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A Risk Worth Taking

Liyue Harbor buzzed with its usual vibrancy—merchants haggling over wares, fishermen hauling in their morning catch, and children darting through the streets in gleeful games. Yet, amidst the liveliness, there was a particular tension brewing in a quieter corner of the city.

Tartaglia leaned against the railing of the terrace overlooking the harbor, his arms crossed and a sharp grin playing on his lips. “You know, Morax,” he began, voice dripping with casual confidence, “I’ve faced warriors across Teyvat. Fatui soldiers, Abyss creatures, even the so-called ‘heroic’ knights of Mondstadt. But you…” His gaze slid to the man standing beside him, golden eyes as tranquil as still water. “I can’t quite figure you out.”

Zhongli, ever composed, took a measured sip from his teacup. “And what is it you seek to understand, Tartaglia?” His tone was calm, almost amused, as if the answer were a foregone conclusion.

Childe’s grin widened, though his heart raced just a little faster under Zhongli’s steady gaze. “I’ve heard the tales, you know. Of a Geo Archon who once ruled Liyue with an iron will. But all I see is a retired consultant who spends his time lecturing about ores and sipping tea. It makes me wonder…” He straightened, a playful spark in his eyes. “If the strength of the Archon is all it’s cracked up to be.”

Zhongli set his cup down with deliberate care, his gaze lifting to meet Tartaglia’s. “Strength is not always measured in the way one might expect.”

“Oh, I agree,” Childe countered smoothly. “But there’s only one way to settle this kind of question, isn’t there?” He pushed off the railing, standing tall. “A fight. You and me. Let’s see what you’re really made of.”

A flicker of something—amusement, curiosity, or perhaps even anticipation—crossed Zhongli’s features. “And what would you wager on such a contest?”

Childe didn’t hesitate, his voice ringing with determination. “The loser does whatever the winner asks. No complaints, no conditions.”

There was a moment of silence as Zhongli considered the proposition. The sea breeze tugged at his long coat, and his expression remained unreadable.

Finally, he spoke, his voice steady and rich. “Very well. If this is what you desire, I shall oblige. But I must warn you, Tartaglia—” He rose, his presence suddenly feeling heavier, more commanding. “You may find the outcome less satisfying than you anticipate.”

Childe’s grin never faltered, though a shiver of excitement coursed through him. This was what he wanted—no, needed. To see the true strength of the man he couldn’t stop thinking about, even in the midst of battle.

“Then it’s settled,” Childe said, stepping back and drawing his twin blades in a fluid motion. “Let’s see who comes out on top.”

Zhongli’s golden eyes glimmered as he adjusted his gloves, the faint resonance of Geo energy already crackling in the air around him. “Indeed,” he murmured. “Let us begin.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The battlefield stretched along the cliffs overlooking the Guili Plains, a natural amphitheater with jagged rocks and shimmering pools. The perfect stage for a clash of titans. The two men faced each other in silence, the tension between them palpable, as if the very air held its breath.

Tartaglia was the first to move. With a sharp grin, he lunged forward, twin hydro blades materializing in his hands. The weapons shimmered like liquid crystal, their edges glinting dangerously in the sunlight.

Zhongli stood his ground, his posture unyielding. As Tartaglia closed the gap, he raised a single hand. The ground responded instantly—cracks spidering out in a perfect circle beneath his feet. With a flick of his wrist, a massive stone pillar erupted from the earth, forcing Tartaglia to leap back.

“You’re not holding back, are you?” Tartaglia quipped, landing gracefully on the balls of his feet. The hydro blades spun in his hands, the water swirling around him with growing intensity.

Zhongli’s voice was calm, almost detached. “I accepted your challenge. It would be dishonorable to approach it halfheartedly.”

Childe’s smirk widened, though his muscles tensed as he circled Zhongli, looking for an opening. He slashed forward with one blade, sending a sharp arc of water toward Zhongli’s side.

The former Archon moved with effortless precision. He sidestepped the attack, his dark coat billowing, and raised his hand again. A shimmering golden shield materialized around him, absorbing the strike without so much as a ripple.

