Chapter Text
There were three instances in which Furina believed Arlecchino might’ve harbored feelings for her.
The first instance was as tipped over coffee tainted ivory parchment—a testament to the trembling in her wake.
In the clutter of this night, Furina hissed at the stinging of her knuckles after its collision with her cup. Her apartment bedroom was a mess. Caramel latte spilled across her nightstand, and her eyes could only water in frustration at the drenching, dizzying mess. With her weakened state, she could not even sit upright against her pillows to clean.
Ruined.
All the papers on the nightstand were completely ruined.
It was the sound of rustling by the bedside that made Furina turn to peek over, eyeing the Harbinger down on her knees and wiping away the little droplets with her handkerchief. And if it wasn’t for the impassioned history between their former status as political enemies, then Furina might’ve mistaken her for a friend. She was too quick to act.
Though, that was expected; this wasn’t her first time here.
“You shouldn’t be having iced lattes while you’re sick like this,” came the advice from the Fourth Harbinger. Such advice sounded more like scolding, yet Furina managed to find the goodness in her words. She shouldn’t bother to take it as denunciation when she was being treated so kindly, for it was obvious how much she would hate cleaning a coffee spill when in this ill state.
But this, however, was one of the things that struck her as particularly unusual. Kindness from the Knave did not come without some sort of favor in return. Yet, she had to admit that all this grand display of diligence served direct dependability, definitely in a sense that felt real. To the former Hydro Archon, it was petrifying. To the persona of lady Focalors, perhaps a little perplexing. But to Furina, she supposed it was… pleasant.
This peculiar bond of theirs might;ve been going on for a while now. Probably ever since she first got sick.
Her companion eventually rose, holding a coffee-stained towel that did not belong to her— Did Arelcchino bring her own towel?
“Pardon me.”
Furina flinched when something pressed to her forehead.
Her hand—cold to the touch—softened her soul upon its shadow. “You have a fever,” Arlecchino whispered so worriedly, lined with the utmost care in the world for her.
How odd.
Furina swore she heard it in her voice: just a hint of concern that may settle for solely the most important of people in one’s life. A tone she would only use upon the bedside of a loved one, and not some archon who was once a foe. Months ago, it would’ve been insulting to hear such a sentiment woven in the threads of her inflection; but now, in the humid complications of this night, she felt her head soak in the murmurs of her care.
It was here. Here, under the low light of a cheap candle in her small apartment bedroom, she might’ve mistaken this amity for an act of something much more. But she wasn’t sure, truly, if Arlecchino could feel that same warmth, too.
Perhaps it was just the fever spilling nonsense into her head.
Yes, it had to be.
Spilling, just like the overpowering smell of that latte that spilled all over her work. As Arlecchino laid a new cold cloth over her forehead, she tilted her head to the side.
“That letter,” Furina pointed. Her weak hand fell near the nightstand above her head where the poor, coffee-soaked parchment laid. “It was for you.”
With a curious gleam in her eyes, Furina’s companion turned to look.
The Harbinger carefully picked it up, and Furina winced as she saw the paper drip more coffee to the tiles that Arlecchino just cleaned. The letter was already flimsy and absolutely destroyed—the mess she made was more than she grasped.
Arlecchino frowned, and the former Archon watched as her fingertips so gently cradled the linings. “It seems I can’t read it anymore.” She squinted closer at the paper, and Furina found the act sweet enough to make her stomach feel sicker than the coffee. It was this tenderness and extra intimacy on display—from the delicate creases of Arlecchino’s eyebrows, to the warmth on her tongue—that twisted the gears in her core. Whatever she wrote on that destroyed parchment, whatever feelings or messes or curses she spilled, Arlecchino cared. “How unfortunate,” she sighed, “The coffee has made it illegible.”
“Sad,” said Furina, turning to stare at the ceiling while her companion tried to dry the paper with a rag. “It just described how much I liked the cake you made for my troupe.”
And from the corner of her eye, Furina saw a little smile on her face. “You figured out it was me?”
Furina hummed. “Who else would conduct the Hearth kids to send us cake… Other than their Father herself?”
She could still taste it on her tongue. The rich mixture, and the light icing. It was certainly a taste that the Fourth Harbinger is expected to have—but vanilla flavor and blue fondant made her think that Arlecchino thought of her while making it, too. A cake made with the intent to fit her preferences. How sweet.
