#riga is just on the verge of a panic attack this ENTIRE drabble

[dikiyvter]

UNPROMPTED ./ @cynicalartisan​ said:

A letter is delivered to Riga. One written in familiar, neat writing. But it seems to be almost... rushed. At the bottom is specific wording, indicating it should be decoded - just as Lio had showed him prior to his departure. The decoded message reads as below:

I’m sorry. I don’t want to worry you, but I feel guilt gnaw at my insides for not being completely honest. And also... due to fear. Fear of being found out by others who may be watching.

I am in Inazuma for several reasons.

One: the friends that I am helping are part of the Resistance. And so am I. I am their blacksmith. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. I didn’t know how to bring it up -- and paranoia of others listening in at any given moment still persist, even past the storm engulfed borders. Even now, I am terrified of someone else decoding this message. Of my enemies finding out who I am. Of you being dragged into this mess more than you already have. If anything happened to you because of me, because of my involvement... I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

Two... the reason why I am here is to deal with something. Or I should say... someone. Personally. It’s something I should have dealt with years ago... but failed to do so. Because I was an idiot. A coward. A naive fool. I am here to rectify that mistake. I have gathered some intel on what my next move is... the question is where. Hopefully, this will fall into place soon. My father has always been a cruel, uncaring man, Riga. I should have dealt with him when I had the chance. But alas, that is my mistake. There is plenty blood on my hands -- what is one more life to add to the slaughter?

Please know that I love you. I love you. I love you so so much. I would duel Baal herself and destroy Celestia for you, if that is what you desired and requested of me. No one compares to the amount of utter light you bring into my dark life. I never would have thought I would find someone such as you. Someone who makes me so... happy and at peace. Someone who makes me feel whole, for once in my miserable life. Someone who loves me for me.

I will write again soon. I promise. Please be well. I love you, my Rishenka.

Eternally yours,

██

       When one begins to spend more and more time away from home, it becomes easier and easier to recognize the flaws of the place upon return. Once, Rigatello may have thought Zapolyarny to be as flawless as the pristine snow of the mountains and forests surrounding it. For reasons he does not understand, it now feels like a farce. Like a lie. The comfort he once found in the four walls of his bedroom now does little more than make him feel like a bird trapped within a gilded cage, far from home. Nonetheless it is a comfort, and it would be a lie akin to the purity of Zapolyarny to say that it isn’t. That he doesn’t long to sink into bed and stare out the window at the familiar view of a grey sky peeking through the pine trees, that he doesn’t miss the few belongings that are truly his.

       Everything within his body aches from the strain of the days battle, and all he wishes is to make it back to his corner of the cage to lick his wounds and pass the time he is kept here-- And so like the caged animal he is does he snap at the sound of a voice to his left, sharp glare and a grimace of bared teeth.

       “You’re back early,” Dr. Siyakayeva states, unperturbed by the somewhat feral display. The heavy-lidded gaze of faded brown eyes burns away at him, and in that silent staring contest that follows, Rigatello is the first to turn away. It’s always been uncomfortable to meet her eyes for too long. Eyes slip briefly to the clipboard in her hands and the papers pinned upon it; The picture of a young boy and the writing that he does not bother to gaze long enough at to read.

        He already knows how that one ends, anyways. [...]

       “Your mission was a success, presumably?” she asks, and through the corner of his eye does he watch as she scribbles notes onto the file. In exchange does the beast scoff, close to rolling his eyes like a petulant teen. To ask such a question as though there were any variety to the answers he could possibly supply...

       “I wouldn’t be back if that weren’t the case,” to return home without having sought the task through to completion and then some would feel like signing his own death warrant, as it always had ( mind conjures image of a certain blond-haired jester, and so too does it bring forth the realization that, as of late, it seemed he was becoming more and more willing to sign that warrant. He’d dare ask when that warrant would be fulfilled-- but it’s not something he can think of, not here, not now. ) Shaking his head as though to shake away the thoughts haunting him, Rigatello slows his steps enough for the mousey woman beside him to keep pace, and turns his attention to her once more.

       “Me and Valery--”       “Which?”         “Zavrazhnov Petrovich. Pyrogunner.”

       A nod of the head, a scribble of her pencil, “Continue.”

       “We located the target roughly four kilometers southeast of here. We chased it for a few meters before cornering it within the woodlands,” a rather average retrieval attempt, really. The keyword there, of course, being… Once more, Rigatello’s gaze shifts to the document on the doctor's clipboard. A blank face that stares from the photograph clipped to report. For the briefest of moments, he mouth feels full of cotton-- but it is only for a mere moment. Rigatello has long since passed the point of wallowing in these emotions. 

       “Target did not survive acquisition.” 

       “As is to be expected,” Dr. Siyakayeva sighs, tapping the eraser of her pencil against the papers, “The odds were quite stacked against this particular escape attempt-- Truly, it shouldn’t have been able to get as far as it did. I imagine that in the morning the Lord Harbinger will have quite a few choice words for those that were on security duties tonight.”

