in which : you marry the ruthless prince of kremnos, and everyone says you'll never thaw his heart. but you’re nothing if not stubborn. surely all you have to do is win him over right? how hard can that be?
wc 8.7k (it’s worth it trust me), historical au, marriage of convenience, sunshine x grumpy, strangers to lovers, you fell first + he fell harder, fem reader referred to as “princess” / “milady”, ts burns so slow u might rip ur hair out sorry, heavily ib how to get my husband on my side. art by @/kannbergri on x.
there was no love in the arrangement, no romantic vows exchanged beneath moonlit skies, no promises of forever whispered in soft voices. just firm handshakes and signatures inked on parchment.
it was a straightforward agreement: kremnos would protect your people in exchange for a union, and you were sent to marry the crown prince, mydeimos, to solidify the alliance.
you had heard his name long before you ever saw his face. prince mydeimos of kremnos —a name whispered with reverence, with fear, with awe; carrying the weight of countless victories carved into the blood-soaked chaos of battlefields.
but none of those stories prepared you for the reality of him.
the grand hall of kremnos' palace feels colder than you imagined.
marble floors stretch endlessly beneath your feet, polished to a gleaming perfection that seems to reflect the distance between you and the life awaiting you here. the walls, adorned with banners of deep reds and golds, do little to warm the oppressive air.
servants pass by in hushed movements, their heads bowed, their whispers inaudible. the air carries the faint aroma of polished wood and lingering incense, yet there is no warmth to be found —not in the hall, not from the people, and certainly not from the man standing at the far end of the room.
you bow slightly out of instinct, a gesture of respect, though you feel foolish doing so in the context of your marriage.
dressed in the royal garb of kremnos, a deep red cloak embroidered with gold thread draped over his shoulders, his marigold eyes lock onto yours with piercing intensity.
“princess,” he greets you, his words polished to a fault —exactly what you’d expect from a prince.
“your highness,” you reply, matching his formality.
“welcome to kremnos, i trust the journey was not too difficult.”
it’s not a question, you realize. merely a statement to acknowledge your presence. you offer a polite nod, “the journey was smooth, your highness,” you reply, your voice steady despite the unease creeping into your chest. “thank you for your hospitality.”
you watch as he takes a glass of reddish liquid from a servant standing nearby, lifting it to his lips with ease, the vibrant color catching your eye.
the rich crimson hue seems too unnatural for something as mundane as wine. your gaze fixes on the glass as he drinks, a chill running down your spine as an unsettling thought creeps in.
is he drinking... blood?
your heart skips, a sudden nervousness, and you quickly avert your gaze, unable to meet his eyes.
he catches your stare however, “what is it that you find so fascinating?”
flustered, you lower your head, stammering, "i... beg your pardon, your highness.”
you can feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your cheeks as you panic. the weight of his cold gaze is almost unbearable, and you fear you’ve already made a fool of yourself.
for a moment, you dare not look at him, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you.
the prince casually wipes the red liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, as your eyes drift involuntarily toward the glass once more, still questioning its contents.
his eyes flicker to you as they narrow, “still curious?”
you freeze, wrecking your head for a sensible answer lest you further embarrass yourself.
with a sharp sigh, he places the glass down on the tray. “it’s pomegranate juice, nothing more.”
you blink, stunned for a moment, the absurdity of your previous assumption crashing down on you.
“pomegranate juice,” you repeat softly, as if testing the words to see if they make sense.
“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”
that night, you lay on the luxurious bed in your chamber, the events of the evening swirling in your mind. you shake your head, embarrassed by your own overactive imagination.
you turn onto your side, pulling the heavy blankets tighter around you, but sleep evades you.
yes, your husband is a man of few words, fewer emotions, and absolutely no warmth when it comes to you. yet within that frost lies a heart, waiting for the right touch to thaw it.
ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION
over the weeks, you've learned many peculiar things about your husband.
you’ve noticed, for instance, that he always rises before dawn, and spends hours in the training grounds perfecting his form —an unyielding warrior at heart. or how he has an unusual preference for adding goat's milk to his pomegranate juice, a combination that strikes you as strange yet somehow fitting for him.
you’ve also discovered that, contrary to expectations, he favors the color pink —an oddly delicate choice for a man so rigid in his demeanor. and while he is undeniably polite, he also remains stern and is not one to easily open up, not even to those closest to him.
all that you've learned, you’ve used in an attempt to earn his favor, though your effort often feels like trying to breach a concrete wall.
(one day, you deliberately rise early, before the sun fully breaks over the horizon, and make your way to the training grounds.
there, you find a concealed spot in the shadows, watching him spar with the guards. you’ve gone, in part, because you want him to know you care, but also because of the impressive display of his skill that subconsciously draws you in.
it’s not long before he notices your presence; his expression remains impassive, but his gaze hardens, narrowing slightly as he observes you making your way to him from across the field.
as you finally reach him, you extend the water in your hand. but just as you take a step closer, your foot catches on an uneven stone. you stumble forward, crashing into him, and spilling the cold water across his chest.
the gasp that escapes you is quickly followed by frantic apologies.
"princess," he says coolly, the water dripping from his toned muscles, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders and down his chest. "...are you always this clumsy, or is today a special occasion?"
ah.
well at least he has jokes..?)
or after noticing how he often stays silent during meals, you decide to change the pace.
(at the dining hall, you ask about his interests, but he only gives brief, impersonal responses; his attention fixed on his plate, quietly indulging in the honey-drenched pancakes. you try to make a lighthearted joke, but he doesn’t even look up, offering only a polite “i see” before the silence drapes over the table again.
so, you finally decide to try a more… direct approach —flattery. surely, no man can resist a little charm, right?
you lean close as you gather all the courage you can muster, batting your eyelashes at him hoping you appear as endearing as you intend.
"i must say, my dear husband, you —uh, you are unmatched in your… strength and wisdom. it’s no wonder my heart can’t help but be drawn to you..?”
well that didn’t exactly sound convincing.
“and… your arms, they’re quite impressive. i mean —wait, that’s not what i meant—”
and that certainly didn’t make it any better!
you brace yourself, expecting a sharp rebuke or, at the very least, some irritation. but instead, he simply nods, offering a brief, detached “thank you” before turning his attention back to his meal.
you immediately avert your gaze, feeling a pang of relief. though it’s strange to think that at any moment, your husband might decide to chop your head off for being so foolish (...if he felt so inclined) he is the crowned prince, after all; and while his politeness is unsettling, it’s still better than his wrath... right?)
either way, it’s clear that your efforts have made not the slightest dent. better luck next time!
today will be different.
failure has never sat well with you, and after last night’s mortifying attempt at charming your husband, you refuse to let things end on such a dismal note. if words fail, then perhaps actions will speak louder.
so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.
you kneel amidst the blooms, fingers brushing over soft petals, feeling the gentle give of each flower beneath your touch. carefully, you pluck a few of each, tucking them gently into your basket, mindful of their fragile stems. you arrange them just so, already picturing the bouquet coming together in your hands.
but as you wander further, you find yourself drawn toward the edge of the estate. past the hedgerows and beyond the garden’s stone pathway, you notice something that catches your eye, a cluster of wildflowers —soft pinks and gentle whites.
perfect! these will be the finishing touch to complete your bouquet for mydeimos.
pleased with yourself, you smile and make your way toward the water’s edge. leaning forward, you stretch out to pluck one, your body lowering toward the ground, shifting your weight slightly, when—
a sudden force slams into your back.
the breath is knocked clean from your lungs. there's no time to react as the world tilts violently, and before you can even scream, the cold shock of water swallows you whole.
it’s deeper than you thought.
icy water rushes into your nose and mouth, sending a searing burn down your throat. panic grips you as the world above fractures into shimmering light, distorted by the rippling surface. you try to push yourself up, but alas, the weight of your dress still drags you down.
as you thrash around uselessly, your limbs start growing heavier. the surface above you slips further away; and the last thing you register is the sensation of strong arms wrapping around you —with a final strained breath, your vision dims to nothingness.
the next thing you feel is warmth.
your head rests against something solid, a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek .a firm hold keeps you close, one braced securely around your back, the other hooked beneath your knees.
you blink sluggishly, your lashes heavy with water. that’s when you realise, you’re in the arms of your husband.
his hair clings to his forehead, damp strands framing the sharp angles of his face. droplets trace slow paths down his jawline, soaking into the dark fabric of his tunic —leaving nothing to the imagination.
for a moment, disoriented and breathless, you can only blink up at him.
did he jump in after you..?
“why did you wander off alone?” he chastises, snapping you back to reality.
your throat feels tight, your heart hammering in your chest. "i-i just wanted to do something for you!" the confession spills from your lips, desperate, your fingers clinging instinctively to the soaked fabric of his sleeve.
it’s foolish, maybe, but you’re still reeling —from the near drowning, from the fact that mydeimos saved you.
he exhales sharply, exasperation heavy in his breath. "why are you like this…" his grip tightens on you, but there’s a tension in his voice as if he’s swallowing something he can’t quite put into words. “didn’t i say there’s no need to attract attention this way?"
the accusation stings, your brows knit together as you shake your head, droplets of water slipping down your temples. "i just… thought you’d like some flowers."
his fingers, still curled beneath your back, twitch slightly, his hold unconsciously steadying you.
“you don’t need to do anything reckless just to get my attention," he murmurs at last, his voice softer now, no longer edged with frustration. then, almost hesitantly, he adds, "...if you want something, just come to me."
mydeimos shifts, adjusting his hold on you before finally rising to his feet. the movement is effortless, but even so, a sharp chill runs through you as the air bites at your damp skin. before you can fully steady yourself, he places you down, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before withdrawing.
your dress clings uncomfortably to you, heavy with water, and when you glance down, you spot the basket lying a short distance away, half-tilted on the grass. the flowers you so carefully picked are scattered around it, petals crumpled, stems bent.
a pit forms in your stomach. all that effort, and now—
a shadow moves beside you. mydeimos steps forward, the hem of his cloak grazing against the fallen blooms. he considers them for a moment, then looks back at you.
“well?” his voice is steady, and you can’t quite grasp the intention behind it. “you went through all that trouble to gather the flowers… aren’t you going to give them to me?”
sure they're not nearly as perfect as they were when you first picked them. still, you kneel, fingers brushing over the damp grass as you carefully pick up the least damaged flowers, smoothing out the crumpled petals as best you can.
“…here.” slowly, hesitantly, you extend the bouquet towards him.
his fingers brush against yours as he accepts the flowers. “sorry they’re ruined,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
he shakes his head, unbothered. “they’re mine now, so i’ll take care of them.”
there’s no mockery in his expression, no disdain for your failed efforts. if anything, there’s something almost unreadable in the way he looks at you, something that makes your heart lurch against your ribs.
he spares you one last glance, then turns. “come. you need to get changed before you fall ill.”
and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place.
somehow, it fits him too well.
ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR
once a year, the empire erupts into feverish anticipation for the annual gladiatorial tournament. a traditional competition of strength, bloodshed, and sheer willpower.
held in the heart of the capital, within the city of kremnos; warriors from across the kingdom —such as knights from noble houses, seasoned mercenaries, and ambitious upstarts, all gather within the grand coliseum, each vying for glory, honor, or a place in history.
and three weeks from now, the coliseum will roar with life, filled to the brim with nobles and commoners alike, all eager to witness the blood and glory that’ll unfold within the arena.
the tournament may be weeks away, but mydeimos knows better than to grow complacent.
within the castle training grounds, the clash of steel echoes through the air, each strike reverberating like a war drum. two figures move in relentless rhythm, locked in a sparring match that is as much a dance as it is a battle.
mydeimos meets his opponent’s strike head-on; phainon, captain of the royal knights, his equal in skill if not in strength, matches him blow for blow. the force of the impact ripples through his arm, but he does not waver. instead, he swiftly pivots, forcing mydeimos onto the defensive.
the crown prince presses forward, his sword carving ruthless arcs through the air, a feint —then a sudden, brutal swing aimed at his opponent’s side.
phainon barely manages to parry, their blades grinding against each other in a fierce deadlock. exhaling sharply through his nose, he holds firm against the pressure. “mydei,” phainon mutters, breathless. “don't hold back."
mydei’s gaze remains unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something —amusement, perhaps, before he abruptly shifts his weight. with a sharp twist, he breaks the deadlock.
“HKS,” he counters, shoving forward with enough strength to force phainon back a step. “getting tired?”
phainon lets out a short laugh, adjusting his stance. “not in the slightest.” he disengages, spinning his blade in a quick counterstrike.
alas, the fight reaches no clear victor, ending in yet another stalemate.
exhaling, phainon lowers his blade. “not bad.”
but before mydei can respond; a slow, warm trickle down his arm draws his attention. his gaze flickers downward —a thin slash mars his bicep, blood welling along the cut.
the knight’s expression shifts, eyes catching on the wound. “heh looks like i take the win this time,” he gloats, though there’s a slightest hint of concern in his tone.
“...though i do apologise, your highness,” phainon says, eyeing the wound with a tilt of his head.
mydei rolls his shoulder, testing the ache, then huffs. “nothing to be sorry for.” his lips curl slightly, eyes flicking back to phainon.
“but don’t think this means i’m letting you off easy. we’ll settle it properly next time.”
“oh? and here i thought you’d take the loss with dignity for once,” phainon snorts, sheathing his blade in one smooth motion. “but i suppose i wouldn’t want you growing too accustomed to losing.”
“you land one lucky hit and suddenly you’re talking like you’ve dethroned me.” mydei scoffs, already turning toward the weapons rack. phainon watches him go, shaking his head to himself before following suit.
mydei doesn’t know why you’re worrying so much.
the cut is insignificant, to him at least. within hours, it’ll be gone —his body already stitching itself back together. he doesn’t need tending to, least of all by you.
and yet, here you are.
as you sit beside him, your hands deftly press a cloth soaked in cool water to his wound, cleaning away the dried blood with careful strokes. for some reason, seeing you like this —fussing over him with a tenderness he’s never quite experienced before —renders him quiet.
“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.
“because you’re hurt,” you say as a matter of factly, setting the cloth aside before reaching for a bandage. your fingers are gentle as they smooth it over his skin, lightly tracing the curves of his biceps.
he watches the way your lips press together, tying the final knot with a delicate tug, patting the fabric down as if to reassure yourself that it will hold.
something tugs at the edge of his mind.
you’ve pretended to love him ever since you stepped foot in kremnos; he thought he knew every expression you wore, every feigned tenderness. but this —this time, it’s different. there’s no audience here, no need for the carefully crafted role of the adoring wife.
so why do you still look at him like that?
his breath stills. he doesn’t know what to make of this.
“…please be more careful next time.” mydei glances at his arm, the ache is already fading.
you don’t know how pointless all of this is. by morning, there won’t even be a scar.
you exhale softly, your brows still furrowed in concern. then, as if unable to help yourself, your fingertips ghost over the bandage, smoothing it down with a tenderness that makes his chest tighten.
“does it still hurt?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
he should say no. he should tell you it’s nothing.
but when he looks at you —sees the way your eyes linger on him, so earnestly unguarded. he falters.
“…not much,” he admits instead. “you act as if i’m on death’s door.”
“and you act as if you’re invincible,” you retort softly.
he freezes.
he almost laughs at the irony of it —because in some ways, you aren’t wrong. his body will always mend itself, his wounds never lasting long enough to be of real consequence.
but his darling wife doesn’t know that.
and perhaps that’s why he lets you worry, lets you dote on him with such sweet, unknowing devotion. because, against all logic —against everything he’s told himself, he finds that he likes it.
your touch finally retreats, hands settling in your lap. “i’ll leave you to rest, your highness.”
you rise from your seat, and as you turn to leave, mydei catches himself watching the space where your hands had been, the phantom warmth still resting against his skin.
for a wound that’s already gone, he finds it strange —how reluctant he is to let it fade.
ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS
"sir phainon, thank you for showing me around the city," you say, offering the man beside you a faint smile as you step around a corner.
the knight dips his head, “of course, milady. the pleasure’s all mine."
you’re glad phainon took time off to accompany you —wandering the city alone would’ve definitely left you lost and stewing in your own thoughts.
phainon glances at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "but i’m surprised his highness let you wander the city with another man," he muses.
you let out a small laugh, running your fingers along the petals of a flower display as you pass by. "well, i don’t think he cares."
phainon’s steps slow, his brow lifting ever so slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he misheard you or if you’re simply playing coy. "you don’t think he—" he exhales a sharp chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "hah. now that’s funny."
you shoot a puzzled look at him,"what is?"
to phainon, who’s seen the way mydei looks at you, heard the way he speaks of you; your words make no sense at all.
—but he holds his tongue. "nothing, milady. let’s keep walking before i say something i shouldn’t."
the warmth of the moment sours when you round a corner near the market square. there, just past a cluster of gossiping nobles, mydei stands stiffly, arms crossed as he listens to a young woman speak.
you recognize her —a lady-in-waiting that serves in the palace.
“…always playing the victim,” she sneers, voice pitched just loud enough to draw attention. “everyone pities her, but really, she’s just an outsider to kremnos—”
your steps falter, confusion flickering across your face. is that lady… talking about you?
“she was never worthy of standing by his highness’s side!” the lady continues with simpering disdain.
beside you, your companion stiffens, his fingers subtly curling at his sides. he’s noticed, too.
but before you can fully process the words, she lets out a haughty laugh. “she tripped herself that day. i only gave her a little push and—”
“what?” mydei’s voice cuts through the air, his eyes narrowing.
the lady startles, whipping around to face him, but quickly smooths her expression into one of feigned innocence. “y-your highness…” she lowers her head just slightly. “i only meant that a mere nudge shouldn’t have been enough to send her stumbling so helplessly.”
she offers a small, demure smile. “unless, of course, one lacks the grace befitting a princess.”
“it was unfortunate that your highness was troubled because of—”
her words trail off as her gaze flicks to the side, right where you stand.
and in that fleeting moment, mydei follows her line of sight.
your breath catches. you hadn’t meant to be seen.
a small, almost imperceptible smirk forms on her lips; just as mydei glances to your side, his attention diverted for a split second; she falls toward him, her body angling toward him in a way that all but demands he steady her.
you feel a jolt of realization —her intentions are clear as day towards you.
mydei’s eyes barely flicker as she topples toward him, but his hand moves —not to steady her, as she so clearly intended, but to seize her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.
with a sharp tug, he wrenches her upright, the motion not even close to an act of chivalry.
a startled gasp slips past her lips, her wide eyes darting up, stunned by the strength of his hold. the gathered onlookers murmur amongst themselves as the prince fixes her with a cold, unreadable stare.
“tell me. are you purposely trying to cause a misunderstanding between me and my wife?”
the lady blanches, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. “y-your highness, i would never—”
“spare me the excuses.” his fingers uncoil, and she stumbles back, barely catching herself. she cradles her wrist as though burned, whether from pain or humiliation, it’s hard to tell.
“guards.” mydeimos doesn’t raise his voice, but the command rings clear. two armored figures stationed nearby immediately step forward, “take her away.”
“y-your highness, i only—”
mydeimos doesn’t even spare her a glance as he delivers the lady’s fate. “for daring to put her hands on the princess, she is to be punished accordingly. let this serve as a reminder, such conduct has no place in my court.”
the color drains from her face as the guards seize her by the arms, her protests falling on deaf ears. the onlookers part to make way, some exchanging knowing glances, others whispering amongst themselves.
then mydeimos’ gaze softens —only slightly, in your direction.
phainon leans in, “and yet, milady insists that his highness does not care?”
but you don’t respond, heart fluttering traitorously in your chest as mydeimos turns on his heel and strides toward you.
with a small tilt of his head, he nods to phainon before finally speaking.
“she was desperate,” he remarks, voice edged with dry amusement. “did you see how she threw herself at me? pitiful.”
he studies you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “...you weren’t fooled, were you?”
you blink, caught off guard by his question. “of course not, your highness.”
ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?
his lips part slightly, but no words come, instead he just exhales softly, as if to himself. “good.”
phainon, ever perceptive, arches a brow but says nothing of it. instead, he steps back with a knowing tilt of his head. “well then, i shall take my leave. duty calls, after all, milady, your highness.” with that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, leaving just the two of you.
mydei’s eyes linger on you —searching, almost reluctant, before he finally tears his gaze away. “we should go.”
he starts walking, and you follow, the quiet rhythm between you shifting in a way that's hard to place. it’s subtle, so subtle that if you weren’t paying enough attention, you might’ve missed it.
the way his steps fall in sync with yours, slowing his usually large strides ever so slightly, as if unconsciously matching your pace. the way his hand hovers near yours, close enough that if you swayed even slightly, your fingers might brush.
it doesn’t feel intentional, and yet, it doesn’t feel like an accident either.
the marketplace hums around you both; vendors calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices curling through the air. but your mind is elsewhere, lingering on the man beside you, on the things left unsaid.
at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. “your highne—”
“mydei.”
…would it be foolish of you to think of it as a plea? that, beneath the indifference he wears so well, he cares how his name sounds when spoken by you?
(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. he’s just your husband, mydei.)
you glance up at him, but his gaze stays ahead. he doesn’t offer an explanation; your thoughts linger on that single word, and maybe that’s why, after a moment’s hesitation, you decide to give it a try.
“mydei… what were you doing in the market today?”
he doesn’t answer right away. a terribly fond smile tugging at his lips.
he looks good like this, you think.
with a glance to the side, he replies, “nothing of importance.”
a half-truth, at best.
your thoughts drift back to the last time you were here —the flowers you had given him, bright and delicate in his hands. an odd sight, perhaps, yet somehow, they suited him.
a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.
could he have been looking for ways to take care of them? …surely not.
but any doubt vanishes the moment a florist calls out to him. “your highness! you’ve returned! here, this is the care guide you requested, along with the special fertilizer. it should help the flowers bloom beautifully.”
mydei takes the offered items with a nod, thanking the florist who beams, clearly pleased to be of service.
"you must truly cherish them, your highness," they remark. "not many would go through such trouble for a simple bouquet."
mydei only hums in response, tucking the items away as he turns back to you. for a moment, it almost seems like he might explain himself, but instead, he merely lifts a brow, as if daring you to say something about it.
warmth unfurls at the edges of your chest, spreading slowly, irresistibly.
you press your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to surface. "so," you muse lightly, "you’ve been taking good care of my flowers?”
mydei exhales, the ghost of an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "it would be a shame if they wilted so soon,” he says. then, as he starts walking again, a quiet afterthought —so soft you almost miss it.
"especially when they were a gift from you."
and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you don’t resist the urge to let your fingers brush.
ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART
it’s late —past the hour most would retire, yet the training grounds remains lit by torches that flicker against the cool stone walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. mydeimos leans back against the walls, arms loosely folded across his chest as his gaze follows phainon sharpening his blade a few paces away —though, truthfully, his thoughts are elsewhere.
it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.
“you know,” he starts, glancing up without looking directly at the prince, “you’re awfully quiet these days, your highness.”
he wipes his sword down lazily, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "...say, mydei."
mydei doesn’t look up, but his posture shifts, "what?"
phainon lets the silence drag for a moment, almost like he’s weighing his next words.
“do you have genuine feelings for [name]?"
the words land like a blow in the silence between them; he doesn’t bother to wait for an answer.
“because if you don’t, i was thinking maybe i’d give courting her a try.”
ah. that does it.
mydei’s eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under —and the former wouldn’t even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.
phainon laughs quietly under his breath at his comrade’s reaction, not bothering to hide the tilt of his mouth.
“don’t cross the line.” the words fall from mydei’s lips, low and clipped like a warning.
phainon laughs —the kind of laugh shared only between men who’ve known each other long enough to grow used to the other’s sharp edges.
“relax,” he drawls, sheathing his blade with a lazy flick. “i was just joking, you can stop glaring at me now.”
“i’m not mad i—”
“you’re not mad because you think i meant it,” he cuts in. “you’re angry because you know i’m right. you’ve been walking around pretending like she doesn’t mean a thing to you, bottling up every damn thing you feel for her. if it were anyone else, they’d have given up by now.”
mydei looks away. “she’s not anyone else,” he mutters.
phainon smiles. “then tell her.”
mydei stays uncharacteristically silent as phainon steps past with a clap on his shoulder. “you're lucky she’s patient.”
the sour look on your husband’s face whenever phainon’s name comes up is a recent development.
you first noticed it in passing: an almost imperceptible downturn of his lips, a restrained (but still noticeable) eyeroll or the press of his lips into a tight line. at first, you thought nothing of it. but lately… it’s been happening a lot.
right now, you’re seated in the castle’s sunlit tea room with someone you can now call a friend —phainon. the scent of fresh brews curls in the air, warm and comforting, but it does little to soothe the frustration tightening in your chest.
phainon leans back in his seat as you lay your troubles before him. surely, as one of mydei’s closest friends, he could offer some worthwhile advice on how to win the latter’s heart.
because at this rate, if you don’t manage to win him over before your contract runs its course, you wouldn’t be surprised to wake up with his sword cold against the nape of your neck.
“so… what do you think?” you ask, poking at a pastry with your fork.
phainon hums, tilting his head in thought. “he’s a reserved man —you’ve probably figured that out by now. give him some time, he’s the type to take forever to realize what’s right in front of him.”
he shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “though, i do hope milady won’t give up on him just yet.”
you nod, committing his words to memory, but then he suddenly straightens, that familiar glint of mischief lighting his gaze.
“actually,” he muses, glancing down at his hands, now dusted with crumbs and icing, “my hands are a bit of a mess from this cake. mind doing me a favor?”
he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.
you eye him suspiciously. “...what kind of favor?”
phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. “feed me.”
narrowing your eyes, you scoff at his request, “look, buster—”
“just this once,” he interrupts, grinning. “think of it as repaying me for my advice.”
there’s something almost too innocent about the way he leans in, like he’s well aware of what he’s doing… or rather, what exactly might happen if a certain someone were to walk in.
still, with an exaggerated sigh, you pick up a piece of pastry and lift it towards him—
only for a firm grip to catch your wrist before you can.
just your luck.
mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite.
and before you can pull away —the barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.
did he just—?
heat rushes to your face. your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.
phainon whistles lowly. “oh yeah i forgot to mention,” he says, far too amused.
“the prince has a sweet tooth.”
for a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft clink of porcelain as phainon sets down his teacup, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.
all you can do is stare —frozen, pulse skittering in your throat.
mydei, on the other hand, is utterly unbothered. if anything, he looks as composed as ever, chewing leisurely, as if he didn’t just—
your fingers twitch in his grasp. finally, he releases your wrist, his touch lingering just a second too long before he pulls away.
you snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, curling your fingers against your palm as if that will erase the phantom heat of his lips, the fleeting press of his tongue.
phainon wonders if he’s about to be thrown out of the castle with the way you and mydei glare at him (for different reasons, respectively)... but judging by his smirk, he finds the risk well worth it.
the annual gladiatorial tournament is only days away, and kremnos is already stirring with anticipation. you’ve heard the chatter in the halls, the wagers placed on champions, the hushed whispers of which warriors will rise and which will fall.
seated on a bench near the training grounds, you let the rhythmic clash of weapons fade into background noise, your focus trained instead on the fabric in your hands. a delicate handkerchief, its edges carefully stitched, the embroidery thread gliding through with each careful motion of your needle.
you had learned from a few noble ladies: it’s tradition for warriors to receive tokens of fortune from their beloveds —most commonly, a handkerchief embroidered with care to carry into battle as a reminder that someone’s waiting for them to return.
before you, the clash of steel rings out as two men spar. you glance up just in time to see phainon nimbly dodge a particularly heavy swing, a grin tugging at his lips. “feeling a little aggressive today, aren’t we?”
mydei doesn’t respond. he simply readjusts his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable.
(if you had to put money on why mydei was more aggressive than usual, you’d wager it had something to do with that stunt phainon pulled a few days ago that had left the former in such a foul mood.)
you return to your stitching, pretending not to notice the way your husband’s eyes flicker toward you between exchanges. unknowingly, a small smile tugs at your lips as you press the needle through the cloth once more.
rumors had circulated for years that prince mydeimos had never once accepted a handkerchief from anyone. not from the ladies who fawned over him at court, not from the admirers who sighed at the sight of his swordsmanship, not even from those with the highest of pedigrees.
it was said that no handkerchief had ever found its way into his hands, let alone remained in his possession. you weren’t sure why; perhaps he found them frivolous, or maybe he had no interest in sentimental keepsakes when he relied on skill alone to survive.
…which didn’t exactly bode well for the one currently in your hands.
so as you carefully stitch your embroidery, you don’t hold out much hope that he’ll accept yours either.
still, it wouldn’t do for the beloved wife of mydeimos to be the only one who hadn’t even offered her husband a handkerchief. whether he accepted it or not was secondary —your duty was to at least play the part expected of you.
as the sparring match winds down, mydei steps off to the side, catching his breath. you discreetly watch as him roll his shoulders, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.
you glance back down at your embroidery, but before you can add another stitch, phainon strides up to you, shaking out his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “ow… you saw that, right?” he whines, flopping down beside you with an exaggerated sigh. “he’s being so rough with me today!”
you arch a brow, biting back a laugh as he leans against the edge of the bench. “poor thing,” you say, amused. “what did you do to deserve it?”
phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”
you shake your head, obviously unconvinced —but then, just like that, his playful pout melts into a coprophagous grin that spells nothing but trouble.
oh no.
“if he wants to be mean,” he muses, tilting his head, “then maybe i should give him a reason for it.”
you frown. “phainon—”
he says, far too casually, “i think i’ve got an idea.”
he leans in slightly, a wolfish grin on his face. “just play along, alright?”
“huh?”
"here, let me show you something." before you can react, phainon takes your hand, pulling you up from your seat with ease. a moment later, a wooden practice sword is tossed into your grasp.
you barely have time to protest before he’s already behind you, his hands resting lightly over yours as he adjusts your grip.
"see?" his voice is low, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath near your ear. "you hold it like this, and—"
“that’s enough.”
both you and phainon turn to see mydei standing a few feet away. he doesn’t look outwardly furious, but there’s the tension in his shoulders says enough.
phainon merely raises an eyebrow. “oh? something wrong, your highness?”
the air thickens and you can practically feel the sparks flying. sensing the storm that’s about to break, you quickly slip out of phainon’s grasp and rush toward mydei, practically throwing yourself into his arms.
“mydei!” you call, mustering the sweetest voice you can manage, hoping to calm him down (before phainon gets his ass kicked again). “y-you must be exhausted after all that training today… why don’t we head back and get some rest?”
a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear.
even though you were the one who threw yourself at mydei, you find yourself frozen, heart hammering at the unexpected tenderness in his touch.
his gaze is so unbearably soft.
after a moment, mydei exhales and nods before leading you away.
you steal a glance back at phainon—who only winks and flashes you a thumbs-up.
(mydei lets out a quiet sigh of relief, watching as you do everything in your power to avoid meeting his eyes. if he had stayed any longer and if phainon had caught sight of the faint flush dusting his cheeks —he’d never hear the end of it.)
ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION
the sun hangs high above kremnos, casting a golden blaze over the arena as the city wakes to the sound of distant drums and the clang of steel. colorful banners bearing the insignias of noble houses flutter from towering spires, while anticipation clings thick to the air.
all of kremnos knows what day it is. the long-awaited gladiatorial tournament has finally arrived.
from the highest nobles draped in silk to the lowest commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, all eyes are drawn to the bloodstained sand at the heart of the arena.
the rules are simple, brutal, unforgiving: fight until your opponent yields, or until they can no longer stand. and of course, there's no word for “mercy” in the kremnoan language… as mydei would say it.
the air in the holding chambers, hidden beneath the grand coliseum, is heavy with the scent of iron and sweat. you step inside with your small offering in hand: the handkerchief you embroidered, each stitch woven with thoughts of him.
and today, you see you’re not alone. the corridor is packed with people, mostly noblewomen, some nervous sweethearts, all fluttering around their chosen champions, many bearing the same tradition in their palms.
you catch sight of more than a few stretching their handkerchiefs out to mydei, vying for even a small glance. a small crowd trails him like petals in a storm, calling his name with saccharine lilts, each desperate to be noticed.
with the way he’s being swarmed, you resign yourself with a small sigh, clutching your own handkerchief, fingers curling gently around the cloth you spent the last few evenings stitching.
nevermind. maybe you’ll give it to phainon instead. he always appreciates the gesture, and at the very least, you’d get a smile out of him.
so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—
only to freeze when you look up and see someone else already standing in front of you.
without a word, your husband takes the handkerchief from your hand, presses it to his brow, and dabs away the sweat collecting at his temple; then folds it neatly and tucks it into his belt where everyone can see.
you blink, momentarily startled.
warmth spills into your chest, it’s strange. he never accepts handkerchiefs from anyone. not a single soul has ever earned that privilege. but today, in front of all these people, he’s taken yours without a second thought.
it’s a light gesture, but it says enough coming from the kremnoan prince.
and if he’s going to make such a bold move, you might as well tease him a little.
you tilt your head, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. “that’s sir phainon’s, you know.”
he stills for a moment, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he furrows his brows in an almost adorable pout.
“then he’ll just have to go without,” he mutters.
you’ve never seen him look quite like this before —caught off guard and... flustered?
“... and i wanted one today.”
“well, since you’ve gone through all that trouble,” you say with a grin, “i suppose i’ll let you keep it.”
as you study him, a thought crosses your mind. you raise an eyebrow, “are you nervous about the tournament?”
his eyes flick to yours, “there is no word for ‘fear’ in the kremnoan language,” he replies, his voice low and confident.
it’s the kind of thing only mydeimos would say. and yet, something about the resolve in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.
you manage a soft smile. “then bring back the victor’s crown for me, will you?”
honestly it's more of a vow than a request, you’d be content just seeing him return in one piece. but he takes it seriously anyway.
“if it’s for you,”
his expression softens for just a moment, and without missing a beat, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“i’d do anything.”
ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS
from your seat among the nobles, your gaze searches for him. the threads of your dress pinched between trembling fingers, creased from how often you’ve clutched it.
ever since you’ve come to kremnos, you’ve grown used to the sound of battle, but today every strike echoes a little louder in your ears.
your heart clenches every time mydei stumbles or blood splashes across the sand. even knowing how strong he is, how capable, there’s a twist of worry that doesn’t loosen its grip.
the kind you only feel when the person you care about is the one walking straight into danger.
you’d heard stories of what the tournament demands, but seeing it for yourself… it’s surreal.
the crowd cheers for violence.
warriors enter the arena one by one, facing off not only against each other, but against beasts dragged from the darkest corners of the empire —corrupted titankins, two-headed hounds, massive golems wreathed in flame; just to name a few.
and each time, the gates crash open with a deafening clang, releasing something more vicious than the last. still, he doesn’t falter. when a snarling beast lunges for his throat, he drives his sword deep into its ribs without a second thought.
the nobles cheer and holler around you, drunk on spectacle. but your eyes don’t leave him, not for a moment.
because while the crowd may be here for blood, all you want…
is to be the first thing mydei sees when it’s over.
the last of the other competitors lie in heaps of blood and sand, either devoured by the beasts or incapacitated by the prince. there’s no one left to challenge him except the creature before him.
the towering beast staggers toward him; your pulse spikes, hands gripping the edge of your seat as you hold your breath. every step it takes sends tremors through the arena floor, snarls echoing off stone as it bears down on him with a murderous roar.
the beast lunges, jaws snapping wide, but mydei meets it with unyielding resolve. his sword arcs through the air, a flash of silver against the blood-soaked dusk. the beast jerks, a guttural screech tearing from its throat as it rears back.
for a heartbeat, you can't tell who’s fallen.
then, through the settling haze, you see mydei standing, blood splattered across his armor, chest heaving with exertion. the beast lets out a final screech —and then crumples to the sand in a thunderous collapse.
for a heartbeat, there’s silence. and then the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer.
“mydei!” you cry out, your heart racing as you push through the sea of people to get closer.
he lifts his gaze, and it’s you he finds.
the victor’s crown, gleaming beneath the sun, is placed into his hands. and he raises it high above his head for all to see.
a roar erupts from the coliseum, the crowd surging to its feet as the name mydeimos echoes from every corner, chanted with unrelenting fervor.
and without hesitation, he strides toward you, his face softening as he approaches.
in a flash, he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. he spins you in a wide, sweeping circle before drawing you close. his eyes locking with yours, a triumphant grin playing on his lips.
with a tenderness that belies his warrior's demeanor, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.
"yours," mydei whispers. he lifts the victor’s crown in both hands, and with all the devotion of a man offering his heart, places it gently atop your head.
you reach up to his bloodied face, your hand trembling slightly as the warmth of his skin seeps into your fingers. your palm comes to rest against his cheek.
“you came back to me,” you murmur.
he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment —like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.
“i always will.”
you rise onto your toes, closing the distance between you.
at the end of the day, all mydei seeks is not victory or glory, but the soft sound of his name on the lips of his beloved, wrapped in an embrace that makes him forget the harshness of the battlefield.
EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER
the question that once haunted your thoughts —how could i ever win his heart? —feels like a distant memory now, an answer long since found.
mydei looks at you with a softness in his eyes that you’ve come to know as a rare gift. his hand, calloused from battles fought and won, reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours before entwining it.
“by the way, i’m actually… immortal. my injuries heal up after a while.”
you blink at him in confusion, and he chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond.
“wait, then that time when you—” you pause, recalling the night you carefully wrapped up his injury.
he grins, a small, playful glint in his eyes. ”i just like the way you worry over me.”
the admission leaves a flutter in your chest as his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand.
you huff, pretending to be upset, though your heart races at the softness in his words. “you mean to say all that time i was worried sick over you for nothing?”
he tilts his head, feigning innocence. “it wasn’t for no reason,” he says, clearly trying not to smile. “i liked it. still do.”
you narrow your eyes, lips tugging into a pout. “well, you could’ve told me sooner! now i feel ridiculous.”
with a soft chuckle, mydei’s fingers brush through your hair in a gentle, almost apologetic gesture. he ruffles it lightly, his touch surprisingly tender. “you’re adorable when you’re upset,” he murmurs, his voice holding a sweetness that makes your heart skip a beat.
you can’t help but soften, the playful anger fading as his hand lingers for a moment longer. he pulls you a little closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. “don’t be mad. i’ll let you fuss over me for as long as you want, as long as you’re by my side.”
“you better mean that! i’m holding you to it.”
he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. “i do,” he whispers. “if there’s one thing i’ll always be sure of, it’s you.”
you think back to every hesitation, every guarded glance, the walls he built high around his heart. and now, that same heart rests in your hands.
“looks like i managed to win you over after all,” you tease softly.
the way he looks at you says more than words ever could —as if you’re the only war he’s ever been glad to lose.
his fingers stay curled around yours; his heart laid bare with the quiet, breathtaking certainty that he is yours, as much as you are his.
"i love you, [name]."
and if this is victory, it’s the sweetest one yet.
thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3
an: listened to love sick by laufey while writing this :3c also, i wrote this during my finals week while i was going thru #it but might as well post it yk
With the benefit of hindsight, maybe asking for Ratio's help the same day when you didn't have a wink of sleep might not have been the wisest decision.
But then again, you weren't quite sure if he would've agreed to help you out. Wasn't he, like, busy or something? But much to your surprise, not only did he readily agree, but he also expected you to "join him without delay."
And now, you can barely even register his words, entering one ear and exiting the other, your vision blurry, fatigue weighing heavily upon you as you struggled to stay awake.
Before you knew it, your chin had met your chest, the esteemed doctor's voice sounding farther and farther away as you eventually succumbed to sleep...
...
Veritas Ratio had long embraced the noble task of dispelling ignorance from the minds of his students. In his unwavering commitment to 'curing his patients' and as someone privileged enough to be knowledgable, he viewed it as his sacred duty to share his wealth of knowledge with those who sought it.
As such, the moment you approached him, requesting help with a subject that had proven challenging for you, he found it to be his responsibility to impart to you his wisdom...
...deliberately ignoring the way his heart may or may not have skipped a beat at the prospect of spending time with you.
Definitely not. It was his job as an instructor to help others. He's merely doing as he should.
"With all that being said—" Ratio finishes writing on the board, turning to look at you.
And with great disappointment, his words die down in his throat, replaced by a heavy sigh as his eyes settle on you. This sight was all too familiar to him, a scene he had witnessed far too often. Even when students attempted to conceal their drowsiness with a facade of attentiveness, he could always discern the truth. In your case, however, there isn't even an attempt at subtlety...
It's glaringly evident that you had fallen asleep.
He looks at his phone to check the time before he begins to approach you, his footsteps light and measured, swiping his codex from his desk. Standing before where you sat, he crouches down to get a look at your sleeping features, and his breath gets caught in his throat.
Ratio's gaze lingered on you, tracing the delicate curve of your cheeks, the line of your nose, and the softness of your lips seemingly paler than usual, he couldn't help but feel the heat rising in his cheeks, his heart humming a tune in his chest.
You always have been easy on the eyes, that much Ratio always knew. He had always noticed the captivating allure of your features, the unique symmetry—or lack thereof—of your features creating a striking combination that never failed to catch his attention. Your presence had always held a magnetic pull on him, drawing his gaze towards you effortlessly, stirring a subtle admiration within his analytical mind.
Once more, like clockwork, he feels his heart racing in his chest.
Despite his composed demeanor, such a familiar sensation had become a regular, always accompanying his interactions with you. At first, he had been in denial, unwilling to admit the truth to himself.
Feelings aren't something Veritas Ratio specializes in, his own emotions were a territory he seldom ventured into, preferring to view the world through the lens of reason rather than emotion. He was a man of logic, of reason, and this... affection... he once believed that such sentiments contradicted his principles. It's messy. It's complex. Unpredictable. Uncontrolled.
And yet, it is there.
It's real. Just as real as the stars in the sky, as constant and unchanging as the moon that hung in the night sky.
Admitting his feelings felt like stepping into a realm of uncertainty, like starting a thesis without a clear conclusion in sight. But the way you laughed, smiled, and spoke with such passion and conviction—stirred something within him that he couldn't quite define. It was as if the stars had aligned, casting a light on a truth he could no longer ignore.
With a small huff under his breath, he pushes himself to rise to his feet once more. With measured steps, he returned to his desk, settling into his seat, setting the alarm on his phone for an hour; he redirected his focus to his codex, immersing himself in study whilst he allowed you your moment of rest.
Rest is a crucial component of the learning process, just as significant as studying itself, and Ratio recognizes that. He acknowledges that forcing you to engage with his teachings while fatigued would be counterproductive, serving as a futile exercise that would benefit neither of you.
Unfortunately, the hour passes by swiftly, his phone vibrating on his lap as his eyes dart from the pages of his codex and towards your sleeping form, his hand reaching out to turn off the alarm he set, his codex being snapped shut in his hand.
He stood then, approaching your still sleeping form on your own desk. His hand holding his codex raises, landing firmly on your head, enough to wake you up and startle you but not enough to hurt.
"You have some nerve falling asleep on me after I graciously lent you my help." He spoke, his voice as leveled as usual.
He initially planned on continuing his lesson after letting you sleep for a while, but seeing the drowsy look in your gaze despite your surprise, the poorly hidden circles beneath your eyes, he decided against it.
"Go back home and rest." He declares, and he sees the way your eyes widened in panic, as if afraid you may have offended him and he'd no longer give you the help that you desperately need.
"And I'll see you tomorrow."
His strides were swift and long as he left the room, not waiting long enough to hear your response as he exited the classroom. Placing a hand on his chest above his rapidly beating heart, he could only let out a sigh.
an: listened to love sick by laufey while writing this :3c also, i wrote this during my finals week while i was going thru #it but might as well post it yk
With the benefit of hindsight, maybe asking for Ratio's help the same day when you didn't have a wink of sleep might not have been the wisest decision.
But then again, you weren't quite sure if he would've agreed to help you out. Wasn't he, like, busy or something? But much to your surprise, not only did he readily agree, but he also expected you to "join him without delay."
And now, you can barely even register his words, entering one ear and exiting the other, your vision blurry, fatigue weighing heavily upon you as you struggled to stay awake.
Before you knew it, your chin had met your chest, the esteemed doctor's voice sounding farther and farther away as you eventually succumbed to sleep...
...
Veritas Ratio had long embraced the noble task of dispelling ignorance from the minds of his students. In his unwavering commitment to 'curing his patients' and as someone privileged enough to be knowledgable, he viewed it as his sacred duty to share his wealth of knowledge with those who sought it.
As such, the moment you approached him, requesting help with a subject that had proven challenging for you, he found it to be his responsibility to impart to you his wisdom...
...deliberately ignoring the way his heart may or may not have skipped a beat at the prospect of spending time with you.
Definitely not. It was his job as an instructor to help others. He's merely doing as he should.
"With all that being said—" Ratio finishes writing on the board, turning to look at you.
And with great disappointment, his words die down in his throat, replaced by a heavy sigh as his eyes settle on you. This sight was all too familiar to him, a scene he had witnessed far too often. Even when students attempted to conceal their drowsiness with a facade of attentiveness, he could always discern the truth. In your case, however, there isn't even an attempt at subtlety...
It's glaringly evident that you had fallen asleep.
He looks at his phone to check the time before he begins to approach you, his footsteps light and measured, swiping his codex from his desk. Standing before where you sat, he crouches down to get a look at your sleeping features, and his breath gets caught in his throat.
Ratio's gaze lingered on you, tracing the delicate curve of your cheeks, the line of your nose, and the softness of your lips seemingly paler than usual, he couldn't help but feel the heat rising in his cheeks, his heart humming a tune in his chest.
You always have been easy on the eyes, that much Ratio always knew. He had always noticed the captivating allure of your features, the unique symmetry—or lack thereof—of your features creating a striking combination that never failed to catch his attention. Your presence had always held a magnetic pull on him, drawing his gaze towards you effortlessly, stirring a subtle admiration within his analytical mind.
Once more, like clockwork, he feels his heart racing in his chest.
Despite his composed demeanor, such a familiar sensation had become a regular, always accompanying his interactions with you. At first, he had been in denial, unwilling to admit the truth to himself.
Feelings aren't something Veritas Ratio specializes in, his own emotions were a territory he seldom ventured into, preferring to view the world through the lens of reason rather than emotion. He was a man of logic, of reason, and this... affection... he once believed that such sentiments contradicted his principles. It's messy. It's complex. Unpredictable. Uncontrolled.
And yet, it is there.
It's real. Just as real as the stars in the sky, as constant and unchanging as the moon that hung in the night sky.
Admitting his feelings felt like stepping into a realm of uncertainty, like starting a thesis without a clear conclusion in sight. But the way you laughed, smiled, and spoke with such passion and conviction—stirred something within him that he couldn't quite define. It was as if the stars had aligned, casting a light on a truth he could no longer ignore.
With a small huff under his breath, he pushes himself to rise to his feet once more. With measured steps, he returned to his desk, settling into his seat, setting the alarm on his phone for an hour; he redirected his focus to his codex, immersing himself in study whilst he allowed you your moment of rest.
Rest is a crucial component of the learning process, just as significant as studying itself, and Ratio recognizes that. He acknowledges that forcing you to engage with his teachings while fatigued would be counterproductive, serving as a futile exercise that would benefit neither of you.
Unfortunately, the hour passes by swiftly, his phone vibrating on his lap as his eyes dart from the pages of his codex and towards your sleeping form, his hand reaching out to turn off the alarm he set, his codex being snapped shut in his hand.
He stood then, approaching your still sleeping form on your own desk. His hand holding his codex raises, landing firmly on your head, enough to wake you up and startle you but not enough to hurt.
"You have some nerve falling asleep on me after I graciously lent you my help." He spoke, his voice as leveled as usual.
He initially planned on continuing his lesson after letting you sleep for a while, but seeing the drowsy look in your gaze despite your surprise, the poorly hidden circles beneath your eyes, he decided against it.
"Go back home and rest." He declares, and he sees the way your eyes widened in panic, as if afraid you may have offended him and he'd no longer give you the help that you desperately need.
"And I'll see you tomorrow."
His strides were swift and long as he left the room, not waiting long enough to hear your response as he exited the classroom. Placing a hand on his chest above his rapidly beating heart, he could only let out a sigh.
just a short one,, a small warm up cause it's been a while since i last wrote a fanfic lol.
There were many benefits to being one of the very few people who could claim genuine friendship with the ever-intrepid Dr. Ratio.
"Come on. Just take a look. A quick check-up," you say, leaning your hip against the edge of his desk.
Ratio doesn't respond. Doesn't even look up.
Instead, he continues grading the stack of student papers before him, red pen moving with swift, decisive strokes across the page. Occasionally, his brow furrows in visible disappointment — no doubt the result of encountering yet another low score from his students.
"Put that medical degree to good use," you continue, undeterred by the silence. "Help a friend out."
That earns you a glance; A brief sideways look from over the rim of the paper he’s holding, sharp and carrying the unmistakable weight of a man who is already reconsidering every decision that led to your continued presence in his office.
"Go schedule a proper appointment," he says flatly, already turning back to the essay as if the conversation has concluded.
"In this economy?" You scoff.
No response. The pen doesn't even pause this time.
Still, undeterred, you push yourself off the desk and wander around it instead, drifting closer like an especially stubborn storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.
"Besides," you add, gesturing vaguely at him, "why would I go looking for another doctor when I already have the best one right here?"
The pen stops.
Slowly, Ratio looks up from the paper he had been marking.
The silence stretches a beat longer than it should.
Then he exhales through his nose, a controlled, measured breath that nonetheless carries the unmistakable sound of patience wearing dangerously thin.
"Five minutes," he says, curt, and is already reaching for his stethoscope before you can so much as gloat.
It was meant to be nothing. A joke of a check-up, five minutes of him grumbling and you smirking and both of you pretending this wasn't, in some small way, one of your favorite parts of the week because you love to annoy him more than anything in the world.
Sure, you'd been feeling a little off lately. Tired in a way sleep didn't fix. Paler than usual, if the mirror was to be believed. Winded faster than you used to be, climbing the same stairs you'd always climbed. An occasional dry cough that you'd stopped noticing weeks ago, the way you stop noticing any sound that's been in the background long enough.
But it couldn't be anything serious. Maybe a lingering cold. Maybe just exhaustion catching up to you.
Ratio would tell you to sleep more and complain less, write you a prescription with all the enthusiasm of a man performing unpaid labor, and send you on your way.
That was the plan.
It survived exactly until auscultation.
The metal diaphragm met the bare skin of your back, its familiar chill drawing an involuntary shiver you bit back before he could comment on it. He worked methodically, the way he always did: upper lobes first, then down through the mid-zones, then the bases. Each placement deliberate, each breath timed to his instruction.
"In."
You inhaled.
"Out."
You exhaled.
"Again."
Another slow breath, and this time the stethoscope didn't move on.
It stayed.
It lingered a beat too long over one spot before sliding back, retracing the exact same path with precision.
Then again.
And once more, shifted an inch lower, as if triangulating something.
A small, cold knot of unease settled somewhere under your ribs, and vanished the instant the stethoscope lifted away.
You opened your mouth, some half-formed joke about finally being diagnosed as terminally dramatic already queued up on your tongue...
...Only for another instrument to take the stethoscope's place. Smaller. Colder. A pleximeter, tapped once against your back with two knuckles, mapping the dull thud of solid tissue against the hollow ring of healthy lung.
"...Veritas?" Your voice came out lighter than you meant it, threaded with the first real edge of concern.
He didn't answer. Percussed again, a hand's width to the left.
"Veritas?" Quieter this time.
"Silence." His voice came, clipped enough to stop the rest of your words from ever forming.
You obeyed.
You turned your head just enough to catch him from the corner of your eye. Ratio's attention remained fixed entirely on his examination. His brows were drawn together in a slight furrow, far from the familiar expression of exasperation you had grown accustomed to over the years, his expression one of deep concentration. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, thoughtful as he listened, then repositioned the instrument with meticulous care and whatever he was hearing — or not hearing — had clearly captured all of his attention.
For the first time since you'd known him, Dr. Veritas Ratio looked troubled.
"What other symptoms have you experienced?" He asked, finally, withdrawing the instrument and setting it down on the tray with care. Only then did he meet your eyes properly.
Usually you could read him without effort; the dry irritation worn like a second coat, the long-suffering patience, the faint permanent disappointment in a universe that so rarely met his standards.
This time...
You couldn't read him at all.
"What?" You ask, because for a second your brain seems to have forgotten how to arrange itself into a coherent thought, a nervous laugh escaping you because how else were you supposed to respond?
His gaze moved over you once, and then again, slower, as if the answer were written somewhere in the lines of your face and he were simply confirming what he already suspected.
"Dry cough," He stated, not a question. "Wheezing on exertion."
"Pain: sharp, stabbing, localized," His hand came back to your back, two fingers pressing briefly against a specific point along the lower right ribs, precise down to the intercostal space. "Here."
You went very still.
Because he was right.
Whatever showed on your face in that moment must have confirmed it for him, because something in his expression shifted by the smallest possible degree.
"I—" You started, and stopped, because there was nothing useful to put after it. He hadn't guessed. Guessing implied uncertainty, and there had been none in his voice at all. He had known, or narrowed the field so precisely that knowing was the only word left for it.
The cough had started weeks ago... a minor irritation, easy to ignore until it became frequent enough that you simply absorbed it into the shape of your day. The wheezing had followed soon after, subtle enough to blame on exhaustion. The pain, you'd decided, was a pulled muscle.
Ratio didn't wait for you to speak up. He stepped back from the exam table with the brisk efficiency of a man who has already moved three stages ahead of the conversation, pressed your shirt back into your hands without looking at you while he did it, and pulled out his phone. His thumb moved across the screen fast enough to suggest irritation, though you had the distinct, uneasy feeling the irritation wasn't aimed at you.
"Get dressed," he said, without looking up. "You're getting a chest radiograph."
"...You're joking."
"I have yet to make one." Still no glance spared. "Auscultation and percussion are suggestive, not diagnostic. I have a suspicion I am not willing to speak aloud until it can be confirmed or excluded on imaging. Speculation without evidence is intellectually irresponsible."
There was no room in his tone for negotiation, and you found you had none of your usual arguments to offer against it. His phone chimed; he silenced it and pocketed it in the same motion, already halfway through composing whatever came next in his head.
"If I'm wrong," he said, quieter now, "I'll say so plainly. But if I'm not..."
His eyes dropped, briefly, to your mouth, and then away again, as though he'd caught himself lingering on something he shouldn't.
"Then wasting even a minute would be unacceptable."
-
Three days later, you were back in his office, and the air in the room felt entirely different.
Ratio stood behind his desk holding your imaging results like the datapad itself had personally wronged him. None of his usual dry impatience remained. No sharp remark waited at the edge of his tongue. There was something careful and grave in the set of his shoulders, the posture of a man delivering news he genuinely wished he didn't have to.
"...Hanahaki?" You echoed, the word didn't feel real in your mouth.
He'd said more than that, you knew he had. A measured explanation, clinical and sequential, meant to walk you toward the conclusion rather than drop it on you. Medical terminologies. Differential diagnoses. But the moment the name of the disease registered, everything else seemed to blur at the edges, your mind refusing to hold onto anything past it.
"Hanahaki," He confirmed, his voice remaining steady as though he's speaking about the weather rather than a potentially fatal disease — a stark contrast to the tension in his shoulders. "Fortunately, you're in the early stages. The radiographer's initial read found no significant abnormality, which is not uncommon at this stage. Organic plant tissue in the early phase has a radiographic density close enough to soft tissue that it can be missed on a first pass."
He tapped the datapad, enlarging a portion of the image.
You looked at where he pointed. You had no idea what you were looking at.
Hanahaki.
Hanahaki.
Hanahaki.
"On closer review," He continued, "we identified faint branching opacities extending outward from the hilar structures bilaterally, more pronounced on the right."
He traced the shape with one finger, not quite touching the screen.
"Here. Root-stage growth, following the bronchovascular bundles rather than invading independently; Consistent with early presentation."
You tried to listen. You did.
"The overall burden remains limited. No evidence of significant airway obstruction so far, and flow measurements from your spirometry this morning were within an acceptable range given your symptoms."
Hanahaki.
"Several mediastinal lymph nodes have reacted to the foreign tissue and are mildly enlarged; An immune response, not a sign of malignant spread. I want to be precise about that distinction."
Your head swam.
None of it made sense laid next to the word itself. Hanahaki didn't happen to people who weren't in love. And you weren't. Not like that.
You'd never had some doomed, aching romance. Never pined after anyone from a careful distance. Never stared at a holo-message at two in the morning wondering if you should send it. So who—
You looked up.
"—given the anatomical location, the exertional dyspnea and localized pain are both expected findings, not incidental ones—"
You stopped hearing the rest of it.
Because you were looking at him. Really looking, in the way you apparently hadn't let yourself in longer than you wanted to admit.
The sharp, deliberate lines of his face. The furrow between his brows that appeared only when he was thinking past the edge of what he already knew. The way his hands moved when he explained something complicated, like every idea needed to be physically arranged in the air in order to be understood correctly. The way his voice picked up, almost imperceptibly, whenever the subject was something he actually cared about.
Your friend.
Your brilliant, insufferable, infuriatingly handsome friend.
But just a friend......... You'd have said, with total confidence, right up until about four minutes ago.
The one you told first when something good happened.
The one whose opinion mattered more than it had any right to.
The one whose messages you reread before answering, editing your own replies more carefully than you'd ever admit to him.
The one whose approval left you embarrassingly pleased with yourself, and whose disappointment — however mild, however quickly hidden behind irritation — stung far more than it should have.
The realization hit with enough force to nearly take the breath you didn't have to spare.
His voice kept going somewhere behind the rush of your own pulse, words about staging and prognosis and intervention windows arriving distorted, as if from another room. The office seemed to tilt very slightly around the fixed point of him standing there, results in hand, wearing that terrible, careful composure of a man who had already done the difficult part of the work and now had to hand the rest of it back to you.
Then the cough came.
Dry, catching low in your throat, and then harder, wheezing as your body reacted faster than your mind could keep up with. You doubled forward, one hand rising to your mouth, horror rising in you in a slow, merciless wave that had nothing to do with the diagnosis and everything to do with what you'd just understood underneath it.
He crossed the room before the second cough finished. Concern broke across his face for exactly one unguarded second before professional composure closed back over it, and his hand settled at your shoulder, steadying.
Warm.
The contact only made it worse, because now every strange, discarded feeling of the past several months was clicking into place with horrible clarity.
Every lingering glance you'd told yourself was nothing, every small flicker of anticipation before seeing him, every unreasonable rush of happiness whenever he chose to spend time with you over someone more deserving of it, every fluttering thing you'd filed under admiration because the real word had never once occurred to you as a possibility.
Oh.
Oh, no.
The realization crashes into you with all the subtlety of a collapsing star, no matter how hard some small, panicking part of you clawed for an alternate explanation.
You were in love. Hopelessly. Catastrophically.
You were in love with Veritas Ratio.
And the cruelest part of the entire, humiliating picture was this: the man currently holding you upright through a coughing fit, one hand steady on your shoulder and his brilliant, furious brain already three steps into solving a problem he didn't yet know he is the cause of.
just a short one,, a small warm up cause it's been a while since i last wrote a fanfic lol.
There were many benefits to being one of the very few people who could claim genuine friendship with the ever-intrepid Dr. Ratio.
"Come on. Just take a look. A quick check-up," you say, leaning your hip against the edge of his desk.
Ratio doesn't respond. Doesn't even look up.
Instead, he continues grading the stack of student papers before him, red pen moving with swift, decisive strokes across the page. Occasionally, his brow furrows in visible disappointment — no doubt the result of encountering yet another low score from his students.
"Put that medical degree to good use," you continue, undeterred by the silence. "Help a friend out."
That earns you a glance; A brief sideways look from over the rim of the paper he’s holding, sharp and carrying the unmistakable weight of a man who is already reconsidering every decision that led to your continued presence in his office.
"Go schedule a proper appointment," he says flatly, already turning back to the essay as if the conversation has concluded.
"In this economy?" You scoff.
No response. The pen doesn't even pause this time.
Still, undeterred, you push yourself off the desk and wander around it instead, drifting closer like an especially stubborn storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.
"Besides," you add, gesturing vaguely at him, "why would I go looking for another doctor when I already have the best one right here?"
The pen stops.
Slowly, Ratio looks up from the paper he had been marking.
The silence stretches a beat longer than it should.
Then he exhales through his nose, a controlled, measured breath that nonetheless carries the unmistakable sound of patience wearing dangerously thin.
"Five minutes," he says, curt, and is already reaching for his stethoscope before you can so much as gloat.
It was meant to be nothing. A joke of a check-up, five minutes of him grumbling and you smirking and both of you pretending this wasn't, in some small way, one of your favorite parts of the week because you love to annoy him more than anything in the world.
Sure, you'd been feeling a little off lately. Tired in a way sleep didn't fix. Paler than usual, if the mirror was to be believed. Winded faster than you used to be, climbing the same stairs you'd always climbed. An occasional dry cough that you'd stopped noticing weeks ago, the way you stop noticing any sound that's been in the background long enough.
But it couldn't be anything serious. Maybe a lingering cold. Maybe just exhaustion catching up to you.
Ratio would tell you to sleep more and complain less, write you a prescription with all the enthusiasm of a man performing unpaid labor, and send you on your way.
That was the plan.
It survived exactly until auscultation.
The metal diaphragm met the bare skin of your back, its familiar chill drawing an involuntary shiver you bit back before he could comment on it. He worked methodically, the way he always did: upper lobes first, then down through the mid-zones, then the bases. Each placement deliberate, each breath timed to his instruction.
"In."
You inhaled.
"Out."
You exhaled.
"Again."
Another slow breath, and this time the stethoscope didn't move on.
It stayed.
It lingered a beat too long over one spot before sliding back, retracing the exact same path with precision.
Then again.
And once more, shifted an inch lower, as if triangulating something.
A small, cold knot of unease settled somewhere under your ribs, and vanished the instant the stethoscope lifted away.
You opened your mouth, some half-formed joke about finally being diagnosed as terminally dramatic already queued up on your tongue...
...Only for another instrument to take the stethoscope's place. Smaller. Colder. A pleximeter, tapped once against your back with two knuckles, mapping the dull thud of solid tissue against the hollow ring of healthy lung.
"...Veritas?" Your voice came out lighter than you meant it, threaded with the first real edge of concern.
He didn't answer. Percussed again, a hand's width to the left.
"Veritas?" Quieter this time.
"Silence." His voice came, clipped enough to stop the rest of your words from ever forming.
You obeyed.
You turned your head just enough to catch him from the corner of your eye. Ratio's attention remained fixed entirely on his examination. His brows were drawn together in a slight furrow, far from the familiar expression of exasperation you had grown accustomed to over the years, his expression one of deep concentration. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, thoughtful as he listened, then repositioned the instrument with meticulous care and whatever he was hearing — or not hearing — had clearly captured all of his attention.
For the first time since you'd known him, Dr. Veritas Ratio looked troubled.
"What other symptoms have you experienced?" He asked, finally, withdrawing the instrument and setting it down on the tray with care. Only then did he meet your eyes properly.
Usually you could read him without effort; the dry irritation worn like a second coat, the long-suffering patience, the faint permanent disappointment in a universe that so rarely met his standards.
This time...
You couldn't read him at all.
"What?" You ask, because for a second your brain seems to have forgotten how to arrange itself into a coherent thought, a nervous laugh escaping you because how else were you supposed to respond?
His gaze moved over you once, and then again, slower, as if the answer were written somewhere in the lines of your face and he were simply confirming what he already suspected.
"Dry cough," He stated, not a question. "Wheezing on exertion."
"Pain: sharp, stabbing, localized," His hand came back to your back, two fingers pressing briefly against a specific point along the lower right ribs, precise down to the intercostal space. "Here."
You went very still.
Because he was right.
Whatever showed on your face in that moment must have confirmed it for him, because something in his expression shifted by the smallest possible degree.
"I—" You started, and stopped, because there was nothing useful to put after it. He hadn't guessed. Guessing implied uncertainty, and there had been none in his voice at all. He had known, or narrowed the field so precisely that knowing was the only word left for it.
The cough had started weeks ago... a minor irritation, easy to ignore until it became frequent enough that you simply absorbed it into the shape of your day. The wheezing had followed soon after, subtle enough to blame on exhaustion. The pain, you'd decided, was a pulled muscle.
Ratio didn't wait for you to speak up. He stepped back from the exam table with the brisk efficiency of a man who has already moved three stages ahead of the conversation, pressed your shirt back into your hands without looking at you while he did it, and pulled out his phone. His thumb moved across the screen fast enough to suggest irritation, though you had the distinct, uneasy feeling the irritation wasn't aimed at you.
"Get dressed," he said, without looking up. "You're getting a chest radiograph."
"...You're joking."
"I have yet to make one." Still no glance spared. "Auscultation and percussion are suggestive, not diagnostic. I have a suspicion I am not willing to speak aloud until it can be confirmed or excluded on imaging. Speculation without evidence is intellectually irresponsible."
There was no room in his tone for negotiation, and you found you had none of your usual arguments to offer against it. His phone chimed; he silenced it and pocketed it in the same motion, already halfway through composing whatever came next in his head.
"If I'm wrong," he said, quieter now, "I'll say so plainly. But if I'm not..."
His eyes dropped, briefly, to your mouth, and then away again, as though he'd caught himself lingering on something he shouldn't.
"Then wasting even a minute would be unacceptable."
-
Three days later, you were back in his office, and the air in the room felt entirely different.
Ratio stood behind his desk holding your imaging results like the datapad itself had personally wronged him. None of his usual dry impatience remained. No sharp remark waited at the edge of his tongue. There was something careful and grave in the set of his shoulders, the posture of a man delivering news he genuinely wished he didn't have to.
"...Hanahaki?" You echoed, the word didn't feel real in your mouth.
He'd said more than that, you knew he had. A measured explanation, clinical and sequential, meant to walk you toward the conclusion rather than drop it on you. Medical terminologies. Differential diagnoses. But the moment the name of the disease registered, everything else seemed to blur at the edges, your mind refusing to hold onto anything past it.
"Hanahaki," He confirmed, his voice remaining steady as though he's speaking about the weather rather than a potentially fatal disease — a stark contrast to the tension in his shoulders. "Fortunately, you're in the early stages. The radiographer's initial read found no significant abnormality, which is not uncommon at this stage. Organic plant tissue in the early phase has a radiographic density close enough to soft tissue that it can be missed on a first pass."
He tapped the datapad, enlarging a portion of the image.
You looked at where he pointed. You had no idea what you were looking at.
Hanahaki.
Hanahaki.
Hanahaki.
"On closer review," He continued, "we identified faint branching opacities extending outward from the hilar structures bilaterally, more pronounced on the right."
He traced the shape with one finger, not quite touching the screen.
"Here. Root-stage growth, following the bronchovascular bundles rather than invading independently; Consistent with early presentation."
You tried to listen. You did.
"The overall burden remains limited. No evidence of significant airway obstruction so far, and flow measurements from your spirometry this morning were within an acceptable range given your symptoms."
Hanahaki.
"Several mediastinal lymph nodes have reacted to the foreign tissue and are mildly enlarged; An immune response, not a sign of malignant spread. I want to be precise about that distinction."
Your head swam.
None of it made sense laid next to the word itself. Hanahaki didn't happen to people who weren't in love. And you weren't. Not like that.
You'd never had some doomed, aching romance. Never pined after anyone from a careful distance. Never stared at a holo-message at two in the morning wondering if you should send it. So who—
You looked up.
"—given the anatomical location, the exertional dyspnea and localized pain are both expected findings, not incidental ones—"
You stopped hearing the rest of it.
Because you were looking at him. Really looking, in the way you apparently hadn't let yourself in longer than you wanted to admit.
The sharp, deliberate lines of his face. The furrow between his brows that appeared only when he was thinking past the edge of what he already knew. The way his hands moved when he explained something complicated, like every idea needed to be physically arranged in the air in order to be understood correctly. The way his voice picked up, almost imperceptibly, whenever the subject was something he actually cared about.
Your friend.
Your brilliant, insufferable, infuriatingly handsome friend.
But just a friend......... You'd have said, with total confidence, right up until about four minutes ago.
The one you told first when something good happened.
The one whose opinion mattered more than it had any right to.
The one whose messages you reread before answering, editing your own replies more carefully than you'd ever admit to him.
The one whose approval left you embarrassingly pleased with yourself, and whose disappointment — however mild, however quickly hidden behind irritation — stung far more than it should have.
The realization hit with enough force to nearly take the breath you didn't have to spare.
His voice kept going somewhere behind the rush of your own pulse, words about staging and prognosis and intervention windows arriving distorted, as if from another room. The office seemed to tilt very slightly around the fixed point of him standing there, results in hand, wearing that terrible, careful composure of a man who had already done the difficult part of the work and now had to hand the rest of it back to you.
Then the cough came.
Dry, catching low in your throat, and then harder, wheezing as your body reacted faster than your mind could keep up with. You doubled forward, one hand rising to your mouth, horror rising in you in a slow, merciless wave that had nothing to do with the diagnosis and everything to do with what you'd just understood underneath it.
He crossed the room before the second cough finished. Concern broke across his face for exactly one unguarded second before professional composure closed back over it, and his hand settled at your shoulder, steadying.
Warm.
The contact only made it worse, because now every strange, discarded feeling of the past several months was clicking into place with horrible clarity.
Every lingering glance you'd told yourself was nothing, every small flicker of anticipation before seeing him, every unreasonable rush of happiness whenever he chose to spend time with you over someone more deserving of it, every fluttering thing you'd filed under admiration because the real word had never once occurred to you as a possibility.
Oh.
Oh, no.
The realization crashes into you with all the subtlety of a collapsing star, no matter how hard some small, panicking part of you clawed for an alternate explanation.
You were in love. Hopelessly. Catastrophically.
You were in love with Veritas Ratio.
And the cruelest part of the entire, humiliating picture was this: the man currently holding you upright through a coughing fit, one hand steady on your shoulder and his brilliant, furious brain already three steps into solving a problem he didn't yet know he is the cause of.
just a short one,, a small warm up cause it's been a while since i last wrote a fanfic lol.
There were many benefits to being one of the very few people who could claim genuine friendship with the ever-intrepid Dr. Ratio.
"Come on. Just take a look. A quick check-up," you say, leaning your hip against the edge of his desk.
Ratio doesn't respond. Doesn't even look up.
Instead, he continues grading the stack of student papers before him, red pen moving with swift, decisive strokes across the page. Occasionally, his brow furrows in visible disappointment — no doubt the result of encountering yet another low score from his students.
"Put that medical degree to good use," you continue, undeterred by the silence. "Help a friend out."
That earns you a glance; A brief sideways look from over the rim of the paper he’s holding, sharp and carrying the unmistakable weight of a man who is already reconsidering every decision that led to your continued presence in his office.
"Go schedule a proper appointment," he says flatly, already turning back to the essay as if the conversation has concluded.
"In this economy?" You scoff.
No response. The pen doesn't even pause this time.
Still, undeterred, you push yourself off the desk and wander around it instead, drifting closer like an especially stubborn storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.
"Besides," you add, gesturing vaguely at him, "why would I go looking for another doctor when I already have the best one right here?"
The pen stops.
Slowly, Ratio looks up from the paper he had been marking.
The silence stretches a beat longer than it should.
Then he exhales through his nose, a controlled, measured breath that nonetheless carries the unmistakable sound of patience wearing dangerously thin.
"Five minutes," he says, curt, and is already reaching for his stethoscope before you can so much as gloat.
It was meant to be nothing. A joke of a check-up, five minutes of him grumbling and you smirking and both of you pretending this wasn't, in some small way, one of your favorite parts of the week because you love to annoy him more than anything in the world.
Sure, you'd been feeling a little off lately. Tired in a way sleep didn't fix. Paler than usual, if the mirror was to be believed. Winded faster than you used to be, climbing the same stairs you'd always climbed. An occasional dry cough that you'd stopped noticing weeks ago, the way you stop noticing any sound that's been in the background long enough.
But it couldn't be anything serious. Maybe a lingering cold. Maybe just exhaustion catching up to you.
Ratio would tell you to sleep more and complain less, write you a prescription with all the enthusiasm of a man performing unpaid labor, and send you on your way.
That was the plan.
It survived exactly until auscultation.
The metal diaphragm met the bare skin of your back, its familiar chill drawing an involuntary shiver you bit back before he could comment on it. He worked methodically, the way he always did: upper lobes first, then down through the mid-zones, then the bases. Each placement deliberate, each breath timed to his instruction.
"In."
You inhaled.
"Out."
You exhaled.
"Again."
Another slow breath, and this time the stethoscope didn't move on.
It stayed.
It lingered a beat too long over one spot before sliding back, retracing the exact same path with precision.
Then again.
And once more, shifted an inch lower, as if triangulating something.
A small, cold knot of unease settled somewhere under your ribs, and vanished the instant the stethoscope lifted away.
You opened your mouth, some half-formed joke about finally being diagnosed as terminally dramatic already queued up on your tongue...
...Only for another instrument to take the stethoscope's place. Smaller. Colder. A pleximeter, tapped once against your back with two knuckles, mapping the dull thud of solid tissue against the hollow ring of healthy lung.
"...Veritas?" Your voice came out lighter than you meant it, threaded with the first real edge of concern.
He didn't answer. Percussed again, a hand's width to the left.
"Veritas?" Quieter this time.
"Silence." His voice came, clipped enough to stop the rest of your words from ever forming.
You obeyed.
You turned your head just enough to catch him from the corner of your eye. Ratio's attention remained fixed entirely on his examination. His brows were drawn together in a slight furrow, far from the familiar expression of exasperation you had grown accustomed to over the years, his expression one of deep concentration. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, thoughtful as he listened, then repositioned the instrument with meticulous care and whatever he was hearing — or not hearing — had clearly captured all of his attention.
For the first time since you'd known him, Dr. Veritas Ratio looked troubled.
"What other symptoms have you experienced?" He asked, finally, withdrawing the instrument and setting it down on the tray with care. Only then did he meet your eyes properly.
Usually you could read him without effort; the dry irritation worn like a second coat, the long-suffering patience, the faint permanent disappointment in a universe that so rarely met his standards.
This time...
You couldn't read him at all.
"What?" You ask, because for a second your brain seems to have forgotten how to arrange itself into a coherent thought, a nervous laugh escaping you because how else were you supposed to respond?
His gaze moved over you once, and then again, slower, as if the answer were written somewhere in the lines of your face and he were simply confirming what he already suspected.
"Dry cough," He stated, not a question. "Wheezing on exertion."
"Pain: sharp, stabbing, localized," His hand came back to your back, two fingers pressing briefly against a specific point along the lower right ribs, precise down to the intercostal space. "Here."
You went very still.
Because he was right.
Whatever showed on your face in that moment must have confirmed it for him, because something in his expression shifted by the smallest possible degree.
"I—" You started, and stopped, because there was nothing useful to put after it. He hadn't guessed. Guessing implied uncertainty, and there had been none in his voice at all. He had known, or narrowed the field so precisely that knowing was the only word left for it.
The cough had started weeks ago... a minor irritation, easy to ignore until it became frequent enough that you simply absorbed it into the shape of your day. The wheezing had followed soon after, subtle enough to blame on exhaustion. The pain, you'd decided, was a pulled muscle.
Ratio didn't wait for you to speak up. He stepped back from the exam table with the brisk efficiency of a man who has already moved three stages ahead of the conversation, pressed your shirt back into your hands without looking at you while he did it, and pulled out his phone. His thumb moved across the screen fast enough to suggest irritation, though you had the distinct, uneasy feeling the irritation wasn't aimed at you.
"Get dressed," he said, without looking up. "You're getting a chest radiograph."
"...You're joking."
"I have yet to make one." Still no glance spared. "Auscultation and percussion are suggestive, not diagnostic. I have a suspicion I am not willing to speak aloud until it can be confirmed or excluded on imaging. Speculation without evidence is intellectually irresponsible."
There was no room in his tone for negotiation, and you found you had none of your usual arguments to offer against it. His phone chimed; he silenced it and pocketed it in the same motion, already halfway through composing whatever came next in his head.
"If I'm wrong," he said, quieter now, "I'll say so plainly. But if I'm not..."
His eyes dropped, briefly, to your mouth, and then away again, as though he'd caught himself lingering on something he shouldn't.
"Then wasting even a minute would be unacceptable."
-
Three days later, you were back in his office, and the air in the room felt entirely different.
Ratio stood behind his desk holding your imaging results like the datapad itself had personally wronged him. None of his usual dry impatience remained. No sharp remark waited at the edge of his tongue. There was something careful and grave in the set of his shoulders, the posture of a man delivering news he genuinely wished he didn't have to.
"...Hanahaki?" You echoed, the word didn't feel real in your mouth.
He'd said more than that, you knew he had. A measured explanation, clinical and sequential, meant to walk you toward the conclusion rather than drop it on you. Medical terminologies. Differential diagnoses. But the moment the name of the disease registered, everything else seemed to blur at the edges, your mind refusing to hold onto anything past it.
"Hanahaki," He confirmed, his voice remaining steady as though he's speaking about the weather rather than a potentially fatal disease — a stark contrast to the tension in his shoulders. "Fortunately, you're in the early stages. The radiographer's initial read found no significant abnormality, which is not uncommon at this stage. Organic plant tissue in the early phase has a radiographic density close enough to soft tissue that it can be missed on a first pass."
He tapped the datapad, enlarging a portion of the image.
You looked at where he pointed. You had no idea what you were looking at.
Hanahaki.
Hanahaki.
Hanahaki.
"On closer review," He continued, "we identified faint branching opacities extending outward from the hilar structures bilaterally, more pronounced on the right."
He traced the shape with one finger, not quite touching the screen.
"Here. Root-stage growth, following the bronchovascular bundles rather than invading independently; Consistent with early presentation."
You tried to listen. You did.
"The overall burden remains limited. No evidence of significant airway obstruction so far, and flow measurements from your spirometry this morning were within an acceptable range given your symptoms."
Hanahaki.
"Several mediastinal lymph nodes have reacted to the foreign tissue and are mildly enlarged; An immune response, not a sign of malignant spread. I want to be precise about that distinction."
Your head swam.
None of it made sense laid next to the word itself. Hanahaki didn't happen to people who weren't in love. And you weren't. Not like that.
You'd never had some doomed, aching romance. Never pined after anyone from a careful distance. Never stared at a holo-message at two in the morning wondering if you should send it. So who—
You looked up.
"—given the anatomical location, the exertional dyspnea and localized pain are both expected findings, not incidental ones—"
You stopped hearing the rest of it.
Because you were looking at him. Really looking, in the way you apparently hadn't let yourself in longer than you wanted to admit.
The sharp, deliberate lines of his face. The furrow between his brows that appeared only when he was thinking past the edge of what he already knew. The way his hands moved when he explained something complicated, like every idea needed to be physically arranged in the air in order to be understood correctly. The way his voice picked up, almost imperceptibly, whenever the subject was something he actually cared about.
Your friend.
Your brilliant, insufferable, infuriatingly handsome friend.
But just a friend......... You'd have said, with total confidence, right up until about four minutes ago.
The one you told first when something good happened.
The one whose opinion mattered more than it had any right to.
The one whose messages you reread before answering, editing your own replies more carefully than you'd ever admit to him.
The one whose approval left you embarrassingly pleased with yourself, and whose disappointment — however mild, however quickly hidden behind irritation — stung far more than it should have.
The realization hit with enough force to nearly take the breath you didn't have to spare.
His voice kept going somewhere behind the rush of your own pulse, words about staging and prognosis and intervention windows arriving distorted, as if from another room. The office seemed to tilt very slightly around the fixed point of him standing there, results in hand, wearing that terrible, careful composure of a man who had already done the difficult part of the work and now had to hand the rest of it back to you.
Then the cough came.
Dry, catching low in your throat, and then harder, wheezing as your body reacted faster than your mind could keep up with. You doubled forward, one hand rising to your mouth, horror rising in you in a slow, merciless wave that had nothing to do with the diagnosis and everything to do with what you'd just understood underneath it.
He crossed the room before the second cough finished. Concern broke across his face for exactly one unguarded second before professional composure closed back over it, and his hand settled at your shoulder, steadying.
Warm.
The contact only made it worse, because now every strange, discarded feeling of the past several months was clicking into place with horrible clarity.
Every lingering glance you'd told yourself was nothing, every small flicker of anticipation before seeing him, every unreasonable rush of happiness whenever he chose to spend time with you over someone more deserving of it, every fluttering thing you'd filed under admiration because the real word had never once occurred to you as a possibility.
Oh.
Oh, no.
The realization crashes into you with all the subtlety of a collapsing star, no matter how hard some small, panicking part of you clawed for an alternate explanation.
You were in love. Hopelessly. Catastrophically.
You were in love with Veritas Ratio.
And the cruelest part of the entire, humiliating picture was this: the man currently holding you upright through a coughing fit, one hand steady on your shoulder and his brilliant, furious brain already three steps into solving a problem he didn't yet know he is the cause of.
just a short one,, a small warm up cause it's been a while since i last wrote a fanfic lol.
There were many benefits to being one of the very few people who could claim genuine friendship with the ever-intrepid Dr. Ratio.
"Come on. Just take a look. A quick check-up," you say, leaning your hip against the edge of his desk.
Ratio doesn't respond. Doesn't even look up.
Instead, he continues grading the stack of student papers before him, red pen moving with swift, decisive strokes across the page. Occasionally, his brow furrows in visible disappointment — no doubt the result of encountering yet another low score from his students.
"Put that medical degree to good use," you continue, undeterred by the silence. "Help a friend out."
That earns you a glance; A brief sideways look from over the rim of the paper he’s holding, sharp and carrying the unmistakable weight of a man who is already reconsidering every decision that led to your continued presence in his office.
"Go schedule a proper appointment," he says flatly, already turning back to the essay as if the conversation has concluded.
"In this economy?" You scoff.
No response. The pen doesn't even pause this time.
Still, undeterred, you push yourself off the desk and wander around it instead, drifting closer like an especially stubborn storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.
"Besides," you add, gesturing vaguely at him, "why would I go looking for another doctor when I already have the best one right here?"
The pen stops.
Slowly, Ratio looks up from the paper he had been marking.
The silence stretches a beat longer than it should.
Then he exhales through his nose, a controlled, measured breath that nonetheless carries the unmistakable sound of patience wearing dangerously thin.
"Five minutes," he says, curt, and is already reaching for his stethoscope before you can so much as gloat.
It was meant to be nothing. A joke of a check-up, five minutes of him grumbling and you smirking and both of you pretending this wasn't, in some small way, one of your favorite parts of the week because you love to annoy him more than anything in the world.
Sure, you'd been feeling a little off lately. Tired in a way sleep didn't fix. Paler than usual, if the mirror was to be believed. Winded faster than you used to be, climbing the same stairs you'd always climbed. An occasional dry cough that you'd stopped noticing weeks ago, the way you stop noticing any sound that's been in the background long enough.
But it couldn't be anything serious. Maybe a lingering cold. Maybe just exhaustion catching up to you.
Ratio would tell you to sleep more and complain less, write you a prescription with all the enthusiasm of a man performing unpaid labor, and send you on your way.
That was the plan.
It survived exactly until auscultation.
The metal diaphragm met the bare skin of your back, its familiar chill drawing an involuntary shiver you bit back before he could comment on it. He worked methodically, the way he always did: upper lobes first, then down through the mid-zones, then the bases. Each placement deliberate, each breath timed to his instruction.
"In."
You inhaled.
"Out."
You exhaled.
"Again."
Another slow breath, and this time the stethoscope didn't move on.
It stayed.
It lingered a beat too long over one spot before sliding back, retracing the exact same path with precision.
Then again.
And once more, shifted an inch lower, as if triangulating something.
A small, cold knot of unease settled somewhere under your ribs, and vanished the instant the stethoscope lifted away.
You opened your mouth, some half-formed joke about finally being diagnosed as terminally dramatic already queued up on your tongue...
...Only for another instrument to take the stethoscope's place. Smaller. Colder. A pleximeter, tapped once against your back with two knuckles, mapping the dull thud of solid tissue against the hollow ring of healthy lung.
"...Veritas?" Your voice came out lighter than you meant it, threaded with the first real edge of concern.
He didn't answer. Percussed again, a hand's width to the left.
"Veritas?" Quieter this time.
"Silence." His voice came, clipped enough to stop the rest of your words from ever forming.
You obeyed.
You turned your head just enough to catch him from the corner of your eye. Ratio's attention remained fixed entirely on his examination. His brows were drawn together in a slight furrow, far from the familiar expression of exasperation you had grown accustomed to over the years, his expression one of deep concentration. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, thoughtful as he listened, then repositioned the instrument with meticulous care and whatever he was hearing — or not hearing — had clearly captured all of his attention.
For the first time since you'd known him, Dr. Veritas Ratio looked troubled.
"What other symptoms have you experienced?" He asked, finally, withdrawing the instrument and setting it down on the tray with care. Only then did he meet your eyes properly.
Usually you could read him without effort; the dry irritation worn like a second coat, the long-suffering patience, the faint permanent disappointment in a universe that so rarely met his standards.
This time...
You couldn't read him at all.
"What?" You ask, because for a second your brain seems to have forgotten how to arrange itself into a coherent thought, a nervous laugh escaping you because how else were you supposed to respond?
His gaze moved over you once, and then again, slower, as if the answer were written somewhere in the lines of your face and he were simply confirming what he already suspected.
"Dry cough," He stated, not a question. "Wheezing on exertion."
"Pain: sharp, stabbing, localized," His hand came back to your back, two fingers pressing briefly against a specific point along the lower right ribs, precise down to the intercostal space. "Here."
You went very still.
Because he was right.
Whatever showed on your face in that moment must have confirmed it for him, because something in his expression shifted by the smallest possible degree.
"I—" You started, and stopped, because there was nothing useful to put after it. He hadn't guessed. Guessing implied uncertainty, and there had been none in his voice at all. He had known, or narrowed the field so precisely that knowing was the only word left for it.
The cough had started weeks ago... a minor irritation, easy to ignore until it became frequent enough that you simply absorbed it into the shape of your day. The wheezing had followed soon after, subtle enough to blame on exhaustion. The pain, you'd decided, was a pulled muscle.
Ratio didn't wait for you to speak up. He stepped back from the exam table with the brisk efficiency of a man who has already moved three stages ahead of the conversation, pressed your shirt back into your hands without looking at you while he did it, and pulled out his phone. His thumb moved across the screen fast enough to suggest irritation, though you had the distinct, uneasy feeling the irritation wasn't aimed at you.
"Get dressed," he said, without looking up. "You're getting a chest radiograph."
"...You're joking."
"I have yet to make one." Still no glance spared. "Auscultation and percussion are suggestive, not diagnostic. I have a suspicion I am not willing to speak aloud until it can be confirmed or excluded on imaging. Speculation without evidence is intellectually irresponsible."
There was no room in his tone for negotiation, and you found you had none of your usual arguments to offer against it. His phone chimed; he silenced it and pocketed it in the same motion, already halfway through composing whatever came next in his head.
"If I'm wrong," he said, quieter now, "I'll say so plainly. But if I'm not..."
His eyes dropped, briefly, to your mouth, and then away again, as though he'd caught himself lingering on something he shouldn't.
"Then wasting even a minute would be unacceptable."
-
Three days later, you were back in his office, and the air in the room felt entirely different.
Ratio stood behind his desk holding your imaging results like the datapad itself had personally wronged him. None of his usual dry impatience remained. No sharp remark waited at the edge of his tongue. There was something careful and grave in the set of his shoulders, the posture of a man delivering news he genuinely wished he didn't have to.
"...Hanahaki?" You echoed, the word didn't feel real in your mouth.
He'd said more than that, you knew he had. A measured explanation, clinical and sequential, meant to walk you toward the conclusion rather than drop it on you. Medical terminologies. Differential diagnoses. But the moment the name of the disease registered, everything else seemed to blur at the edges, your mind refusing to hold onto anything past it.
"Hanahaki," He confirmed, his voice remaining steady as though he's speaking about the weather rather than a potentially fatal disease — a stark contrast to the tension in his shoulders. "Fortunately, you're in the early stages. The radiographer's initial read found no significant abnormality, which is not uncommon at this stage. Organic plant tissue in the early phase has a radiographic density close enough to soft tissue that it can be missed on a first pass."
He tapped the datapad, enlarging a portion of the image.
You looked at where he pointed. You had no idea what you were looking at.
Hanahaki.
Hanahaki.
Hanahaki.
"On closer review," He continued, "we identified faint branching opacities extending outward from the hilar structures bilaterally, more pronounced on the right."
He traced the shape with one finger, not quite touching the screen.
"Here. Root-stage growth, following the bronchovascular bundles rather than invading independently; Consistent with early presentation."
You tried to listen. You did.
"The overall burden remains limited. No evidence of significant airway obstruction so far, and flow measurements from your spirometry this morning were within an acceptable range given your symptoms."
Hanahaki.
"Several mediastinal lymph nodes have reacted to the foreign tissue and are mildly enlarged; An immune response, not a sign of malignant spread. I want to be precise about that distinction."
Your head swam.
None of it made sense laid next to the word itself. Hanahaki didn't happen to people who weren't in love. And you weren't. Not like that.
You'd never had some doomed, aching romance. Never pined after anyone from a careful distance. Never stared at a holo-message at two in the morning wondering if you should send it. So who—
You looked up.
"—given the anatomical location, the exertional dyspnea and localized pain are both expected findings, not incidental ones—"
You stopped hearing the rest of it.
Because you were looking at him. Really looking, in the way you apparently hadn't let yourself in longer than you wanted to admit.
The sharp, deliberate lines of his face. The furrow between his brows that appeared only when he was thinking past the edge of what he already knew. The way his hands moved when he explained something complicated, like every idea needed to be physically arranged in the air in order to be understood correctly. The way his voice picked up, almost imperceptibly, whenever the subject was something he actually cared about.
Your friend.
Your brilliant, insufferable, infuriatingly handsome friend.
But just a friend......... You'd have said, with total confidence, right up until about four minutes ago.
The one you told first when something good happened.
The one whose opinion mattered more than it had any right to.
The one whose messages you reread before answering, editing your own replies more carefully than you'd ever admit to him.
The one whose approval left you embarrassingly pleased with yourself, and whose disappointment — however mild, however quickly hidden behind irritation — stung far more than it should have.
The realization hit with enough force to nearly take the breath you didn't have to spare.
His voice kept going somewhere behind the rush of your own pulse, words about staging and prognosis and intervention windows arriving distorted, as if from another room. The office seemed to tilt very slightly around the fixed point of him standing there, results in hand, wearing that terrible, careful composure of a man who had already done the difficult part of the work and now had to hand the rest of it back to you.
Then the cough came.
Dry, catching low in your throat, and then harder, wheezing as your body reacted faster than your mind could keep up with. You doubled forward, one hand rising to your mouth, horror rising in you in a slow, merciless wave that had nothing to do with the diagnosis and everything to do with what you'd just understood underneath it.
He crossed the room before the second cough finished. Concern broke across his face for exactly one unguarded second before professional composure closed back over it, and his hand settled at your shoulder, steadying.
Warm.
The contact only made it worse, because now every strange, discarded feeling of the past several months was clicking into place with horrible clarity.
Every lingering glance you'd told yourself was nothing, every small flicker of anticipation before seeing him, every unreasonable rush of happiness whenever he chose to spend time with you over someone more deserving of it, every fluttering thing you'd filed under admiration because the real word had never once occurred to you as a possibility.
Oh.
Oh, no.
The realization crashes into you with all the subtlety of a collapsing star, no matter how hard some small, panicking part of you clawed for an alternate explanation.
You were in love. Hopelessly. Catastrophically.
You were in love with Veritas Ratio.
And the cruelest part of the entire, humiliating picture was this: the man currently holding you upright through a coughing fit, one hand steady on your shoulder and his brilliant, furious brain already three steps into solving a problem he didn't yet know he is the cause of.
just a short one,, a small warm up cause it's been a while since i last wrote a fanfic lol.
There were many benefits to being one of the very few people who could claim genuine friendship with the ever-intrepid Dr. Ratio.
"Come on. Just take a look. A quick check-up," you say, leaning your hip against the edge of his desk.
Ratio doesn't respond. Doesn't even look up.
Instead, he continues grading the stack of student papers before him, red pen moving with swift, decisive strokes across the page. Occasionally, his brow furrows in visible disappointment — no doubt the result of encountering yet another low score from his students.
"Put that medical degree to good use," you continue, undeterred by the silence. "Help a friend out."
That earns you a glance; A brief sideways look from over the rim of the paper he’s holding, sharp and carrying the unmistakable weight of a man who is already reconsidering every decision that led to your continued presence in his office.
"Go schedule a proper appointment," he says flatly, already turning back to the essay as if the conversation has concluded.
"In this economy?" You scoff.
No response. The pen doesn't even pause this time.
Still, undeterred, you push yourself off the desk and wander around it instead, drifting closer like an especially stubborn storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.
"Besides," you add, gesturing vaguely at him, "why would I go looking for another doctor when I already have the best one right here?"
The pen stops.
Slowly, Ratio looks up from the paper he had been marking.
The silence stretches a beat longer than it should.
Then he exhales through his nose, a controlled, measured breath that nonetheless carries the unmistakable sound of patience wearing dangerously thin.
"Five minutes," he says, curt, and is already reaching for his stethoscope before you can so much as gloat.
It was meant to be nothing. A joke of a check-up, five minutes of him grumbling and you smirking and both of you pretending this wasn't, in some small way, one of your favorite parts of the week because you love to annoy him more than anything in the world.
Sure, you'd been feeling a little off lately. Tired in a way sleep didn't fix. Paler than usual, if the mirror was to be believed. Winded faster than you used to be, climbing the same stairs you'd always climbed. An occasional dry cough that you'd stopped noticing weeks ago, the way you stop noticing any sound that's been in the background long enough.
But it couldn't be anything serious. Maybe a lingering cold. Maybe just exhaustion catching up to you.
Ratio would tell you to sleep more and complain less, write you a prescription with all the enthusiasm of a man performing unpaid labor, and send you on your way.
That was the plan.
It survived exactly until auscultation.
The metal diaphragm met the bare skin of your back, its familiar chill drawing an involuntary shiver you bit back before he could comment on it. He worked methodically, the way he always did: upper lobes first, then down through the mid-zones, then the bases. Each placement deliberate, each breath timed to his instruction.
"In."
You inhaled.
"Out."
You exhaled.
"Again."
Another slow breath, and this time the stethoscope didn't move on.
It stayed.
It lingered a beat too long over one spot before sliding back, retracing the exact same path with precision.
Then again.
And once more, shifted an inch lower, as if triangulating something.
A small, cold knot of unease settled somewhere under your ribs, and vanished the instant the stethoscope lifted away.
You opened your mouth, some half-formed joke about finally being diagnosed as terminally dramatic already queued up on your tongue...
...Only for another instrument to take the stethoscope's place. Smaller. Colder. A pleximeter, tapped once against your back with two knuckles, mapping the dull thud of solid tissue against the hollow ring of healthy lung.
"...Veritas?" Your voice came out lighter than you meant it, threaded with the first real edge of concern.
He didn't answer. Percussed again, a hand's width to the left.
"Veritas?" Quieter this time.
"Silence." His voice came, clipped enough to stop the rest of your words from ever forming.
You obeyed.
You turned your head just enough to catch him from the corner of your eye. Ratio's attention remained fixed entirely on his examination. His brows were drawn together in a slight furrow, far from the familiar expression of exasperation you had grown accustomed to over the years, his expression one of deep concentration. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, thoughtful as he listened, then repositioned the instrument with meticulous care and whatever he was hearing — or not hearing — had clearly captured all of his attention.
For the first time since you'd known him, Dr. Veritas Ratio looked troubled.
"What other symptoms have you experienced?" He asked, finally, withdrawing the instrument and setting it down on the tray with care. Only then did he meet your eyes properly.
Usually you could read him without effort; the dry irritation worn like a second coat, the long-suffering patience, the faint permanent disappointment in a universe that so rarely met his standards.
This time...
You couldn't read him at all.
"What?" You ask, because for a second your brain seems to have forgotten how to arrange itself into a coherent thought, a nervous laugh escaping you because how else were you supposed to respond?
His gaze moved over you once, and then again, slower, as if the answer were written somewhere in the lines of your face and he were simply confirming what he already suspected.
"Dry cough," He stated, not a question. "Wheezing on exertion."
"Pain: sharp, stabbing, localized," His hand came back to your back, two fingers pressing briefly against a specific point along the lower right ribs, precise down to the intercostal space. "Here."
You went very still.
Because he was right.
Whatever showed on your face in that moment must have confirmed it for him, because something in his expression shifted by the smallest possible degree.
"I—" You started, and stopped, because there was nothing useful to put after it. He hadn't guessed. Guessing implied uncertainty, and there had been none in his voice at all. He had known, or narrowed the field so precisely that knowing was the only word left for it.
The cough had started weeks ago... a minor irritation, easy to ignore until it became frequent enough that you simply absorbed it into the shape of your day. The wheezing had followed soon after, subtle enough to blame on exhaustion. The pain, you'd decided, was a pulled muscle.
Ratio didn't wait for you to speak up. He stepped back from the exam table with the brisk efficiency of a man who has already moved three stages ahead of the conversation, pressed your shirt back into your hands without looking at you while he did it, and pulled out his phone. His thumb moved across the screen fast enough to suggest irritation, though you had the distinct, uneasy feeling the irritation wasn't aimed at you.
"Get dressed," he said, without looking up. "You're getting a chest radiograph."
"...You're joking."
"I have yet to make one." Still no glance spared. "Auscultation and percussion are suggestive, not diagnostic. I have a suspicion I am not willing to speak aloud until it can be confirmed or excluded on imaging. Speculation without evidence is intellectually irresponsible."
There was no room in his tone for negotiation, and you found you had none of your usual arguments to offer against it. His phone chimed; he silenced it and pocketed it in the same motion, already halfway through composing whatever came next in his head.
"If I'm wrong," he said, quieter now, "I'll say so plainly. But if I'm not..."
His eyes dropped, briefly, to your mouth, and then away again, as though he'd caught himself lingering on something he shouldn't.
"Then wasting even a minute would be unacceptable."
-
Three days later, you were back in his office, and the air in the room felt entirely different.
Ratio stood behind his desk holding your imaging results like the datapad itself had personally wronged him. None of his usual dry impatience remained. No sharp remark waited at the edge of his tongue. There was something careful and grave in the set of his shoulders, the posture of a man delivering news he genuinely wished he didn't have to.
"...Hanahaki?" You echoed, the word didn't feel real in your mouth.
He'd said more than that, you knew he had. A measured explanation, clinical and sequential, meant to walk you toward the conclusion rather than drop it on you. Medical terminologies. Differential diagnoses. But the moment the name of the disease registered, everything else seemed to blur at the edges, your mind refusing to hold onto anything past it.
"Hanahaki," He confirmed, his voice remaining steady as though he's speaking about the weather rather than a potentially fatal disease — a stark contrast to the tension in his shoulders. "Fortunately, you're in the early stages. The radiographer's initial read found no significant abnormality, which is not uncommon at this stage. Organic plant tissue in the early phase has a radiographic density close enough to soft tissue that it can be missed on a first pass."
He tapped the datapad, enlarging a portion of the image.
You looked at where he pointed. You had no idea what you were looking at.
Hanahaki.
Hanahaki.
Hanahaki.
"On closer review," He continued, "we identified faint branching opacities extending outward from the hilar structures bilaterally, more pronounced on the right."
He traced the shape with one finger, not quite touching the screen.
"Here. Root-stage growth, following the bronchovascular bundles rather than invading independently; Consistent with early presentation."
You tried to listen. You did.
"The overall burden remains limited. No evidence of significant airway obstruction so far, and flow measurements from your spirometry this morning were within an acceptable range given your symptoms."
Hanahaki.
"Several mediastinal lymph nodes have reacted to the foreign tissue and are mildly enlarged; An immune response, not a sign of malignant spread. I want to be precise about that distinction."
Your head swam.
None of it made sense laid next to the word itself. Hanahaki didn't happen to people who weren't in love. And you weren't. Not like that.
You'd never had some doomed, aching romance. Never pined after anyone from a careful distance. Never stared at a holo-message at two in the morning wondering if you should send it. So who—
You looked up.
"—given the anatomical location, the exertional dyspnea and localized pain are both expected findings, not incidental ones—"
You stopped hearing the rest of it.
Because you were looking at him. Really looking, in the way you apparently hadn't let yourself in longer than you wanted to admit.
The sharp, deliberate lines of his face. The furrow between his brows that appeared only when he was thinking past the edge of what he already knew. The way his hands moved when he explained something complicated, like every idea needed to be physically arranged in the air in order to be understood correctly. The way his voice picked up, almost imperceptibly, whenever the subject was something he actually cared about.
Your friend.
Your brilliant, insufferable, infuriatingly handsome friend.
But just a friend......... You'd have said, with total confidence, right up until about four minutes ago.
The one you told first when something good happened.
The one whose opinion mattered more than it had any right to.
The one whose messages you reread before answering, editing your own replies more carefully than you'd ever admit to him.
The one whose approval left you embarrassingly pleased with yourself, and whose disappointment — however mild, however quickly hidden behind irritation — stung far more than it should have.
The realization hit with enough force to nearly take the breath you didn't have to spare.
His voice kept going somewhere behind the rush of your own pulse, words about staging and prognosis and intervention windows arriving distorted, as if from another room. The office seemed to tilt very slightly around the fixed point of him standing there, results in hand, wearing that terrible, careful composure of a man who had already done the difficult part of the work and now had to hand the rest of it back to you.
Then the cough came.
Dry, catching low in your throat, and then harder, wheezing as your body reacted faster than your mind could keep up with. You doubled forward, one hand rising to your mouth, horror rising in you in a slow, merciless wave that had nothing to do with the diagnosis and everything to do with what you'd just understood underneath it.
He crossed the room before the second cough finished. Concern broke across his face for exactly one unguarded second before professional composure closed back over it, and his hand settled at your shoulder, steadying.
Warm.
The contact only made it worse, because now every strange, discarded feeling of the past several months was clicking into place with horrible clarity.
Every lingering glance you'd told yourself was nothing, every small flicker of anticipation before seeing him, every unreasonable rush of happiness whenever he chose to spend time with you over someone more deserving of it, every fluttering thing you'd filed under admiration because the real word had never once occurred to you as a possibility.
Oh.
Oh, no.
The realization crashes into you with all the subtlety of a collapsing star, no matter how hard some small, panicking part of you clawed for an alternate explanation.
You were in love. Hopelessly. Catastrophically.
You were in love with Veritas Ratio.
And the cruelest part of the entire, humiliating picture was this: the man currently holding you upright through a coughing fit, one hand steady on your shoulder and his brilliant, furious brain already three steps into solving a problem he didn't yet know he is the cause of.
just a short one,, a small warm up cause it's been a while since i last wrote a fanfic lol.
There were many benefits to being one of the very few people who could claim genuine friendship with the ever-intrepid Dr. Ratio.
"Come on. Just take a look. A quick check-up," you say, leaning your hip against the edge of his desk.
Ratio doesn't respond. Doesn't even look up.
Instead, he continues grading the stack of student papers before him, red pen moving with swift, decisive strokes across the page. Occasionally, his brow furrows in visible disappointment — no doubt the result of encountering yet another low score from his students.
"Put that medical degree to good use," you continue, undeterred by the silence. "Help a friend out."
That earns you a glance; A brief sideways look from over the rim of the paper he’s holding, sharp and carrying the unmistakable weight of a man who is already reconsidering every decision that led to your continued presence in his office.
"Go schedule a proper appointment," he says flatly, already turning back to the essay as if the conversation has concluded.
"In this economy?" You scoff.
No response. The pen doesn't even pause this time.
Still, undeterred, you push yourself off the desk and wander around it instead, drifting closer like an especially stubborn storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.
"Besides," you add, gesturing vaguely at him, "why would I go looking for another doctor when I already have the best one right here?"
The pen stops.
Slowly, Ratio looks up from the paper he had been marking.
The silence stretches a beat longer than it should.
Then he exhales through his nose, a controlled, measured breath that nonetheless carries the unmistakable sound of patience wearing dangerously thin.
"Five minutes," he says, curt, and is already reaching for his stethoscope before you can so much as gloat.
It was meant to be nothing. A joke of a check-up, five minutes of him grumbling and you smirking and both of you pretending this wasn't, in some small way, one of your favorite parts of the week because you love to annoy him more than anything in the world.
Sure, you'd been feeling a little off lately. Tired in a way sleep didn't fix. Paler than usual, if the mirror was to be believed. Winded faster than you used to be, climbing the same stairs you'd always climbed. An occasional dry cough that you'd stopped noticing weeks ago, the way you stop noticing any sound that's been in the background long enough.
But it couldn't be anything serious. Maybe a lingering cold. Maybe just exhaustion catching up to you.
Ratio would tell you to sleep more and complain less, write you a prescription with all the enthusiasm of a man performing unpaid labor, and send you on your way.
That was the plan.
It survived exactly until auscultation.
The metal diaphragm met the bare skin of your back, its familiar chill drawing an involuntary shiver you bit back before he could comment on it. He worked methodically, the way he always did: upper lobes first, then down through the mid-zones, then the bases. Each placement deliberate, each breath timed to his instruction.
"In."
You inhaled.
"Out."
You exhaled.
"Again."
Another slow breath, and this time the stethoscope didn't move on.
It stayed.
It lingered a beat too long over one spot before sliding back, retracing the exact same path with precision.
Then again.
And once more, shifted an inch lower, as if triangulating something.
A small, cold knot of unease settled somewhere under your ribs, and vanished the instant the stethoscope lifted away.
You opened your mouth, some half-formed joke about finally being diagnosed as terminally dramatic already queued up on your tongue...
...Only for another instrument to take the stethoscope's place. Smaller. Colder. A pleximeter, tapped once against your back with two knuckles, mapping the dull thud of solid tissue against the hollow ring of healthy lung.
"...Veritas?" Your voice came out lighter than you meant it, threaded with the first real edge of concern.
He didn't answer. Percussed again, a hand's width to the left.
"Veritas?" Quieter this time.
"Silence." His voice came, clipped enough to stop the rest of your words from ever forming.
You obeyed.
You turned your head just enough to catch him from the corner of your eye. Ratio's attention remained fixed entirely on his examination. His brows were drawn together in a slight furrow, far from the familiar expression of exasperation you had grown accustomed to over the years, his expression one of deep concentration. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, thoughtful as he listened, then repositioned the instrument with meticulous care and whatever he was hearing — or not hearing — had clearly captured all of his attention.
For the first time since you'd known him, Dr. Veritas Ratio looked troubled.
"What other symptoms have you experienced?" He asked, finally, withdrawing the instrument and setting it down on the tray with care. Only then did he meet your eyes properly.
Usually you could read him without effort; the dry irritation worn like a second coat, the long-suffering patience, the faint permanent disappointment in a universe that so rarely met his standards.
This time...
You couldn't read him at all.
"What?" You ask, because for a second your brain seems to have forgotten how to arrange itself into a coherent thought, a nervous laugh escaping you because how else were you supposed to respond?
His gaze moved over you once, and then again, slower, as if the answer were written somewhere in the lines of your face and he were simply confirming what he already suspected.
"Dry cough," He stated, not a question. "Wheezing on exertion."
"Pain: sharp, stabbing, localized," His hand came back to your back, two fingers pressing briefly against a specific point along the lower right ribs, precise down to the intercostal space. "Here."
You went very still.
Because he was right.
Whatever showed on your face in that moment must have confirmed it for him, because something in his expression shifted by the smallest possible degree.
"I—" You started, and stopped, because there was nothing useful to put after it. He hadn't guessed. Guessing implied uncertainty, and there had been none in his voice at all. He had known, or narrowed the field so precisely that knowing was the only word left for it.
The cough had started weeks ago... a minor irritation, easy to ignore until it became frequent enough that you simply absorbed it into the shape of your day. The wheezing had followed soon after, subtle enough to blame on exhaustion. The pain, you'd decided, was a pulled muscle.
Ratio didn't wait for you to speak up. He stepped back from the exam table with the brisk efficiency of a man who has already moved three stages ahead of the conversation, pressed your shirt back into your hands without looking at you while he did it, and pulled out his phone. His thumb moved across the screen fast enough to suggest irritation, though you had the distinct, uneasy feeling the irritation wasn't aimed at you.
"Get dressed," he said, without looking up. "You're getting a chest radiograph."
"...You're joking."
"I have yet to make one." Still no glance spared. "Auscultation and percussion are suggestive, not diagnostic. I have a suspicion I am not willing to speak aloud until it can be confirmed or excluded on imaging. Speculation without evidence is intellectually irresponsible."
There was no room in his tone for negotiation, and you found you had none of your usual arguments to offer against it. His phone chimed; he silenced it and pocketed it in the same motion, already halfway through composing whatever came next in his head.
"If I'm wrong," he said, quieter now, "I'll say so plainly. But if I'm not..."
His eyes dropped, briefly, to your mouth, and then away again, as though he'd caught himself lingering on something he shouldn't.
"Then wasting even a minute would be unacceptable."
-
Three days later, you were back in his office, and the air in the room felt entirely different.
Ratio stood behind his desk holding your imaging results like the datapad itself had personally wronged him. None of his usual dry impatience remained. No sharp remark waited at the edge of his tongue. There was something careful and grave in the set of his shoulders, the posture of a man delivering news he genuinely wished he didn't have to.
"...Hanahaki?" You echoed, the word didn't feel real in your mouth.
He'd said more than that, you knew he had. A measured explanation, clinical and sequential, meant to walk you toward the conclusion rather than drop it on you. Medical terminologies. Differential diagnoses. But the moment the name of the disease registered, everything else seemed to blur at the edges, your mind refusing to hold onto anything past it.
"Hanahaki," He confirmed, his voice remaining steady as though he's speaking about the weather rather than a potentially fatal disease — a stark contrast to the tension in his shoulders. "Fortunately, you're in the early stages. The radiographer's initial read found no significant abnormality, which is not uncommon at this stage. Organic plant tissue in the early phase has a radiographic density close enough to soft tissue that it can be missed on a first pass."
He tapped the datapad, enlarging a portion of the image.
You looked at where he pointed. You had no idea what you were looking at.
Hanahaki.
Hanahaki.
Hanahaki.
"On closer review," He continued, "we identified faint branching opacities extending outward from the hilar structures bilaterally, more pronounced on the right."
He traced the shape with one finger, not quite touching the screen.
"Here. Root-stage growth, following the bronchovascular bundles rather than invading independently; Consistent with early presentation."
You tried to listen. You did.
"The overall burden remains limited. No evidence of significant airway obstruction so far, and flow measurements from your spirometry this morning were within an acceptable range given your symptoms."
Hanahaki.
"Several mediastinal lymph nodes have reacted to the foreign tissue and are mildly enlarged; An immune response, not a sign of malignant spread. I want to be precise about that distinction."
Your head swam.
None of it made sense laid next to the word itself. Hanahaki didn't happen to people who weren't in love. And you weren't. Not like that.
You'd never had some doomed, aching romance. Never pined after anyone from a careful distance. Never stared at a holo-message at two in the morning wondering if you should send it. So who—
You looked up.
"—given the anatomical location, the exertional dyspnea and localized pain are both expected findings, not incidental ones—"
You stopped hearing the rest of it.
Because you were looking at him. Really looking, in the way you apparently hadn't let yourself in longer than you wanted to admit.
The sharp, deliberate lines of his face. The furrow between his brows that appeared only when he was thinking past the edge of what he already knew. The way his hands moved when he explained something complicated, like every idea needed to be physically arranged in the air in order to be understood correctly. The way his voice picked up, almost imperceptibly, whenever the subject was something he actually cared about.
Your friend.
Your brilliant, insufferable, infuriatingly handsome friend.
But just a friend......... You'd have said, with total confidence, right up until about four minutes ago.
The one you told first when something good happened.
The one whose opinion mattered more than it had any right to.
The one whose messages you reread before answering, editing your own replies more carefully than you'd ever admit to him.
The one whose approval left you embarrassingly pleased with yourself, and whose disappointment — however mild, however quickly hidden behind irritation — stung far more than it should have.
The realization hit with enough force to nearly take the breath you didn't have to spare.
His voice kept going somewhere behind the rush of your own pulse, words about staging and prognosis and intervention windows arriving distorted, as if from another room. The office seemed to tilt very slightly around the fixed point of him standing there, results in hand, wearing that terrible, careful composure of a man who had already done the difficult part of the work and now had to hand the rest of it back to you.
Then the cough came.
Dry, catching low in your throat, and then harder, wheezing as your body reacted faster than your mind could keep up with. You doubled forward, one hand rising to your mouth, horror rising in you in a slow, merciless wave that had nothing to do with the diagnosis and everything to do with what you'd just understood underneath it.
He crossed the room before the second cough finished. Concern broke across his face for exactly one unguarded second before professional composure closed back over it, and his hand settled at your shoulder, steadying.
Warm.
The contact only made it worse, because now every strange, discarded feeling of the past several months was clicking into place with horrible clarity.
Every lingering glance you'd told yourself was nothing, every small flicker of anticipation before seeing him, every unreasonable rush of happiness whenever he chose to spend time with you over someone more deserving of it, every fluttering thing you'd filed under admiration because the real word had never once occurred to you as a possibility.
Oh.
Oh, no.
The realization crashes into you with all the subtlety of a collapsing star, no matter how hard some small, panicking part of you clawed for an alternate explanation.
You were in love. Hopelessly. Catastrophically.
You were in love with Veritas Ratio.
And the cruelest part of the entire, humiliating picture was this: the man currently holding you upright through a coughing fit, one hand steady on your shoulder and his brilliant, furious brain already three steps into solving a problem he didn't yet know he is the cause of.
₊˚⊹♡ Summary: Blade is infuriated by you. You’re so sweet and he hates that you won't leave his mind. The worst part is that you know it and you're so coy about it. You have no qualms with divulging your interest in him, romantically, as you always love to insist. Unfortunately for him, the other Stellaron Hunters are very fond of the idea of a couple amongst the Stellaron Hunters.
₊˚⊹♡ Pillow Talks: Believe it or not this was inspired by the song ‘What You Got’; by Colby O’Donis & Akon. The title is inspired by of one of the lines from the song. I hope you guys like this!!
Masterlist
Blade remembers the day you joined the Stellaron Hunters vividly.
It was the same as any other day, except this time a new member was joining the Stellaron Hunters.
Blade took no particular interest in you at first glance. Unbeknownst to him, you were drawn to him at first glance.
"Hi Blade! My name is-" "I know." He interrupted your introduction as he really wasn't in the best of moods today. Yet you took this in stride as you continued to introduce yourself. "I had the opportunity to talk with Kafka and Firefly today! I wanted to talk to Silverwolf too, but she told me that you get really lonely and I should talk to you instead. Is this true?" Blade internally sighed at Silverwolfs obvious meddling. "No, I don't." He thought his short and simple response would be enough to end the conversation, but you insisted on talking to him.
In fact, you wound up spending the rest of the evening talking to him. No matter what reply he gave, Blade found you stuck to his side like glue. He was sure this was just a result of your curiosity. You probably wanted to get to know each Stellaron Hunter on your own terms, and when you realized he wasn't much for conversation you would leave him be.
He quickly learned how wrong he was.
𓆩♡𓆪
Ever since you joined the Stellaron Hunters you've all but inserted yourself into his life. From insisting on accompanying him on missions to spending the majority of your free time with him.. Blade has had more than his fill of you.
However, despite his initial apprehension, he's found you to be oddly... sweet.
Everything you've done for him is not for your personal gain, but for his own well being. You insist on making him drink enough water and eating an acceptable amount of food.
He's forced to obey your incessant demands to avoid being reprimanded by you. He's found it's more pleasant to be on the receiving end of your smile in comparison to your frown.
Now, you insist on fixing his "damaged hair" as you like to proclaim.
This has led to weekly sessions of you basically pampering him as you dutifully wash his hair with shampoo, conditioner, and a 'treatment' as you like to call it.
"Hi Bladie!" Your cheerful greeting has become part of his daily routine. You've taken it upon yourself to ensure he took care of himself. He never bothered to ask why, but he goes along with it since he doesn't have the energy to refuse you anymore.
"Hmm, your hair looks much healthier. I think the treatments are working. What do you think, Bladie?" You purposefully enunciate his nickname with a sugary sweet tone as you coax him to lie on his back. "That's something I wouldn't be able to tell." His response was terse and simple, yet he saw the way it made you pause. He could see the light in your eyes as your lips formed an 'o' in surprise.
This was the first time he's responded to you with more than three words. He watches with a weary heart as your expression of surprise slowly morphs into one of uncontained excitement. "Oh? So you do enjoy my company. Otherwise you wouldn't have bothered to respond, right? ...You know what Blade, I think I'm starting to like you." Your tone of voice conveys your sincerity as your hand reaches for the shampoo bottle you bought just for him.
Blade remains unruffled on the outside, but in truth he doesn't know how to respond to your words.
You're oddly endearing when you're doting on him, but he'll never admit it since it'll only serve as new material for you to tease him with. Instead he chooses to close his eyes as your fingers work their supposed magic on his scalp.
To his surprise he wakes up as you're drying his hair. As his heavy lidded eyes slowly blink open he hears your voice humming a soft tune as you continue to dry his hair for him.
"Ah, your awake sleepy head." Your teasing falls on deaf ears. Blade has trouble comprehending the fact he fell asleep with someone nearby, and without having one of his recurrent nightmares for that fact.
"Blade?" Your voice sounds soft and enticing to Blade's ears; He finds himself drawn to your voice in his sleepy state. He slowly tilts his head upwards to look at you, and he swears you've never looked this way before.
You never looked so..
He refused to finish the thought as he replies, "Yes?" To your inquisition. Your eyes light up with that familiar glimmer of joy as a knowing, coy smile lifts the corner of your lips.
"Remember what I told you earlier? I really think I like you. Romantically, I mean."
Silence fills the room.
Blade blinks at you slowly, akin to a drowsy owl rousing from sleep, as the silence envelopes the two of you like a suffocating hug.
Blade slowly blinks at you once more before he abruptly turns his head to the side to look away.
An awkward cough escapes his lips.
He doesn't respond.
You don't take his lack of a response personally as you opt to finish drying his hair, humming an upbeat tune as you complete your self assigned task.
Blade only has one thought on his mind as you finish.
Why...
Why is his heart beating faster?
𓆩♡𓆪
"Blade?"
"..."
"Blade?"
"..."
"Bladdeee?" This time, you maneuver yourself to block his path and force yourself into his point of view. A low grunt is the only acknowledgement you receive from Blade as he finally stops walking to stare at you. "Oh Blade, how can you be so cruel? I just want to talk to you." Your words reek of exaggeration as much as they are a faux pretense of innocence. Your theatrics are enunciated by your disarming smile in Blade's direction.
Unfortunately for him, Blade finds himself drawn to your smile.
This seems to be a common recurrence for him.
"What is it? Do we really need to talk this much to complete the mission?" Blade's tone is gruff and filled with faux ire. He frowns in an attempt to dissuade you from continuing the conversation.
Of course you happily ignore his frown as you invade his personal space. You lean into him, your face a bit closer to his as your lips form an infuriating smirk.
"Oh Blade, you know I love talking to you. I couldn't resist the urge even if I tried." That infatuating, familiar smirk of yours only serves to fuel his annoyance. He simply clicks his tongue as he moves around you to start walking again.
He isn't surprised when you fall into step beside him. He still isn't surprised when you loop your arm with his, leaning your head against his shoulder as your pace easily falls into stride with his.
He loathes the way his heart reacts to your close proximity; he ignores his increased heart rate as he keeps his eyes focused ahead of him. He looks anywhere but in your direction.
The last time he looked at you when you were this close it felt like his heart was going to explode.
It was a foreign feeling; another new experience your presence in his life has bestowed onto him.
Instead of delving deeper to determine the cause of these feelings he's opted to ignore them.
It's easier that way.
"So Bladie... do you like the roles we were assigned to play? I, for one, am very excited to play the role of your loving wife." Blade can only muster a sigh as he recalls the conversation that took place the day before.
𓆩♡𓆪
A meeting between the Stellaron Hunters was taking place, but it felt less like a meeting and more like an informal gathering. Silverwolf opted to play her games on the couch as you eagerly discussed plans with Kafka and Firefly.
The Stellaron Hunters needed a way in without drawing too much attention to themselves and Kafka had the perfect idea on how to do this.
"How about you and Bladie put on disguises and enter the establishment as newlyweds? It's a perfect cover up. This is a popular honeymoon spot, and the two of you can wear disguises." Kafka's subtle suggestion is anything but subtle. Blade purposefully ignores her pointed gaze as your eyes light up with obvious excitement.
It was obvious you were quite fond of Kafka's suggestion. Firefly takes the opportunity to excitedly chime in. "I think that sounds like a wonderful idea! Aren't you silverwolf?" Firefly fails to be subtle as she pointedly looks in Silverwolf's direction.
Silverwolf doesn't pause her game, but her eyes lift up to look in your direction before she gives a silent nod of approval.
All that was left was for Blade to agree to the plan.
Blade was dumbfounded on how this idea even came to be, but he couldn't find it in himself to reject the proposed plan. With a feigned lack of interest Blade's simple retort was, "Fine."
Lo and behold, now the two of you begin your next mission as newly weds.
Blade's heart races uncontrollably in his chest as you rest your head against his arm. As an added result to your close proximity, Blade's nose picks up your familiar scent.
Your scent has become a source of comfort for Blade. It was unavoidable really; the two of you spend so much time together that it would be odd if he didn't find some sort of comfort being by your side.
So, despite his body's odd reaction to your touch, Blade finds himself at ease as the two of you check in and reach your location with no problem.
Blade notices your demeanor suddenly shifts as you two navigate the crowded area. Blade isn't fond of crowds himself but he does fine with a group of people. He tends to stick to himself as everyone else enjoys themselves.
However, it doesn't take a genius to notice how uncomfortable you are right now. You cling tighter to Blade; your body is practically glued to his side as your eyes glue themselves to the floor.
Blade watches you for a moment. He's never seen you so out of your element before.
He can't say he enjoys the sight of you like this.
"Look at me." Blade surprises himself when he mutters those words, but it's too late to take them back.
You hesitate for a moment before your gaze tears itself from the floor to look into his eyes. "Yes?" Your response is unusually short and it lacks your usual teasing tone.
Blade carefully considers his next words that never come. Instead he draws you impossibly closer to him; he unlinks your arms in favor of firmly grasping your hand in his.
He maneuvers through the crowd with ease to guide you to a secluded area absent of prying eyes. He sees the surprise in your eyes as they look at him, but he also sees the underlying trust you have for him within your gaze.
He smirks as a thought forms in his mind.
You can be good at following directions when you want to be.
Once he confirms the two of you are alone, he cages you between his arms as you look up at him. He's met with a rare sight; for once you're the one blinking at him in surprise.
"You listen well. You kept your eyes on me the whole time." Blade's lips form a smirk as he takes in your expression that morphs into one of annoyance. "Oh hush." Your words lack bite as you lean into his chest, hiding your face from view.
Blade's eyes widen as goosebumps rise on his skin. "Thank you." Your words are muffled but decipherable. "...Don't mention it." Blade's words are quiet, but it's undeniable they're full of care.
Blade debates on teasing you as you do it to him all the time, but he can't bring himself to. Not when you're so close to him like this.
Instead he waits for you to collect yourself, shielding you from everyone and providing a safe space until you're ready to delve back into the crowd.
This time, your hands search for each other as you re-enter the crowd.
Blade pretends not to notice your smile aimed in his direction.
𓆩♡𓆪
"I think we'd make a great couple, don't you? This mission proved what I already knew was true. We completed our tasks with ease and no one suspected we were Stellaron Hunters!" Your cheerful voice drifts from the bathroom as Blade lies on your shared bed for the evening.
He stares blankly up at the wall as he wonders how he ended up in this situation.
He knows you requested a room with two beds, despite posing as newly weds, yet the two of you are sharing a room with one bed.
He knows you didn't purposefully pick a room with one bed. Even though you make your affection for him quite obvious you never put him in situations he'd feel uncomfortable in.
You have no problems backing off if you sense his discomfort.
If Blade's being honest, the way you dote on him and keep his comfort in mind only serves as fuel for these foreign feelings to grow.
"I'm sure your affectionate nature had something to do with it." Blade responds. You exit the bathroom in a comfy set of pajamas.
You don't hesitate to lie down beside him on the bed, but instead of staring at the ceiling you stare at him.
"I can sleep on the couch if that makes you more comfortable. I'm sorry we didn't get a room with two beds. I can call and-" "Don't worry about it. I don't need much sleep." Blade's matter of fact response causes a pout to surface on your lips.
"That's not good. Considering what I know about you I can understand why but.. still.." Your voice slowly trails off. Blade glances at you, and he can tell your mind is working overtime to come up with a solution.
"Sleep here. I'll keep watch in case we tipped someone off." Blade moves to get up from the bed, but your hand darts out to grasp his arm.
He could easily shake you off, but something stops him from doing so.
"If you can't sleep then can you at least stay here with me until I fall asleep? Please? If you're okay with that it'd mean a lot." Your voice is quiet and laced with exhaustion. You two did have an eventful day, and he knows you also tend to have trouble sleeping at times..
"Alright." Blade isn't sure why he relents so easily, but he does.
Your happy smile is confirmation that he made the right decision.
He lies down comfortably beside you as he watches you snuggle up under the soft blankets. "Do you want to join me?" Your invitation elicits a soft chuckle from Blade.
"You know I don't need to." "You know I don't care, come on, stop being so difficult. Come here." You scootch back and motion for him to get off the bed for a moment.
He obliges, and you lift the blanket for him to join you.
He stares at you for a long time. He doesn't know why, but he wants to join you. He really does.
Rather than deny what he knows is the truth, he quietly slides under the soft blankets to lie by your side. Your giddy smile brings warmth to Blade's cheeks.
Your eyes take on that mischievous glint as your face moves closer to his. "Is that a blush I see on your face, Bladie? Who knew I had that effect on you?" Your voice is as teasing as it is alluring.
He doesn't deny your claim, opting to roll his eyes in an attempt to brush you off. This seems to only fuel your fervor. Almost as if you've gained a second wind, your demeanor shifts to one of excitement as you lift your thumb to gently graze his cheek.
"Oh Blade, you look so pretty right now." A wistful sigh leaves your lips as you blatantly admire him.
Blade closes his eyes. If he doesn't, his heart might burst out of his chest.
He feels you lean in, closing the distance between you two. To your shared surprise he doesn't turn away or give you any indication to back off.
Rather, his hand finds your hip to pull you closer.
"I hate the way you tease me." Blade's voice is gruff as he slowly peeks his eyes open.
He's met with a beautiful sight.
His eyes widen as he takes in your flushed expression. Your lips are parted and your eyes gleam with unspoken affection.
Despite his words, Blade's eyes remain fixed on your parted lips. His hand slowly trails up your side, up your arm, to rest against your hand that's frozen in place against his cheek.
"I hate the way you tease me." He whispers the words again, but every time he does it sounds less and less convincing. His eyes take on a shine you've never seen before, and his chest rises and falls at a faster pace than before.
Without the two of you realizing it, the distance between your lips has shrunk.
Blade's gaze remains focused on your lips, even as your eyes stare deeply into his. "Your lips are dry." Blade's words catch you off guard, and you quickly lick your lips to wet them.
The moment your tongue retreats into your mouth Blade's lips crash against yours.
A noise of surprise leaves you as Blade's lips roughly caress yours.
It's sudden, but not unwelcome. In fact, your heart ricochets against your ribcage as you close your eyes. Your fingers grasp his soft, long strands as your heart flutters in your throat.
You two share a long passionate kiss as Blade's arm wraps around you, holding you close as he savors the feeling of your lips against his.
When you pull away for air, Blade's intense gaze is the first thing to greet you.
You take the opportunity to catch your breath, and you notice Blade's erratic breathing mimics yours.
Once you have enough air to speak the first words out of your mouth are, "I really like you, Blade. Romant-" "Romantically. I know." Blade finishes your statement for you as an attractive, knowing smirk accompanies his words.
"I think I really like you too. Romantically." Blade doesn't give you a chance to respond as his lips chase yours once more.
You two spend the next few hours enjoying each other's company as you periodically share sweet, indulgent kisses between the two of you.
Eventually exhaustion takes over and you fall asleep. To Blade's relief he falls asleep shortly after you do.
𓆩♡𓆪
You groan as your eyes slowly open. You stretch your stiff limbs as your mind slowly wakes up.
A soft chuckle reminds you that you aren't alone.
You turn to look at Blade. His eyes are soft, and a fond smile lifts the corner of his lips.
"Sleep well?" This time you're the one being teased as Blade wipes a bit of drool that escaped from the corner of your lips.
You would feel embarrassed if Blade wasn't looking at you with such affection in his eyes.
"I did, thanks to you. Did you..." Blade nods in confirmation to your unspoken question, and that giddy smile he's come to enjoy lights up your features.
"Oh, I'm so happy! Let's get ready and eat some breakfast. We have to meet up with the others..." You search for your phone, only to find Blades, and check the time.
"...In two hours." You laugh. Blade looks surprised by the sight of his phone. "I haven't seen that in a long time. You girls use it more than I do." Blade shakes his head in amusement as he slowly rises, ready to start the day with you.
"Yeah yeah, come on, we have to hurry! I can't wait to see everyone again!" You make your way to the bathroom, but not before leaving a chaste kiss against Blade's cheek.
His smile reflects the knowing look you give him before you enter the bathroom to get ready.
Blade sighs, knowing the others are going to tease him to no end for the next few days.
𓆩♡𓆪
Blade's prediction holds true as Firefly's excited squeal draws the attention of Silverwolf and Kafka.
You and Blade reunite with your fellow Stellaron Hunters, except this time you're holding hands.
Kafka's smirk is enough for him to know a few days is an understatement.
Yet, when he turns to look at you, and your warm smile is the first thing he sees, he realizes he's fine with being teased.
in which, after years of inhabiting lohen's lonely dreams, you finally return to mondstadt. he finds himself overflowing with joy and relief—until he realises you brought a friend, one you were very close with; one he now deemed his greatest rival.
part two to paper dandelion! but this works as standalone too (i think?)
contents. lohen x gn!reader, childhood friends + reunion, happy ending, fluff, crack (kinda), angst, 12k words, lohen story quest spoilers, (possibly) suggestive, thoma's your close friend, lots and lotssss of jealousy and he's kinda pathetic but it's ok, jokes about killing people/kys, mentions of gore (? offering seppuku as an apology but not actually doing it), swearing, alcohol and getting drunk, mentions of poisoning, lohen jumping to conclusions, doesn't follow genshin timeline/events, no beta we die like adorno
thank you for everyone's patience! much love to you all :)
tags: @swivi, @pjselee, @danielapuppy41, @sksjdkksjsjsh
Despite a considerable amount of time passing since the treacherous Nod Krai expedition, Lohen found himself unable to adapt to the amiable streets of Mondstadt again.
Mondstadt City was dreadfully uncomfortable. It lacked the Favonius Keep's prerequisite of strength and constant vigilance, and the thrill which accompanied. Mondstadt was pathetic in comparison to the perils of the Nod Krai and its beasts. The expectation to be alert was no longer, now earning Lohen absentminded comments to 'relax' and resurfacing rumours of his insanity.
His colleagues earnt shrivelled up expressions of disgust, a violent shudder would pounce on his spine whenever he saw how relaxed they were, drinking their hearts out 'til midnight and puking out on the streets.
(If getting wasted was so necessary, at least remain somewhat competent—Lohen counted twelve opportunities for Gunther to get killed as he stumbled away from the Angel's Share the other night; he should've been grateful it was Lohen judging him, and not a member of the Fatui.)
Human life was fragile, it expired early and death pounced on the nearest person without mercy, and never took breaks, thus, neither should humans.
Today, was no exception to Lohen's discomfort.
He arrived to work late—as always, greeting Mika on his way to the Grandmaster's Office with a lazy wave before slouching into his seat, where an obscene stack of paperwork awaited him. The quill between his fingers was abnormally heavy, and Varka's gaze wouldn't leave him.
"Y'know. You don't have to stare me down that hard."
He scoffed, crossing his arms. "Brat. Who's the one who shortened your confinement?"
For once, Lohen kept his mouth shut, deciding the Grandmaster deserved his best behaviour. It was the least he could do
Solitary confinement, you managed to make tolerable. He wrote of everything to you, from details of his Nod Krai expedition to Adorno's passing and his punishment, scrawling away to process what happened, and to pass the time. Though his solitude remained true, writing to you was essentially the same as company. Day melted into night when he thought of you. He had to regularly call for more paper, only when his words to you reached a length rivaling the novellas of the Favonius Library, Varka convinced Jean to mitigate his punishment. On the basis of his good behaviour, he argued that he deserved the privacy to mourn Adorno, and mail his letter to you. Lohen was free to return home and live normally, at the expense of strict supervision and paperwork during his hours.
(You remained to be a blessing. First, giving Lohen the best childhood and teenage years, and now you were bailing him out of punishment, without even being in the nation.)
Lohen missed you, a lot. Absurdly so. Mountains and oceans apart, you were in Inazuma, where he hoped you felt the same.
Six years was too long. In the first year, he went strong, told himself that you'd be back in no time and that letters were sufficient. By the second, he was going even more insane than he already was, actively searching out ruin guards to bully at Stormbearer Mountains in the dead of night as stress relief.
He wanted to touch you, feel your skin against his and to listen to you rant and laugh—a melody that no choir could ever recreate. He wanted to pinch your cheeks again and watch them redden. He missed how you'd cling onto him whenever you got scared, and he wished he was there for every adversity you were facing over there. He wished he could watch how much happier you were becoming with his open two eyes, instead of reading it with months delayed.
Lohen wanted you. Not your letters. Those wouldn't come sleep over when the nightmares became too much, nor bandage his injuries when they were placed so awkwardly. They capture only your handwriting and nothing else. He would’ve forgotten your voice long ago, had he not thought about you constantly, reciting memories like prayer.
Confinement to letters wouldn't be so bad if he didn't have to wait months for mail to arrive. Letters only satiated so much. And they were volatile—who knows if the mailman would drop either one of your letters, or if storm strikes down the ship it sails on. Only Barbatos himself would know of what happens to them.
(With every victory, you came to mind first. Varka and Jean read of it first through paperwork, then word of mouth would inform the rest of the knights. Sometimes it reached the citizens of Mondstadt.
The best Lohen could do was write it for you first, and pretend it was the same as finding you in your favourite spot at the library, or knocking on your window to demand your attention. In his head, you were the first to know because he wanted you to be. It was far better than agreeing with reality.)
After hearing of his complaints, you opted to mailing him a diary, a collection of thoughts and stories you wanted to share with him, organised by date. Inside, you sandwiched a response to the letter he'd send, alongside folded papercraft (known as 'origami', you said). Lohen built a small bookshelf for these, adorning his empty bedroom with your days.
His gaze wandered to the window, surely he could keep his mind preoccupied. There should've been something remotely interesting to watch—the statue of Barbatos stood proud, as always, welcoming all to the open arms of Mondstadt. Towards the bottom was Barbara, serenading a group of people. That stupid, green bard was nearby, and Lohen rolled his eyes and decided it was time to stop looking outside.
His quill hauled itself across the page, leaving the mere date in its trail.
You can do it, I'll wait for you!
Lohen sculpted every drifting thought into an illusion of you, imagining you were there with him, seated on the couch across the room, waiting for him to finish so the two of you could go skip rocks at Cider Lake.
(Back in the day, Adorno would give you guys 'homework', insisting that puzzles were good for your brain. Your logic flowed as seamlessly as your hands, finishing his tasks with ease; Lohen couldn't say the same for himself. Adorno had to give you guys separate worksheets, since you'd simply give the answers to Lohen.)
The room was drained of its sunlight, fading into a soft pink. Every scratch of his quill against the parchment whittled time away. Varka didn't need to snap at him, and
He finds himself connecting his letters. You wrote in cursive ever since you were little, and still did—
Fuck, his concentration was breaking. What he haphazardly glued together were falling apart, shattering into even smaller bits and pieces.
He tried to fall back on his initial tactic, but all he could think of was how different you must've looked by now. You mentioned getting much more exercise. Did you bulk up, or were you the kind to slim down? Maybe you managed to grow a few centimetres, or perhaps you had a tan now? He had no idea what the weather was like over there.
He was unable to conjure an image of you, only wonder and curiosity, and a desperation to see you once more. Questions blurred his vision and hypotheticals presented possibilities without rest. His energy and attention slipped away, leaving him to soak in his pathetic longing.
"Fuuuuuck offff." Lohen slouched onto the table, cheek resting against the cold, polished wood. He entertained the thought of smashing his head into the table until he was out cold, that way, he wouldn't have to do paperwork, nor be forced to cope with the fact that he couldn't see you.
The stupid pile of paperwork was just as prominent, and infuriating, as his inability to focus. Why couldn't you leave him alone?
(Stupid fucking Barbatos. If the god of freedom out of all beings out there couldn't bring you back, he could've at least freed him of this constant craving of you. This was exactly why Lohen hated gods and refused to partake in anything religious)
Then there was the Sakoku Decree too. You insisted the Vision Hunt Decree only targeted Vision wielders, that you were safe and he had nothing to worry about, but Lohen did the exact opposite. A dictator was never honest, a leader that would approve of such policy would not be one fit to protect its people. Those stuck in Inazuma, including you, requested the help of the Knights to return home, though they were fruitless.
Any resemblance of concentration was long gone. It abandoned him the moment he thought of you again, leaving him to spiral.
Varka's heavy footsteps approached him, his large hands sifting through the paperwork Lohen had (somehow) managed to complete successfully. "...not bad. I've never seen you do so much. And your handwriting's neat." Lohen peeled himself off the desk with disheveled hair, and hollow eyes begging Varka for freedom. "You've done enough, I don't like paperwork too. Good improvement."
For a brute that drank like a fish, he was surprisingly thoughtful.
"I'm gonna kill myself."
The Grandmaster chuckled, ruffling the Vice Captain's hair and patting him on the shoulder. "Paperwork does that, kid."
Dusk stained Mondstadt pink. Remains of day bled everywhere, as Lohen walked across stone pavement alongside Varka, watching over children that chased each other by the fountain. The Good Hunter kept many company, its patrons howling with laughter and cheersing obscenely large tankards. His fingers twitched at his sides, missing their skinship with his dagger and lance, while the wind caressed his face.
Doing paperwork was so awful, that Lohen considered getting drunk, calculating whether the vulnerability would be worth the mindless bliss of being wasted—there had to be a reason why everyone in Mondstadt loved beer, and why even the Grandmaster himself had no problem with drinking to his very limits.
"So." He drawled, itching to leave the city and head to Wolvendom to fight something. "Why am I here again?"
"Because you're under supervision. And I need a beer." The man groaned, stretching an arm and scratching his back. "You look like you need a drink."
"A fight, you mean."
Varka slapped him on the back, enough force to almost make him fall over. "Be grateful I didn't make you do my paperwork too, hm? Maybe it's a good thing you didn't become captain. You wouldn't last a day." Before Lohen could retort, something else grabbed Varka's attention. "Be right back—someone looks lost." A finger pointed forwards, Lohen's halflidded eyes didn't bother tracking them as he let out a wordless grunt.
Maybe now was a good chance to run off. And if Varka tried to get him into trouble again, he'd snitch on Varka to Jean for drinking.
He took an analytical glance at Varka, only for his heart to freeze on the spot.
The sun had already set, yet you managed to glow in its absence.
Lohen's feet didn't move, they couldn't—all that went through his head was relief, leaving him in a stupor.
The world went silent, all that was nonessential melted into nothingness. What remained was you, with wide eyes marveled by your home city again.
You. Here. In Mondstadt. Where Lohen was.
You didn't look so different, contrary to all the different theories he had conjured in his curious boredom. You must've lost a bit of weight from travelling so much, but you looked stronger overall. Your smile was bright, as always, only this time it made Lohen choke on his own spit, and question if he had really lost it.
The Vice Captain of the Fifth Company does not cry. However, he'd make an exception for you.
His body finally awoke, and he took a step towards you. And another. Until he could hear you.
You were looking up at Varka, a bit unsettled by the height difference, but friendly nonetheless. "Oh—I'm from here, it's just been a long time. I haven't spoken the language in a while too. I might be lost..."
Lohen didn't even get to say hi, before you pounced on him.
"Oh my god—" Your voice hitched, on the brink of crumbling into tears. "I missed you so much."
Your arms wrapped tightly around his waist and he squirmed—the closest to hugging he ever did was wrestling new recruits, who could never lay a hand on him.
(But his arms reciprocated, carefully feeling your back as he held onto you. It felt harder than before, your working out must've paid off. The muscle was warm, even through your clothes and his gloves.)
He still couldn't speak. No words would come out, immobilised by his shock. All he did was nuzzle his chin into your shoulder and rediscover your warmth.
"Ahem." Varka cleared his throat, immediately pulling you out of your hug. You scrambled to stand straight, glowing a furious red while muttering out apologies. Varka mirrored your words, saying that he hates to ruin your moment.
(Stupid old man. Lohen wasn't nearly as big as enough to throw him into the fountain, unfortunately. He was going to up his dosage of poison next time. He'll spit in his next beer while he's at it, too.)
As if he wasn't going through every emotion he yearned for, Lohen deadpanned, droning at his boss. "Yeah?"
"You guys...friends?"
You answered first. "Yup! I haven't seen him since before I left."
Lohen thought that was sufficient for his question. "You're back...how—? The decree—you never said anything about returning."
Joy scrunched your face. "It ended a while back. I wanted to surprise you, so I didn't write about it."
(Lohen was young, and very much in great shape, but he thought shock was going to force his heartbeat to a halt. He now owes Barbatos for every time he cussed him out bitterly in his head.)
"You're back..." He repeated.
"I am!"
Besides you, Varka cocked a brow. "Decree? You mean Inazuma?"
You nodded. And Varka went pale. He took a step closer to you.
"You must've been scared. Being trapped in the country. I heard about everything that happened over there." Varka was solemn, regret clouded his face and his voice went dry.
You shook your head. "Things have gotten better over there. It feels normal again." There wasn't a sign of dishonesty, but Varka sank down to a knee regardless, hand over his chest.
"I'm sorry we couldn't do anything. Even though it's our role as knights to protect the people of Mondstadt, we couldn't save you guys. As Grandmaster, I failed you all."
He must've been referring to all the letters that were sent, from merchants to separated family members, asking for help and some sort of intervention.
(Lohen used to press his ear against Varka’s door, picking up bits and pieces of his discussions with Jean on what to do, though now wasn't the time to admit that.)
You were flustered at the chivalrous act, frantically glancing around at the stares you were receiving. "It's not your fault—the shogun and her people aren't fond of foreigners. Please don't kneel—"
Lohen rolled his eyes and tapped Varka's calf, bordering on a kick. "You heard 'em. You're embarrassing us."
Now flustered, Varka stood, rubbing the back of his head. "I still feel bad. Adorno was upset when he found out what happened. He even considered sailing all the way there to negotiate on our behalf."
(Lohen remembers that. When he came running to Adorno to lament about the news, the man was equally as heartbroken. While Lohen panicked, Adorno was already planning to use his retirement funds for an expedition there.)
Your eyes lit up. "Speaking of Adorno—how has he been?"
Lohen's throat closed up, before glancing at Varka.
Adorno's grave was still clean from last time he stopped by. That was good.
The cecilia was beginning to wilt, a light brown began permeating its white petals. He's surprised the wind hadn't blown it away—maybe Barbatos was good for something after all.
The two of you were behind the Cathedral, Adorno's final resting place where many lay peacefully. Daylight was no more, and the cold bit at his face.
His gaze trailed over to you, where you were frozen in the evening, staring at the stone cross. "I wrote about it to you. You just got here before it could arrive."
You said nothing in response, blinking slower than usual.
He sucked in a sharp breath of air. "Do not stand by my grave and cry. My life, I gave to wipe tears dry." Lohen recited Adorno's final words, the last wish he made before his passing. He took a step closer, too apprehensive to dare touch you yet. "There's no need to be sad. It was painless, and peaceful. He was gettin' old, too."
Adorno, in bed, life and colour long gone from his face. Despite tethering on the borders of life and death, his wrinkled hands were abnormally warm, far more than the campsites of their expedition. Lohen's eyes burnt and his nose felt funny, but he subsided it for the sake of his last wish.
"But. If you need to cry, go ahead. I won't tell him." Lohen's hand rested on the small of your back. "We can go around the corner for a bit. And come back. O–Or I can give you some time alone if you need—?"
"—no. I'll stay." You scrunched your nose and blinked hard, but you didn't cry. "It's been too long."
So you sat down, and Lohen joined you.
"It was his health, wasn't it? You said he was getting worse a while back. 'm surprised he lived for that long." You murmured, squinting at the date of birth and death. "He only passed recently."
Lohen prepared himself to tell the whole story. His gloves felt uncomfortably stuffy before he told you everything.
By the end of it, your eyes were wide as saucers, bewildered at it all.
"Yeah." He wasn't proud of it, but it felt worse admitting it to you, out of all people. Had you been there at the time, you would've told someone immediately, out of pure concern for everyone's wellbeing. "I wrote it all down for you during my solitary confinement. Haven't even seen Theodore since then. He probably got longer than me."
(He should pay a visit, he thought to himself. Though Theodore was the main instigator, without Lohen, he wouldn't have made it that far. He wonders how he's been doing.)
You, were still processing everything. "So you and Theodore...injected Adorno with Ursa's flesh...the same stuff that we were supposed to be experimented on for?”
Lohen nodded.
"And you were the test subject?"
"Yeah."
"Are you stupid? Why would you willingly do that to yourself?"
You hit him in the shoulder, with a new kind of strength you didn't have last time he met you. "I know—I don't feel good about it either. I was desperate, and y'know, I thought it'd make me stronger, since Ursa's a dragon and all, and whatever. But yeah. It was stupid. I don't really regret it, though. Got to talk to Adorno for a bit longer, and the whole thing helped me accept I was weak.”
He stared at his outstretched palm, where he had pierced with his dagger. Ursa's screams echoed in his skull, and he squeezed his eyelids tight to ignore it. She was dormant, but his fears weren't. At the end of the day, he was nothing more than a mortal.
You nudged him. "I don't think you're weak. Acknowledging it makes you stronger than most people. And I don't think you were wrong for wanting Adorno to live longer."
Lohen shrugged. "I'm only strong among the weak. I'm nothing compared to the people I've met." Racher of Solnari. The Honorary Knight. Even Varka, the Grandmaster—those who belonged in fairytales and legends to be passed down from generation to generation. They all existed in a realm separate to Lohen's, a random boy who almost fell victim to a harbinger. "I'll get there. Someday. Just not today. I won't do anything like that again, old man."
(Of course, the grave did not respond. But he imagines Adorno ruffling his hair and telling him he was proud of Lohen.)
As long as he didn't lose sight of his goals, nor himself. Lohen had no need for power he couldn't control, for it wouldn't be known as power anymore—only poison.
You agreed with a hum. "You better not. You can't get stronger if you're dead."
Lohen let out a dry chuckle, then silence spoke next.
The wind got colder, though gentle, the grass danced alongside it. Fireflies paid a visit, some fascinated by the gravestones that stood tall, others preferred the flowers gifted to them. Day was no longer, aside from the dainty lights of streetlamps standing guard and the lantern sitting nearby, there was no light.
"Your turn." Lohen nudged you.
"What?"
"Tell him all about Inazuma. He wants to know how you've been doing. This time from you, and not the letters you sent over."
(Lohen never shut up about you, Adorno was the closest thing to a father for him, so naturally, he endured the most of his rambling. You'd write him something as simple as "I love sashimi" and Lohen managed to turn it into an essay's worth of conversation, pondering to Adorno on how he could prepare some as a gift to your return, or marveling at how the people of Inazuma ate fish raw, commending their bravery and immune systems.
Adorno often joked that you wouldn't be able to tell him anything about your time away, since he'd have already heard it from Lohen too.)
"You don't have to say it out loud. I just say it in my head if I don't want someone else to hear." He clarified. "Or you can pay another visit next time, if y'know, you need time to process?"
You shook your head. "I'm alright—I just don't know where to start."
"Wherever you want."
You took a deep breath, Lohen noticed the ever so slight tremble. "Hi Adorno. Long time no see." He leaned back on his palms, watching you tell your story. "I've gotten a lot better. Like really better, the psychologist I was seeing was actually a youkai. It's a kind of spirit from Inazuma and..."
...you told Adorno of Yumemizuki Mizuki, the dream eating tapir, and your psychologist, whom you held a world of gratitude for. You shared your progress, from learning to open up about your past to no longer having nightmares.
The story trailed to your job. It started as Mizuki providing you work at her bathhouse, a role where you prepared their snacks and meals for her clients. It was life-changing, as you described it. You let Adorno know that he didn't have to worry for your future, the job had given you the confidence to pursue culinary school, and you'd been financially stable by yourself ever since. Your career had given you a sense of direction, and you finally felt you belonged in the world.
"Having money's a lot of fun, to be honest. I'm glad I could finally do something for my parents with it."
Your words were soft, yet it strangled Lohen violently.
It was a long time ago, but there was a time where you cried more often than you smiled. Regrettably, you had argued over it. Multiple times.
I hate being so useless. I wish I wasn't a burden to everyone.
The fuck are you talking about? Lohen usually snapped, a tone he wished remained foreign to you. If you need money I'll give it to you. Stop beating yourself up over a stupid job. It wasn't worth your time if everyone there picked on you, was it? Your boss was a piece of shit anyways.
Nausea hit him in a violent wave. He always apologised without fail and you talked things out properly, but he knows he shouldn't lose control. Not towards the people he loves.
"...now that the Sakoku Decree's lifted, I'm back here." You concluded, look back at Adorno with a smile. "I'm probably going to...Lohen? Are you crying?"
Only then, did Lohen notice the wetness on his cheeks.
"No—" He lifted his half cape to conceal his face, recompose himself, and blame it on his dandelion allergy that he'd killed off years ago, but you were faster, prying his wrists away.
Your eyelids fluttered, as if you were the one crying instead. "Is it Adorno...?" You let his wrists go and crawled closer, soft thumbs wiping his tears away.
He shook his head, vision blurring with more tears. "It's yo—you, you're so happy now. And I dunno—I just feel relieved." His sinuses began to clog. "I thought of every time you cried and talked badly about yourself. And then I thought about whenever I lost my temper at you. And now I feel like shit. " His voice crumbled to nothing but weak sobbing. Lohen aggressively rubbed his eyes, as if he could rid of his tears that way.
Your last night in Mondstadt, six years ago, flashed in his head. Your posture was slumped, a contrast to how you stood tall today. He didn’t have to work for a full smile from you, it replaced the half-assed one you donned to cover up your feelings.
(Lohen wasn't sure what was fluttering in his stomach. Pride? Relief? A hybrid of both? He knew you were far more capable than you deemed yourself to be, so he wasn't sure why he was getting so emotional.)
His tears died down, and you wiped each and every one of them, until they were no more. Your hands remained on his cheeks, holding them, before giving them a gentle pinch.
"Nmmph?"
"Your skin's so soft!" You pinched again, this time tugging on his cheeks. "You really haven't changed. You're just a bigger version of your little self."
(Lohen would've smited anyone else who tried to touch him like this, or made such a patronising comment about him. And although you were the sole exception, he'd also never admit he likes being coddled like this.)
"You're sooo cute." You let go of his cheeks, leaving him feeling bare. Your skin was no longer on his, but his face remained warm. "It's okay though. I told you, I'd be back as a happier person."
He nodded, sick of how he sounded when he spoke. The quiver in his voice was nothing short of embarrassing and pathetic. He watched you shiver, hugging your knees tighter for any sort of comfort.
Lohen sniffled. "You're cold. Sorry, not tryna change the topic or anything. But you're shaking."
The moment you became aware of it, it seemed to intensify. "A bit. It rained a lot on the way here."
He sighed, huddling closer to wrap his cloak around you. "You should've rested first then, before doing anything."
"Probably." You coughed a couple times, pressing closer to him. "I got too excited though. I'll just eat a bunch of ginger."
Lohen huffed, guiding you to stand up. "I'm not going anywhere, neither is Adorno. Let's get you home."
You didn't resist, dusting off your knees. "Alright, alright—see you Adorno." You gave the grave one last stare. "And thank you for everything. Without you, today wouldn't have existed for me. For us."
A solemn nod from Lohen, and he silently agreed.
As you walked into the night, you gasped, peering down at the city before walking down the cobblestone stairs. “It’s so pretty. Look at all the lights from everyone’s house—oooh, and the stars!”
Lohen watched you smile. “Yeah. It’s beautiful. Very.”
“I missed Mondstadt.” You declared, jumping down each step one at a time.
(And Lohen missed you. Dearly so.)
“Mondstadt missed you too.” He murmured, a gloved hand reaching out for you, just in case you tripped or hurt yourself.
Together, you walked down the empty streets of Mondstadt City. The working week hadn't ended yet, leaving the city quiet and desolate, Lohen preferred this over seeing drunk men cheer and trip over their own feet.
"Where are you staying?"
(Though he appreciates your surprise return, he wishes you would've told him. Not only he thought he was having a heart attack, but he wanted to let you stay at his place—show off the fruits of his efforts and be the best host he could.
His shock died down, and now all he could think of was his confession to you. The moment he sends you back to your place, he was going to launch into frenzied brainstorming.)
"I'm renting a place at the moment."
His paranoia flared, questioning whose property it was. Shady landlords always targeted foreigners. Obviously, you weren’t one, but anyone could easily treat you as one after how long you were gone for.
But he didn't want to intrude. You’re smart enough to be cautious of scammers. "You could've stayed in my place. I moved into a bigger house since you left." He says, as if he hadn't told you this over parchment and ink already.
You chuckled, a tune he was addicted to. "I know, but I told you, I wanted this to be a surprise. The rent isn't too bad."
Maybe it was better that you weren't staying at his place. It gave Lohen better opportunity to figure out how he wanted to declare his love. It'd be awful if you walked into his preparations.
"Whatever you say."
Past the Good Hunter you turned, and there it was. You pointed to a building, it wasn't anything grand, but felt excessive for only one person to live in.
"We're here. Thanks again for walking me home." You grinned before sneezing, immediately covering your nose with your palm. The other hand fumbled through a pocket for a tissue.
"Geez—I thought you said your cold wasn't that bad?"
Before Lohen could speak, another voice reached for you.
The door to your house was open, and out came a man. He was tall, short, blond hair propped up by a black hairband. He donned a red jacket, over a tight, black shirt decorated by a silver dog tag.
Down the stairs he hurried, to check up on you and nag about your health.
Who the fuck is this?
After blowing your nose properly, you recomposed yourself, standing straight. "Sorry—I didn't think I'd be out this late." You looked back at Lohen. "Right. Lohen, this is Thoma." You gestured to the man besides you, who waved politely at Lohen, resembling a carefree dog. "Thoma, this is Lohen."
What the fuck is Thoma?
Despite being a man of quick decisions and logic, Lohen had little coherency in his thoughts.
"Nice to meet you, Lohen!" Thoma reached a hand out, and Lohen took far too long to reciprocate with his own. "Thanks for walking y/n home."
Were you seeing someone? This guy?
"Uh—yeah, no worries. Anytime."
No, he's jumping to conclusions. Friends travel and live together—
An aggressive shade of red dusted over your cheeks, reaching even your ears. "I'll see you soon. Thanks again." You quickly turned away from Lohen, ushering Thoma inside, muttering something about being cold.
With a final wave, you were inside. Through the window, he could see your blurry figures talk, and muffled laughter slipped out.
Lohen's expertise was vast, but was not applicable to romance in the slightest. However, everyone knows that a blush that deep had to indicate something, a crush, possibly even love, considering how far you had traveled together.
Paralysed and cold, he stood there, a storm of frantic thought brewing in his head. There's no way you guys were dating, right? You would've told him if someone had asked you out, or if you had a crush in the works. But what if this was another surprise?
For a brief moment, he pictured you guys on a date, and was met with immediate nausea.
(He was going to kill "Thoma", or whatever his name was, if it was the last thing he'd do.)
Since then, he was oddly provoked by Thoma, despite his polite demeanour and warmth.
When he returned home, he laid in bed and tried to rationalise the situation.
You. "Thoma". