Archive of Our Own

There had been no reason whatsoever for you to fall ill. As one of the senior officers in Pantalone’s debt recovery division, it had been years since it had been necessary for you to go out on a field mission. That task had been left to more junior subordinates as you now enjoyed a well-earned desk-based post. Instead, you coordinated intelligence and tracked down those who had ‘disappeared’ under various rocks across the breadth of Teyvat. Impressed by your techniques and success rate, Pantalone naturally rewarded you accordingly. Of all his material assets, loyal human assets were perhaps even more rare.

The first sign had been tingling and loss of sensation in your extremities which started spreading down your limbs towards your abdomen, and then the tremor as you held your teacup, the fluid rippling visibly. Then weakness in your legs and brain fog. At first, Pantalone had suspected incremental poisoning. There was motive enough. But all of the tests for neurotoxicity came back negative. Was it possible this was some new and advanced substance that didn’t leave a trace? Apparently not. The cost of a delusion? Again, no. Working in an office now, you had had no need of it for years. Your neurological system had simply decided to malfunction of its own volition and turn on itself.

Pantalone had made a proposition to his colleague – he would provide treatment to stabilise your condition until such time that he had developed a cure.

It gave Zandik something novel to do, for which he had automatic funding, and would provide him with a little intellectual variety to his workload. It may also yield some useful data for his ongoing projects. By the same token, it would give you a chance of recovery, and Pantalone in turn would have the benefit of your continued service.

So all in all, by Pantalone’s reckoning, an equitable exchange all round. You would be a patient, not a test subject.

Yet in spite of Pantalone’s high regard, Zandik had not noticed anything of note about you, but he had no reason to. You did not specialise in tasks that were of use to him and medical appointments were no place for idle chatter. He had treated you clinically, with the bare amount of courtesies required to perform his work. Although not cruel, he simply lacked what you might call a bedside manner. A professional indifference. But that was to be expected. He was an engineer after all, not a doctor. No Hippocratic oath had ever passed his lips. ‘Medicine’ – if it could properly be called that in his hands – had been an accidental but necessary expansion of his expertise for his overarching work.

However, he did note your easy compliance and lack of squeamishness. The way you unhesitatingly rolled up you sleeve and didn’t flinch whenever he had to draw blood, even if you did turn your head away, the way you would hold the swab over the site unprompted while he reached for the surgical tape to stick it in place, the way you would press your lips together and determinedly hold still without complaint when his diagnostic apparatus caused you – alas, inevitable – discomfort, the way you always adhered to his lifestyle advice concerning diet and exercise management to optimise outcomes (unlike your benefactor).

And he had become rather taken with your body’s responsiveness to his treatments. A model patient, with optimal recovery, unhindered by significant side effects. Whatever your biological make-up, you had somehow defied the odds to balletically side-step the main pitfalls that had plagued his subjects to date. Your body had welcomed his interventions and, by extension, a part of himself. The two of you were biologically enmeshed on a cellular level. You caused him no inconvenience and produced vast quantities of precious data. And for this reason you had become a great source of value to him, to the point that, over time, he actually looked forward to seeing you at your appointments. Writing up his notes had started to bring a subconscious smile to his face, with your file kept within easy reach among those of his other pet projects. He actually enjoyed asking how you were and hung on your every word, though not for the reason you thought.

At least not at first.

With time, you had noticed a gradual change in his countenance. Though his touch had always been careful and surgically precise, it now carried an air of tenderness. Not just administering drugs correctly, but being particularly careful not to cause you pain or injury.

Instead of the stoic silence between you when drawing blood, punctuated only by his rhythmic breathing through his nose as he concentrated on the trickles filling the vial like tumbling pomegranate seeds, he now prefaced it with a small apologetic warning of “a sharp scratch” to come. The mechanical wipe of the antiseptic swab against the injection site had, over time, evolved into a succession of delicate caresses. Before even his brain had consciously intended or registered it, the words ‘take care’ had already left his throat at the end of your appointments.