       In the morning? Confusion evident on Rigatello’s expression, his footsteps falter for a moment as he looks down to the doctor beside him. “The Lord is asleep?”

       Siyakayeva looks stirred from her thoughts at the question, blinking blankly up at him for a brief moment before forcing her gaze back to the clipboard in hand. “Yes, he is,” a rather dull response, twirling the pencil around to write a few more notes onto the paper. “The Lord was struck down by a bout of illness earlier today. Despite all the caffeine he was drinking-” As Dottore had always done and would always continue to do, “-- He reported feeling drowsy after taking some medication, and I encouraged him to rest.”

       “Rich wording,” the beast huffs in response, amusement lacing his tone. “Encouragement coming from you far more often means you held someone at knifepoint than you did use your words.” The sound of scribbling pen replaced once more with a tap, tap, tap of the eraser against the paper, the soft hum of Dr. Siyakayeva’s voice lilting through the silence that falls between them.

       “Rich wording, indeed,” she finally speaks, gloved hand lifting the top page in the folder, “Speaking of rich wording, Rigatello, I received a letter today. By a private courier, nonetheless- What I found most curious, however, was that it was addressed to you. Quite impressive, for a man with supposedly few bonds outside of the laboratory.”

       Tension that strikes him is tangible, able to be cut with a knife if only one tried. That falter of breath and that thrum in his chest, the tell-tale signs of an anxiety that blooms as it so often does when he is confronted with something he does not wish to talk about-- made all the more worse with the knowledge of who would have sent the letter. There is only one person who would go through such means- only one person who would bother to write to someone like him. Hands grip tight in fists at his side as he tries to swallow around the cotton in his mouth, around the numbness of his tongue, to once more find words. 

       The good doctor beats him to it, the soft sound of the papers falling back into place, and the burning feeling of her eyes once more staring up at him. “I won’t tattle on you, Rigasha,” plain is the statement, as though it didn’t carry with it a weight most immeasurable- most of all while spoken here, where the ears Rigatello wishes to keep this information from the most could so very easily overhear. “But I worry that your friend- whoever they may be- is not being the most careful with these letters they are sending you...” so lost is he in thought, in encroaching fear, that only distantly does he notice Dr. Siyakayeva reach underneath the folder pinned to the clipboard. Only dimly does he take note of the envelope she procures, hidden carefully beneath the files of a now-deceased experiment.

       “You and I are both well aware of what will happen if the Lord Harbinger were to find out about this, are we not?” and how could he not be? Especially now that he is here, now that he is home among the workings and the scientists in the laboratory. Now that he is once more face to face with the experiments, the writhing masses of metal and flesh that bend beneath the whims of his creator. Brief is the moment his mind dares to even try to imagine his dearest, his beloved, his Lio twisted by such hands-- feeling immediately overcome by a horror so deep it spurns forth dizzying nausea.  

       “You promise me you will not speak a word of it?” Though it was not intended, Rigatello’s voice barely manages to come out even in whisper, raw and pathetic. A voice not befitting the beast, the executioner- far more akin to the fearful tone of the experiments whose screams still echo in his ears despite the day's experimentations having already died down for the night ahead. They wouldn’t be able to hear it, anyways-- The conversation having distracted his mind enough that only now does he realize where they are in the laboratory. Dr. Siyakayeva beats him to the heavy oak door that separates the living quarters from the lab, pulling it open and waiting patiently for him to pass through before closing it behind them. Sterile air traded for the near-stifling quiet of lamp lit halls lined with rooms- And the tension can only grow. So late in the night, there are far more ears in this wing than there are in the laboratory to overhear the sensitive conversation at hand. 

        “You have my promise,” Dr. Siyakayeva utters in mere quiet whisper, and Rigatello follows close behind her as she turns and walks up creaking wooden stairs. Long it had been since Rigatello had last been home, and yet with practiced familiarity does she accompany him to his room. Down the long and cold hall of wooden floors and dull lights. Rigatello wishes to hurry, to lock himself away to read the letter still clutched to the doctor's chest- seeing her stop short in front of the room to Dottore’s own bedroom is just another nail in the coffin the automaton feels is being prepared for him.

       “Doctor?” Care taken to speak lightly, the knowledge of how light a sleep his creator is forever lingering in the back of his head. A beat passes, and then another, and it is only when a cautious hand comes to touch her shoulder that the woman startles from her thoughts.

       “Apologies,” she whispers in return, giving him a long look followed by a small nod, a sigh as she continues down the hallway. “You understand how busy it is around here. With Giacomo gone--” a sting of guilt pierces Rigatello, and he does not care to unravel why- “And with you searching after him for these long periods of time…” attention trails as eyes land on the door across the hall. Giacomo. That room had been laying empty for months, now, belongings left to gather dust where they’d been placed all those months ago. The thought of it brings with it a fresh wave of exhaustion, a newly invigorated desire to retire to his own room. 

