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106 » in the middle of the autumn i'd tell you
[They meet every week. Which is a funny state of affairs, for a traveler who claims to hate the Fatui, and a Harbinger who ostensibly ought to have other things to do — but they meet every week in the Golden House to fight, clashing like steel on steel, snarling like beasts. They show each other no mercy save for the fact that they usually try not to kill each other.
They leave the stone tiles wet with water and blood, but it's always cleaned up without incident, week after week. For some reason, Ningguang hasn't seen fit to resume the mint's normal activities, even though she clearly has staff on the premises. Privately, Aether suspects that she already knows what he uses it for, and has politely decided to turn a blind eye to it as a means of settling her debts to him. It'd be the only recompense he's willing to accept. It's just the sort of thing she would do.
For Childe, maybe, these meetings are just fun. Aether, for his part, is running an experiment, one where his own treacherous instincts are the subject. He hasn't quite managed to get himself to a point where he can swap between Anemo and Geo at will, but it's easier to try when adrenaline is racing through his veins, and he's angry, and he can tell Childe is sneering at him past the red mask.
Not that he's pushed the Harbinger to the point of using his Delusion just yet. The traveler's doing well, for the most part; he's parrying Childe's knives and lances blow for blow, meeting every Hydro-infused edge with the cold starlit iron of his sword. Aether never stays on his back foot for long; one sweep of his blade takes him into a counterattack, which Childe evades, falling backward like a dancer, his coat fluttering open, all well-defined muscle underneath his jacket, obliques twisting like cords, flexing with the movement —
Aether's mind goes so absolutely blank that he doesn't react to the counterblow that catches him under his ribs and sweeps him clear across the floor.
Right.
Not the time to get distracted.
Aether hits a marble column with his shoulder, hard, but it's nothing he won't recover from; he'd hardly make a proper "playmate" for Childe if one hit or two was enough to shatter him. Worse than the pain is the embarrassment, actually. He's hoping his face isn't as pink as it feels. Without even waiting for Childe's response, his mind is already supplying its own: the mocking way he always says Something else catch your eye? like he knows...]
...I — [he coughs, staggers to his feet] — had a lapse in judgment.
[And you'd better not say a godsdamned thing about it goes unsaid.]
They leave the stone tiles wet with water and blood, but it's always cleaned up without incident, week after week. For some reason, Ningguang hasn't seen fit to resume the mint's normal activities, even though she clearly has staff on the premises. Privately, Aether suspects that she already knows what he uses it for, and has politely decided to turn a blind eye to it as a means of settling her debts to him. It'd be the only recompense he's willing to accept. It's just the sort of thing she would do.
For Childe, maybe, these meetings are just fun. Aether, for his part, is running an experiment, one where his own treacherous instincts are the subject. He hasn't quite managed to get himself to a point where he can swap between Anemo and Geo at will, but it's easier to try when adrenaline is racing through his veins, and he's angry, and he can tell Childe is sneering at him past the red mask.
Not that he's pushed the Harbinger to the point of using his Delusion just yet. The traveler's doing well, for the most part; he's parrying Childe's knives and lances blow for blow, meeting every Hydro-infused edge with the cold starlit iron of his sword. Aether never stays on his back foot for long; one sweep of his blade takes him into a counterattack, which Childe evades, falling backward like a dancer, his coat fluttering open, all well-defined muscle underneath his jacket, obliques twisting like cords, flexing with the movement —
Aether's mind goes so absolutely blank that he doesn't react to the counterblow that catches him under his ribs and sweeps him clear across the floor.
Right.
Not the time to get distracted.
Aether hits a marble column with his shoulder, hard, but it's nothing he won't recover from; he'd hardly make a proper "playmate" for Childe if one hit or two was enough to shatter him. Worse than the pain is the embarrassment, actually. He's hoping his face isn't as pink as it feels. Without even waiting for Childe's response, his mind is already supplying its own: the mocking way he always says Something else catch your eye? like he knows...]
...I — [he coughs, staggers to his feet] — had a lapse in judgment.
[And you'd better not say a godsdamned thing about it goes unsaid.]
no subject
first blood he's drawn all night. small victories. sweet-faced aether, with eyes like sunlit honey, is a dangerously quick learner and proper challenge, and each week yields a more difficult opponent, who recognizes childe's footwork and small tells that make his hits all the easier to counter. that small pause was the only easy opening he's had in nearly a month, maybe, a fumbling misstep punished swiftly with the sharp edge of childe's blade.
he tuts, disapproving. )
Oh, is that what that was? ( equal parts condescending and teasing, as he leisurely inspects his knife then fixes aether with an appraising look through his lashes, hidden under the mask. ) Not like you to be so careless.
( too careless and too obvious to be a baiting trap, frozen there like a willing lamb for the slaughter. childe waits, occasionally respectful, as aether rolls to his feet with a winded groan, cocking his hip into a stone lamp. they've only just started, too early for childe to pull on his delusion to up the ante, but he's already itching for it, restlessly twitching fingers twirling his knife by the hilt.
aether receives a complimentary five and a half seconds to catch his breath before childe launches the knife from his hand toward him. the blade hits the pillar over his shoulder, clattering to the ground and exploding in a harmless splash of water.
he lifts the mask, catching his thumb between his teeth and sucking aether's blood from buttery-soft leather. )
If you're lacking stamina, I can always go easy on you.
( that's a fucking lie. )
no subject
Shaking the heat from his face, the traveler adjusts his grip on the hilt of his blade, gritting his teeth and setting his jaw. His shoulder smarts, but not to the point that it'll affect his movements. He's good. He's fine. Or at least, he'll tell himself that, if only because the thought of surrendering to the smarmy smirk beneath Childe's mask is just too irritating to contemplate.]
It's not cute to make promises you won't keep.
[That's all the warning Childe gets before Aether lifts one arm into the air and lets it drop — bringing a stone meteor crashing down with the flick of his wrist. He's improved; it might catch Childe off-guard. The Fatui's Eleventh probably knows the effective range of Aether's starfall attacks, but this crosses a surprising distance, one much farther than he's ever tried to throw it before, and —
— and the meteor itself is just a distraction, a feint. He didn't really think that he would hurt Childe with it. When all the dust and stray Geo particles have cleared, the traveler is mid-stride to Childe's right, bringing his sword up toward the man's vulnerable side.
There's no snarky quip, no witty comeback — Aether's chatty enough when he's not occupied, but in the heat of battle, he's silent as a blade in the dead of the night. But then, isn't that what Childe likes about him?]