Chapter 1: The Opera of the Heart
The private balcony of the Opera Epiclese was usually a place of quiet calculation for Arlecchino. Tonight, the golden silk curtains and the soft, distant hum of the orchestra felt like an exquisite torture. Her gaze was locked not on the stage below, but on the woman leaning against the marble balustrade.
Furina was explaining something, her hands painting wide, dramatic arcs in the air. “—and so when the soprano holds that final note, it’s not just grief, it’s the entire weight of the sea pressing down on her! Don’t you think?”
“I’ve never considered it that way,” Arlecchino said, her voice remarkably even. Her own personal sea was the deep, treacherous pull in her chest every time Furina’s heterochromatic eyes—one the blue of Fontaine’s deepest springs, one the gold of a stage-light halo—sparkled with passion. The cool composure that made her so effective as a Fatui diplomat felt like a shell threatening to crack.
She watched Furina twirl, the skirts of her elegant dress flaring. The city lights through the arched windows caught in her cascading blue hair, making it look like a waterfall of liquid sapphire. Arlecchino’s gloved fingers, usually so steady, tightened imperceptibly on her own teacup. She had rehearsed a dozen openings in her mind, each one discarded as too clinical, too blunt, too revealing.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Furina chirped, gliding back to the small table laden with pastries. She picked up a perfect, rose-colored macaron. “Is the Tea Ministry drafting another dreadfully dry trade agreement? I told them to add a clause about mandatory intermission performances. It would vastly improve diplomatic relations.”
A faint, genuine smile touched Arlecchino’s lips. “A sound policy. But no. My mind is… elsewhere.”
“Well, bring it back! The cream in these is sublime.” Furina took a bite, closing her eyes in delight. A tiny crumb landed on her lower lip. Arlecchino’s breath hitched. The urge to reach out and brush it away was so physical it felt like a current in her veins.
This was absurd. She had faced down boardrooms and battlefields with icy calm. Yet here she was, unraveled by a stray pastry crumb and the sound of a satisfied hum.
“Furina,” she began, the name feeling too heavy, too intimate on her tongue.
“Hmm?”
The orchestra below shifted into a sweeping, romantic crescendo. The moment felt stolen, suspended in the candlelight. Arlecchino set her cup down with a soft click that seemed louder than the music. She stood, her movements deliberate.
She stepped closer. The scent of Furina’s perfume—ozone and fresh rain—mixed with the lavender and warm sugar in the air. Arlecchino was taller, and Furina looked up, her animated expression softening into one of curious confusion.
“You speak of performances,” Arlecchino said, her voice dropping, barely louder than a whisper. It was a few notes huskier than usual. She saw Furina’s pupils widen just a fraction. “Of tragedy and weight and the sea.”
Arlecchino leaned in. Her breath, warm and faintly spiced with tea, ghosted against the shell of Furina’s ear. She watched a delicate shiver trace its way down the archon’s neck. The world narrowed to this sliver of space between them, to the pulse she could see fluttering at Furina’s throat.
“Let me show you a different kind of performance,” Arlecchino murmured, the words she had crafted finally breaking free. “One where you’re not a critic in the balcony. One where you’re the star.”
She pulled back just enough to see Furina’s face. The vibrant, chatty energy was gone, replaced by a stunned, breathless stillness. Her lips were slightly parted, the crumb still there. The blue and gold of her eyes were wide, searching Arlecchino’s crimson gaze for a punchline, for the familiar sharp edge of a geopolitical gambit.
She found only fierce, unmasked yearning.
Furina blinked. “Arlecchino… I…”
A door clicked open downstairs, followed by the distant sound of applause. The spell fractured. Furina took a small, stumbling step back, her hand fluttering to her own chest as if to calm her heart. The cheerful, oblivious archon was gone, replaced by a woman truly seeing her friend for the first time, and seeing a stranger staring back.
“I think,” Furina said, her voice uncharacteristically small, “I’ve forgotten my notes for the meeting tomorrow. At the Palais. In my office.”
Arlecchino straightened, the mask of cool composure sliding back into place with the ease of a lifetime of practice. But it was a mask. Furina had seen what was beneath. The genie could not be put back in the bottle.
“Then we should relocate,” Arlecchino said, her tone smoothing back into its professional register, though it couldn’t erase the heat still lingering in the air. “I have the documents for you to review. And,” she added, turning to gather the forgotten pastry box, “I took the liberty of stopping at Café Lucerne. I brought your favorite passionfruit mille-feuille and those matcha sablés you enjoy. We can continue our… discussion over tea at the Palais Mermonia. A more practical setting.”
She held out the elegant box. A peace offering. A bridge.
Furina stared at the box, then back at Arlecchino’s carefully neutral face. The confusion in her eyes was slowly being edged out by dawning, overwhelming realization. Her cheeks flushed a pale, beautiful pink.