“Is that all?” Zhongli asked, his tone carrying a faint note of teasing.

Tartaglia growled, his pride prickling. “Not even close!”

He surged forward, launching a flurry of strikes with his blades. Each swing left trails of glistening water in the air, the sheer speed of his attacks forcing Zhongli to move more actively. The clang of steel against Geo constructs echoed through the cliffs as Zhongli conjured stone walls and barriers to deflect the onslaught.

“You fight with passion,” Zhongli remarked, his tone unchanging even as he spun his staff to parry another strike. “But passion alone cannot carry you to victory.”

Tartaglia didn’t respond, his jaw clenched as he pushed harder. He summoned a torrent of hydro energy that spiraled around him, building into a full-fledged wave. With a sharp cry, he unleashed it, the water crashing forward like a tidal wave aimed directly at Zhongli.

Zhongli planted his staff into the ground. A towering wall of jagged rock erupted in front of him, splitting the wave in two. Water cascaded harmlessly to either side, drenching the ground but leaving Zhongli untouched.

Childe staggered back, his breathing uneven, his expression darkening with frustration. “Still holding back, aren’t you?” he spat, the hydro energy around him pulsing erratically.

Zhongli adjusted his gloves, his golden eyes unwavering. “It seems you misunderstand. This is merely the foundation of my strength.”

The battlefield seemed to pulse with energy as Zhongli’s presence grew heavier, a faint resonance of Geo power vibrating in the air.

Tartaglia’s teeth clenched. He had been hoping to avoid this, but it was clear now that he wouldn’t win with hydro alone. His vision flickered in his hand, the blue glow shifting to an eerie orange as he drew on the power of his delusion. The air around him darkened, and a jagged aura of crimson energy flared to life.

“Now we’re talking,” Tartaglia muttered, his voice low and strained.

The transformation brought with it a surge of raw, chaotic power. His movements became faster, heavier, each strike of his blades sending shockwaves through the air. The ground cracked under his feet as he charged forward, his attacks relentless.

For the first time, Zhongli’s composure showed faint signs of strain. He raised his staff, parrying Tartaglia’s delusion-fueled strikes, the impact sending tremors through his arms. “A dangerous choice,” Zhongli observed, his voice steady despite the ferocity of the attacks.

Tartaglia laughed breathlessly, his mask glinting ominously. “You wanted my best. Here it is!”

But Zhongli was far from overwhelmed. He took a step back, his golden eyes narrowing. With a commanding gesture, the battlefield erupted into chaos. Stone pillars shot upward, creating a labyrinth of jagged Geo constructs that blocked Tartaglia’s path. The ground beneath him shifted unpredictably, throwing off his balance.

Zhongli’s voice echoed through the maze of stone. “Power is meaningless without control. Witness what strength tempered with discipline can achieve.”

Before Tartaglia could recover, Zhongli appeared behind him, moving with the fluid precision of a seasoned warrior. With a decisive strike of his staff, he knocked Tartaglia’s weapons from his hands, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Tartaglia groaned, his body aching from the impact. He tried to rise, but a Geo construct pinned his blades, leaving him defenseless.

Zhongli approached slowly, his aura still heavy with authority. “Do you yield?”

For a moment, Tartaglia considered pushing back, refusing to admit defeat. But as he looked up at Zhongli, towering over him with an unshakable calm, something in him faltered. He laughed, low and breathless. “You really don’t hold back, do you?”

Zhongli extended a hand, his expression softening. “Not when the lesson is worth learning.”

Reluctantly, Tartaglia took his hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet. He couldn’t help the grin that crept onto his face, even in defeat. “Fine. You win this time, old man. But don’t think I’ll make it easy for you next time.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The cliffs fell silent, the echoes of battle fading into the soft murmur of distant waves. Tartaglia stood beside Zhongli, his chest heaving from exertion. The sharp sting of bruises and exhaustion tugged at his body, but the grin on his face was unwavering, though there was a flicker of something deeper in his expression—something unguarded.

