They come and go as Celestia bids them.
It is frustrating. Morax's old heart isn't sure how much longer he can take the coming and going. Meeting in darkened hallways and the cover of their private rooms is no longer enough. He has two sides; the gentle qilin who knows unwavering patience like water that licks the shore after waiting for its tide to rise, and the dragon who wishes to claim wholly and fully, to never be separated.
Tartaglia is his; not Celestia's, or even Snezhnaya's, but Morax's alone. He is an Archon that has come to bend his knee to another, loyalty forged in the quietness of their shared time. Over tea, through reading books, gentle caresses and long baths, and brushing out hair—Tartaglia has made himself a space in his life. And Morax—he may wear Liyue upon his shoulders but it is Ajax who fills his heart, who brings him life, who gives him a purpose.
Eons have passed since they first met. For such a long time so little of it has been spent in each other's arms. They make the most of it; reading, watching the fire, eating until they burst at the seams, and making love in the bedsheets.
It is not enough. It will never be enough, but there is nothing to be done under the watchful eye of Celestia. And so they steal their time and whisper their love. Ghostly touches in dark corners and hands underneath the table.
"We have our duties." Morax said it, not Tartaglia. Tartaglia is the one full of youthful wonder and idealism that maybe they can one day have their own lives.
The last time they parted had been painful. More so than most because as the years crawl by they fall deeper in love and leaving each other becomes more and more difficult. Tartaglia held Morax's hand until they couldn't anymore, fingers tangled together until they were back on solid earth. They lingered at the docks. Morax didn't want Tartaglia to board that boat and he damn near went with him.
"You have to stay," said Tartaglia. His grip on Morax's shoulders was strong enough to keep him rooted to the ground. "Besides, you hate the water."
Morax hates the sky too, and his connection to the earth, but he weathers it for selfish reasons. They are not so typically careless but they were then. Tartaglia kissed his brow in public, fingers curled into Morax's hair, unwilling to let go.
They separated when Miss Ekaterina cleared her throat loudly, causing Tartaglia to pull away with a boyish grin. It was then that Morax kissed him. Properly, fingers curled into Tartaglia's shirt as Morax pulled him closed and tried to sweep him off his feet. They may have never fooled Miss Ekaterina but they never express their relationship so brazenly, stealing their moments away from prying eyes instead.
She had to pull Tartaglia with a tug on his sleeve. "Sir."
"Right, right—" Tartaglia didn't look at her, he just walked blindly towards the ship, his blue eyes trained on Morax's face the entire way.
It has been several decades since their last parting. "Celestia, I've missed you," says Tartaglia as he pulls Morax close in a shadowed corner of a corridor.
"Tartaglia," says Morax quietly, "we aren't in our rooms yet. We—"
"Just a moment." Tartaglia presses their foreheads together. "I couldn't wait. I—I just need this moment, please."
Morax sighs and cups Tartaglia's cheeks, smoothing his thumbs over the rise of them. "Of course, my love." It's quiet enough that others won't hear save Celestia herself, but it's not as if she doesn't know.
They just stand there like that, relishing the closeness, the feel of each other. Tartaglia smells like the ocean, a sweet and salty brine, and like the snow, crisp and fresh pine. Morax loses himself for a moment as he drowns in it, nostrils flaring, urges welling in his chest.
Tartaglia laughs, already knowing. "Katya is keeping an eye out but she'll leave if we get too frisky over here. And trust me, she'll know."
Morax laughs then, pulling away slightly. Tartaglia grins and then steals a kiss, a quick peck of his lips that leaves Morax wanting. Unfair, it is unfair. But Morax is patient. He is about to sweep forward for another when Miss Ekaterina's voice floats around the corner.
"Sirs."
Tartaglia sighs, his head hanging. "Damn it all," he murmurs. "If I had my choice, I'd take you right here."
"Isn't it more fun to wait?"
"No."
Morax laughs and pulls away. "Impatient. I've always liked that about you. Later, Tartaglia. We'll retire to our rooms and wear ourselves out."