The surface of the cake was adorned with sprinkles of crushed red petals. A stark contrast in color, not that Furina minded.
“I’m glad you got to try it,” Arlecchino continued with that small, upwards curve on her lips still lasting, “in spite of your sickness.”
But the contrast of red petals atop a colored cake only reminded her of the eyes of the very person who gave the dessert. And that color was the one she met with now. A greeting between blue and red. Just like her cake.
“It’s all I ate today.”
Arlecchino immediately opened her mouth. Before even the bark of a word could come out, however, she quickly held back. There was a crease between her brows that held an obvious worry within them. Furina thought she might like that worry. “You aren’t serious,” was all she decided to say.
“I am.”
“You won’t recover that way.”
“But it’s so good!”
Arlecchino sighed. “I’ll go make you some real food to digest.” She immediately stood up, and Furina wondered what gave her the effort. To be so driven and so directed just to tend to her—it was nearly maddening to the fever still brewing in her head.
The Harbinger made her way to the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.”
“Wait—”
The door of her bedroom already shut.
What a shame.
She didn’t get to ask what flower petals she used on the cake.
—
The second instance where Furina believed Arlecchino might’ve had feelings for her was early into a new, restless morning.
She stayed over last night. Furina wasn’t sure if she intended to.
But when the Harbinger had been visiting her home more than her own friends do, perhaps this was always a dormant possibility. Seeing her sleeping soundly on the sofa far before sunrise—the sight should not be a surprise. Even the serenity in her slumbered guise screamed against all scoldings of the former night.
Because late into the previous evening, Arlecchino arrived with a bag of groceries. And unlike the lull of the next morning, her eyes were furrowed at the figure of Furina flumping down on the living room couch. Furina couldn’t be too offended by the frustration. Her sickness had kept her bedridden for a few weeks now, after all, and walking around at her worsening condition was not the brightest idea.
But for all her efforts to stand up last night, she was immediately scolded again.
“All you’ve eaten is…” Arlecchino eyed the plate atop her coffee table, “my cake, again?” Red frosting, red petals, red velvet crumb. “The newest one, at that.”
“Some members of my troupe came by to drop off a portion of it.” Furina shrugged. “They know I really like it.”
I really like it. Was that her little way of being a little playful? A little flirty? Was it too leading to tell the Harbinger that just one forkful upon her tongue, and she could almost taste each stir from the batter, each metal contact of the piping, each flower petal decor laid by Arlecchino’s hand, and more? The measurements she eyed, the attentiveness she gave, the care she poured—Furina’s heart was not made for simple gestures.
She willed to taste every sentiment laid in the frosting of each favor from Arlecchino she could receive.
“Furina,” came the sigh of frustration. “This isn’t all you can eat.” Arlecchino pulled the plate of leftover cake away from her and placed down a teacup next to her coffee mug. Oh. Furina hadn’t realized how efficient she was. Perhaps the fever was messing with her sense of time. “And stop drinking that coffee, too.”
The steam from the freshly brewed tea immediately relieved her sinuses for just a moment. And when she looked down, she blinked at those same red petals floating along the surface of the liquid.
It smelled sweet.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Furina began, though she flinched at the hoarse croak of her own voice. She took a sip. Honey and lemon mixed in black tea, to soothe her throat. How thoughtful of her. “What flower do these petals belong to?”
Arlecchino glanced at her from the connected kitchen.
“Carnations.”
Carnations…
Furina hummed in thought. “Do they have any meaning?”
“Based on the color, I think it varies.” There was a mixture of playfulness and boredom in her voice—Furina wasn’t sure which one to pick up. Did the monotony come from the piling dishes she took care of in the kitchen, or the conversation? Did the interest come from the conversation, or if she thought Furina was being very dumb right now? “The most common in gifts are pink carnations,” she explained, “but you see them most on more maternal occasions, like Mother’s Day.”
“So the red ones have a different meaning?” Furina still pried. Come on, she practically begged. Tell me already.
“I believe so.”
“Something different?”
“Something different.”
Arlecchino turned back to the sink, showing no interest in clarifying any further.
You are so infuriating.
