Archive of Our Own

Sandrone liked tea time because it was engineered.

Not in the childish way people liked their little luxuries—warm cups and sweet pastries and idle chatter—but in the way a mechanism was engineered: intentionally, precisely, with a purpose. The correct temperature was not a suggestion. The steeping time was not negotiable. The cups were warmed first, always, so the heat wouldn't shock the porcelain and ruin the taste before it reached the tongue.

There were rules. There were routines. There was order.

And if Sandrone had one virtue, it was that she never made mistakes when she could prevent them.

Columbina was an exception she had not planned for.

She drifted into Sandrone's workshop like she belonged there, humming melodies that made the air feel softer. She leaned her elbow on tables she shouldn't touch and stared with open, unblinking curiosity at half-finished dolls as if she could see the thoughts inside their hollow chests. Sometimes she asked questions. Sometimes she didn't. Sometimes she simply watched Sandrone work and smiled like the sight was comforting.

Most annoyingly of all—she stayed.

At first, tea was just tea.

A courtesy, Sandrone told herself. A pause between obligations. Columbina was a fellow Harbinger when this started; allowing her a few minutes of quiet was convenient diplomacy at best.

Then the visits became regular.

Then Columbina began to arrive with a familiar sort of ease—settling into the same chair without being told, wrapping her fingers around her cup as though it had always been hers, tilting her head to listen whenever Sandrone spoke.

Then Columbina started remembering things.

"You used the jasmine today," Columbina said one afternoon, sounding pleased in a way that made Sandrone's throat tighten. "That means you slept."

Sandrone paused mid-pour. "That means nothing."

"It means you slept," Columbina repeated, unbothered. "When you don't, you use bitter leaves. You think it hides it."

Sandrone's ears warmed. "You're imagining patterns."

Columbina only smiled and took her cup.

She was like that—naively confident, as though the world was always kinder than it had any right to be. As though affection was something you could give without consequence.

Sandrone hated that she wanted it.

She hated more that she had begun to shape her schedule around it.

Tea time became the one thing she looked forward to without admitting it—even to herself. The one part of the day that felt... uncomplicated. A quiet space where the steam curled between them like a veil, where Columbina's gaze lingered on Sandrone's hands as if she was watching something precious.

Sandrone never named what it was.

She didn't have to.

It was obvious.

The way Columbina came alone. The way she stayed past the last sip. The way she hummed softly when Sandrone's fingers trembled with fatigue, as if trying to steady her through sound alone.

It had to mean something.

So when Columbina stirred her tea one afternoon and said, lightly, as if discussing weather—

"Perhaps we should invite Lumine next time."

—the words slid under Sandrone's ribs and twisted.

Her hand stilled, just briefly. She recovered quickly, because she always did.

"Why?" Sandrone asked flatly.

Columbina blinked, surprised by the sharpness. "Because Lumine likes tea. And she's been... helpful."

Helpful. The Traveler had been helpful to everyone lately, it seemed—appearing in Nod-Krai like an inconvenient miracle, always exactly where the trouble was.

Sandrone set the kettle down too hard. "Tea time isn't a public event."

Columbina tilted her head. "It can be."

"It shouldn't be," Sandrone snapped.

Columbina watched her for a long moment, expression unreadable in that serene way that made Sandrone feel like she was looking at a mirror that refused to reflect properly.

Then Columbina smiled—soft, easy, not understanding in the slightest. "All right. We don't have to. I only thought it might be nice."

Nice.

Sandrone's jaw tightened.

Tea time was not nice. Tea time was—

Sandrone didn't finish the thought. She poured the tea and kept her face neutral until her nails bit into her palm beneath the table.

After Columbina left, the workshop felt too quiet.

Sandrone stared at the empty chair across from her until the tea went cold.

_

Lumine arrived anyway.

Not immediately. Not the next day. Not even the next tea time.

Which was worse—because it meant Columbina had kept thinking about it. Mentioned it somewhere. Planned it, like it was natural.

It happened on a day Sandrone had slept poorly. Her tools felt heavier in her hands, her patience thinner, her mind already frayed at the edges. Columbina entered humming, sat down like she always did, and Sandrone exhaled, relieved despite herself—

Then Lumine stepped in behind her.

"Oh," Lumine said, bright and slightly awkward, glancing between them. "Am I... early?"

Columbina's eyes lit up. "You came!"

Sandrone's fingers tightened around the teapot. "Why is she here?"

