#i made a pretty new banner style for this and everything bc im a fuckn gay

[dikiyvter]

[ x ] Misc. words for Drabbles | Sent by @melodicbreeze​: Wings cw: // none | 1377 words | No I don’t know what I’m doing :0)

His vision has wings. A relatively normal assessment to make; The Mondstadtian vision frame did include a wing-like design at it’s bottom. The only problem was that Giacomo was the furthest thing from a citizen of Mondstadt- As far as most were concerned, in fact, he was hardly even a citizen of Snezhnaya ( though the visions of Snezhnayan citizens are echoed in it’s design, as well; A backdrop for those silver wings and the soft blue-green glow of the anemo vision against a palm clad in white glove )...

“What is this?” the good doctor asks, as though he’s never seen a vision before, and for once Giacomo can swear he sees a flash of delight in the mans eyes. That sort of joy that comes when he finds something new to pull apart, something interesting to study.

“It’s my vision, Lord Harbinger,” dutiful is the reply, the slight nod of Giacomo’s head- respect, confirmation of previous thought. A shared curiosity, perhaps. In the short few years it has been alive, the construct can safely say it- he has not seen many visions, least of all visions like this one. “Presumably, at least,” he quickly adds, hands tucked safe behind his back as he rakes a wary glance across his creators desk ( Strewn in paperwork; Piles upon piles, bits of mechanisms dotting the surface, the soft glow of the lantern glinting off of Dottore’s mask, the way he thrums his fingers against the wood surface of the desk-- )

“Your vision,” echoed words dusted in a coating of venom that seems to rise any time the harbinger speaks of visions. One of many things that once interested him now turned to something of boredom ( the slightest swell of pride, for reasons nonsensical. Giacomo briefly smiles under the feeling that he has rekindled his creator’s joy for something; But the emotion is quickly shoved away, replaced by the safety of the cold and the calm that he’s come to cradle closely. ) “Never known the gods to give visions to machines before. An interesting development, don’t you think?”

A question toyed on the edge of his mind only briefly- “Yes, Lord Harbinger. I do,” He shifts on his feet, risking a glance cast to his creator and with it a small amused smile, “And I do believe it is interesting, as well,” only a moment does it take for the realization to hit, the joke to land- and, thankfully, for Dottore to huff his own amusement ( It was always worse when the jokes didn’t land; When the attempts to lighten his creator’s mood, to play with his words, went wrong and the clown was faced with the full brunt of his brutal mistake and his Lord Harbinger’s horrible mood- ).

“It almost looks as though two visions have been placed together,” the good doctor mutters his thoughts and jostles Giacomo’s from his own. Curiosity strikes the construct as he takes a brief step forward, wanting to inspect the vision that he had only had so very few precious moments with; The thrum of energy that reaches out for him, the call of the wind that he knows would spring forth at his command if he could just... “It’s cold to the touch,” observes Dottore, and it feels like such an obvious fact to the visions owner. While true that the blessing is that of Anemo, to assume a creation like Giacomo could ever call upon anything other than a bitter cold...

“The winds were cold when I called them,” he utters, the hold of his hands behind his back growing tighter as thought it takes effort to contain them there. Effort not to reach out and feel that gorgeous wind between his fingertips once more. Effort not to bask in that frigid breeze of northern air- “Not as cold as any Cryo vision,” Giacomo is quick to clarify ( the lingering memory; frozen gears no longer turning, the dutiful creation of Il Dottore stepping in the way of the 8ths blast of cold; Feet frozen to the ground and he’s never felt such cold before, such all-consuming, burning, blistering cold- ).

“Considering you didn’t freeze Rigatello to the ground when you hit him with that blast of wind, that would be my assumption, yes,” ah... right. The construct inhales a sharp breath, closing his eyes and willing himself back to that place of quiet calm ( A place in which his fingers do not still twitch with the damage done to his circuits; A place in which he cannot quite recall how it felt to have his mind well and truly fried, to feel his control slip away with the melody of excess electricity that thrummed through his veins, through his heart, through the fragile circuits of his brain- ). Honestly, if he were asked for the truth he would blame Rigatello in his entirety for his current state. Giacomo can imagine it now, his partner placed upon the cold metal table as the fatui scientists pour over Dottore’s blueprints, the scrawled notes in rough handwriting, the frantic musings on how to repair each and every torn piece of skin, every circuit severed. It was the roughest state Giacomo had ever been able to reduce the man to, and yet... pity? Regret? Concern? In the calm place he resides within, the construct feels none of those things.

“I will not apologize,” he cannot even begin to pretend to. Words uttered low with a weary glance to the side, the frustration of the mildest anger beginning to meddle in the quiet state of his mind, “Rigatello... Does not know when to stop sometimes, my Lord. Had I not stopped him-”

“It would be you being repaired and not him.”

Briefly does Giacomo consider that he should perhaps feel solace in the fact that Dottore knows exactly what it is that had driven the attack. And yet all he feels is the anger seep, the yawning void replacing it, stretching ever-out in all directions. What solace would knowing bring, when it never came with action? Softly does he bite down on his lip, mind running with thought. Never would he be able to ask Dottore to intervene; Not even in his wildest imaginations could he consider the Harbinger- any of the Harbingers- bothering to get in the way of petty squabbles between effective immortals. Tearing each other apart didn’t matter- in the end they would be repaired, and everything would go back to normal the very next day. The next hour. The next minute.

Endless is the cycle, and as Giacomo’s eyes drift back to the vision that now rests plain against Dottore’s desk, he finds his eyes fixating on those silver wings. Soft and distant is the voice that utters the name, “Lord Harbinger Dottore?”

“Hm?”

“Visions... they do not typically take the appearance of two different nations, do they?”

Red eyes stare at him blank and unimpressed, the lingering moment of awkwardness before they slide down to the vision on the table. Giacomo is not stupid, though the question may at best make him look well and truly oblivious- he knows that the strange appearance hasn’t gone unnoticed, that it must be the true source of the fascination, that rekindled interest- “No, they do not,” Dottore says in a tone far too concluding. He reaches out, closing the short distance between his hand and the strange vision as he slides it towards the construct, up to the edge of the desk. “The best way to learn,” he starts, chair creaking as he pushes himself back and stands. In graceful movements does he pick his coat from the back of the chair, pulling it on as he speaks, “Is by doing.”

“Lord harbinger?”

“Take the vision,” he says with a nod in it’s direction, watching evenly as the construct hesitantly picks the item up off of the desk- holding it between his hands like a fragile glass due to break at any given moment. “And follow me. If the so-called god of Anemo wants you to spread your wings, then spread your wings you shall,” a grin crosses his features, sharp teeth between pulled lips as he begins to stalk towards the door, his creation following dutifully behind him.

“I’m sure Her Majesty will be glad to hear I’ll be taking up falconry.”