⤚ sfw, oneshot, lohen's idea of domesticity is a little skewed at the end, may be ooc im still getting a handle on his character, kind of an analysis?, not beta read
(1.8k words)
cross-posted on ao3
For a man like Lohen, routine is a nightmare.
Perhaps the life of the expedition had changed him irreversiblyâ waking up in the wilderness every morning, never knowing for sure if he'd eat that night, sleeping with a hand around his dagger just in case a stray monster managed to wander past the night watch⌠perhaps it had been his childhood kidnapping that made him into thisâ a nocked arrow quivering against the bowstring. Always itching to be fired straight into the heart of the enemy, unable to stay in one place without a trained hand holding him back.
Or perhaps he had simply always been this way.
In any case, the original statement remains true. Lohen cannot stand a daily routine.
As his fellow knights grew accustomed to life in Mondstadt again, welcoming back their old habits, Lohen was forced to watch them grow far too comfortable. The same knights that he would go on morning patrols with through the wilderness now spent their mornings off casually watering plants and laughing with friends in the street. The same knights that would previously spend their nights polishing up their weapons in preparation for the next battle were now heading to the bar after their shifts, casually and jovially downing drink after drink without any concern over who would watch over them in their drunken stupor.
Lohen couldn't understand the desire for such simple things. These new routines of theirs only encouraged complacencyâ not to mention, they were also unbelievably restricting. Why spend time on things like sweeping leaves off your neighbor's porch, or catching a child's lost cat, when you could be spending that time getting stronger? Did his comrades not feel that itch under their skin when they sat too still? Could they not feel themselves splitting apart at the seams without something new? Were they really so content to remain exactly as they are? To remain so slow and weak and powerless and mortal?
Trying to understand it made Lohen's head spin. Those at the top of the food chain controlled everything beneathâ If Lohen himself were nothing more than a rabbit, he would fight every day to claw his way up to the top with the wolves. He couldn't think to comprehend how someone could remain happy knowing that one day, they'd be eaten by a larger predator, and there would be nothing at all they could do about it.
Yet perhaps the most confusing of all was you.
You, who has never picked up a weapon in your life. He asked you about why, onceâ while watching you flit around your home to and fro as if cleaning the dust from your windows would be of any real benefit to you.
"I just never felt the need to, I suppose." You had looked at him a little curiously, but given him a smile when you answered nonetheless. Lohen found himself at a loss on what to say in return to that. It was absurd. Even as a young child, Lohen had been around weapons. His first toy was a handmade wooden bow from his parentsâ and even now, he never left his home without at least one dagger tucked up his sleeve.
But you were perfectly happy never to touch a weapon in your life. You were the very epitome of everything Lohen despised about himself. Slow. Weak. Powerless. Mortal.
And yet, for some reason he was unable to place, Lohen couldn't bring himself to hate you for it.
Instead, he found himself drawn into your presence like a moth to a flame. After his late night trips into monster camps he would end up at your door after every injury without fail, leaving puddles of blood on your porch step. You welcomed him in every time, your hands as gentle as the breeze as you ushered him into the warmth of your home.
"We've got to stop meeting like this," He'd joke, lightheaded from the blood lossâ and you'd laugh in that way that reminded Lohen of the bells that chime around the city during Windblume. It was easy, in the dark of night, to ignore how his heart fluttered at the sound. It was less easy to ignore in the morning, while he helped you to scrub his bloodstains off of your porch.
But he had to wonderâ When you touched him so carefully, to wipe the blood from his face with a damp cloth, to disinfect his numerous woundsâ did it count as holding a weapon?
Lohen liked to think that it did. Perhaps it made him feel safer with the concept of your weakness; by having him around, you basically had a weapon on hand. A dangerous, volatile weapon, who was likely to cut the hands of whoever were to wield him, but a weapon nonetheless.
