Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Is this new?”

Wriothesley offers a questioning hum without looking up from the paperwork in front of him, halfway through a particularly verbose paragraph and reluctant to read it a second time.

“The piano,” Ajax clarifies, punctuating the sentence with a high C. It clashes with the key of the music coming from the phonograph on the desk, but it’s a strong and confident sound, so it doesn’t rattle Wriothesley the way it should. “I don’t think I noticed it the last time I was here.”

Wriothesley’s lips curl silently around the last few words on the page — to be re-evaluated in six years, with good behavior — and then he raises his eyes, blinking as his gaze adjusts to the distance. “No,” he says, “I bought it a few weeks ago. Haven’t really had the time to break it in.”

“I didn’t know you could play,” Ajax responds, his back turned but his tone curious.

“I can’t, yet.”

Ajax grins over his shoulder, equal parts warm and mischievous, and leans down to splay his fingers across the keys. “A new hobby, then? If I’d known you were bored, I’d have started visiting more often.”

Wriothesley shoots him a wry smile in return. “I want to learn because of interest, not boredom,” he says, then, softer, “and you don’t have time for that.”

Ajax doesn’t respond. Instead, he steps around the piano bench, his fingers grazing the tops of the keys, and settles onto it with his hands draped delicately across the ivory in wait. He begins to hum quietly along to the violin coming from the record, his head and shoulders swaying gently from side to side. “What is this?” he asks. “E minor?”

“You can tell just by listening?”

“I know my way around a key signature,” Ajax laughs. “What, I never told you I learned as a kid?”

Wriothesley levels a bland glare at the back of Ajax’s head. “You only told me your given name two months ago. You’re not exactly an open book.”

Ajax stiffens, his neck turning a light shade of red. “Well,” he says with an awkward chuckle, “it’s not because of you, it’s just–”

“I know,” Wriothesley interrupts gently, layering as much kindness and patience into his voice as he can. “It’s new for me, too.”

He smiles as he watches Ajax’s shoulders relax. Progress is progress, however small.

The music goes quiet, then, the melody simplifying from the grandiose performance that had been playing to a more modest sequence of repeating chords. Wriothesley knows that it’ll build again after a while — he plays this record often — but he likes the space this rest creates. 

It gives him a chance to breathe.

Being with Ajax is like that, weirdly enough. It shouldn’t be, considering how they met and how chaotic and unpredictable their relationship is, but being with Ajax — even sparring with him, as they often do — feels like respite. Visits from the Harbinger are never planned and never convenient, but having Ajax in his office and, lately, in his bed, brings Wriothesley a sort of peace he’s never known before.

Maybe it isn’t peace. He’s not sure he would recognize peace in a lineup next to joy and relief, if he’s honest. They all feel the same to him: tight in his throat, warm in his chest, and heavy behind the backs of his eyes.

Truthfully, the word barely matters — the feelings are there. They’re tangible, even. The tightness manifests in hands wrapped carefully around his neck. The warmth makes itself known in the feeling of another chest pressed against his own. The weight comes in the form of a knowing, deep-blue gaze. The ghosts of these sensations linger even when he’s alone.

Whatever this feeling, be it peace, joy, or relief, the important thing is that it’s his now, and — in his mind — it is pale, freckled, and ginger, with a crooked grin and a sharp tongue.

Ajax matches the first chord in the repeating pattern as it comes back around in the song. The effect is strong and balanced; the keys all fall in perfect unison, not like the half-assed attempts Wriothesley has made thus far. He’s had trouble getting all the notes to hit at once, or even in an order that’s auditorily pleasing, but Ajax nails it on his first try, and then he does it again.

He doesn’t play every note in the melody, especially once it starts to pick up again, but his body is relaxed and his shoulders are square, and — at some point — it almost becomes hard to tell what’s coming from the phonograph and what’s coming from across the room.

“Mmh,” Ajax hums, slipping into a low harmony that makes Wriothesley’s skin prickle. “This is complicated.”

“You seem to be doing just fine.”

“That, Your Grace, is due to my remarkable genius, not the simplicity of the arrangement.”

Wriothesley huffs out a laugh, watching as Ajax seems to slow his fingers as the music changes tempo again.