It was inevitable that the lines of his admiration blurred from the purely professional to something…

To what, exactly?

You, in turn, had noticed the softening of his gestures and semblances of conversation. And then you had noticed his elegant nose, abundant unruly curls that looked ever so soft, and the depth of his impenetrable eyes that held so many secrets. You had started to recognise the sound of his breath when he listened to your heart, and the fine lines on his face – which were not unpleasant – when he leaned close with a penlight to test your pupillary light reflexes. Even the way he pressed his experienced fingers to your pulse or punctured your skin with the tip of a needle had a signature, unlike when one of his assistants occasionally performed the task. You recalled the visible dismay with which he had learned that a junior assistant had blown successive veins in multiple sites trying to insert a cannula and the irritated frown on his face when he examined the bruises, rubbing your skin soothingly. He had then effortlessly performed the task in an even narrower vein with unparalleled skill and minimal discomfort, as if to prove that with him you were in safe hands and could always trust his competence. And with these attentive touches, your mind couldn’t help but wonder what glimpse this was into his manner during his most intimate moments.

And so, you too had developed an indefinable anticipation for your appointments, almost an ache to be taken care of by him and him alone.

Hearing he was from Sumeru originally, you had asked one of Pulcinella’s subordinates stationed there - while assisting with the newest Northland Bank branch - to send you a box of local pastries and some coffee ground with cardamom.

Handing the little bag of goods to him after an appointment, you had feigned nonchalance, as if your colleague had brought too many of them as a souvenir for you from his mission, and couldn’t eat them all by yourself while they were still fresh.

Peering down into the bag between his hands, Zandik had been baffled.

But he had accepted the gifts, albeit somewhat awkwardly, to the point that you’d feared you made a misstep and offended him somehow. Only then, as you incessantly replayed the scene in your mind and cringed at what you could have said or done differently, did it occur to you that perhaps he did not want to be reminded of his homeland at all. Who would withstand the tundra of Snezhnaya voluntarily if it wasn’t already in your blood?

Of course, how could you know of his past? Or that he had been strangely touched by the gesture? Unequipped with the correct type of coffee cups, but wanting to drink the coffee while it was still fragrant, he had used local Snezhnayan porcelain, most unsuited in shape for the thick silt that accumulated at the bottom. But no matter.

In fact, he had been so moved, that he had left a little of the coffee in the bottom of the bag and resealed it, opening it from time to time to inhale the scent that awoke so many complicated memories of ‘home’. Sunshine and warm breezes, exotic birdcalls that had become blurred in his memory, rustling verdure that created dappled shade, the silken fluidity of sand through his fingers, warm spices that heated the palate, the echoes of footsteps in the House of Daena and the texture of Sumeru paper in the many tomes it held.

But then all had become subsumed in the bitter taste of rejection, like a fire engulfing his memories.

It had felt as though it had been somebody else’s lifetime. Not only in terms of physical distance, but he too had changed immeasurably since those days. Even his thoughts took form in his mind in a different language to the one he had spoken in his childhood.

He had spent more time here in the land of snow than the land of his birth.

Harbinger of Snezhnaya.

Notwithstanding, while staring at the falling snow through the window of his study, he had relished how the crisp layers of pastry had yielded with a crackle under his teeth, giving way to syrup-soaked nuts, flavoured with cinnamon, rosewater and orange blossom. And as he lost himself in the flavours, he found himself wishing that he had invited you to share them with him and a desire to regale you with stories of Sumeru City. Though to be truthful, you probably knew more about how it was these days than he did.

Of course, the awkward rapprochement between the two of you had not been lost on Pantalone, seeing it from both sides. His keen eyes and insatiable appetite for intrigue in the shadows spotted a new opportunity.

At a meeting with you to discuss reintegrating you into service on light duties, he asked how your treatment had been progressing and whether you had recovered any neurological function.

