Mafia AU

[misfittoys]

[ A tale of two people leading double-lives and the inevitable misunderstandings that follow ]

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[arcaico]

[He should have known from the first reckless smile, from the first impudent gleam of blue eyes across a chessboard, that Ajax would not be the kind to tread carefully. The words are tossed like a gauntlet at Zhongli's feet, careless and gleaming with challenge, and Zhongli, who has worn crowns and buried comrades and carried centuries of grief like a second skin, feels them strike true, deep into a place he had long since sealed away.

It was meant to be a diversion. A game. An indulgence he could afford, precisely because he had grown too old, too heavy, too wise to be moved.

And yet.

The younger man's breath kisses his lips even before the kiss itself arrives, and Zhongli feels something in him tilt, buckle, crack at the edges. His breath stills in his throat, a sudden hitch, an almost imperceptible widening of his gold-lit eyes, as if caught between instinct and surrender.

The chess pieces clatter from the table with all the gracelessness of an avalanche, an uncouth, unrepentant symphony of chaos in the hallowed quiet of the museum, a place built for reverence, for restraint, for stillness, and Zhongli does not so much as glance at them.

Let the relics fall. Let the painted saints and watchful marble gods see him for what he is: a man, stripped of duty for one blinding, reckless moment, and wanting.

Ajax kisses him like the world is ending. Not a careful, courteous kiss. No hesitation. The kind that tears down walls, that leaves bruises in the marrow, that carries with it the taste of hunger and the promise of ruin. It is unpolished, a little wild around the edges, the way the first rains lash against parched earth after a long drought.

And Zhongli has spent years swallowing down the ache of lost brothers, of dead comrades, of cold beds and colder mornings, and he feels himself shudder against it.

He had not touched, had not been touched, in so long.

The kiss finds him open, breathless, lips parted from the sheer shock of it, and when Ajax presses closer, Zhongli leans into him without thinking, the way a starving man leans into the first taste of spring. There is something scandalous in how easily he gives. Something decadent in the way his hands tighten ever so slightly over Ajax’s, a trembling admission that he is not resisting. That he does not want to.

He kisses back with a gravity that belies the stillness of his body, a slow, devastating slide of mouth against mouth, surrender dressed up in silk and smouldering gold. He tastes heat, reckless youth, the burn of something untempered, and it shakes him to his foundations in ways no assassin's blade, no soldier’s betrayal ever had. Zhongli had lived long enough to know that indulgence comes at a price, and he simply no longer cared.

(Or perhaps he cared too much, and that was the tragedy of it.)

When Ajax finally draws back, just a breath apart, the world feels too loud, too bright, too small to contain what is now crackling between them. Zhongli's gaze, heavy-lidded, flushed with something perilously close to wonder, lingers on Ajax’s mouth as if mapping the shape of the loss.

The museum remains hushed around them, scandalized in its silence.

He clears his throat before he even tries to speak. Because he knows his voice will stutter in its effort if he doesn't, untethered and loose.] Lead the way, then. [He holds out his hand for Ajax to take.]

[misfittoys]

[ The more Ajax learns about Zhongli, the less he actually understands.

On the surface, Zhongli was a poised, elegant, and well-off individual. He was learned in the ways that hinted at privilege but kind in those that often resulted from loss and hardship. He was sharp-witted and silver-tongued yet somehow adorably clueless in ways that made Ajax want to scream.

As for their kiss, Ajax had expected one of two things to happen. The first was that perhaps Zhongli was inexperienced — how else was it possible that this man could be available?— and Ajax would have to slowly warm up the man to all the wonderful things he wanted to do to him. (This hypothesis is immediately rejected at the first press of their lips where it is quite obvious that Zhongli is very experienced. Enough that a thrill of excitement shoots its way up Ajax's spine). The second was that Zhongli was indulging the affections and being chased by someone — that someone being Ajax— who loved nothing more than pushing boundaries and seeing what he could get away with. (The other thrill is that Zhongli seems just to be interested in this as he is and oh, how wonderful that is.)

There is something else there, though, underneath all the layers of want and physical attraction. Something not quite holding back, but something that is tempered. Something that is cautious. Something that makes Ajax thinks that perhaps someone has hurt Zhongli before, leaving him wanting but also guarded. Just the thought of it makes his temper and determination flare instinctively.

Zhongli was a man that deserved to be spoiled. And if Ajax was the best man for the job, then well—

Ajax takes Zhongli's hand, eyes never leaving his as he laces their fingers together and pulls the consulatant to his feet.

— Spoiled, he would be.