“You brought me pastries,” she said quietly. It wasn’t a question about the desserts.
“I did,” Arlecchino affirmed, holding her gaze. The confession had been made. The performance of friendship was over. Now, there was only the uncertain, thrilling aftermath. “Shall we go?”
Without waiting for an answer, she offered her arm. After a heartbeat that seemed to last an eternity, Furina, moving as if in a dream, lightly placed her hand upon it. Her touch burned through the fine fabric of Arlecchino’s coat.
Together, they walked from the balcony, leaving the scent of lavender and the swell of the unseen orchestra behind. The city lights twinkled below, but the real drama had just begun, and its stage was the quiet, lamp-lit halls of the Palais Mermonia.
The city lights twinkled below, but the real drama had just begun, and its stage was the quiet, lamp-lit halls of the Palais Mermonia.
The walk through the grand, echoing corridors was silent. Furina’s hand still rested on Arlecchino’s arm, but it was tense now. The only sounds were the crisp tap of their shoes on marble and the distant, rhythmic sigh of the great hydraulic lifts. Arlecchino said nothing. She had declared her intentions; now, she would let the weight of them settle.
They reached the carved doors of Furina’s private office. With a shaky hand, Furina produced a key and fumbled with the lock. The door swung open into a room that was pure, chaotic Furina—stacks of sheet music, fabulous hats draped over chairs, a vase of slightly wilted rainbow roses.
The moment the door clicked shut, the fragile dam broke.
Arlecchino turned and pinned a very surprised Furina to the wall beside the door. It wasn’t harsh, but it was definitive. One gloved hand cradled the back of Furina’s head, protecting it from the wood. The other rested flat against the wall beside her cheek, caging her in.
“Enough,” Arlecchino whispered, her cool composure frayed at the edges, revealing the raw want beneath. “No more meetings. No more pastries. No more performances. Just this.”
Furina’s breath came in a short gasp. Her heterochromatic eyes were wide, searching Arlecchino’s face. She swallowed. “I… I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, her voice small. All her theatrical confidence had vanished, leaving behind a woman who was suddenly, devastatingly shy.
Arlecchino’s expression softened, a crack in the ice. She leaned her forehead against Furina’s. “You don’t have to do anything,” she murmured, her lips a hairsbreadth away. “Let me. Just let me. I will take care of you. I promise.”
The words, low and earnest, did what force never could. Furina melted. A tremulous sigh escaped her, and the rigid line of her spine went soft. She nodded, almost imperceptibly.
That was all the permission Arlecchino needed.
Her mouth found Furina’s, and the kiss was not a question but an answer. It was deep, thirsty, a culmination of months of stolen glances. Furina made a soft sound against her lips, her hands coming up to clutch at the lapels of Arlecchino’s coat.
Clothes became obstacles. Arlecchino’s deft, usually diplomatic fingers made quick work of buttons and ties. Her own coat fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Furina’s elaborate dress soon pooled around her ankles like a fallen curtain call. The air was cool on their skin, raising goosebumps along Furina’s arms.
Arlecchino looked at her, breath catching. In the soft lamplight, Furina was all pale skin and delicate curves, her blue hair a wild contrast against her shoulders. She was trembling.
Without a word, Arlecchino bent and bridal-carried her to the plush divan that served as a couch, laying her down upon it with a reverence usually reserved for sacred things.
“So beautiful,” Arlecchino breathed, her voice hushed. She followed her down, stretching out beside her. She worshipped her with her hands and mouth first, tracing the line of her jaw, the elegant column of her throat. She took one small, soft breast into her mouth, her tongue circling a peak until it tightened into a pearl. Furina cried out, back arching, fingers tangling in Arlecchino’s stark white hair.
Arlecchino moved lower, her kisses a trail of fire down Furina’s quivering stomach. She hooked her hands behind Furina’s knees, urging them apart.
“Arlecchino…” Furina whimpered, a flush spreading across her chest.
“I promised,” Arlecchino reminded her, her red eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Now let me.”
She bowed her head and tasted her.
Furina’s whole body jolted as if struck by lightning. A broken, gasping moan tore from her lips. Arlecchino was relentless, but she was also meticulous, learning every sigh, every twitch, every silent plea. She used her tongue and the careful, controlled pressure of her fingers to build a rhythm that soon had Furina clutching at the sheets, her heels digging into the divan.
The shyness was gone, burned away by a building, inexorable heat. Furina’s cries grew less restrained, echoing in the high-ceilinged room. She chanted Arlecchino’s name, half-sob, half-prayer.
Arlecchino felt the tension coil tight within Furina, a spring about to snap. She held her through it, gentle and unyielding, until the release crashed over her. Furina’s body went taut, then splintered apart with a sharp, beautiful cry that slowly dissolved into shuddering, breathless waves.