“So why do you keep using them?” Furina tried to ask instead. At least with this, she could still claw weakly towards an answer. Archons, she couldn’t keep blaming how pathetic she felt to her sickness.
Her eyes did not meet Furina’s again. “Because I know you like sweet things.”
Is that really all?
Yes, it certainly gave the tea a sweeter aroma; but surely, that couldn’t be the only intention behind it. To use it repeatedly in her cakes and designs gifted to her—it had to mean something.
Please let it mean something.
Or else I might go crazy.
“I’ll stay until you eat well tonight,” Arlecchino commented. “No iced coffees that’ll irritate your throat even more, and no cake with no nutritional value.” She walked towards Furina’s seat on the couch with a plate of hot food. Oh. Furina was not even able to smell that. The preparation seemed so quick. Did she concoct it beforehand?
Archons, her head hurt.
Once again, Furina found herself losing track of time. Only when dawn hit, after getting her first proper sleep in weeks, did she find her mind clear again. This marked the second time she really thought her unnamed feelings might be mutual.
It seemed that the couch was the exact spot Arlecchino fell asleep by the next morning, where Furina stood over her as she silently slumbered.
It was odd to find the Fourth Harbinger in someone else’s house sleeping defensively as if she was not the ruthless Knave. Furina would be lying if she said it did not tug at her heart just a little, that in another life, maybe Arlecchino was meant to be her companion outside of this fever treatment. Maybe this apartment would be one she found comfort in returning to, more often than not.
And maybe, as she soundly slept, she might be dreaming of that same life.
Furina shook her head.
She needed to stop entertaining these fantasies. But such thoughts… Dare she say, they were so kind to her head after all its restlessness. She hated it, how she was already so conditioned by the kindness from Arlecchino that her wellness almost began to rely on it.
Such a concept only made her stomach churn in further nausea.
But she couldn’t complain now, could she? For what a privilege it was to be cared for by the Fourth Harbinger.
Only her, just for this moment. Only she could wake up to the early morning’s stream of light upon silver hair, and the scent of carnations to fill her lungs. For just one instant, she could diminish the idea of coincidence; because as she quietly picked a loose petal off Arlecchino’s head she could believe that flowers, too, had a secret meaning.
For now, as Furina knelt down and traced her love’s lips with the tip of her finger, won’t that be enough?
—
The third and most recent instance began with a—
Tap, tap tap.
Her bedroom was cold and dark, only a sliver of light peeking from her window.
“Furina.”
Tap, tap, tap.
Her head hurt, nostrils flaring. But she forced herself out of bed anyway to make her way towards the curtains. It was all because of that voice. If she had not recognized it so easily, maybe she would not be so willing to stare down the onlooker of her apartment glass.
Arlecchino stood at her window with one arm leaning to tap again, and the other arm holding onto the building. The intoxication of her perfume was an immediate strike to the lungs as Furina opened the window, and she swore she suddenly felt more awake than she did just moments ago.
Sweet.
It was a floral sense of sweetness.
“Step out,” came the instant command.
“What?”
Through mutters even more silent than the night, Arlecchino looked serious as she stepped to the side of the opening. “I know it’s late,” she uttered, reaching out a hand for Furina to grab, “but I want to show you something.”
Furina’s legs shivered for just a moment. The sight of her companion, barely a dark silhouette from the illumination of the moon, was like that of a dream. She looked like a prince ready to steal her into the night, and Furina almost felt like she was halfway floating even as her feet still stayed glued to the ground. Yet, with a sight so magical, she couldn’t help but think of herself in some grand, midnight storybook scene.
The feel of Arlecchino’s hand grasping her tightly only fueled this dream.
“Since you’ve been bedridden,” the Harbinger started, “this is something you cannot miss.”
Furina allowed herself to be pulled by hand upwards out the window.
Almost immediately as she climbed onto the roof, the night felt brighter than the usual darkness she’d feel every hour past sunset. She wondered if it was the feel of Arlecchino’s hand holding hers, or if it was the lightened sky before them, showcasing brilliant hues.
She should probably be more amazed, truly. Her breath should be caught in her throat right now, leaving her at a pause for air at the sight before her. Arlecchino’s gaze was locked upwards; although, Furina couldn’t help but find the view… uninteresting. The aurora borealis was a rare sight in Fontaine, yes. But what was even rarer was the sight of them in the dark eyes of her companion.