As for their scandalized audience, Ajax offers them a sheepish grin as he tousles the back of his hair with his free hand. He bends down to pick up the scattered pieces on the marble floor (stubbornly not letting go of Zhongli's hand and also not letting him help) as the board becomes an unorganized pile of chess pieces. He turns back to Zhongli with a grin when he is finished: ]

Chess was imported from Mondstadt, right? Before it started taking off everywhere. Let's go see what strategy games people played in Liyue before that.

[ And so, Ajax deliberately leads Zhongli further into the less crowded parts of the museum, swinging their joins hands together slightly as he makes sure their shoulders are pressed together. As they walk, even though his smile and gait are casual easy things, Ajax's eyes dart quickly through their surroundings, clocking every person and camera that has them in their field of vision. ]

[arcaico]

[There is something scandalously sweet about the way Ajax swings their joined hands as they move, weaving them deeper into the museum’s quiet heart. Their shoulders brush with every easy step, a casual intimacy that feels more decadent than any banquet, any treasure hoarded under lock and key. Zhongli allows it, to be guided, to be touched. Easily, he lets himself drift after Ajax’s bright wake, a ship surrendering to the pull of the tides.

He keeps his head inclined slightly toward their path, but his eyes, sharp, gilded things, steal sidelong glances at Ajax, drinking him in with a hunger he can no longer mask. The pulse at his wrist throbs where their hands are joined, a steady, fluttering testament to the part of him that still remembers how to long.

The museum grows quieter as they enter an older wing: the air heavier, thicker with the ghosts of centuries, the careful hush of reverence pressed into every carved stone and lacquered scroll. It is a good place to hide things. Feelings. Memories. They pass a collection of strategy relics, simple boards etched into cracked stone, pieces carved of bone and jade, worn smooth by hands long returned to dust. Ancient games. Ancient wars.

Zhongli pauses.]

This game, [he says quietly,] was once played with stones taken from riverbeds. No two pieces identical. A game of conquest, yes, but mostly of patience and inevitability. It was said that the true measure of a player’s strength was not how many pieces they claimed [his thumb brushes absentmindedly across Ajax’s knuckles, a slow, grounding gesture] but how skillfully they allowed losses.

[He shifts slightly, the fabric of his coat brushing Ajax’s side, a whisper-soft contact that feels, somehow, intimate.]

Those who feared loss clutched their stones too tightly. They choked their own strategies. But those who understood let their rivers flow. They carved new paths through the wreckage.

[He does not need to say it aloud: I have lost before. I have let go before. I know the shape of grief and the taste of ashes.

Because there is something reckless and radiant about the boy beside him, something that reminds Zhongli of younger days when he was not only a boss, not only a dragon, but a man who could reach for what he desired without weighing the cost in blood and silence.

The ache in his chest is a sweet, terrible thing.

He glances down at their joined hands, watching the way his fingers fit against Ajax’s, like two stones plucked from the same river, worn smooth where they press together.]

There is a kind of victory, too, in knowing which pieces you are willing to lose.

[He does not clarify whether he means the game or himself.

He suspects, in the end, it will make little difference.]

[misfittoys]

[ There's a permanent flush to Ajax's ears as he pretends to not feel the burn of Zhongli's gaze upon him. His lips feel dry as he resists the urge to wet them, eyes once again flicking up to the faint blinking light of a security camera. C'mon, Ajax, keep it together. This is supposed to be a wholesome date where you are charming and endearing so that this guy thinks that you are attracted to his brain as well as his body.

And he was doing so well, too, hah! maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was doing awful, but that little amount of restraint and resolve crumpled under the weight of one very small and yet momentous realization.

Zhongli wants this too (wants it more possibly than Ajax himself).

Ah, but then there is the talk of loss, and that disconcerting feeling returns. Is there a price to pay for fanning the spark that has ignited between them? Ajax thinks not— despite knowing how risky it is to draw a civilian into his gravity. (And a native of Liyue at that. One of Morax's own.) But Zhongli seems to think that paying some price is an inevitability and not in the way the Land of Contracts preaches fairness and equal exchange.

Ajax turns to Zhongli, brushes a kiss to his temple at the touch to his knuckle. His grin is probably tangible as the loose bits of their clothes brush together in a soft swish of fabric and almost mockery of what they could be doing now instead of looking at worn stones used to kill time by people who were long gone from this world. ]

Sounds like a game I would be terrible at.

[ He laughs against Zhongli's skin, tilting his body just enough so he can mouth at the shell of Zhongli's ear with the camera none the wiser. He guides Zhongli not so gently then, pulling him to take a half dozen more steps that draw them farther and farther for that watchful blinking light. ]

I don't like to lose anything.

[arcaico]

[It all happens in increments. Soft, dangerous increments.

The press of Ajax’s mouth against his temple is warm, fleeting, scandalously familiar, and it stuns Zhongli more effectively than any blade, any bullet ever could. His breath catches, a small, private gasp that curls tight behind his teeth.