“He said I have to work on my manual dexterity and fine motor skills. Apparently, that will help preserve and cultivate brain plasticity.”

“And how do you plan do to that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe embroidery? Or I heard there’s some sort of paper folding art from Inazuma. That might work.”

His smirk was audible as Pantalone said breezily, “Why not a piano lesson?”

You hummed sceptically.

“I wouldn’t be good at that…”

“No? But Zandik is,” he dropped neatly, with barely disguised mischief.

Before you had time to register his suggestion, or your surprise at this revelation that the man of science was also a man of the arts, Pantalone continued.

“I’m sure he could teach you. Besides, it would force him to take time out of his cloistered existence to practice.”

As Pantalone spoke, you frowned as the idea seemed increasingly imprudent with every word from his mouth. He chuckled at your visible discomfort.

“It will be fine. I shall make arrangements.”

------

On the day in question, Zandik’s work had overrun, as usual. He hastily tried to file his notes from the morning’s experiments but in his haste, the pile tumbled to the floor, scattering in all directions. Letting out a deep sigh, he stooped and, with insufficient time to sort through them all, simply scooped the assortment up and dumped it on his desk, to file later.

“Ugh…too many notes.” he grumbled to himself in exasperation.

Standing in the corridor with a pit in your stomach, you tentatively knocked on the tall wooden doors. A few moments later, Zandik peered around the door, looking just as unenthused about the prospect as you.

Seeing your reaction, he realised his expression had given him away and cleared his throat hurriedly, trying to school his features into a less dour countenance, before shuffling to the side and gesturing with an open arm for you to come in.

The grand piano was already set up in the large room, though your eyes couldn’t help but drift to the untidy desk piled with uncharacteristically disordered files. You started walking over to it but, not wishing to be presumptuous to your host, paused mid-way, waiting for Zandik to close the door and catch up to you. He gestured to the long seat, designed for two.

“Over there is fine.”

Giving him a soft nod and a timid smile, you sat down unsurely in the middle of the seat. Nothing about this felt familiar or physically comfortable. Unsure if the seat was at the right height, or correct distance from the keys, you instinctively looked down from side to side, angling to see the legs, as if trying to assess whether or not to adjust it, despite having no appreciation for what it should be.

Seeing your predicament, he wagged his finger for you to stand up and turned the knob on the side to adjust the height a little.

“That should do it.”

This was already a significant intrusion into his privacy. And now he had to make adjustments.

As much as he found you to be a subject of fascination, he was not necessarily willing or ready to share this part of himself, which was not commonly known even among the harbingers. It was like the soft vulnerable underbelly of a lizard – kept close to the ground and untouched by the sun.

The piano was the only means he had of truly indulging, expressing or purging emotions. A rare link to his enduring humanity, no matter how frayed and thin that thread had become. And, until now, he had been able to do that alone. Or at least on the rare occasions he did share, it had always been on his terms.

Pantalone’s request had been all but an unbidden scalpel, exposing his innermost self as though spilling his innards upon a mortuary table.

But he had been unable to refuse. For how could he turn down the opportunity to observe you adapt to a new task in real time? This would be a true assessment of your adaptability and recovery. The most effective diagnostics were disguised as mundane tasks, so the subject was unaware they were actually being tested. As such, it removed certain biases and variables, such as performance anxiety or falsifying results through mimicking what they thought was expected rather than their true reflexes.

“Can you read music?” he asked, standing straight once more and signalling that the stool was ready.

You nodded compliantly, taking a seat once more with a sense of purpose to demonstrate that you were taking this seriously.

“Well that should make things easier going forward, though you won’t need to know much for today.”

 He opened a book of exercises and placed it on the music stand.

“This will make good rehabilitation.” he announced, “Now, show me your hands.”