In the quiet aftermath, Arlecchino moved back up, gathering the trembling archon into her arms. She brushed the damp hair from Furina’s forehead and placed a soft, closing kiss on her parted lips.
Furina’s eyes were dazed, sparkling with unshed tears and a wonder that had nothing to do with performance. She nestled into the curve of Arlecchino’s neck, her breathing gradually slowing.
Outside, the city of Fontaine dreamed on. But here, in this room, an entirely new act had just begun.
But here, in this room, an entirely new act had just begun.
It became a ritual, secret and all-consuming. Their meetings escalated from weekly, to every other day, to every single day. Arlecchino arrived without fail at the Palais Mermonia each evening, a sleek black pastry box from Café Lucerne always in hand. Mille-feuille, éclairs, delicate tarts topped with glossy berries, buttery sablés dusted with sugar—each one was an unspoken confession.
Furina, who had always lived on applause and adrenaline, discovered a new hunger. She devoured the pastries with the same theatrical delight she gave everything, licking cream from her fingers, humming with pleasure at each new flavor Arlecchino presented. She devoured Arlecchino, too, with a growing, desperate intensity that matched the Fatui’s own. Their world narrowed to the confines of Furina’s office, the divan, the scattered sheets of music on the floor.
The weight of this new, secret life began to show itself in subtle ways.
One afternoon, several weeks into their rhythm, Furina was pacing before a mirror, rehearsing lines for an upcoming aquatic ballet. Arlecchino watched from the divan, eyes tracing the familiar, beloved path of her body. Something was different.
Furina’s tailored dress coat, a crisp, blue-and-white piece she’d worn for years, seemed to pull taut across her back. The fabric strained across the swell of her hips in a way it never had before. As she raised her arms, emphasizing a line about tidal waves, the fitted waist of her vest protested. Arlecchino’s gaze grew more focused, more possessive. She saw the softer curve of Furina’s belly against the vest’s hem, the fuller shape of her breasts against the patterned silk. The changes were soft, lush, a direct result of their daily indulgence. Arlecchino felt a fierce, primal satisfaction. She was the sole architect of this transformation.
Furina, however, was gloriously oblivious. Her mind was on the rhythm of the verse, the arch of her gesture. She took a deep, dramatic breath, expanding her chest for a powerful crescendo.
Pop.
A clear, sharp sound.
Furina froze, mid-line. She looked down. One of the small mother-of-pearl buttons on her vest had vanished. A second later, another one gave way, pinging off the mirror’s frame. Then a third. The vest sagged open, revealing the soft, yielding curve of her stomach and the lace edge of her camisole beneath.
“Oh!” Furina exclaimed, more surprised than alarmed. She fumbled at the remaining buttons, her fingers slipping. “Blasted thing! The tailor must have used subpar thread. The quality of craftsmanship in this city is truly in decline, I shall have to issue a decree—”
Arlecchino was suddenly behind her, hands resting gently on the new, softer expanse of Furina’s hips. She met Furina’s wide eyes in the mirror. The archon’s cheeks were flushed pink.
“It’s not the thread, my love,” Arlecchino murmured, her voice a low vibration against Furina’s ear. She smoothed her hands over Furina’s sides, over the gentle swell of love handles that hadn’t been there two months prior. She cupped the fuller weight of her breasts, feeling Furina gasp and lean back into her. “It’s you. You’re… blooming.”
Furina stared at their reflection. She saw the open vest, the rounded belly, the way her body now filled the once-loose clothing. A slow, dawning understanding broke over her face, followed not by horror, but by a bewildered laugh.
“All those pastries,” she breathed.
“Every single one,” Arlecchino confirmed, pressing a kiss to her neck. “And I’ll bring more tomorrow.”
Furina turned in her arms, the ruined vest hanging open. She searched Arlecchino’s face, looking for any hint of disapproval or mockery. She found only stark, adoring hunger. Her own smile, when it came, was radiant and a little wicked.
“Well,” she said, her hands coming up to frame Arlecchino’s face. “If I am to be ruined, it’s a magnificent way to go. Now,” she continued, her tone shifting to one of mock seriousness, “you are obligated to help me out of this defective garment. Immediately. It’s a diplomatic necessity.”
Arlecchino laughed, a real, deep sound that was still rare enough to feel like a gift. “As my Archon commands.”
And as the late afternoon light bled gold through the windows, the vest, along with the rest of the straining outfit, was forgotten on the floor, another small casualty of their delicious, unfolding world.
And as the late afternoon light bled gold through the windows, the vest, along with the rest of the straining outfit, was forgotten on the floor, another small casualty of their delicious, unfolding world.