“I’m waiting to see what it’ll do,” he says by way of explanation, though it isn’t necessary. He’s still perfectly in key. His head tilts to the side, his ear angled towards the phonograph, but his hands never stop. It’s as if they have a mind of their own.

Wriothesley has never really seen anybody play like this. His foster sister took lessons for a few weeks — although, Wriothesley learned later that this was part of a bid from a very wealthy piece of shit who wanted a girl with ‘marketable talent’ — but she was doing scales, mostly, at least when he was around. They didn’t have a piano here in the fortress when he was growing up, either. Not until now.

This is new for him, watching an artist work. It’s mesmerizing.

Ajax seems to tune him out, lost in his own world as he tries to follow the melody without copying it on the keys. He makes a few mistakes, ones even Wriothesley can identify, but they don’t sway him. He keeps playing. He’s good like that: adaptable, malleable. He takes everything in stride.

The sheer amount of foresight Ajax demonstrates is what baffles Wriothesley the most, though. Yes, he’s exceedingly talented at a random assortment of things. Wriothesley knows this. Yes, he’s good at letting his errors roll right off his shoulders and across the floor. Wriothesley knows this too. Wriothesley also knows that there’s a slim chance Ajax has heard this composition before, if he’s heard the song at all, because Wriothesley has the only remaining copy in Teyvat as far as he’s aware, and yet…

“Ah,” Ajax chuckles, leaning forward into the keys. “I knew they were going to do something interesting here.”

He has an instinct for this. Curious.

The song closes with a swell, and Ajax lets it, pulling his impromptu harmony back to its simplest form to let the music do its thing. It’s the last song on the record, but Wriothesley doesn’t move to replace it as it ends, struck by the way Ajax seems to melt into the piano bench as the final notes trickle from the phonograph and from his fingers alike.

He sighs.

“I missed that.”

Wriothesley blinks. “How long has it been?”

“Oh, years,” Ajax laughs thinly. “Columbina has a grand in her quarters back home, but I’m too afraid to go in there when she’s around, and even more so when she’s not. My parents still have the piano I learned on, but the kids always want me to play them whatever they’re learning in choir when I have time to visit. So they can sing along, you know? The chance to play classical like this…” 

He pauses. 

“It doesn’t come around much.”

“Don’t let me stop you, then,” Wriothesley says softly.

Ajax scoffs, turning his head to reveal a fox-like grin stretching over his teeth. “You? Stop me?” he asks playfully. “You’re over there staring at me with eyes the size of the moon, loverboy. Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor.”

“It’s a win-win, isn’t it?” Wriothesley asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Sure, but one of us is winning more.”

Wriothesley has to bite his lip to keep from smiling. “You’re insufferable.”

Ajax shrugs. “You like me like that.”

“Really, I won’t get in your way,” Wriothesley insists fondly. “Play what you like. I have work I can do.”

“You sure you won’t get distracted?”

“Oh, I will.”

Ajax laughs brightly at that, leaning his elbow on the edge of the piano in front of the keys. “Why even try, then?” he asks. “You’re not getting any work done.”

“I can pretend to, if it gives you time to play.”

“And what good will that do?”

Wriothesley glances at the piano. “You just said you missed it.”

“I miss you.” Ajax’s cheeks flush, his freckles disappearing slightly into reddened skin. “I didn’t come here to play piano while you sit there and glare at intake paperwork from last week.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

Ajax grins again, jerking his head towards the keys. “Come here.”

“For what?”

“For something. Come here.”

“I have work to do.”

Ajax rolls his eyes. “No, you don’t. That guy has been in here twice already. You know everything about him. Hell, I met him when I was in here, before you even knew who I was.”

“I always knew who you were,” Wriothesley argues.

“Very romantic. You still don’t need to read up on this guy’s history again.”

Wriothesley grunts, glaring down at the paperwork on his desk. Ajax is right, to an extent — yeah, there are new charges and new dates, but it’s all the same shit beyond that.

“Come here,” Ajax says again, scooting over on the bench, and, this time, Wriothesley complies.

He folds the top sheet back over the stack of papers, making his way around the desk and towards the piano as nonchalantly as he can.

“Are you scared?” Ajax laughs.