You held your hands out, palms facing up. His eyes didn’t meet yours; instead you were met by a soft frown of concentration as he looked down. Holding your wrists delicately, he turned them over.

“Spread out your fingers.”

You duly complied.

“As far as they can go.”

You tried to get them further apart.

He gave a small grunt of approval as he mentally assessed the measurements.

“Good span. All going as it should, that should make the harder pieces easier to manage.”

He stood up and took a few steps back to scrutinise. Now it was time to get to work.

“First things first; posture.”

Softly prodding the small of your back with his fingertips he instructed, “You need to shift forward a little.”

“O-oh.”

You moved forward in little increments until he gave a nod of approval.

“See where your knees are perpendicular to the keys? That’s where they need to be. Now, sit up straight.”

You tried to suppress your breath hitching as he placed one hand on your belly and the other on the small of your back, as if to tilt you upright.

“Mm. Good. But relax your shoulders.”

You pressed your shoulders downward, causing him to shake his head gently and grip them with both hands. Feeling no change to the tension, he spoke more kindly.

“Take a deep breath. All the way in.”

Your shoulders rose against his palms as you inhaled.

“Now let it out all the way slowly, relaxing your shoulders but not your back.”

As you exhaled, he pressed his thumbs into your shoulders to relieve the knots there. It was just as well that he was standing behind, so he couldn’t see your eyes fluttering closed at his touch as a tingle ran over your neck and scalp. An intrusive image of him touching your bare skin in this way as a prelude to intimacy forced its way into your mind and refused to leave despite its impropriety, causing a faint blush to dust your cheeks.

His breath fanned over the side of your neck as he leaned over you from behind and caged you in his arms while positioning your hands on the keys.

“Forearms level with the keys.” he enunciated with precision.

You held your arms stiffly, so that your elbows wouldn’t droop.

“Relax your elbows. They need to move.”

Following his earlier example, you inhaled and exhaled at his words, trying in vain to loosen them.

“Relax them,” he insisted, pinching your elbow between a finger and thumb and wiggling your arm, as if to release the tension.

“That’s better.”

For all of the diagnostics you had endured at his hands, this was by far the most arduous to tolerate without complaint. ‘Relax’, he said. Relax? How could you relax, sitting bolt upright and having to keep your wrists straight and your elbows exactly level with the keys?

“It won’t feel entirely natural to begin with. But you’ll get used to it. The neural pathways will take care of that with repetition.”

He gestured for you to shift to one end of the piano stool and sat beside you. Doing so made you have to reset your posture all over again, but that was part of his test. He rose a little to adjust his coat behind him and get comfortable.

The lesson started with him demonstrating articulation and how the manner in which you touch the keys can set the whole mood of a piece. As his hands came to life and danced over the keys, you tried to parse the expression on his face. There seemed to be a monumental disconnect between the sober expression on his face and the lively notes jumping in time like children on a hopscotch square, then he swiftly changed to a soothing pensive melody, smooth and constant like waves against the side of a rowing boat, then a discordant serious tune that you recognised as the work of a Snezhnayan composer.

After letting you experiment with eliciting various tones from the keys, he showed you how to position your fingers correctly and centre them around middle C.

“Some simple scales.” he announced, “I’m well aware that the rudiments are dull and repetitive, but without them you cannot aspire to anything beyond mimicry.”

He demonstrated how to walk your fingers up and down the keys, the correct way to ‘cross’ them when ascending and descending. Then arpeggios and a few simple chords and triads.

Seeing your determination to follow his tuition to the letter, despite the onslaught of new information, his earlier scepticism could not help but soften a little. Perhaps this arrangement wasn’t going to be so bad. Besides, having a keen pupil to whom he could transmit knowledge might be fulfilling in some capacity. Since you already understood the basics of tempo and reading music, he wouldn't have to drill down the more tedious minutiae with you. It would simply be technique and expressiveness.

His voice betrayed a certain fondness as he reached over and covered your hand with his to guide your fingers cleanly on the keys.