       “It’s been harder on the rest of us, trying to keep up with our own work alongside The Lord’s health,” the words echo softly in the hall as she and the automaton come to stop in front of his room, the jingle of keys on a ring a harsh enough sound for Rigatello to flinch as she rifles through them. The door unlocks with a click, and the mounting fear that had been piling in the back of his mind collapses partially at the sound, the promise of somewhere safe to slink away to. 

       Ah, but-- “Your letter,” beaten to it once more, it seems. She holds it out patiently, and it takes tangible effort for Rigatello not to snatch the thing, possession and anxiety and longing mixed in terrible concoction. Only when it is safe in his hands, only when he has bid the doctor goodnight and listened to the click of her shoes against the floorboards as she returns down the hall, ONLY when the door to his room has closed safely behind him and he is enveloped in the comforting darkness that drenches the bedroom does he finally breathe a sigh of relief. A sigh of aching limbs that struggle to carry him as far as the desk against the wall, lined with dust-laden books and a lamp that takes one too many tries to spark to life. Were it not for the letter, he’d merely collapse into bed-- But it’s been so long since he’d heard from his dearest, the time for letters to reach him so far in the north taking far longer than they would anywhere else. 

       Perhaps that is in part what serves to reignite the anxieties he had just found himself freed from. He need not decipher the message to see how rushed the handwriting was, to pick apart the word choices as something that didn’t quite make sense, and it doesn’t take the cypher at the bottom for Rigatello to pull out a free sheet of paper, a barely-sharpened pencil, and begin calling forth memory of the code that often laid entwined in Lio’s letters. It’s… work, admittedly. Not unfamiliar work, but addled is his mind from the lack of sleep that’s haunted him the past week, the deep exhaustion of having so little rest today, and all in all everything takes so long. It seems like far longer, even, when he finally uncodes the letter and the quite important contents therewithin.

       The resistance. Dealing with someone-- HIS FATHER? A letter ended in such sweet words, and yet Rigatello can barely bring himself to comprehend him, leaning back in his chair as his mind lays ensnared in the trap of what he’s learned. In the newfound fear that eats away at him. Lio going to Inazuma had not been his favorite thing to occur, that much was true. Many nights he had laid awake in the deepest fits of anxiety, worrying after his loved one, that he might be caught between the rebels and the shogunate and perish in a futile war between the god and her people- The only assurances he held were that surely Lio would tell him if the risk were that high. Surely, the ‘friends’ he spoke of seeking to help-- they were merely that, friends. Perhaps they were taking the risk of escaping, or perhaps he was delivering something to them- Rigatello hadn’t asked, hadn’t pressed for anything beyond the vague description.

       He’d assumed he hadn’t needed to.

       Why is he so stupid?

       His breath catches before he can realize it, hands scrambling up to press his palms against his forehead in preparation for what feels like an oncoming headache as his artificial heart works overtime in this fresh bout of fear, fear, WHY IS IT ALWAYS FEAR? Even this safety, the home he had carved out of his busy life to be with Lio, separate from the harbingers and separate from his work and separate from what plagued him, it too has been enveloped and consumed in this emotion that has haunted him. Rigatello is permitted no release, permitted no break, no time to breathe among all that continues to go wrong over, and over, and over again. 

       Lio is in Inazuma, fighting with the resistance, and Rigatello is miles away, stuck in Zapolyarny like a grounded child. Hands shift upward, fingers pulling through knotted hair as Rigatello lets his head fall back over the edge of the chair, staring at the blur of his ceiling. Dust of emotion begins to settle, and yet-- 

       Still, his chest hurts. A deep but empty ache that he can only attribute to something similar he’d felt when Gio had left. But he hasn’t been left behind this time-- has he? Gaze shifts back down to the desk, the letter sitting open. No. Lio had told him the truth- as long as it had taken. As futile as it now was, with Rigatello unable to escape, unable to help him. Unable to protect him. But the truth was the truth, no matter how long it took to admit. Had he already found his father, between the time it took to write this letter, for it to reach him all the way in Snezhnaya? Already fought him? Had fate already claimed a life, while Riga sat completely unaware in the dull of his day-to-day life? 

        Stress has brought with it a terrible headache. Rubbing at his eyes and shifting in his seat, Rigatello pulls out a few sheets of paper from one of the desk drawers. It was time to write his own letter-- A few, actually. 

       He has a favour to call in with a friend in Liyue Harbor-- and another overseas. Do the Fatui really mean so much to him, that he could be even marginally content to sit in the north while his lover fights for his life in Inazuma? Does his fear of his creator’s retribution consume him so entirely that he would not find his own way to the region?

       He will do all it takes to make sure the answer is no-- Even if it means forcing his hand to stop shaking as he begins to write.