Blends of purples and greens. She had never seen those colors in Arlecchino before.
They were devastatingly beautiful.
To paint the empty blackness of her eyes with the aurora ripped apart the entire need for the sky, for the mirror and hues within her marked a far better canvas than this beauty. If she could strip the paint and the stars off tonight’s heavens and instead place them in Arlecchino’s own gaze, she would claw now until her fingertips were torn and she was coughing blood from her weakened body. Just one command, and the world would no longer know of the stars.
“The sky, darling, look at the colors in the sky!”
Furina looked down at the sound of the voice, and only now did she realize there were people along the ground level who were also viewing the lights. Lovers pointing up, sleepy partners looking in amazement—in some ways, she’d like to believe she was living that same story.
The Harbinger sat down on the roof, dragging Furina beside her.
The tiles were cold against her pajamas.
A blanket fell around her shoulders. Oh. Gods, she suddenly felt so much warmer, as if it was Arlecchino’s own fire that supplied this blanket. She brought it for her. She thought about her wellbeing. She cradled her care in her actions, and Furina felt that warmth pooling in her chest.
Yes.
Yes, maybe she was living that same love story.
Cold at the face, Furina puffed a visible exhale into the sky.
“It’s nice from here, with you,” she muttered. She knew Arlecchino, alone together, could hear her. “The last time the aurora borealis was visible in Fontaine was decades ago. I watched from my old bedroom atop the Palais.”
Arlecchino hummed, eyes never leaving the sky. “I’ve only seen it from Snezhnaya, but I wish I got to see it back then in Fontaine.” She hadn’t? “I was not born yet.”
Oh.
Right.
Arlecchino, no matter what she made others believe, was human. And despite their different lifespans in this world, she had been human for much longer than Furina had ever been.
It was… sort of humiliating. To sit here and think of a fairytale next to someone with more understanding of love than she will ever grasp.
Because this —all of this was confusing. The mind puzzles that came with the price of just figuring Arlecchino out. The guessing games, the migraines, the over-analyses: all to crush herself in a weeks-long coughing fit over someone whose love and attention was churned in the thick batter of several cakes and stupid carnations, and even more stupid favors that crossed the line between a Harbinger and ex-Archon.
But for all that it was worth, it was just so nice. It was nice to be weak and cared for—to be lifted by strong arms without having to move a finger, or to be fed by hands of visible effort.
Even when she was burning up, fever tormenting her whole body into sweats, she felt cherished like no other butler or friend or attendant she ever had.
It was maddening.
Sickening.
Finding so much comfort even without the touch of the Harbinger brought her to tears.
At the first sniffle, Arlecchino turned her head.
“Furina?”
The way she said her name—it was full of the most normal of tones, void of any animosity it once held tied to her title as an archon. It only made her feel worse, just to hear her name with a voice so full of normalcy that her eyesight blurred even more than she anticipated. She felt a hand on her shoulder. “Furina,” Arlecchino pulled at her, “are you alright?”
“I’m sorry,” Furina shakily breathed, obviously crying through her bangs. “I don’t mean to.”
“Don’t apologize for crying.” Don’t look at me like that.
Furina’s eyes barely traced a disheartened frown along Arlecchino’s lips. Stop looking at me like you care.
“I’m sorry.” She was a crashing tidal wave. “I don’t know why.”
Her hands furiously flew to her face in embarrassing attempts to wipe away her tears. They were brutal in their forms of floods; her skin did nothing to soak the tides of saltwater falling to the tiled roof. And beyond that murky water was the sight of Arlecchino’s hands.
They were stationed still in her lap, yet twitching with an itch. She was itching to comfort her.
Furina could only continue to cry. “You’re just so nice.”
Hold me, please.
She nearly choked out a gasp as firm arms wrapped around her figure, only closing in tighter and tighter the longer she cried.
But she didn’t mind. Gods, if she could choose to, she’d suffocate and drown in these arms until she could feel their true warmth, just to last this night. And only this night. If she could die in love once and wake up again to the sleepy eyes of Arlecchino, she might’ve taken the offer. She might as well, for she did not even realize the way her fingers weakly clawed at the other’s clothes, trying so wildly just to feel her—just to feel for one, small hint that this scene was real and their closeness was true.