He is so used to being manhandled into safety by those sworn to him: Xiao’s sharp, no-nonsense hands pulling him from crumbling stone, Ping's gentle but firm shepherding when he forgets his limits, even Ganyu’s rare, trembling grip when things turned too dire. Ajax’s touch is no shield or command, only the bright, impulsive pull of someone who simply wants him closer. Wants him for the sake of wanting. No contracts. Only that reckless, singular hunger, glittering and terrible and sweet, and Zhongli lets himself be guided with startling ease, almost stumbling in his steps from the sheer unthinking willingness of his body to follow.

Their shoulders brush again, firmer this time, Ajax’s body warm and solid at his back as he guides him a few steps away from the blinking, mechanical gaze of the security cameras.

There is something terribly delicious in it. The motion softens him from the inside out, the dangerous, private little smile of a man who has survived long enough to know what he is risking and is willing to wager it anyway.]

You seem to have a rather competitive streak, [Zhongli murmurs, gold eyes bright with an indulgent, affectionate glimmer as he lets Ajax pull him along.] One I had not been aware of.

[misfittoys]

Oh! That?

[ Ajax laughs as if it was no big deal.

As if it wasn't that competitive streak those helped him rise through the ranks of the Fatui until he was the youngest Harbinger among Her Majesty's trusted. That same competitive streak that made him turn his back on years of dusty school books and their promise of an office job when his ailing father grew too sick to put bread upon the table. As if it wasn't the catalyst for what made Ajax slide into the seat opposite of Zhongli that day on his way back from dropping Teucer off at school— for what was more depressing than a challenger without a worthy opponent.

But still, he knows how off-putting it can be to the people around him. There's a reason on diplomatic missions he has to be babysit by an elder Harbinger. There's a reason they send him off on the craziest of missions and still they remain incredulous when he returns alive after each and every one. There's a reason why his parents politely take the money offered and don't ask too many questions.

The red light of the security camera is now hidden from their view while Tartaglia does the mental calculation of where the other three closest ones are. Not in line of sight. They're ghosts in the system now, perfectly placed out of the vision of those who might be spying.

If he were on a mission, this is the point where the target would disappear either to be hand-delivered to the Tsaritsa herself or never to be seen by anyone ever again.

(Mister Zhongli really should be worried about the company he keeps.) ]

That's just the natural conclusion of being the middle child.

[ Ajax doesn't quite look at Zhongli— not directly anyway as he peers at him out of the corner of his eye. He tries to force himself to relax. Be chill about this, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Tonia chides him in his head after he had gushed one too many times about the handsome stranger he'd met at the park. While Mister Zhongli may be fond of Ajax (just as Ajax is endeared by him in return), Tartaglia's level of competitiveness was not everyone (or anyone's) cup of tea. ]

Does it bother you? I can tone it down.

[ Ajax squeezes the hand in his almost apologetically. ]

I guess the prize was just too tempting that I got a liiiiiittle carried away. Aha!

[arcaico]

[The laugh draws a slow, indulgent smile from him. Ajax's words come light, offhanded, but Zhongli has lived long and through darkness enough to know when something soft is meant to hide the sharpness underneath. That kind of drive, the spark that flares in Ajax’s eyes when he speaks, the way he moves, bold, forward, always with a sense of momentum that may never ever stop, doesn’t come from ease. It comes from having had to run ahead of something. Or someone.

Middle child, he said. Zhongli lets the phrase turn over in his mind, warm and strange. He wonders about Ajax’s family, the shape of it, the pressure of it. He can imagine it now: not in clear shapes, but in tone and impression. A busy household. Noise. Expectations. Maybe even absence, heavy in the rooms between. The kind of home that carves a man into someone so hungry for wins, and still so good at offering laughter like it costs him nothing.

There’s a moment where Zhongli thinks of saying something tender, something careful.

But then Ajax squeezes his hand and throws in that last line, breathless and apologetic and entirely too charming for his own good, and Zhongli only laughs softly, golden and low, eyes crinkling at the corners as he leans in just enough to brush his shoulder back against Ajax’s.]

Not bothered, no. Just, ah, pleasantly surprised.

[His tone is gentle, almost musing, but there’s a glint behind his eyes that says he’s enjoying this more than he lets on. He tilts his head slightly, as if studying Ajax anew.]

I see. Truly, like a middle child, you were quick to tease me for being the eldest.

[He shifts closer, casually, sinfully, until the scent of cologne and museum dust hangs between them. His lips hover by Ajax’s ear, the space between them tightening like a held breath.] Curious. Clearly, I haven’t tempted you enough, then.

[He pulls back just enough to meet Ajax’s gaze again, eyes rich and amused, his expression unreadable save for the small smile playing at the corners of his lips.]