my rock, my shield

love like the spring

Tartaglia and Morax share tea in Jueyun Karst.

--

Morax does not mean to invite him to sit for a snack.

The words flow from his mouth like the tide, unerring and unable to be stopped. "Why don't you stay for some tea," he asks as if the man is another courtier and not a deadly Harbinger on loan. Tartaglia has more than proven himself useful, he's become a somewhat friend in his months spent in Morax's court.

They are friendly, chattering about in stolen moments together and though Morax's heart may swell in those times spent alone, he hasn't been so brazen with his attention.

Tartaglia's mouth falls open in surprise. "I..." Nervousness? Morax can smell the acrid stain of it in Tartaglia's scent. This is a man who has yet to show fear, but here he titters, shuffling about on anxious feet.

"It is fine if you do not wish to—"

"No." Tartaglia blurts it in a rush. Then his face pinks. He rubs his chin and sighs. "Do you often invite others to share tea with you?"

Morax's face wrinkles as he smiles. "No."

"Then why..." Tartaglia trails off. "I mean, I think I know why. Lord Morax, I—"

"Must you think about it so critically? Tartaglia, sit."

And so he does, folding himself into the small seat at the stone table. "Isn't this garden meant for—"

"Jueyun Karst is meant for whomever I bring here." Morax knows that his fellow adepti might have words for him later, but it's not as though they can do much; he is their god, not the other way around. He chuckles at the thought. "Tell me if anyone gives you trouble over it."

Tartaglia's expression eases and turns sly. "Would you seal them beneath the ground?"

"I cannot confirm nor deny the course of my potential actions."

Tartaglia laughs then, and like that, the air is less tense. Morax lifts an arm and pulls his sleeve hem back, revealing a slip of wrist. He adds tea leaves to a cup, a bitter blend that Tartaglia probably will not like. His fingers curl around the handle of the ceramic teapot that sits over a small flame.

"Shouldn't I be the one serving you?" asks Tartaglia quietly.

Likely. Yes. There are many rules of prosperity when it comes to the court, and Morax's chest bleeds with affection for all the research his sweet knight has done. "I will, and always have, do as I wish."

He pours out the near-boiling water and tells Tartaglia to wait several minutes. Meanwhile, they sit in the garden where the ginkgo trees rustle, birds chirp, and Xiao stands irritated twenty paces away.

"Lord Morax—"

"Please call me Zhongli." Tartaglia's face twists in confusion. "Ah. It is a casual name that I have chosen for myself. In moments like this, away from others, I would prefer that you use it."

"Only in private," Tartaglia clarifies. "Just for the two of us."

Tartaglia does something that Morax doesn't expect: he smiles, wide and genuine, like a flower blooming in the spring, thawed after a long Snezhnayan winter. He looks warm and affectionate, and when he turns that gaze onto Morax's face, Morax's heart goes thump-thump in double time.

Only once before has he felt like this, eons ago before war wasted what family he had and karma festered in the land. And it isn't that he thought himself incapable of such a feeling again, but it comes as a shock all the same. Love. Full and effervescent, crawling through his being. Morax watches Childe as he sits there and smiles, curling those calloused fingers around his cup of tea.

"Ajax," he says then. "My real name. Katya is the only person who calls me that nowadays."

Oh, he's been given a gift. Tartaglia heaves a shaky breath and Morax realizes that this is dangerous information, the sort that can easily be used against him if Morax saw fit. His name is given freely, though, an olive branch of trust, a mutual understanding that this is, perhaps, not so one-sided.

Morax reaches out, grasping at Tartaglia's wrist. Gentle and light-handed, soft like a breeze; he smooths the pad of his thumb over the bone there. Then, across the ridge of his knuckles before tugging Tartaglia's hand to his mouth for a kiss.

Tartaglia lets him nuzzle his hand, and Morax is all the warmer for it.