“I’m… wary.”

“I’m not gonna eat you.”

Wriothesley shoots him a look, but Ajax just laughs again.

“Not without locking the door, anyway.” He pats the spot next to him, moving his hand to Wriothesley’s thigh as Wriothesley finally sits down. “See? Not so bad.”

Wriothesley lets his eyes wander down Ajax’s face now that they’re sitting so close, taking in all the tiny imperfections in his skin: the scar at the corner of his lip from an adversary with a hook for a hand, the divot in his cheek where he accidentally stabbed himself with a fork. Freckles and moles and scar tissue from pimples he must have popped as a teenager. It’s all beautiful.

He takes Ajax’s chin between his thumb and index finger, lifting it to connect their lips softly for a moment before letting him go.

“No,” he says, leaning into the warmth pressed against him. “Not bad at all.”

Ajax smiles, rolling his eyes again as he splays his right hand over the keys once again. “Put your hands over mine,” he says. “Fingers in the same places.”

“Just one hand?” Wriothesley asks, but he does what he’s told.

“I don’t want your elbow in my face. This is easier, anyway. Just try to keep it there.”

Ajax slowly starts to move his hand, his thumb sinking down with the key below and taking Wriothesley’s thumb with it.

“Middle C,” he says. “Home position.”

He presses down with his index finger, too, then his middle, and then Wriothesley’s hand is pushed upwards as Ajax curls his thumb underneath their hands to get to the next key.

“Stay with me,” he mutters, his breath hot against Wriothesley’s arm.

Easy, Wriothesley thinks. I’m not going anywhere.

Their hands swing back over to the right, Wriothesley letting his fingers dip down one after another as they finish the scale upwards. Ajax pauses, then, letting their fingertips hover over the keys with just his pinky making contact, and then — with a careful inhale — begins the descent back to Middle C.

It’s swift, this time, and fluid. Their hands flow over the keys with no help from Wriothesley. Ajax takes them down the scale with practiced ease, testing Wriothesley, in a way. Letting them both find out how easy staying with him really is.

It isn’t skill that keeps Wriothesley’s hand in place, though, it’s trust. Understanding.

Wriothesley has mapped and memorized every inch of Ajax’s skin, so when the tendon between his thumb and index finger shifts, Wriothesley knows where to go from there. He has learned what makes Ajax’s muscles twitch and what makes them tighten, so as Ajax moves his hand, so, too, does he effectively signal his next move. He is not easy to follow, but he is easy to read — for Wriothesley, at least — and it isn’t about following, anyway. It’s about anticipating. Predicting. Learning.

That, Wriothesley knows how to do.

“Good,” Ajax mutters as their thumbs finish off the scale. “Again?”

Wriothesley shakes his head. “Play something,” he suggests instead.

“With one hand?”

“I can just…” Wriothesley trails off, removing his arm from behind Ajax and trying to find a comfortable place for it to hang between them and the piano, but it’s awkward, and Ajax has to lift his head to see the keys.

He snorts, shaking his head.

“Well, do you have a better suggestion?”

Ajax stands up, turning to face Wriothesley and taking a step to the side, motioning towards the bench with his chin. “Move over,” he says, “to where I was.”

Wriothesley complies, scooting left.

“Now shift back.”

Ajax steps around Wriothesley’s left leg, knocking his foot against Wriothesley’s for emphasis, then — as Wriothesley moves as far back as he can without falling off the bench — Ajax settles down between his thighs, perched on the edge with his back against Wriothesley’s chest.

“Arms around me,” he says softly, placing his own hands back on the keys.

Wriothesley huffs, watching his breath ruffle the hairs on the back of Ajax’s neck. “This is intimate,” he mutters.

“You sucked my dick this morning.”

And yet, somehow, this is… more.

He wraps his arms around Ajax’s body, laying both hands on Ajax’s this time. He can feel the rise and fall of Ajax’s shoulders against his biceps, can feel the filling of Ajax’s lungs, could recognize the warmth radiating through him as distinctly Ajax with his eyes closed. It’s overwhelming, almost.

Ajax, Ajax, Ajax. He’s everywhere.

“You ready?” he asks, and Wriothesley can’t help but nod.