It certainly makes him feel safer now, standing at your doorstep out of uniform with a basket of fresh fruit in one hand and a dagger tucked into his other sleeve. Returning to your home feels a bit like returning a sword to its sheathâ tucked away neatly so it can't cut anyone, while still remaining on the body of its owner in case of an emergency. While indulging in your weakness, Lohen is also keeping you safe at the same time. His presence alone is akin to that of a weapon, after all of the training he has gone through to twist himself into one.
Lohen tosses the thought of you owning him like a weapon around in his mind a bit, and finds rather quickly that the idea isn't entirely unpleasant to him.
"Lohen!" The door creaks a little when you push it open, and theres flour dusted across your cheeks. Your eyes don't even scan him for weapons before you're welcoming him inside, a grin tugging at your lips like it belongs there. "Come in, come in! I'm just baking right now, I'll put this down and we can chat!"
The knight can only shake his head, raising up the little basket of fruits he brought along with him. You brighten at the sight, and Lohen is a bit dazed by the fact that you hadn't even noticed that he was holding something. If someone had come to your door with a knife, would you have still opened it? Worse, stillâ would you have even been able to fight back?
Lohen can't ponder that thought for too long before you're approaching, keeping your powder-covered hands away as to not stain his clothes.
"Ehh, don't worry about that," Lohen finally said, his response feeling just a bit too late to be natural. "I'll help out. We can use some of the stuff I brought."
"Alright, alright. But you can't complain when I put you to work!" You laugh, and Lohen is once again reminded of the Windblume bells. "Why'd you bring this over, anyway? Some special occasion I'm forgetting?"
"Hm? Ohâ Just consider it a⌠'friendship fee'. They were a gift from my team, and they'd just rot at my place."
The lie slips out easily. In truth, Lohen had seen them for sale on the way to your home, and thought immediately of how you'd smile at the sight of such a gift. You seem somewhat content with his explanation, however, scoffing under your breath about how you don't need any kind of payment for your friendship.
Somehow, the word 'friendship' feels incredibly flimsy when Lohen thinks about you, but he makes no effort to correct himself in the moment.
"What're you making, anyway?" Lohen finally asks, clearing his throat a little as he sets the basket down on your counter.
"Apple pie!" You brush against his side as you eye up the fruits in the basket, carefully plucking out the ones that you deemed acceptable. Your touch feels hot against his side, even through his shirt. Lohen has to take a shaky breath in, the burn of your touch more delicious than any other pain he's ever felt. "Lucky you brought extra, I was worried I wouldn't have enough."
You set the handful of apples down in front of him one at a time, making a neat little row across the counter. Right next to them, you place down one of your kitchen knives. You carelessly leave the blade pointed at yourself, and Lohen can't stop himself from reaching over and pointing it towards himself instead when you aren't paying attention.
"Here, cut these up for me? With the both of us working, it should be a lot faster!" You turn away after that, busying yourself with finishing up the batter for what it likely the pie crust.
Seeing you so domestic was⌠almost frightening. Whether you realized it or not, this life you lived was unbearably fragile. One wrong move and this world you've built would come crumbling down into a heap. You'd be left defenseless, your simple routine of dusting windows so the sun shines through and baking on weekends for no reason in particular completely useless at leaving you prepared for such an outcome.
Lohen swallows hard, his throat suddenly feeling tight as he picks up the blade you left for him. It was hard to imagine himself ever living in such a fragile, gentle world with you. You turned your back away from him like you hadn't just given him a knife, trusting him wholly not to run the blade through your chest. He never would, of course, but there was no way you could ever truly know that.
His grip tightens around the knife in his hand, the sensation both familiar and foreign.
Out of the two of you, it was clear that you were the weaker party. You couldn't fight, you didn't own weapons, and you were overwhelmingly trusting of him. Perhaps to a fault.
So why was it that Lohen still felt that it was him? Why was it that his hands felt so useless when he saw your smile? Why was it your face he saw in his mind every time he lost a battle?
In an act of uncharacteristic obedience, Lohen turns away from your form and begins cutting up the apple you placed in front of him. He isn't sure when he became so invested in this domestic routine of yours, but imagining a life without it makes his stomach roll uncomfortably.
