself, marks the beginning of the rest of their lives together.
“Do you like it?”
Tartaglia opens his eyes to find Zhongli already smiling at him. The urge to kiss him rises unbidden, but, conscious of how inappropriate it would be before their wedding night, Tartaglia settles for taking Zhongli’s hand in his own and dropping a lingering kiss on his knuckles.
“I do.” He lets go of Zhongli’s hand, meeting half-lidded eyes with a growing smirk. “And you? Did you like it, dusha moya?”
“...I enjoyed it very much. But I think I would like another taste,” Zhongli murmurs. Tartaglia suddenly finds himself pulled forwards by the lapels of his cloak. “You’ll have to forgive the impropriety,” Zhongli continues, the words intimate in the shared space of their breaths—and then he presses his lips to Tartaglia’s own and there is no more speaking at all.