Their fingers move together. Ajax has clearly chosen something simple, without too much movement, but it still makes Wriothesley feel windswept, like Ajax is controlling a tandem glider and Wriothesley is simply tasked with holding on.

He resists the urge to tighten his hold around Ajax’s arms, aware that it would restrict their movement. He can’t help but think about it, though. Nothing is ever enough. He could spend days on end with their skin plastered together and Ajax held firmly to his side, and it wouldn’t satisfy the deep-seeded need to touch — they could fuse together, somehow, and Wriothesley would still want more.

Ajax takes their right hands further down the piano, stretching their arms out to the side. Wriothesley goes willingly. Honestly, he’s barely paying attention to the song; the fluid motion of their bodies acting as a single entity is mesmerizing, and it’s hard to focus on anything other than the smell of his soap on Ajax’s skin.

“Stop sniffing me,” Ajax mutters, fondness spilling from his lips like steam.

Wriothesley leans forward and closes the few centimeters of space between his lips and the back of Ajax’s neck, pressing a kiss to the base of his skull. “No.”

“You’re supposed to be paying attention,” Ajax laughs.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Wriothesley sighs, tilting his head to the side so he can rest his chin on Ajax’s shoulder. “You’re distracting,” he says, “and I don’t know enough to understand what you’re doing, anyway.”

“So this was a ploy,” Ajax sighs as he stops playing, letting his fingers rest motionless on the keys.

Wriothesley takes this as an opportunity to shift his hands from on top of Ajax’s, dragging his fingers upwards along Ajax’s wrists and forearms instead.

Ajax hums. “Are you trying to seduce me during work hours?” he asks, teasing.

“I’m just sitting here.”

“Right, and I’m in Fontaine on official business.”

Wriothesley chuckles, burying his nose in the crook of Ajax’s neck. “If we’re both lying, does it cancel out?”

“No,” Ajax mutters, “I think it just makes us both a little immoral.”

“Mm. No use trying to make up for it now.”

Ajax laughs openly at that, reaching behind him with his right hand to thread his fingers through Wriothesley’s hair. “You have to be in here for another three hours,” he says wryly. “We can’t exactly run off to your quarters right now.”

“The door locks,” Wriothesley mumbles, already leaving open-mouthed kisses along Ajax’s exposed skin.

“What if there’s an emergency?”

“Since when do you care about safety protocols?”

Ajax shrugs, dislodging Wriothesley from his shoulder. “I care because you care.”

Wriothesley hums quietly to himself. “No locking the door, then,” he sighs, “and clothes stay on.”

“I’m not getting off in my pants like a teenager, Wriothesley.”

“You’re killing me.”

Ajax cranes his neck around as much as he can, meeting Wriothesley in what looks like a very uncomfortable kiss. “We can just make out, if you want,” he mutters against Wriothesley’s lips, “but you’ll have to keep yourself under control.”

“No promises.”

“Yes, promises.”

“I hate you.”

Ajax grins into the kiss, shaking his head. “No,” he whispers, “you don’t.”

Wriothesley groans, bringing Ajax with him as he stands up from the piano bench. It isn’t graceful. The wooden legs screech along the stone floor as it’s pushed back, making them both flinch, and Wriothesley almost tumbles backwards over it in surprise. Honestly, he probably would have, if not for the fact that Ajax has Wriothesley’s tie in his hand — when did he even grab it? — and yanks him forward until Wriothesley is forced to catch himself against the piano, effectively caging Ajax in between his arms.

“You’re absurd,” Wriothesley mutters, gaze dipping down to Ajax’s mouth of its own accord.

“Elaborate,” Ajax whispers back, his breath ghosting across Wriothesley’s face.

Wriothesley grins, wolfish, and leans forward so his lips are right next to the shell of Ajax’s left ear. “Why don’t you show me,” he rumbles, voice as low as he can make it, “what you think I mean?”

Ajax chuckles. “I thought I told you not to get carried away.”

“You think I listen to you?”

“You should.”

“Well,” Wriothesley says, leaning back as if he’s going to walk away, “if you’re not in the mood…”

Ajax takes Wriothesley’s face forcibly between his hands, bringing their lips together again with fervor, not even pausing to move them out from between the bench and the piano itself. Wriothesley wastes no time in returning the kiss, either. Sure, the bench is digging into the backs of his calves, but who cares? What’s a little pain in the heat of the moment?