“Here, like this.”

The unexpected tenderness in his touch almost made you freeze but you forced yourself to continue.

To make things more interesting, he gave you a simple melody to master, with a view to integrating a couple of basic chords with the left hand. This would provide an interesting baseline in terms of your ability to conduct separate tasks with right and left concomitantly. With a pointed finger, he set the metronome to keep time. The steady stream of ticks and bells were oddly soothing to him, to the point that he sometimes listened to it to aid his concentration while drafting.

Seeing that your elbows were drifting outwards to the sides rather than perpendicular to the keys, he silently and gently pinched them as he repositioned them while you played, your concentration unbroken.

Although you had clearly picked up each separate segment, when the time came to chain everything together, you unexpectedly started to struggle. A huff of frustration left your lips as your fingers involuntarily stuck, failing to respond when you tried to play to tempo. A look of intrigue immediately sparkled in his curious eyes. This was the first outward sign of true emotion he had seen of you. Whatever private frustrations had tormented you about your condition had clearly been kept safely sealed from him. Or was it possible that you shared his trait of becoming frustrated whenever you didn’t get something right first time? Either way, this splash of colour was not repellent to him, but rather gave you more depth. In an attempt to break the stiffness, you stretched your fingers.

Observing you try again and again, but your frustration deepening to the point that the corners of your eyes started to moisten, his eyebrows quirked with concern. This was not the point of the exercise. Perhaps your expectations – or rather your demands on yourself – had been too high. And fatigue was clearly setting in.

Your gaze tunnelled on the keys, you did not realise how absorbed you were until his hand came into your field of vision, reaching across once more, gently grasping your own and drawing it to him.

Turning your palm upwards and resting the back of your hand on his thigh, Zandik spoke soothingly as he massaged your fingers and hand, unafraid of conveying his growing affection through his fingertips.

“A little at a time. It’s about cultivating muscle memory. They’re not accustomed to moving this way. So it is better to work slowly with correct form until the movement comes naturally. And it will, I promise.”

His eyes didn’t meet yours as he spoke. Rather, his downcast lashes veiled the ruby gaze at your hand cradled within his own.

Threading his fingers between yours he gave your hand and wrist a shake to loosen the muscles, then started to massage your forearm.

“Perhaps we’ve had enough for one day.” he said sympathetically.

But on seeing the despondence clouding your eyes, as if giving up meant failure, his heart unexpectedly clenched and he immediately recanted.

“Or perhaps some tea instead.” he murmured, subconsciously placing a hand on his chest, as if to query the unfamiliar sensation.

Standing up, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and shook it out a couple of times before holding it out to you unceremoniously. The metronome fell silent as he captured its arm. Then he discreetly left you at the piano to reset yourself, while he called for the staff to bring some tea and pastries.

You stood up and as you walked to the window, hugging your arms to yourself, you felt embarrassed and weak at how easily you had crumbled just now, especially in front of him.

Zandik picked up the sheaf of disordered notes on his desk and tried to sort through a few while he waited for the tea, but his eyes almost looked through the papers while his mind was dominated by his thoughts.

A desire to retrieve your smile and wipe your tears, to take care of you and see you recover, to see you fed and spoil you with treats… Was this what it meant to have family?

With a contemplative frown, he looked up at your lonely silhouette by the window. By offering you comfort it would be acknowledging that he had seen your moment of weakness. Would your pride allow that?

A knock at the door interrupted his train of thought and he called for the staff to bring the tea and set it up on a low table.

Once the two of you were settled into the chairs, the fragrance of bergamot infused the air as Zandik lifted the lid on the pot and checked if it was ready before pouring a cup for you both.

“What made you study music?” you asked, before immediately regretting the directness of the question, concerned that he might misinterpret it as an insult or insinuation that you had only considered him capable of one skill.