Midnight meetings, aurora skies, intimate whispers—
How could something like this be anything less than romantic?
Furina blinked, tears streaming down the charred skin of Arlecchino’s arms. And through the blurriness and blackness of the night, something she hadn’t seen before glowed exceptionally more noticeable than before. They were on the ground. They swayed with the wind towards her, as if looking at her, ever so gently.
She had no idea yellow carnations grew right by her apartment.
—
Furina woke up in a cold sweat.
Last evening.
The feeling of Arlecchino’s hands. The sound of her voice. The thought of her care.
It was nice.
It was so terribly nice.
Her hands flew towards her face, searching within the warmth from her hands for any familiarity of the hands that held her tear-stricken cheeks last night. It was impossible to, with hands much smaller and fingers far less warm than hers were.
Fate was so cruel. To give her grace with the bewitching feeling of Arlecchino’s arms around her sobbing frame, only to rob her of it the very next morning. Furina’s arms wrapped around herself as new tears fell down her dry skin, though she failed in consoling her own body still laced with sickness and shivers.
She was longing. Yearning.
Homesick for the arms that have barely held her.
She looked out towards the sky through the window, aurora lights long gone, almost as if they were never there to sanction her love in the first place.
At least…
But she was sure it was real. She was sure she shared that night with deeper feelings—she was sure she was not the only one who felt so.
At least we are under the same sky.
For now, that, and her instances of delusion were enough.
—
It took Clorinde only one instance to sense that something was wrong.
If it wasn’t already for the fresh flowers centered in the room with a vase, then it was the washed dishes, the stacked plates, the filled fridge—
This was probably the first time she ever preferred seeing Furina’s apartment a mess.
She knew it wasn’t Furina who had cleaned. Even now, as the bedridden ex-Archon lazed on the couch and forked another bite of cake to her mouth, it was evident that the one who scrubbed up her shambles of disorder was the very same person who was the cause of this ongoing sickness.
With only coffee and a cake made with less… less affectionate intentions than Furina really distinguished, perhaps she couldn’t tell that she was just barely hanging on.
Clorinde cleared her throat. “You seem happier.” But I don’t like the cause of it.
“I feel happier, too.” She sounded chipper through every word spoken with a mouthful of food. The conclusion of her being chipper was formed by a well-trained ear, however, since Furina’s voice was mostly scratchy from her dry coughs. But she still ate spoonfuls of that cake like it was medicine for her throat. Clorinde wished she’d spit it out. She wished she was smart enough to not be so hooked.
The duelist tapped her finger atop the kitchen counter, eyeing Furina’s coffee table with scrutiny. More cake. More cups of coffee. Her poor, poor health. Clorinde narrowed her eyes to an unintentional glare. “Does your stomach not feel sick from all of that junk?”
“No,” Furina fired. Her response was quick, and Clordine did not miss the way her tone solidified purposely to shut her down. “Because it’s not junk.”
“Furina, all you’re consuming is coffee and leftover cake.”
The former Archon shrugged. “One keeps me awake, and the other is a gift I don’t want to waste.”
A gift.
And there it was: the obvious, unspoken topic in the room that remained between them.
Arlecchino.
Arlecchino, and their odd relationship.
That name, which belonged to the person that both helped and destroyed her best friend, was bittersweet in her head.
Clorinde wasn’t sure exactly when all of this started, but if she was honest, she did take some fault. It was she who frequented Furina since she stepped down from the Palais. It was she who checked up on her the most as her sickness grew worse. It was she who first found out her friend was also taking visits by the Knave. And, it was she who noticed the stages of Furina falling into feelings more dangerous than mere companionship.
But her flaw was her timing, for it was too late by the time she realized Furina’s destructiveness.
Maybe the former Archon forgot how it felt to love someone, or maybe she never knew at all.
But still, she sat there. Beaten and berated by her own self-inflicted ill health from the first and only time Clorinde had ever seen her affections toward someone else; almost as if to love another person meant to destroy the face of her own identity. Yet, despite this, she still couldn’t admit it. Not once did Clorinde ever imagine her accepting the truth of their relationship.