It is always what he says and never what they do.
They pick Morax's chambers and the moment the door is shut, Tartaglia is on him. Heated and desperate, nothing but clashing teeth, nails digging into the skin, and Tartaglia's throat tight around Morax's cock as he gags on it. Too much, too much,
And yet not enough, thinks Morax as his fingers pull on Tartaglia's hair, and his other hand cups his throat, feeling the way his cock makes it bulge. Divine. Truly, utterly divine, like the gods they are. So perfect. So, so perfect.
Tartaglia bends Morax over the back of the couch right there, too needy to take it somewhere more comfortable. Morax eases onto his cock until he can feel it in his throat. Tartaglia holds him with a too-tight grip and fucks him with heavy thrusts that leave Morax's thighs quaking. He's full, so utterly full, drunk on the feel of Tartaglia's cock in his ass. Morax doesn't even come then, nor does he care; he just moans as Tartaglia spends himself deep, and sighs when his cock slips out, come dripping down the insides of his thighs.
It is later that Tartaglia takes his time, making love to Morax in silk sheets until he sees stars, not the candles in their room. This is where the sweet-nothings start, where Tartaglia becomes Ajax instead and whispers praises into Zhongli's ears until he's crying from overstimulation and how much he's missed his love.
Always parting and coming back together. Morax is tired of it.
"What are you thinking about?"
It is later in the night when Tartaglia asks—late enough that Morax has nodded off into a restful doze. "Hm? Nothing."
Tartaglia's cheek is cradled by Morax's pillow because he insists on being close enough to share it. "I know that look," he says. There is no judgment, just honest curiosity. Tartaglia waits for him to answer with the patience of Celestia herself, something that he reserves for Morax alone.
"Marry me," says Morax, unable to stop the request.
Tartaglia blinks.
Morax then panics. "I—that is to say. Ajax—"
"Wait, I'm not… Just… explain?"
"Every time that we part you take a piece of me with you. And it isn't that I need a reminder, Ajax. I don't. I just… It is the oldest of contracts. And I am the god of contracts. Ajax, this is something that I would like to share with you."
Tartaglia looks at him with such love that Morax's heart nearly bursts. He rolls over him, pressed between Morax's sore hips, nuzzling that soft spot underneath his jaw. "Laogong," he says then, the foreign word tumbling from his mouth. "You called me that the last time we were together. I had Katya look it up and I've been practicing saying it."
It is divine to be called such a thing so sincerely. Morax brushes Tartaglia's auburn hair back, petting it. "Laogong," he repeats, testing the word on his tongue. It is perfect. Morax has dreamt of this and has weighed the possibility of Tartaglia sharing everything; his name, his title, his mark.
Tartaglia kisses him, slowly, sweetly. His tongue slips between his lips and that's all Morax needs. This, him, everything in between. These stolen moments would mean more and the pain would ache less if they were tied together.
His home is Liyue, but his heart is here, pressed into this bed with Tartaglia humming words of praise and love right into it. The heart of a god is a fickle thing. Morax is a fickle thing too, but if Tartaglia wants him just as he is, who is this old dragon to deny?
"Is there another sort of claim?" Tartaglia's breath is warm against his ear. "Something older, more powerful than marriage?"
"Mates. A claim to not be taken lightly. Everyone would know, Tartaglia." He feels Tartaglia grin against his neck. Morax curls his fingers into the hair at his nape and tugs Tartaglia's face back. "But you'd like that, wouldn't you?"
Tartagalia could laugh. He could give Zhongli that rascal-like grin, he could be an absolute rapscallion if he wanted to be but, instead, he just sighs and leans close. "Both then," he says. "As if we aren't an open secret. We should be husbands and mates, two claims that will have the Court of Seven talking for eons to come."
It is Morax who laughs in genuine delight. And he keeps laughing as Tartaglia kisses him languidly, Morax losing himself to dreams of the future, of what-nots and will-they's, and the idea that, perhaps this time, Celestia has turned deaf to their platitudes.