“You’re full of surprises, Morax,” Tartaglia said, brushing dirt from his armor. His voice carried its usual bravado, but his eyes betrayed him. The intensity of the fight hadn’t just exhilarated him—it had left him wanting more, something he didn’t fully understand or know how to articulate.

Zhongli looked at him with the same unshakable composure he had carried through the fight. “And you, Tartaglia, are unrelenting.”

The words weren’t a rebuke. If anything, there was a glimmer of admiration in Zhongli’s tone, faint but unmistakable.

Tartaglia glanced at the shattered remains of the battlefield—the jagged stone spires, the still-glimmering pools of water reflecting the fading sunlight. He sheathed his blades, exhaling slowly. “So, what now?” he asked, feigning nonchalance though his pulse still raced. “You won. Guess that means I’m at your mercy.”

Zhongli studied him for a moment, his golden eyes steady and piercing. “That was the agreement, was it not?”

Tartaglia swallowed, suddenly aware of the weight of his own wager. He had issued the challenge with bravado, certain of his ability to win—or at least unwilling to consider the alternative. But now, standing in the quiet aftermath of his defeat, he couldn’t help but feel exposed under Zhongli’s gaze.

“What do you want from me?” Tartaglia asked, his voice quieter now, the usual playfulness replaced by something softer, more uncertain. His heart thrummed in his chest, and for once, he didn’t try to mask the emotion flickering in his eyes—the want, the pull toward Zhongli that he could no longer deny.

Zhongli stepped closer, the sound of his boots against the stone deliberate and measured. The air between them grew heavier, though not with the weight of battle.

“You challenged me because you sought something,” Zhongli said, his tone softer now, almost intimate. “But it was never truly strength that you desired, was it?”

Tartaglia’s breath hitched. His instinct was to deflect, to laugh it off and tease Zhongli the way he always did. But something about the way Zhongli looked at him—calm, steady, and unwavering—made it impossible.

“I wanted…” Tartaglia started, then faltered. His hands flexed at his sides, restless. “I wanted to know you,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not just the stories, not just the Archon. The real you.”

Zhongli’s expression softened, his golden eyes warming with a rare gentleness. Slowly, he raised a hand. Tartaglia froze as Zhongli’s gloved fingers brushed against his cheek, the contact startlingly tender. Zhongli’s thumb traced a soft line just below Tartaglia’s eye, the touch lingering as if to anchor him.

“There is far more to know, Tartaglia,” Zhongli murmured, his voice low and steady. “But it cannot be learned in battle.”

The words struck Tartaglia harder than any blow. He couldn’t help the way his breath caught, or the way his gaze flickered to Zhongli’s lips before darting back up to meet his eyes. His mask of confidence had slipped entirely now, leaving him raw, exposed.

“You’re not just teasing me, are you?” Tartaglia said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Would I ever do such a thing?” Zhongli replied, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long shadows across the battlefield.

Tartaglia laughed softly, though the sound was more a release of tension than genuine amusement. “You’re a dangerous man, Morax,” he said, though there was no malice in his words.

“Only to those who misunderstand my intentions,” Zhongli replied, his thumb brushing once more against Tartaglia’s cheek before he stepped back, his hand falling to his side.

Tartaglia blinked, the warmth of Zhongli’s touch still lingering on his skin. He straightened, brushing dust from his clothes with an exaggerated flourish. “Guess I’ll just have to figure those intentions out myself,” he said, his grin returning, though softer this time. “But don’t think this means I’ll stop challenging you.”

Zhongli inclined his head, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. “I would expect nothing less.”