He pulled a pensive face as he pondered his answer. It was not a question he had ever had to answer before.

“Music is a microcosm for the world and rebellion against its rules. Rhythm, tempo, pitch…all of these can be annotated in rigid grids and lines. And yet, no single method of musical notation is sovereign.”

He sipped his tea.

“In spite of convention, anything can become an instrument. A hollowed gourd tapped with a stick, the human voice…even the trundling of machines produces natural rhythms pleasing to the ear. Music cannot be contained within ‘proper’ forms. It is too powerful for that.”

Enthralled by this glimpse into his inner thoughts, and apprehensive that any comment might cause him to stop, you listened quietly as he continued.

“Each civilisation has its own rules and traditions for musical aesthetics. Its own tempos and scales. Its own fashions and censorship. Its own scripts for notation. Some cultures practise oral tradition only. But none of these methods are absolute.”

“You mean there is no universal truth?”

“Exactly.”

He smiled with an air of triumph, content that you had grasped his perspective immediately.

“And yet, in spite of these many species of rules, it is in the hands of the performer that the true power is wielded. The performer is not bound to obey the tyranny of the composer.”

You laughed softly. Tyranny seemed such a strong word for artistic expression.

“So the appeal of music for you is not playing it as it was intended to be heard?”

He smirked roguishly, showing a dangerous glint of his teeth more reminiscent of his youth, but inwardly content to see your mood had lifted.

“On the contrary, nobody can truly play it that way except the composer. And when the composer is long dead, who is to say what is right? The true intent of their music dies with them. It is all a matter of interpretation, like so many religious texts claiming to bear the word of god. Their mischief lies in the prism of interpretation, which is bound to refract differently from one age to the next. How many different versions of the same piece have you heard even within your own lifetime?”

He paused and sipped his tea, before asking archly.

“So what made you request to study the piano?”

“I just want my hands to work again.”

“And that’s as good a reason as any.” he replied stoically.

After a pause, you asked timidly while staring down into your teacup, lest your question be mistaken for insolence.

“Do you think I will ever fully recover?”

There was a gentle clink of porcelain as he rested his teacup on the saucer with a heavy sigh, a weight of regret in his low voice.

“Truthfully? You will probably always have some residual damage.” Then he continued more confidently, “But I think there is still scope for significant recovery to be made yet. It won’t happen overnight though. And it requires your cooperation. The brain is not a passive organ.”

Seeing your shoulders slump a little, he added,

“But you’ve come a long way so far. Even if it may not feel that way.”

You shrugged at his words.

“I guess. It’s just tiring.”

“Life is tiring. We are not responsible for our misfortune. But we are responsible for how we respond to it.”

“I know,” you replied weakly, “But it’s hard to be strong all the time.”

“Who said you had to be? Stop making demands on yourself against the yardstick of how you were in the past. As harsh as it may sound, that person no longer exists. You need to recalibrate your metrics. Realistically. Once you dispose of that framework, you’ll be free to achieve much more.”

Although what he said sounded contradictory, it also made perfect sense. Instead of tying yourself to trying to be who you once were, you needed to look at life from another angle and pursue growing in a new and different direction.

The conversation moved onto lighter topics and the citrus scent in the air dissipated with the last of the tea, signalling the end of the break. You and Zandik resumed your places on the piano stool to continue the lesson. But first, to show you what was achievable, or simply to seize a moment of free time for his own gratification, Zandik decided to play awhile.

With his slender fingers, he effortlessly made the keys sing with a melody from Fontaine .

Leaning into you now as he played, his shoulder touched yours. Despite instantly feeling hyperaware of the contact, you didn’t move; partially so as not to draw attention to it and cause awkwardness, but mainly because you liked it. The firm press of his contact was grounding, almost comforting. And exceedingly rare, notwithstanding the frequency of his medical interactions.