Wriothesley removes his hands from the piano and gropes Ajax’s ass through his pants, tugging him closer. Bringing their hips together between them. He presses hard enough to bruise, but Ajax doesn’t complain — he has dozens of similar marks beneath his clothes, already, and from the sound he makes, he’s not against a few more.

“Fuck you,” Ajax mutters against Wriothesley’s bottom lip, taking it between his teeth to keep him from managing a response. His fingers work their way around the back of Wriothesley’s skull and into his hair, pulling it hard enough to yank Wriothesley’s head back only to chase him down again.

This performance is familiar.

As Ajax devours him, Wriothesley can sense the rhythm of his movements. The steady beat of his heart. He can feel the way Ajax adapts and improvises as they fight for control, meeting Wriothesley head-on in every challenge, every escalation, every question he silently puts forth, and escalating quite a bit on his own. He’s strategic, though — he doesn’t overdo it, doesn’t press beyond what’s pleasurable. He rides with the push and pull of the moment and directs them effortlessly through swells of passion and moments of tension alike.

Wriothesley has never thought of making out as a particularly musical endeavor, but the quiet moans escaping from Ajax are certainly enough to change his mind.

He works a thigh between Ajax’s legs, grinding upwards and pushing Ajax’s legs apart to make room for him between them. Ajax, to his credit, doesn’t fight it, despite the soft exhale he lets out in judgment.

“What?” Wriothesley mutters.

“You’re predictable.”

“You’re hot.”

He runs his palms along the swell of Ajax’s ass, down the backs of his thighs, and then lifts, depositing Ajax onto the keys with a loud clang that sends a shiver down his spine.

“Was that necessary?” Ajax laughs, but his voice is rough. Wriothesley can tell he’s not as unaffected as he likes to pretend.

“Of course not,” Wriothesley responds. “Nothing about this is necessary.”

Ajax rolls his eyes.

“I’m not allowed to manhandle you, now? Last night, you–”

“That is not what I said,” Ajax scoffs.

Wriothesley nips at his jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the expanse of his throat.

“Are you sure we can’t lock the door?”

“No one’s gonna come in,” Wriothesley says, though he’s not sure he believes it. His dick is talking, and he’s letting it. “They know you’re in here.”

Ajax snorts. “Is that what your employees think of me?”

“It’s what they think of me.”

“Well, that’s just not true,” Ajax says, tilting his head to give Wriothesley better access. “They respect the shit out of you.”

“They’ve also seen the way I look at you,” Wriothesley counters.

Ajax sighs. “And how is that?”

Wriothesley stills, then, feeling a smile creep across his face, still pressed into Ajax’s skin. He has to choose his next words carefully. “You’ve gotten very good at hiding the marks I leave on you,” he says, “so I have to make my intentions clear in… other ways.”

“Like undressing me with your eyes in front of the entire fortress?”

“Among other things.”

“You’re a pervert,” Ajax chuckles, the vibrations tickling the skin of Wriothesley’s jaw.

He leans back, looking Ajax in the eye with as much heat as he can muster as he asks, “Can you blame me?”

Ajax grins. “Absolutely not.”

Wriothesley isn’t sure whose lips find whose, this time. He pulls Ajax forwards on the piano until his legs have fully encircled Wriothesley’s hips, licking into his mouth and biting down on his lip with just the right amount of pressure to make Ajax lose control.

“Fuck,” Ajax groans, and it goes straight to Wriothesley’s dick. “Call out sick.”

“With what?”

“Personal injury.”

Wriothesley hums. “I’m not injured.”

“Yet.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” Wriothesley laughs.

Ajax blinks up at him, eyes glazed over and lips an angry red. “Both,” he says. “Neither. I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?”

Ajax shakes his head.

“Why not?” Wriothesley asks, tugging at the hair at the back of Ajax’s neck.

“I need a–”

Slam.

“Fuck,” Wriothesley curses, tripping backwards over the piano bench as a familiar pattern of footsteps makes its way up the stairs.