The battlefield lay in quiet disarray, the jagged stone pillars and shimmering pools now reflecting the soft hues of twilight. The echo of clashing blades and the hum of elemental energy faded into the stillness, leaving only the steady rhythm of their breaths. The sky above deepened to a dusky violet, and the distant chirping of crickets marked the transition from battle chaos to serene reflection. Zhongli began to walk, his stride measured, as if even his steps paid reverence to the scene. Tartaglia lingered a moment longer, glancing at the fractured stone and faint ripples in the pools before following silently.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The journey back to Liyue Harbor was quiet but far from peaceful. The echoes of their battle lingered in Tartaglia’s mind, but it was the moments after—the touch of Zhongli’s hand on his cheek, the gentle weight of his words—that truly consumed him.

Zhongli walked ahead, his stride as measured and deliberate as ever, the evening light casting long shadows across his figure. Tartaglia followed a step behind, his usual swagger noticeably absent. His thoughts swirled with the weight of Zhongli’s offer: There is far more to know, but it cannot be learned in battle.

Tartaglia scowled to himself, kicking a loose pebble off the path. He hated feeling unsettled, unmoored, but Zhongli had a way of doing that—shaking him without even trying.

“So,” Tartaglia began, breaking the silence, his voice a touch too loud against the quiet. “When you said there’s more to know about you, beyond fighting…” His words faltered for a moment before he forced a grin. “You didn’t mean boring stuff, like your favorite teas, did you?”

Zhongli glanced back, the faintest hint of amusement in his golden eyes. “Tea preferences can reveal much about a person’s character.”

Tartaglia groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You’re impossible.”

Zhongli stopped, turning to face him fully. His expression was calm, but there was a softness in his gaze that made Tartaglia’s chest tighten. “What troubles you, Tartaglia?”

The question caught him off guard. Tartaglia opened his mouth to deflect, to toss out some teasing remark, but the weight of Zhongli’s eyes on him made it impossible. Instead, he hesitated, his hands flexing at his sides.

“I just…” Tartaglia paused, his usual bravado slipping. “I don’t get it. You’ve got this whole… mystery about you. You let me in, just a little, and then it’s like you’re daring me to ask for more. It’s maddening.”

Zhongli studied him for a long moment, his gaze steady but not unkind. Then, with deliberate slowness, he stepped closer, closing the space between them.

“It is not my intention to frustrate you,” Zhongli said, his voice low and steady. “But you must understand—I am not accustomed to offering myself so freely.”

Tartaglia’s breath hitched, and he hated how transparent he felt in that moment. His pulse quickened as Zhongli’s hand lifted again, fingers brushing against his cheek just as they had before.

“You fought today not just to challenge my strength,” Zhongli continued, his thumb tracing a soft line along Tartaglia’s cheekbone. “But to see what lies beneath the Archon’s facade. If that is truly what you seek, then you must be patient. Some truths cannot be unraveled all at once.”

Tartaglia’s chest tightened at the words, the sincerity in Zhongli’s voice leaving him raw and unsteady. He didn’t dare move, afraid that if he did, the moment would shatter.

“And what if I don’t have patience?” Tartaglia murmured, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

Zhongli’s lips curved into the faintest smile, his thumb brushing against Tartaglia’s cheek one last time before his hand dropped back to his side. “Then I shall teach you.”

The air between them was charged, yet neither moved. The weight of Zhongli’s words settled over Tartaglia, grounding him even as his thoughts raced.

Finally, Tartaglia broke the silence with a soft laugh, though it lacked its usual sharpness. “You really know how to make a guy feel like he’s fighting an uphill battle.”

Zhongli’s gaze held steady. “Not all battles are meant to be won, Tartaglia. Some are simply meant to be understood.”

The harbor lights came into view then, their golden glow cutting through the twilight. Tartaglia turned his attention to the bustling streets ahead, using the sight as an excuse to break the heavy silence.

“Well,” he said, his voice lighter now, though his hands still flexed at his sides, “if you’re going to make me wait, you’d better make it worth my while.”

Zhongli’s steps fell into rhythm beside him, his tone calm and assured. “That, I can promise.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tartaglia wasn’t sure when he started letting Zhongli take the lead. Maybe it was after that first quiet stroll through the outskirts of Liyue, when Zhongli had guided him to a cliffside meadow overlooking a sea of gold and emerald. The landscape was breathtaking, but Tartaglia found himself watching the way the evening light played across Zhongli’s sharp features instead.