Lumine blinked. "I—I can go if—"

"No," Columbina said quickly, warm as always. "Stay. Please."

Sandrone felt something sharp and humiliating flare in her chest.

Columbina didn't ask her.

Columbina didn't even look at her.

Tea was poured with more force than necessary. Sandrone set Lumine's cup down with a clink that made the porcelain ring.

Lumine, to her credit, didn't flinch. She held her cup with both hands and smiled politely. "Thank you. It smells amazing."

"It's acceptable," Sandrone replied.

Columbina laughed softly. "That means it's good."

Sandrone glared. "Don't translate me."

Lumine's smile wobbled. "Right. Okay."

Columbina hummed and took her own cup. The steam rose between the three of them, and for the first time, tea time felt... crowded.

Lumine asked questions—about the blend, about steeping, about whether Sandrone always did this. Columbina answered too easily, too warmly, like she was proud to share Sandrone's craft.

"You two do this a lot?" Lumine asked.

"Yes," Columbina said, without hesitation. "Whenever we can."

Sandrone's heartbeat stumbled.

Lumine looked between them with a faint, curious smile. "That's... kind of sweet."

Sandrone's ears burned. "It's efficient."

Columbina tilted her head. "It is sweet."

Sandrone hissed, "Columbina."

Columbina only smiled into her tea.

The conversation shifted, inevitably, toward Lumine's travels. Something about Mondstadt. Something about Liyue. Something about people who laughed easily and fought harder and cared loudly.

Sandrone didn't care. She didn't.

But Columbina listened with that same focus she gave Sandrone. She leaned forward, eyes soft. She asked follow-up questions, delighted by details that had nothing to do with her. She smiled at Lumine the way she smiled at—

No.

Sandrone's fingers curled around her cup until the heat bit her skin.

Lumine, oblivious—or pretending to be—continued chatting. She mentioned a shared adventure, a shared meal, a shared moment where Columbina had "helped" by being present.

"It was actually kind of comforting," Lumine said, scratching the back of her neck. "She's... calm. Even when things are scary."

Sandrone's jaw clenched.

Columbina glanced toward her, then—infuriatingly—smiled wider. As if pleased she was being praised.

As if Sandrone wasn't sitting right there.

When the tea was finished, Sandrone stood abruptly.

"I have work," she said.

Lumine startled. "Oh—already?"

"Yes."

Columbina blinked. "Sandrone—"

Sandrone cut her off sharply. "If you intend to keep entertaining guests, do it without me."

She left before her voice could shake.

Behind her, she heard Lumine's uncertain, "Did I do something wrong?"

And Columbina's gentle, "No. I think... I did."

Sandrone slammed the workshop door hard enough to rattle the shelves.

She didn't take apart a doll that night.

She took apart herself.

Every thought was a blade: You thought this was yours. You thought you were chosen. You thought—

She didn't sleep at all.

_

The next tea time, Sandrone didn't sit down.

She prepared the tray early, delivered it to Columbina's cave, placed it on the table—and turned to leave.

Columbina stared at her like she'd dropped something fragile. "You delivered the tea in my place. You're not staying?"

"I'm busy."

"You always say that now."

Sandrone's shoulders tightened. "Because it's true."

Columbina's brow furrowed, that rare sign of confusion that made her look almost... young. "Did Lumine upset you?"

Sandrone's laugh was sharp and ugly. "Don't be ridiculous."

Columbina stood, stepping closer. "Then why are you leaving?"

"Because tea is tea," Sandrone snapped. "It isn't—" She stopped herself, teeth clenched.

"It isn't what?" Columbina asked, softly.

Sandrone's throat tightened. "It isn't... important."

Columbina's eyes widened a fraction. "It is important to me."

Sandrone scoffed. "You say that to everyone."

Columbina blinked. "I don't."

"You do," Sandrone insisted, voice rising. "You invite people. You share things. You smile at them the same way. You act like everything is yours to give and nothing has weight—"

Columbina's lips parted, startled by the venom.

Sandrone hated herself the moment she saw it—hated the way Columbina's serenity cracked, just a little, like a porcelain cup taken from boiling water too quickly.

But she couldn't stop.

Her pride was a cage with sharp edges.

"You don't understand," Sandrone continued, voice rougher now. "You hand out your affection like it's harmless. Like it doesn't mean anything. Like someone like me should be grateful for scraps."

Columbina's expression went still. Quiet. Hurt in a way she didn't seem to know how to hide.