“I swear, if you two aren’t decent, I’m staging a coup myself.”

Wriothesley closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “If you’re so worried about decency, Clorinde, maybe you shouldn’t barge into people’s offices unannounced.”

“Would you rather I not make my presence known?” she asks as she gets to the top, her gaze shifting from Wriothesley to Ajax and back again with a look of blatant disapproval. “You’re the worst person I know.”

“I’m your best friend.”

“Hi, Clorinde,” Ajax sighs.

She glares at Wriothesley for a moment, then huffs. “Childe. Here on business?”

“Something like that.”

“What do you want?” Wriothesley sighs.

Clorinde rolls her eyes, striding forward to hand Wriothesley a folder of paperwork she’d been hiding behind her back. “We have a new inmate arriving in the morning. He’s…” She glances at Ajax. “...special.”

“What was that look for?” Ajax asks warily. “Special as in I can’t know about it, or special as in I have something to do with it?”

“I expect you to look this over before he arrives,” Clorinde says, completely ignoring Ajax’s question.

“You’re not my boss,” Wriothesley mutters, but he knows as well as she does that he will. “What time is intake?”

Clorinde’s lips twitch into a poorly hidden, satisfied smile. “Eleven. You have time for whatever you people do behind closed doors.”

“Please don’t think about my sex life.”

“Perhaps I wouldn’t have to if your pants weren’t currently making it my problem.” She sighs, looking over at Ajax again who is, for some reason, still sitting on the piano. “Just take the rest of the day off. Who cares? The only person currently in the fortress who’s capable of overthrowing you is me, and I’d rather die than have your job.”

She pauses.

“No offense.”

“None taken,” Wriothesley says easily.

“Seriously. No one’s going to die if you take a half day off,” Clorinde insists. “In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I’m going to die if I ever have to see you like this again. Save us both the trouble of my having to kill you and myself in one fell swoop and just keep this shit in private, please.”

Wriothesley flinches. “Yeah.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Okay.”

“Archons, I’m going to need so much therapy after this.”

She turns and stalks back towards the staircase, waving passively at Ajax on her way down. “Eleven o’clock, Wriothesley!” she calls over her shoulder, and as quickly as she arrived, she’s gone.

A moment passes where Wriothesley and Ajax just look at each other, neither of them sure how to proceed, but, of course, it’s Ajax who breaks the silence.

“Honestly,” he says, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, “that could have gone worse.”

“It was still bad.”

He shrugs. “I thought it was kind of mild, actually.”

“We are not doing this again without locking the door,” Wriothesley sighs, carding a hand through his hair. “It was a bad idea.”

“It was your idea.”

“I’m not fucking around.”

Ajax rolls his eyes, hopping off the piano without any effort to hide the situation in his pants. “I can see that,” he says, making his way over to Wriothesley, “considering the fact that I’m the one you’re supposed to be fucking.”

“Ajax.”

“Can we just go to your quarters already?” Ajax mutters, looping a finger underneath Wriothesley's tie. “Your boss basically gave you the okay.”

“She is not my boss,” Wriothesley mutters back.

Ajax grins. “Then who cares what she thinks, anyway?”

Wriothesley wants to keep arguing, if only because the feeling of Ajax’s gaze boring into his soul is making his body respond in ways it hasn’t in years, but Ajax leans in for what can barely be considered a kiss, and Wriothesley is putty in his hands.

“Come on,” Ajax whispers. “I’ll let you–”

“Fine.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

Wriothesley hums, smirking as he takes Ajax’s waist between his hands. “Well, duh,” he says roughly. “We’ve barely started. Have you forgotten how this works?”

Ajax breathes out a laugh. “Finally.”

Wriothesley laughs, too, letting his hands slip off of Ajax’s skin and into his own pockets as he walks towards the stairs. “Wait here for three minutes,” he says, trying to sound casual (and failing, if Ajax’s look of amusement is any indication), “then join me. Don’t speak to anyone on your way down.”

“Yes, sir,” Ajax responds brightly.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Okay, sir.”

“Ajax.”

He laughs, leaning back against the piano again, and Wriothesley exits the room to a soft clang of random notes and the sound of Ajax unfastening his jacket with expert speed.