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Mona stirs awake, rolling over in her blankets to mush her face into the pillow. Her arm goes out experimentally, testing the other half of the bed. It’s still cold, no sign of its usual occupant. When she listens, she can hear faint shuffling in the background, confirming it: Layla is awake again, charting the stars and writing away.
It’s not the first time she’s been woken up in the middle of the night. Try as she might, Layla’s working with a telescope and a monumental number of papers. Sound is inevitable, and Mona has always been a light sleeper. Knowing that she won’t be able to sleep anytime soon, she slowly sits up, blankets wrapped securely around her to preserve their warmth. Her robe hangs beside her nightstand and she braves the cool air for a moment to reach out and grab it, slipping it on in lieu of the blankets. Mona shivers slightly, still not entirely immune to the night air even with the plush robe.
She pads out of their bedroom, stopping by the kitchen to make a cup of fragrant tea. As the kettle heats up, Mona grabs another mug, emblazoned with stars, and dumps some coffee grounds in it. The steam from the water as she pours it into both mugs, light blue and indigo versions of one another, warms her up slightly. She adds a bit of cream and two spoons of sugar to the coffee, and carries them both out to the balcony.
“Morning,” Mona says, placing the coffee mug down on Layla’s desk, careful to avoid any of the papers.
“I’m not sure it’s the right time for that,” Layla replies mildly. “Do I smell coffee?”
She takes a seat on the stool in the corner of the room, curling her legs up and cupping her mug in both hands. “You do.”
“Thank you.” Layla turns, eyes droopy and half lidded, but a warm smile on her face, reaching for her coffee.
“You look like death,” Mona comments, “have you been sleeping? At all?”
“You’d tell me if I was near death, wouldn’t you?”
Mona rolls her eyes. “You’re not working for much longer.”
“On whose orders?“
“Mona Megistus, obviously. You’re disturbing her beauty sleep and she will not have it.”
“It’s not like you need it.”
She narrows her eyes, pointing an accusing finger at her roommate. “Don’t sweet talk your way out of this.”
“Is it working?” Layla quirks an eyebrow, twirling her pen between her fingers idly.
“No.”
Her shoulders slump. Layla plops down into her desk chair, leaning back into it as if she could melt. “The stars are so clear tonight. Not a cloud in the sky. She runs a hand over her face, rubbing at her eyes. “If I don’t do this now, when will I? I’ve got so much work to do.”
Mona sighs, used to this song and a dance. “Tonight won’t be the only chance. I promise.”
“Using your future sight again?”
She shrugs, half a smile on her face. “Come back to bed. You’ll do better work with sleep.”
Layla gives her a long look but eventually buckles as she always does. With a woeful glance at her papers, she says, “Fine. Just a bit more, though. I’m almost done with this chart.”
“You have until I’m done with my tea and then I’m dragging you back by the ear.”
“How harsh.”
They share a smile as Layla slips back outside to peer into her telescope, scribbling things down. It’s a weird thing, to watch people study the stars solely at night. Mona has never needed the darkness of night to see the stars; not with her hydromancy. She’s offered a number of times to help Layla with her work, but it’s always been declined. As much as she complains about it, Layla truly loves looking up at the stars, plotting them on paper. It’s like a puzzle to her, slowly unwinding the night sky into one giant, beautiful tapestry. Mona supposes she feels the same way with her astrology. There’s nothing like looking into the stars and understanding, knowing what lies within.
So she lets Layla work, content to just watch her as she scurries back and forth between the telescope and the charts she’s working on. She sips her tea until it’s just the last bitter dredges, and only then does Layla turn back and take her hand to return back to their bed, leaving the stars for a bit of mortal comfort.
This cycle plays out on repeat over the next few months. Mona makes her way out of bed, prepares twin mugs of coffee and tea, and finds Layla hard at work. They share a back and forth, Mona coaxes Layla back to sleep, and the whole cycle repeats.
Mona can’t say she enjoys waking up in the middle of the night, but she knew what she signed up for when a contact at the Steambird had introduced her to Layla. Their introduction had included her penchant to stay up late, describing her as constantly half awake, half asleep from her constant midnight work. After repeating their little routine more times than she can count, Mona can say they’re wrong. Layla never seems more awake than when she’s hard at work, a passion breathed into her.
She washes their mugs in the morning and buys new packs of coffee and tea bags. Their kettle is replaced with a newer, faster model. Her stool remains in the corner of the room and her robe just within reach. The pile of papers grows larger and the telescope remains the same.
She doesn’t mind, not at all. Mona basks in the sight of it, night after night. It is a privilege to see Layla at work, she thinks. She never wants to leave behind this life of theirs, the simple domesticity of two people sharing a space, a life, a routine.
When the summons comes from her master, though, Mona knows she won’t disobey it. She has more to learn, and the Steambird allows her to work from afar.
It’s for the best, even if parting is such sweet sorrow.
This time, Layla is the one awoken by movement in the night. She lifts her head from the blankets, eyes half closed and squinting through the dark. Mona pauses in her motions, slightly embarrassed that she disturbed what little sleep Layla can get.
“Hello there.” Mona is half dressed, still tugging on her tights. Her bags lay packed by the door. The robe lies within, no longer waiting to be worn out onto the balcony.
“G’morning.”
“Wrong time of day,” Mona replies, a sense of familiarity in her words. She moves around the room, grabbing the last of her toiletries.
“Do you have to go?” Layla mumbles, voice slurred by sleep.
“I do.”
Layla rolls over to follow Mona, long hair mussed and splayed out around her. Her face remains smushed into the pillow, half awake, half asleep. “Who will make me coffee?”
“You’ll have to do it yourself,” she says with fond exasperation, heading back to the bedside to crouch, eye level with Layla.
“But you do it better.”
“Of course I do.”
“…Come back soon.”
“I will.”
“Miss me.”
“I will.”
“Stay here.”
“I will not.” Mona smiles slightly, brushing away her bangs from her forehead. She leans down and presses a chaste kiss to Layla’s forehead. Layla’s hand shoots from the bundle of blankets and grabs onto her hand. The warmth spreads through her fingertips and up to the rest of her body.
“I’ll miss you.”
“You’ll miss sleep, if I’m not around. Better imagine me telling you to go back to bed every night.”
Layla huffs a little. “My imagination’s no good.”
“Then I’ll send you a letter every day. All it will read is ‘Go to bed.’ and I’ll have the mailman make sure you open it.”
“The poor mailman.”
“A worthy sacrifice.”
Mona gives her hand a squeeze, not wanting to let go, but knowing she has a ride to catch. Liyue is a long trip and the earlier she gets started, the better. A part of her winces at the idea of her master scolding her for being late.
“See you,” Layla murmurs.
“See you,” Mona echoes, using her free hand to smooth down Layla’s hair. “Go back to bed. You need sleep.”
“I need you,” she mutters, but nods, a slight movement against the comfort of her pillow.
Finally, Mona lets go, standing. The night air is cool against her hand, and she feels the chill once again. She heads to the door, picking up her bags. “Good night, Layla.”
In the kitchen, there’s two mugs on the drying rack. A thermos sits on the counter, indigo and patterned with stars. Inside, there’s a fragrant tea, still warm. Beside it, a small pack of familiar tea bags. Mona smiles. She pockets the packet and takes a sip of the tea, feeling warmth spread through her once more. As she leaves the small apartment, the door clicks behind her and she thinks of coffee and tea and matching mugs and a telescope pointed up at the stars.
She thinks of warmth in the middle of a cold night.