Sandrone's chest heaved.

She turned away. "I'm leaving."

Columbina's voice followed, softer than a whisper. "I miss you."

Sandrone froze.

The words were simple. Not a confession. Not a demand.

Just an honest statement.

It made Sandrone's hands shake.

She didn't turn back. "That's your problem."

And she walked out before Columbina could see her eyes sting.

_

Lumine noticed the change before anyone said it aloud.

She noticed because she returned—once—out of curiosity, not malice. Because Columbina had asked her, bright as ever, "Would you like tea again?"

And Lumine, foolishly, had said yes.

But this time, Sandrone wasn't there.

The tea arrived on a tray, set down with clinical precision. The air felt colder without Sandrone's sharp presence to cut through it.

Columbina watched the door for longer than necessary.

Lumine cleared her throat. "So... uh. Sandrone's busy again?"

Columbina nodded, smiling faintly. "Yes."

Lumine waited. Something about that smile felt wrong—too practiced, like it was covering a bruise.

"You two fight?" Lumine asked carefully.

Columbina blinked, then seemed to consider the concept as though it were new. "I don't think so."

"You don't... think so?"

Columbina took her cup in both hands. "Sandrone is upset."

Lumine hesitated. "Did you... do something?"

Columbina looked down at her tea. "I invited you."

Lumine's stomach dropped.

"Oh," she said, slowly. "Oh."

Columbina tilted her head. "Is that bad?"

Lumine nearly choked.

She stared at Columbina, then at the empty chair, then back again. Her mind raced through memories—Sandrone's sharp tone, the way she stood too quickly, the way her gaze had flashed when Columbina spoke of "we" like it was obvious.

Lumine set her cup down carefully.

"...Columbina," she said gently, "are you and Sandrone... together?"

Columbina blinked.

Lumine watched understanding fail to land. Then watched it slide into place a second later like a puzzle piece forced into the correct slot.

Columbina's eyes widened. "Aren't we?"

Lumine stared.

Then—slowly—she covered her mouth with her hand.

"Oh," she repeated, quieter. "Oh my Archons."

Columbina looked genuinely distressed now. "Is that not... correct?"

Lumine exhaled, long and helpless.

"Okay," she said, voice delicate, as if handling explosives. "Okay. I think... I think Sandrone thinks this is a date."

Columbina paused.

Then, softly, "It is."

Lumine's brows rose. "And you invited me."

Columbina's gaze dropped. "I thought... you might enjoy it. Sandrone makes things feel... safe. And I thought sharing something good wouldn't hurt."

Lumine swallowed. There was no malice in Columbina—only a strange, luminous innocence, like she genuinely didn't know how jealousy worked.

Lumine rubbed her forehead.

"I'm going to say something," she began, "and I don't want you to be offended."

Columbina looked up, attentive.

"When you invite someone else into something that feels special," Lumine said slowly, "it can feel like... you're replacing them."

Columbina's expression tightened, faintly pained.

"I didn't mean that," she whispered.

"I know," Lumine said quickly. "I know you didn't. But Sandrone... she doesn't exactly communicate like a normal person."

Columbina's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "No."

Lumine sighed. "I think she likes you. A lot. And she's... not handling it well."

Columbina stared into her cup as though it might offer answers.

"I like her," Columbina said softly, as if saying it out loud was trying on a new truth. "I thought she knew."

Lumine's eyes widened. "You should tell her."

Columbina blinked. "I did. In many ways."

"That's not—" Lumine stopped herself, then softened. "Okay. You told her in Columbina ways. You might need to tell her in... words."

Columbina looked uncertain. "Words are not always correct."

Lumine snorted. "Yeah. Tell me about it."

Columbina's gaze lifted toward the door again—quiet longing.

Lumine stood, suddenly decisive.

"I'm leaving," she said.

Columbina startled. "But the tea—"

"I'm third-wheeling," Lumine said bluntly. "And I don't want to be the reason you two implode."

Columbina stared.

Lumine offered a small, awkward smile. "Fix it. Okay?"

Columbina's fingers tightened around her cup. "I will try."

Lumine hesitated at the cave entrance, then turned back once more.

"And, uh," she added, scratching her cheek. "For what it's worth? Sandrone looked like she wanted to set me on fire."

Columbina blinked, then—softly—laughed.

It sounded relieved.

_

Sandrone didn't expect Columbina to come to her workshop.

Columbina wasn't supposed to.