Lohen has trained himself into a weaponâ but for you, he finds that the idea of living in a domestic routine suddenly doesn't sound too terrible. If you asked, he would gladly cut up apples for you while you baked. He would scrub his blood off your porch. He would fight off any monster that dared to look your way.
And this soft life you lived⌠Lohen would just have to become twice as strong to protect it in your stead.
A/N: I think sometimes my brain naturally gravitates toward Varka whenever I need something grounding again. I felt a bit stuck in my own thoughts lately, so writing this ended up untangling my brain more than I expected.
Also yes, this is another case of me disappearing into unexpected Varka missing hours. Some things never change. :D Hope youâll enjoy! :) đ
Tags: Fluff. Mutual Pining. Shy Reader. Reader Still Makes Advances. Knights of Favonius Reader (Logistics). Soft Varka. Handwritten Notes. Light Humor. Tiny Acts of Care. Reader Is Down Bad. Varka Is Oblivious Until Heâs Not. Gentle Romance.
Word count: 2190
â ⌠â
The first time Varka speaks to you properly, youâre halfway inside a supply shelf.
One arm is buried behind a stack of crates while you glare into darkness with the concentrated fury of someone who has absolutely put an inventory ledger somewhere sensible and is now being punished for their own optimism.
âIt was here,â you mutter. âI know it was here.â
A deep voice behind you says, amused: âShould I ask what crime that shelf committed?â
You jerk upright too fast and immediately hit your head on the underside of the shelf.
âOh forââ
Strong hands catch your shoulders before you can stumble backward completely. âEasy there.â
You freeze.
Varka stands behind you, broad and unfairly warm-looking. His hand is still steady at your shoulder. Concern flickers over his face for approximately half a second before amusement returns.
âYou alive?â
âYes,â you say immediately. âBarely.â
That gets a laugh out of him. âWell,â he says, âthatâs good news for the Logistics Company.â
Your brain stops functioning for a moment. Because of course you know who he is.
Everyone knows Varka.
The Grand Master walks through headquarters like sunlight with boots on. He is loud when he wants to be, gentle when he chooses to be, somehow capable of making exhausted knights straighten instinctively just by looking at them.
Youâve watched it happen from a safe distance for months: the way rooms shift when he enters, the way people gravitate toward him without quite meaning to.
You have always watched from a safe distance. Because up close, apparently, you lose the ability to form sentences.
âHere,â he says easily. âWhatâre you missing?â
âYou donât have to help,â you blurt out immediately.
âMm.â He leans down to peer into the shelf. âToo late. Iâm emotionally invested now.â
You stare at the side of his face while he reaches into the back of the shelf with absurd ease: arm disappearing almost to the elbow between the crates like this is a perfectly normal way for the Grand Master to spend an afternoon.
âYou reorganized these recently?â
ââŚYes?â
âHm. Good system. Bad luck. Bit philosophical for a storage room, actually.â A pause. âAha.â
He straightens with your missing ledger in hand.
You could cry. âYou found it.â
âWell,â Varka says modestly, âI am heroic when I need to be.â
You laugh before you can stop yourself. His expression changes into something warm. âThere it is,â he says softly, handing you the ledger. âWorth the rescue mission.â
Your face heats instantly. âOh. Um. Thank you.â
âAnytime.â He steps aside, still smiling. âThough next time Iâd recommend less aggressive negotiations with the shelves.â
And then he just leaves.
Meanwhile you stand there clutching the ledger to your chest while your heart attempts to physically exit your body.
Youâre aware itâs ridiculous.
You see him regularly. Heâs the Grand Master and a person who is, objectively speaking, very busy and very important and almost certainly not spending any time thinking about a logistics person who hit their head on a shelf.
Youâre aware of all of this. It doesnât help. Because now you notice things.
The way he stops to talk to everyone: the younger knights waiting nervously for assignments, the people who pass him in corridors, the guards at the gate who straighten when they see him coming. He remembers names. He asks after people. He laughs easily and means it.
He gives everyone that warm, unhurried attention.
Everyone.