“It’s said this view was once Morax’s favorite,” Zhongli had murmured, standing just a little too close. His voice was as rich and smooth as the amber he always seemed to favor. “One of his greatest joys was sharing it with those he cherished most.”

Tartaglia had laughed awkwardly, brushing it off. “So, this is the grand tour, huh? Showing off your old haunts?”

But Zhongli’s soft smile and the weight of his gaze had made Tartaglia’s chest ache in a way that was both maddening and wonderful.

That was just the beginning.

Over the days that followed, Zhongli took him to places Tartaglia would never have found on his own: a hidden garden bursting with the heady scent of qingxin flowers, a quiet temple bathed in the light of a thousand candles, a secluded pond where the stars seemed to spill onto the water’s surface.

At every turn, Zhongli was there—close enough that Tartaglia could feel the heat of his presence, hear the low timbre of his voice even in the softest whispers. He didn’t just guide Tartaglia through Liyue’s hidden wonders; he shared pieces of himself with every step.

“You’re awfully generous for a man who claims not to give himself freely,” Tartaglia had teased during a quiet dinner one evening. Zhongli had prepared the meal himself, presenting each dish with the precision and care of an artisan unveiling a masterpiece.

Zhongli looked at him, golden eyes warm and unwavering. “Generosity, when given to the right person, is its own reward.”

Tartaglia’s face had burned, his usual confidence unraveling under the weight of those words.

Tartaglia wasn’t used to this—being cared for so deliberately, so openly. Every gesture Zhongli made, from the jade pendant left on his bedside to the quiet meals shared under starlit skies, spoke of a tenderness that Tartaglia had never thought to expect. He found himself lingering on the small things: the way Zhongli’s hand would graze his as they walked, the quiet strength in his voice when he spoke of Liyue’s history. Slowly, Tartaglia’s walls began to crumble, not with a crash, but with the steady erosion of patience and kindness.

And then there were the moments that stole Tartaglia’s breath entirely:

One evening, Zhongli led him to a secluded peak to watch the sunset. The place was bathed in the golden hues of sunset, the sky ablaze with streaks of amber and crimson that spilled over the horizon. Below, the waters shimmered like molten gold, their surface catching every flicker of light as the world seemed to hold its breath. Tartaglia stood at the edge, his hands resting on his hips, but his focus wavered between the stunning vista and the quiet presence behind him. When Zhongli’s arms slipped around his waist, the warmth of the Archon’s embrace banished the evening chill. The low murmur of Zhongli’s voice brushed against his ear like the wind itself, steady and reverent: “Beautiful… but fleeting. Much like this moment, if not cherished with care.”

Tartaglia swallowed hard, his pulse racing. He wanted to respond, to quip something sharp and playful, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he leaned back into the warmth of Zhongli’s chest, letting himself be held.

For the first time, Tartaglia truly understood what Zhongli had meant when he spoke of patience.

By the time they returned to Liyue Harbor, Tartaglia’s walls had crumbled entirely. He wasn’t even sure when he’d stopped pretending to resist, stopped pretending he didn’t long for every touch, every lingering look.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The streets of Liyue Harbor were alight with warmth and celebration. Lanterns bobbed gently on the water’s surface, their golden glow mirrored in the harbor’s calm expanse. The hum of laughter and music filled the air, but here, on the quiet balcony above the festivities, the sounds were softened, distant, like an echo of another world. Zhongli stood by the railing, his profile illuminated by the soft glow of the lanterns, while Tartaglia leaned against the wall, his gaze shifting between the vibrant lights below and the man beside him.

Tartaglia had spent days wondering when Zhongli would make his next move, each shared moment drawing him closer to a truth he wasn’t sure he was ready to face. It was on the Lantern Rite’s eve, amidst the glow of countless floating lights, that Zhongli made his final move. The two of them stood on a quiet balcony overlooking the harbor, the sounds of laughter and celebration muffled by the distance.