Arlecchino helped her remove it and took a look at her new form. The lamplight painted every change in warm, honest detail. Furina’s breasts were much larger now, full and heavy, resting on the slight, soft slope of her stomach. Her pussy had also gotten fat, a plush mound protruding from the confines of her lace panties. Her thighs now touched closely, even with her legs slightly apart, a warm, continuous line of softness. When she turned slightly, the delicate back strap of her bra cut into a soft roll of flesh that stuck out over its edge.
Furina followed her gaze, and a flicker of something uncertain—not shame, but a raw vulnerability—passed over her face. She instinctively brought her arms up, as if to cover herself, then let them fall, forcing herself to be still.
Arlecchino didn’t speak. Words felt too clumsy. Instead, she stepped forward and laid her hands on that new flesh, her touch deliberate and reverent. She traced the roll at Furina’s back, her thumb stroking the indentation left by the bra strap. She palmed the full, heavy weight of a breast, feeling its warmth spill over her hand. Her knuckles brushed the softness of Furina’s lower stomach, then lower still, tracing the plush, protruding curve over the lace.
Furina shuddered, a small sound escaping her.
“You see?” Arlecchino finally murmured, her voice thick. “Every single pastry. Every cream puff. Every bite of buttery crust. I did this. It’s all right here.” Her hand settled possessively on Furina’s hip, feeling the solid, real weight of her. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. You look… loved.”
The word hung in the air. Loved. It was more devastating than ‘sexy’ or ‘beautiful’ could ever be.
Furina’s eyes filled. The vulnerability cracked open, and what welled up was a profound, dizzying relief. She wasn’t just a body changing; she was a life changing. She was being fed, in every sense.
“It’s a lot,” Furina whispered, her own hands coming to rest atop Arlecchino’s, pressing them harder into her softness. “I feel… substantial.”
“You are,” Arlecchino agreed, a fierce pride in her tone. “You’re real. You’re here. With me.”
This time, when they moved to the divan, it was slower. There was a new gravity to Furina, a literal and figurative weight that made every movement more sensual, more deliberate. Arlecchino worshiped this new topography with agonizing patience. She kissed the soft shelf of her stomach, nuzzled the inner softness of her thighs where they met, cupped the heavy fullness of her breasts as they spilled towards her.
Furina’s responses were deeper, less frantic. Her moans were throatier, her body moving with a lazy, oceanic roll. When Arlecchino finally moved between her legs, pushing the strained lace aside, she found her impossibly softer, wetter, more receptive. Furina’s hands fisted in her hair, not guiding, just holding on as pleasure built like a slow, rising tide within her new, lush body.
After, they lay tangled in the quiet. Furina’s head was on Arlecchino’s chest, one of Arlecchino’s hands absently stroking the soft curve of her side.
“I’ll need a new wardrobe,” Furina mused, her voice drowsy. “Nothing fits.”
“We’ll get you one,” Arlecchino said, her fingers tracing a meaningless pattern on Furina’s skin. “The best tailor in Fontaine. Silks that will drape over you like water. New corsets, measured just for this.” She squeezed her hip gently.
“Expensive,” Furina sighed, but she was smiling.
“I am a Fatui diplomat. I have discretionary funds.” Arlecchino’s tone was dry. “Consider it a necessary diplomatic expense. Maintaining the opulence of the Hydro Archon.”
Furina laughed, the vibration pleasant against Arlecchino’s skin. The laugh faded into a comfortable silence. Outside, the first stars pricked the deep blue sky over the city.
“Arlecchino?” Furina’s voice was small again.
“Hmm?”
“What happens… tomorrow? When we’re not in this room?”
Arlecchino knew what she was asking. The world outside didn’t know about the pastries, or the divan, or the way the Archon’s body was softening from secret, shared indulgence. Outside, they were a diplomat and a deity. A performance.
She turned onto her side, facing Furina. She took her face in her hands, making her meet her gaze. The red of her eyes was unwavering.
“Tomorrow,” Arlecchino said, each word a vow, “I will walk into the Palais Mermonia, and I will look at you in front of your attendants and the Tea Ministry officials, and I will know. I will know what you look like when you come. I will know the weight of you in my hands. I will know the taste of cream on your lips. They will see the Archon. I will see you. And that,” she finished, pulling Furina closer until their foreheads touched, “is what happens. I see you. Nothing else matters.”
Furina closed her eyes, breathing in the promise. The fear didn’t vanish, but it was caged, outmatched by the sheer force of Arlecchino’s certainty.
“Okay,” she breathed. Then, a playful gleam returning to her mismatched eyes, she peeked up. “Does tomorrow’s pastry box include those chocolate profiteroles?”
Arlecchino’s laugh was a quiet, victorious thing in the darkening room.
“It does now.”