You notice someone come back from his office practically glowing. You watch the new recruits light up when he claps them on the shoulder. You watch another knight smile at something he says from across the room.
And you think: Right. Thatâs just who he is. Thatâs just how he treats everyone. Thereâs nothing special about a man whoâs genuinely kind to literally every person he encounters.
You think this very rationally. And then he passes you in the corridor, glances over, says âGood afternoonâ with that smileâ
And you walk directly into a door frame.
So thatâs where you are with this.
The first note is accidental. At least thatâs what you tell yourself.
Youâre delivering paperwork to Varkaâs office late in the afternoon, arms full of reports and requests and three separate forms requiring signatures in entirely different places.
Varka isnât there yet. You set the stack down carefully. And then you notice the open window behind his desk.
The weather really is nice today. Bright skies, good wind, warm enough that people are lingering outside instead of rushing home. And Varka has been in meetings since morning. You know because you walked past his office three times on errands and heard voices each time.
Before you can overthink it, you tear a corner from your spare paper and scribble quickly:
The weather is unusually nice today. You should probably enjoy it before someone traps you in another meeting.
Then you sign it with your intitial.
You stare at it, then immediately try to grab it back. At that exact moment the office door opens.
You nearly launch yourself into the ceiling. Varka pauses in the doorway. You stand frozen beside his desk like a thief interrupted mid-robbery, fingers still hovering over the note.
âAm I interrupting something?â he asks carefully.
âNo.â Too fast.
His eyebrows lift. You feel heat climbing all the way to your ears.
âI was just delivering paperwork,â you say, trying very hard to sound like a functional person. âThe forms. For signing. Which are here. On your desk. Which is where I put them. Because thatâs my job.â
A pause follows.
âRight,â he says slowly.
âMm.â
His eyes flick briefly to the note, then back to you. Something amused flickers there. âWell,â he says easily, setting his coat aside, âthat seems significantly less illegal than your expression suggested.â
You make a sound somewhere between a cough and a failed prayer.
Varka smiles wider. âThank you,â he adds, quieter. âFor the paperwork.â
âOf course.â You are already moving toward the door. âIâllâyes. Goodbye.â
You leave with as much dignity as you can salvage. Which is not very much.
Varka doesnât mention the note the next time he sees you. Neither do you. So you do it again.
The second note comes three days later:
The Sunsettia are particularly good this week. In case you havenât had a chance to eat properly today. (Rumors suggest you havenât.)
You cringe for approximately three hours after leaving it, again with your initial. Then you spend another two hours convincing yourself itâs fine. Itâs just a note. People are thoughtful. This is normal.
The next morning thereâs a Sunsettia sitting on top of the outgoing paperwork in your tray. No note. Just the fruit.
You stare at it for a very long time.
The notes continue. You tell yourself each one will be the last.
Two knights came back from patrol today. They looked tired but proud. I thought youâd want to know they made it back without trouble.
ââ
Thereâs an herb growing near Springvale thatâs been blooming unusually late this season.
The smell is quite something. Warm and a bit sharp, the kind that clears your head.
I thought maybe it would help you with the long days.
ââ
I heard the meeting ran long again. I hope it was at least interesting.
If not: the pigeons near the bridge have been having a very dramatic morning. Thatâs free, and arguably more entertaining.
ââ
I am going to perish, you think. But you keep writing them anyway.
ââ
Varka finds himself looking for them.
He notices the slight lift when he sits down at his desk and spots a folded corner tucked beneath the official stack. Then he sets aside the reports that need immediate attention and reads the small square of paper first.
Itâs such a small thing. Observations, mostly. Small careful kindnesses wrapped in your handwriting.
He doesnât know what to make of it.
He knows the initial, knows who it is. He remembers the storage room, the head-bump, the laugh he didnât expect to enjoy quite so much. He has seen you since: brief appearances to deliver forms, the occasional corridor crossing where you turn slightly pink and find something very interesting to look at on the floor.
Sincere in a way thatâs oddly refreshing. Clearly not used to being looked at directly.
He finds himself making sure not to look too directly. It feels important not to make you uncomfortable.