“I have shown you much,” Zhongli said, his voice steady yet low, carrying a weight of unspoken promise. “But there is one thing I have yet to offer.”

Tartaglia turned to him, his heart pounding. “And what’s that?”

Zhongli stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking until there was none at all. He raised a hand to cup Tartaglia’s face, his thumb brushing softly against his cheek.

“Permission to stop holding back,” Zhongli murmured.

Tartaglia barely had time to process the words before Zhongli leaned in, his lips capturing Tartaglia’s in a kiss that was slow, deliberate, and all-encompassing. It wasn’t hurried or desperate; it was patient, as if Zhongli intended to savor every moment, to make Tartaglia understand the depth of his feelings.

The scent of qingxin flowers lingered on the breeze as Zhongli’s lips met Tartaglia’s. The world around them faded—the lanterns, the harbor, the distant hum of celebration—until only the warmth of each other remained, their connection as unyielding as the stone beneath their feet.

Tartaglia’s hands found their way to Zhongli’s shoulders, gripping tightly as he kissed back with equal fervor. It was a kiss that spoke of everything left unsaid—of yearning, of promises, of a connection neither of them could deny any longer.

When they finally pulled apart, Tartaglia’s breath was ragged, his forehead resting against Zhongli’s.

“Guess patience really does pay off,” Tartaglia said, his voice soft but laced with warmth.

Zhongli smiled, his thumb brushing against Tartaglia’s cheek once more. “As I said, some truths are worth waiting for.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The amber glow of Liyue’s fading sunlight stretched across the training grounds, painting the stone arena in hues of gold and orange. Tartaglia stretched lazily, a grin tugging at his lips as he watched Zhongli approach with his usual unhurried grace.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Tartaglia teased, rolling his shoulders. “Wouldn’t want you to pull something, old man.”

Zhongli arched a single, unimpressed brow, his calm demeanor unshaken. “Age is irrelevant when one’s form is eternal. Perhaps you should concern yourself with not underestimating me.”

“Oh, I’m not underestimating you,” Tartaglia said, stepping forward with a playful glint in his eyes. “I’m just saying, you’d better be ready for the fight of your life.”

Zhongli’s lips quirked into the faintest smile, but his golden eyes gleamed with anticipation.

They circled each other, the weight of the moment underscored by the quiet hum of energy in the air. Then, without warning, Tartaglia lunged, and their spar began.

Zhongli was like a stone—unmoving, unyielding, his spear cutting through the air with a precision that spoke of centuries of mastery. Tartaglia, in contrast, was fluid and unpredictable, darting around Zhongli with a dancer’s grace.

The clash of weapons echoed through the arena, accompanied by bursts of elemental energy. Tartaglia’s hydro blades sang against the hard edge of Zhongli’s polearm, water meeting stone in a flurry of strikes and counterstrikes. The air between them crackled with energy, the clash of hydro and geo creating an electric tension that rippled across the training grounds. Tartaglia’s hydro blades left trails of mist in their wake, each swing accompanied by the sharp hiss of water vaporizing against Zhongli’s stone constructs. The ground trembled beneath Zhongli’s movements, golden fissures racing outward with each strike of his staff. For a moment, the world seemed suspended—water and stone colliding in a chaotic dance, their elements battling for dominance yet blending seamlessly, like two halves of a whole. Their movements, though fierce, carried an unspoken rhythm, as if they were attuned to each other in a way that hadn’t existed before. Zhongli noticed it first—the subtle shifts in Tartaglia’s stance that mirrored his own, the way their strikes seemed to flow together like the tide against the shore. As their weapons clashed, Zhongli couldn’t help but notice how Tartaglia’s movements had changed. There was a precision to his strikes now, a confidence that went beyond mere bravado. It wasn’t just skill—it was trust, an unvoiced understanding that neither needed to hold back. But still…

“You’re holding back,” Zhongli observed, his voice calm even as he parried another strike.

“Am I?” Tartaglia’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Maybe I’m just being considerate.”