As his leg extended towards the pedal, the length of his thigh now aligned against yours. You felt his motions run through you in time with the stresses on the notes, adding softness or sustain where appropriate. The sophisticated textures rose from the cavity and enveloped the two of you in music that felt as vivid as a painting.

Surreptitiously, you stole a sideways glance at his elegant profile, limned with a golden aura from the late afternoon sun. And yet he didn’t even notice, being so engrossed in the melody. Despite his age softening the edges of his features, he had retained his handsome looks. Some people grew into their looks as they matured, and it seemed that he might be one of them. You wondered how he might have looked in his younger days, oblivious to the fact that your wish in that regard would come true sooner than you thought.

Your mind pondered as to what emotions were thrumming through him in that moment as the mood of the music changed direction from fluid and carefree to foreboding and tense. What was the music making him feel and what scenes were being conjured in his mind’s eye? Seeing him so absorbed, a great distance formed between you – in that moment he was somewhere you could not go. It felt almost voyeuristic to see him connecting in this way, to the point that you bashfully averted your eyes in sudden embarrassment to instead concentrate on his fingers moving dextrously across the keys, which at least might be educational.

As he reached out towards the higher notes, his elbow and forearm moved across into the space above your lap, causing a strange sort of intimacy to develop.

When the melody was finally brought to a close, he paused meditatively, as though taking in the afterglow of the last echo of notes in the air. Once they had completely evaporated without any trace, you whispered,

“That was beautiful.”

He turned and a small but slightly tired smile bloomed on his face, his eyes crinkling with a muted warmth.

“Thank you,” he replied quietly, “I think that composer is often misunderstood. His work is not particularly aesthetic, which makes his technical genius somewhat inaccessible to many. But if his talent was accessible to many, it would not be so rare.”

“I liked it. It felt like despite the easygoing appearance, something sinister lurked in the shadows out of sight.”

This elicited a soft chuckle from Zandik. An unfamiliar sound, which could not help but make you smile as an unexpected warmth flooded your chest. He had been right earlier; truly anything could be music, even laughter.

“Now then, shall we give this one more chance?”

With a happy smile, you nodded. Feeling refreshed after the interval, you decided to attempt the melody once more. It had been frustrating because it had been so simple, yet unattainable. But now your body felt more relaxed and you were able to assume the correct posture more easily. There was greater ease in your movements and you took each little step at a time, this time successfully chaining all the segments together to form the complete melody in one go without error and at a reasonable pace, albeit still not to tempo, as the metronome bore witness.

At your success, and in an instant of uncharacteristic carelessness, Zandik momentarily allowed his guard to slip. A soft hum of laughter escaped through his nose accompanied by a small smile of satisfaction.

“There, see?” he said, his voice carrying a relaxed kindness that was alien in its unfamiliarity, though not unwelcome.

As the two of you smiled at one another, your respective gazes lingered in the soft haze of the afternoon.

After visibly weighing the prospects in his mind, he hesitantly leaned in and cautiously pressed his lips against yours, as if expecting you to recoil. Seeing that you didn’t, he continued more confidently, surmounting the furious fluttering in his chest. You were initially too stunned to react. Having previously chased any fleeting fantasies about this moment out of your mind as improbable or inappropriate, it now felt surreal.

Although you weren’t protesting, Zandik noticed that you weren’t reciprocating either and started to pull back, only for the thought of the moment ending to finally wake you out of your trance. Feeling your lips pursue his own, he leaned in once more, tenderly and affectionately, allowing a gloved hand to cup your cheek, the other running up the line of your outer thigh. The fingertips that normally only touched you to inspect or analyse now pressed into the softness of your thigh to pull you closer before following the undulations of your hips and up your side. He kissed you in small intervals, like gentle waves lapping at the shore, each one infused with a careful reverence. Pulling back a little to catch his breath, he gazed at you through hazy half-open eyes, smiling with satisfaction at the blush on your cheeks and puffiness of your lips after his attention.