Surely you donât mean anything by it, he thinks, setting down a note about particularly good bread. Just a kind person. Thoughtful. Nothing more.
He almost convinces himself.
The in-between visits are the part that get him. You come by his office on ordinary business: forms, updates, once a misdirected delivery that required an apology and a very long explanation.
Each time you knock carefully, state your purpose clearly, hand over whatever needs handing, and then say something genuine and slightly unexpected that throws the whole exchange sideways.
âI reorganized the archives,â you tell him during one visit, while heâs signing forms. âI thoughtâthe expedition records were hard to cross-reference. It made more sense to sort differently.â
He glances up. âDid you run that past Hertha?â
âI asked her first.â
âGood,â he says softly.
âAlso,â you add, âI noticed the supply requisitions have been delayed two weeks. It might be the routing. I fixed it.â
Varka sets his pen down. âJust like that?â
âIt wasnât complicated. Just overlooked.â A pause. âI didnât want the knights waiting longer than necessary.â
He looks at you for a moment. You immediately find something fascinating on the wall beside his head.
âThank you,â he says. He means it more than the words cover.
You nod, gather your folders, and leave with the specific energy of someone trying very hard not to run.
Just a kind person, he thinks again but quieter this time.
The note that does it is the last one.
It comes on an unremarkable Tuesday, tucked beneath an ordinary report:
I know the meeting is tomorrow. I donât know what itâs about but I imagine itâs the kind that makes the day feel longer than it is.
I hope it goes well. I hope you get to sleep at a reasonable hour.
I hope you willâ
(Sorry. That got away from me.)
Varka reads it twice, then sits back in his chair.
I hope.
Such a small word to carry so much in it.
He thinks about the Sunsettia left without explanation. The herb that clears your head. The pigeons having a dramatic morning. Two knights making it home.
He thinks about the way you find the wall beside his head extremely interesting whenever he says something kind. The way you said I didnât want the knights waiting longer than necessary like it was obvious.
Heâs been telling himself not to assume. He has been doing it so carefully, so deliberately, that he somehow forgot to pay attention to the actual evidence.
He picks up a pen.
Youâre in the middle of reconciling three separate inventory counts that absolutely should agree and absolutely do not, when thereâs a knock at the door.
âCome in,â you say, mostly to the ledger.
âHm.â
You look up. Varka is leaning in the doorway.
Your brain does the thing it always does, which is briefly stop working. âGrand Master,â you manage.
âYouâre busy,â he observes.
âA little.â You look down at the ledger. âThe numbers areâtheyâre not agreeing.â
âThey rarely do.â He steps inside, which is unusual. He doesnât usually come here. You go to him.
You become very interested in your ledger.
âI got your note,â he says.
âIâyes.â Your pen is doing something strange in your hand. âI apologize if it wasââ
âDonât.â
You look up.
Heâs watching you with a warm expression. âI got all of them,â Varka says. âIâve been reading them since the first one.â
âI know. I meanâI assumed. I didnât expectââ You take a deep breath. âI just wanted you to know that people notice. What you do. And that it matters.â Youâre staring very hard at your desk. âThatâs all it was.â
âWas it?â
ââŚMostly,â you admit.
The silence is extremely long.
âHave dinner with me.â
Your head comes up fast.
Varka looks back at you steadily, waiting, genuinely, for your answer.
âIââ Your voice does something embarrassing. âYes. Iâdâyes. Iâd like that.â
Something in his face settles. âGood.â He straightens, already turning toward the door. Then he pauses and pulls a folded piece of paper from his coat. He writes something else on the bottom, grinning to himself.
You squint your eyes but donât comment.
He sets the note on your desk, then leaves.
You stare at it for a long moment before you unfold it:
The view from the Statue of the Seven is particularly good this week.
You should probably see it before the season changes.
Tomorrow evening, if youâre free.
âV.
P.S. The numbers in column four are transposed. Thatâs why theyâre not agreeing.
You look at column four.
Heâs right.
You put your face in your hands and smile so hard it hurts.
â ⌠â
A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)
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