Columbina was supposed to stay in her cave and drink her tea and be kind to everyone and never realize what she was doing to Sandrone's ribs from the inside.

So when the door opened and Columbina stepped in, Sandrone's first instinct was anger.

Her second was panic.

Her third was—worse—hope.

"What do you want?" Sandrone snapped, not looking up from her workbench.

Columbina hovered in the doorway for a moment, then approached slowly, as though she was afraid Sandrone might break.

"I brought the tray back," Columbina said, holding it carefully.

Sandrone's hands stilled. "Leave it."

Columbina did not leave it. She set it down, quietly, then stood there—close enough that Sandrone could feel her presence like heat.

Sandrone's pulse jumped. "If you're here to invite Lumine again—"

"I won't," Columbina said quickly.

Sandrone's mouth snapped shut.

Columbina hesitated, then said softly, "Lumine told me I hurt you."

Sandrone's shoulders tightened. "So now the Traveler is involved."

Columbina's voice grew smaller. "I didn't know."

"That's your excuse for everything," Sandrone hissed. "You don't know. You don't think. You don't consider that some of us can't afford to be—" She cut herself off with a sharp inhale.

Columbina's gaze was fixed on her. Patient. Listening.

Like she always did.

Sandrone's composure cracked at the edges.

"I like tea time with you," Sandrone said suddenly, voice rough and too loud. "There. Is that what you wanted? I like it because you're there and because you look at me like I'm—like I'm not ridiculous for caring about small things. I like it because for a moment I can pretend I'm not just a tool for the Tsaritsa to point at problems."

Columbina's eyes widened, faint shock flickering through her serene mask.

Sandrone's hands shook. Her throat burned.

"And you," Sandrone spat, desperate now, "you bring Lumine into it like it's nothing. Like I'm nothing. Like this is just a habit you can share whenever you're bored."

Columbina's lips parted, but no words came.

Sandrone laughed bitterly. "Of course. You don't have an answer."

Columbina stepped closer.

Sandrone flinched. "Don't."

Columbina stopped, obedient, but her gaze was steady.

"I like you," Columbina said softly.

Sandrone's breath hitched.

It should have been satisfying.

It wasn't.

Columbina said it the way she said she liked a song, or the way she liked warm light. Like it was a simple truth that required no consequence.

Sandrone's pride flared—hot, humiliating.

"That's not—" Sandrone's voice cracked. She swallowed hard. "Your like is different."

Columbina blinked, confused. "Different?"

"Yes!" Sandrone snapped, eyes burning. "You like everyone. You like Lumine. You like strangers. You like things that don't matter. You say it like it costs nothing—like it won't destroy me to hear it and still not be chosen."

Columbina's expression shifted—distress, then helplessness.

"I don't know how to say it better," Columbina whispered.

Sandrone's laugh broke into something sharp and ugly. "Then don't. Just leave. Go be kind somewhere else."

Columbina didn't leave.

Instead, she stepped forward again—slowly, carefully—as if approaching a wounded animal.

Sandrone's breath came shallow. "Columbina—"

Columbina kissed her neck.

Not boldly. Not like a triumphant confession.

Like a question.

Warm lips against skin, a brief touch that made Sandrone's thoughts scatter like frightened birds. Sandrone stiffened, shock sparking through her—

Then Columbina's kiss traveled upward. Along her jaw. Her cheek. Unhurried. Deliberate. As though she was tracing the path of something she had always meant to do but hadn't realized she was allowed.

Sandrone's heart hammered.

Columbina paused at her cheek, breath trembling against her skin, as if unsure.

Sandrone's hands curled into fists. "What are you—"

Columbina gently pulled her face toward hers and kissed her lips.

Sandrone froze, shock flashing through her for a heartbeat too long.

Then her eyes fluttered shut.

Because even if pride screamed, even if fear clawed—this felt like the missing translation. Like the only language Columbina trusted.

Columbina's lips were soft. Slightly uncertain. A little clumsy.

And it was devastating.

Sandrone's hands rose, trembling, and grabbed Columbina's sleeves as if anchoring herself.

When they parted, Columbina stayed close, forehead nearly touching hers.

"This is how I mean it," Columbina whispered, breath shaky. "I didn't know you needed it said differently."

Sandrone's voice came out small and furious. "...Idiot."

Columbina smiled—confused, but happy. Like she'd fixed something and didn't fully understand how, only that Sandrone was still here.

Sandrone's eyes burned. She blinked hard, as if sheer will could prevent tears.

