my rock, my shield

wanton

Morax kisses Tartaglia over tea.

--

Tartaglia smiles at him and Morax's heart skips a beat.

They are in his garden and sharing tea. Tartaglia's calloused fingers curl around his cup gingerly as Morax imparts the history of the tea set—a work of art crafted by his very hands. "All that work for something so rarely used." Tartaglia laughs as he lifts it to his face for a better view.

"It is nothing so frivolous," replies Morax with a huff. "This is merely a set of two, made to be shared. And since I typically have my tea alone—ah. Well, not as of late, which is why I..." He waves to the ancient tea set that sits on the tray before them.

Tartaglia drags a thumb around the rim of the ceramic. He looks contemplative. "Seems lonely."

"I'm..." Morax does not know how to explain. "I think that, perhaps, I perceive loneliness differently than you do. I have lived for thousands of years and loss is almost a dear friend of mine, this day and age. I blink and it isn't a year that has passed by, it is a century, and yet I am no worse for wear."

Morax falls quiet then, looking at his reflection in the amber hue of his tea. "However, despite this, there are a select few that were if they to... leave me, I fear that I would not be the same in their absence."

Tartaglia slides across their shared bench, pressing closer to him. "I—"

"You are one of them," says Morax then, his gaze tipping up to meet Tartaglia's face. It is a bold claim, one that he shouldn't make, that tips the scales in his direction in a way that the Tsaritsa will not like. But Morax is not stupid. He sees Tartaglia for who he is and what he feels, and frankly, it's as clear as day that they share this sentiment.

All their stolen moments together, their shared, sweet words, brushing of fingers, leaning just a little too close—these are the things that have worn Morax down. He wants because as serene as he is there still is a dragon that lurks in his breast who covets.

Tartaglia wets his lips as he thinks of a reply. "Zhongli, I—"

Morax reaches out to catch his wrist. Tartaglia looks at his thumb where it traces the vein there. Morax can feel his pulse and hear how it speeds up. "I wish to be honest with you."

"And what is it that you want?"

For the first time in a very long time, Morax feels selfish. Want burns in his chest, a visceral need to indulge. He leans closer and brushes his knuckles against the freckles on Tartaglia's cheek. "I would like to kiss you." His voice is quiet, even though there is no one else to hear. "If you are amenable to that, of course."

"If I'm—" Tartaglia hides a laugh behind his palm. "Why do you have to sound so... Zhongli, that is not the way to seduce a man."

Morax raises his eyebrows. Amusement creases his eyes "I didn't realize we were moving so fast."

"Gods, you're—"

Morax yanks Tartaglia close by his wrist, a rare show of his true strength. He closes the distance, mouth sealing over Tartaglia's, his free hand cradling his cheek. Tartaglia stills, surprised, but then leans into it, fingers curling into the soft silk of Morax's clothing.

It is not particularly passionate—it isn't even that good. Tartaglia is a little too eager and Morax a little too out of practice. They knock noses and teeth. Morax chuckles slightly as he tries to guide Tartaglia into slowing down and finding a rhythm.

The kiss works, though. Despite the ups and downs of figuring out how to move against each other, their mutual want leads the way effortlessly. They lose track of time as they fall into each other, lips eventually settling on a lazy tempo. And there they stay, chasing that youthful sort of pleasure, chaste and lighthearted as the tea beside them goes cold.