Zhongli’s brow furrowed slightly, but before he could press further, Tartaglia pivoted and ducked beneath his guard. He moved quickly, too quickly, closing the distance between them until their faces were mere inches apart.

“You know,” Tartaglia said, his voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur, “if I win, maybe I’ll ask you to take me to another one of your secret spots. Just the two of us.”

The faintest hitch in Zhongli’s breath was all the confirmation Tartaglia needed.

“Or,” Tartaglia continued, his tone dripping with playful suggestion, “you could cook for me again. That last meal? Incredible. I wouldn’t mind getting spoiled like that more often.”

Zhongli’s gaze flickered, and for the first time, his composure faltered. It was brief—just a moment—but Tartaglia saw it.

And he capitalized on it.

With a quick feint and a sly grin, Tartaglia swept his leg out, knocking Zhongli’s stance just slightly off balance. Zhongli countered with a burst of geo energy, the ground beneath them trembling as a golden shield materialized to block the strike.

But Tartaglia was relentless.

“Careful, Rex Lapis,” he said, his voice a playful purr. “I think I see a crack in your defenses.”

The comment struck home—literally. Zhongli’s shield shimmered, flickering briefly before fracturing under the onslaught of Tartaglia’s relentless strikes. As Tartaglia broke through his shield, Zhongli felt a flicker of something he hadn’t experienced in centuries—surprise. But it wasn’t the shield fracturing that shook him; it was the realization of how much this man, this chaos-bringer, had come to mean to him.

For a moment, the arena went still, the two of them locked in a standoff. Tartaglia’s breath came in quick bursts, his grin wide and triumphant, while Zhongli’s amber eyes glimmered with something unreadable.

Then, with a burst of movement, they collided again, their weapons locked as they tumbled to the ground.

When the dust settled, Tartaglia found himself pinned beneath Zhongli’s weight, the Archon’s spear angled just above his chest.

“Looks like you’ve got me,” Tartaglia said, though his grin never wavered.

Zhongli raised a brow, his breathing steady despite the exertion. “And yet, you do not appear defeated.”

“Maybe because I’m not.” Tartaglia shifted his weight suddenly, flipping their positions with a quick, fluid movement. Now it was Zhongli who lay pinned, Tartaglia straddling his waist with his hydro blade pressed lightly against his collarbone.

“It’s a draw,” Tartaglia declared, his voice breathless but triumphant.

Zhongli didn’t argue. Instead, he studied Tartaglia with a quiet intensity that made the younger man’s grin falter.

“You fight with cunning,” Zhongli said softly. “But more than that, you fight with passion. It is… admirable.”

Tartaglia’s cheeks flushed slightly, and for once, he found himself at a loss for words.

Then, Zhongli reached up, his hand curling gently around Tartaglia’s wrist to lower the blade between them. “And infuriating,” Zhongli added, though there was warmth in his tone.

The tension between them shifted, no longer charged with battle but with something deeper.

Tartaglia chuckled, his grin returning but softer this time. “You know,” he murmured, his voice dropping, “if I keep this up, I might actually break you one day.”

The faintest smile graced Zhongli’s lips, his golden eyes glinting with something unspoken. “Perhaps,” he replied, his voice low and steady, “but it is a risk I am willing to take.”

Their lips met in a kiss that was slow and unhurried, yet carried all the intensity of their battle. It was a kiss that spoke of challenge, of respect, of feelings that neither had dared put into words until now.

When they finally pulled apart, Tartaglia’s laughter filled the air. “So,” he said, still grinning, “how does it feel to lose your footing for once?”

Zhongli’s chuckle was soft, his golden eyes glowing with affection. “Refreshing.”

For the first time in centuries, Zhongli felt something stir within him—a sense of balance not born of stone or duty, but of shared strength. Tartaglia had brought chaos into his life, yes, but with it came a clarity and warmth that Zhongli hadn’t realized he needed.

They lay there for a moment longer, the world around them forgotten. Whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them together—two warriors, two hearts, in perfect sync.