Columbina lifted a hand—hesitated—then gently brushed her thumb near Sandrone's cheek, careful not to push too far.

"Are you upset?" Columbina asked, softly.

Sandrone's laugh came out strangled. "Yes."

Columbina blinked. "Did I do it wrong?"

Sandrone stared at her.

Then, abruptly, she turned her face away. "No."

Columbina leaned in, testing boundaries, and pressed a tiny kiss to the corner of Sandrone's mouth—lighter than before, almost shy.

Sandrone made a sound—half protest, half inhale.

Columbina's eyes brightened. "That one was okay?"

Sandrone's ears burned so hot she felt it in her teeth. "Stop talking."

Columbina smiled and kissed her again—brief, gentle.

Sandrone's hands tightened in Columbina's sleeves.

When Columbina pulled back, Sandrone could see her own reflection in those pale, innocent eyes: flustered, shaken, exposed.

"Tea time," Columbina said softly, as if returning to something familiar, "is ours."

Sandrone swallowed hard. "...It was supposed to be."

"It is," Columbina insisted, naive certainty returning. "Lumine doesn't belong there."

Sandrone's pride flared again, instinctively defensive. "It's not about Lumine."

Columbina tilted her head. "It is a little."

Sandrone scowled. "It isn't."

Columbina hummed, unbothered, then leaned in and rested her forehead against Sandrone's.

Sandrone's breath stuttered.

Columbina whispered, "I don't like everyone like this."

Sandrone's throat tightened.

"...Prove it," Sandrone muttered, because she couldn't help herself.

Columbina blinked. "How?"

Sandrone's face heated to the point of pain. "Idiot."

Columbina thought for a moment, then kissed her again—longer this time, still gentle, but less unsure.

Sandrone's composure finally collapsed.

Her grip tightened, her shoulders shaking once, and she pressed her forehead into Columbina's hair like she was trying to hide.

Columbina's arms wrapped around her slowly, careful and awkward, like she was holding something precious and didn't want to apply too much pressure.

Sandrone's voice came out muffled. "Don't... invite her again."

Columbina nodded immediately. "I won't."

"And don't—" Sandrone swallowed hard. "Don't look at her like that."

Columbina blinked. "Like what?"

Sandrone's nails dug into her own palm. "Like she's... like she's something you keep."

Columbina was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: "I keep you."

Sandrone's breath hitched so hard it hurt.

"...Say that again," she whispered, furious at herself for needing it.

Columbina smiled against her cheek. "I keep you."

Sandrone made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh, might have been a sob, and buried her face more fully.

Columbina stayed. Warm. Steady.

After a while, when Sandrone's breathing evened, Columbina leaned back just enough to look at her.

Sandrone refused to meet her eyes. "If you tell anyone about this, I'll dismantle your entire cave."

Columbina blinked, then smiled. "Okay."

Sandrone scowled. "That wasn't permission."

Columbina nodded solemnly. "Okay."

Sandrone's ears burned again. "...Stop being agreeable."

Columbina tilted her head. "Do you want me to disagree?"

"No!"

Columbina's smile widened, delighted.

Sandrone glared at her, mortified, then—because she was weak and this was unbearable—leaned forward and stole a kiss of her own.

It was quick. Clumsy. Angry.

Columbina's eyes widened, then softened, pleased in a way that made Sandrone want to throw herself off a cliff.

Sandrone pulled back immediately, cheeks blazing. "Don't look at me like that."

Columbina hummed. "Like I like you?"

Sandrone's soul left her body.

"Shut up," she hissed, and kissed her again just to stop her from speaking.

Columbina made a small sound of surprise into the kiss—then melted, arms tightening just a little more, as if she'd finally found the correct way to hold her.

When they finally separated, Columbina whispered, "I think... this is better than words."

Sandrone's voice was a shaky whisper. "Yes."

Then, instantly, pride returned like a shield snapping into place.

"I mean—no," Sandrone corrected sharply. "Words are important. You're just bad at them."

Columbina smiled, bright and innocent. "Then teach me."

Sandrone stared at her.

Her throat tightened, but this time it wasn't jealousy. It was something warmer, stranger.

"...Fine," she muttered. "But you'll listen."

Columbina nodded. "Always."

Sandrone exhaled, long and shaky, and finally—finally—allowed herself to rest her forehead against Columbina's again.

"...and I like you too."

Tea time, she realized, wasn't broken.

It was simply... finally named.

Even if only in kisses.