How deep Furina’s feelings went, and how she was far below the surface of Arlecchino’s shallow sentiments.
“Furina,” she called, faltering. There was a quivering edge to her voice, as the tides turned and the sky revealed only one outcome—Furina wouldn’t listen. When water streams one way, only little could stop its flow. And Clorinde knew she wasn’t a strong enough dam to halt the oncoming river. She opened her mouth again, softening her words to an honesty she could only fall back on. “I don’t think you and I are seeing your relationship with her in the same way.”
“Are you doubting her?”
“Are you doubting me?”
It stung just a little, to be reduced to someone subject to her defensiveness. Like suddenly, the Knave was so important to her she would defile the basis of their friendship.
“With all due respect, Furina,” Clorinde started, “a relationship between a Harbinger and ex-Archon is not the romance story you might think it is.”
Anger flashed in her eyes. “That’s not what I even—!”
She cut herself off out of frustration, though Clorinde could not discern if the reason was to hold back her annoyance or to stop herself from admitting something she didn’t want to. Because with the scent of carnations, cake, and caramel coffee in this apartment, it was obvious even Furina did not believe her own defense.
How many spoonfuls of cake until she collapses again out of exhaustion and a lack of care? How many days of convincing herself that every little action meant something more until there was nothing left to prove? Every desire—every pretext she had given herself just mocked the sight of a poor God that was barely learning how to be human.
And to Clorinde’s cruel realization, it was possible the Knave was so conversely and painfully human that she was barely comprehending the obsession of a former God.
What a terrible, terrible match.
“Are you in love with her?”
“No,” Furina lied.
Clorinde sighed.
“Listen,” the duelist started. There wasn’t much she could do for her. Not on her own, as she stared at her friend helplessly in pity. “Navia and I are taking a trip to Liyue in a few days for the Lantern Rite festival, and we would love for you to join us. Maybe you can get your mind off of things for a few weeks.” Clorinde got up and turned around, heading towards the door. “Think about it.”
Think about it. The implication of letting go, for just a moment in time, as a start.
Even if it made her feel sicker, it was exactly what Furina needed.
This was her final piece. If Furina truly wanted to get better—if Furina truly respected herself, then in a few days time, maybe Clorinde could see just a hint of her best friend again. And if she didn’t… Well, she wasn’t sure what she could do anymore to stop an oncoming tidal wave other than sit and watch it crash its own relationships and itself.
Clorinde closed the door without one final look, for she could already imagine the horrified expression Furina carried as terrored eyes burned to her back.
—
Sunlight, fresh air.
“You look so much healthier already,” Arlecchino praised. There was just the slightest upturn of a smile on her lips. She was proud. “Feeling better?”
Don’t look at me like that. Furina searched for any sincerity behind her eyes. Don’t make me falter.
“I started eating better this past week,” Furina smiled as well. Politeness. That was what she kept her expression as.
The sun berated the paleness that her skin had suffered indoors for weeks. She felt bare and nearly weak as she stood longer than she had in the past month, for her legs barely had time to regain any strength. Her body felt so frail. So shaky, she feared she might collapse subconsciously towards Arlecchino’s arms.
If she did that, she might fall back into delusion all over again.
“Way better than all that sugar I’ve seen you consume?” Arlecchino almost poked, but Furina wasn’t sure she could handle the teasing.
After all, what was left to say?
Now that she stood here, out in the open after weeks of rotting atop the sheets of her bed and dreaming about a heaven where they were more than friends, she was short on words. All the feelings, and passions, and fondness, and torment she endured suddenly ran dry along her tongue. What else was left?
What else, to the woman that stood before her after she simultaneously nursed and dismantled her ego?
When stripped down and forced to admit she just wanted human love more than anything in life, she was nothing.
“I’m going away for a while,” she confessed.
“Oh?”
Furina looked away. “Clorinde is taking me to Liyue for vacation, so I’ll be…” she hesitated, “unreachable for the time being.”
Her gaze caught a patch of dirt by her apartment building. The yellow carnations along the walls were almost in full bloom now. Spring must be coming.
Arlecchino gave a half smile, eyes relaxing. “I guess I’ll see you soon?”
Furina took a step back, shifting her weight to her heel, ready to turn the other way.
“See you soon.”
At least chase me a little, won’t you?