A flood of affection washed through you at the fondness in his gaze and you felt the urge to pet his head, as though you had just tamed one of the noble snow leopards of the mountains. The silver-flecked teal curls were surprisingly soft and fluffy under your palm, and you twined a curl around your fingers playfully before giving his hair a light ruffle. An amused chuckle escaped him at the gesture. He thought his heart might actually burst when you suddenly cupped his cheeks delicately before drawing him close and laying a loving kiss on each eyelid, light as a butterfly’s footprint. When you pulled back, his eyes - decorated with creases at their corners - falteringly fluttered open with an expression almost of disbelief; disbelief in equal measure that someone would treat him with such careful affection and that the person in question was you.

With renewed purpose, he leaned in for another kiss, this time allowing the tip of his tongue to graze your lips, as if politely testing the boundaries. Accepting his invitation, you parted your lips and allowed him to taste and caress your tongue, which sent a pulse of electricity rippling through you, settling between your thighs. It shocked you at how easily your body had been led into a state of arousal. For his part, Zandik mentally logged every quivering gasp, shiver and spike in your pulse, and every especially sensitive area, as if compiling data on how to please you most. Allowing your arms to enfold him, you felt the contours of his shoulder-blades and lean back under the finely woven fabric of his coat. Your mouth captured a soft, deep moan from his chest as you now explored his mouth in turn.

The kiss reaching its natural conclusion, you both retreated a little before nestling into the crook of each other’s neck, taking in one another's scent and little details such as the texture of his shirt collar against your cheek. The fabric of his coat tightened as his shoulders heaved under your embrace, inhaling deeply to regulate his heart rate and breathing once more. In the stillness, governed only by the solemn metronome, you simply held one another for a while, as if both afraid to break the spell. You felt almost embarrassed to look him in the eye; he was still a figure of immense authority and admiration in your eyes. And this had felt like an almost clandestine breach of the rules. Which rule, however, you could not say.

Feeling him loosen his grip and pull back, you met his gaze gingerly. He continued to survey your face fondly, a new sparkle in his ruby eyes. With a soft half-smile, his slender fingers tidied the hair around your face before letting out a sigh of satisfaction. He grasped your hand, enfolded it in his other hand and rested it on his lap.

“When may I see you again?”

“Um, we have an appointment on Tuesd-“

He tutted and said with mock irritation, “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

Overcome with sudden shyness, you bit your lip and murmured,

“Anytime is fine. I’m not back at work yet.”

“Then Pantalone can’t object if I take you to the opera next week?”

At the mention of the opera, you tried in vain to suppress a smile as your heart fluttered.

“That would be lovely.”

“Then leave it with me.”

He drew your hand to his lips and kissed it playfully.

“I hope you will forgive me, but I must return to my work.”

You shook your head with a smile.

“It’s alright. I know you’re busy.”

He rose to his feet and pressed a paternal palm to your head, an unspoken signal that the piano lesson had come to an end.

“Make sure to practice.” he said, as he started to make his way to the door to show you out.

At the door, he looked at you with a soft expression and planted a final tender kiss on your mouth. With a smile, he gave a gentle wave as he closed the door. Touching your lips as your cheeks flushed with heat, you made your way down the corridor with hurried light steps. Passing a member of palace staff further down the hallway, you suddenly felt conscious that everyone knew what had just happened.

It was not until you got back to your quarters that you allowed yourself to giddily bathe in the glow of the unexpected intimacy you had shared and start planning what to wear to the opera. Though a gasp left your lips at what Pantalone would say if he found out you had been fraternising.

Sorting through his papers once more, Zandik replayed events in his mind, assessing how sensitive your body had been to his touch. With an inward smile, he noted that your markers were significantly above the baseline from when you had first fallen ill months before. He idly wondered if you had realised today just how much neurological function you had actually recovered; it might be a source of encouragement or morale.

It had been a sheer delight to collate such a delicious dataset.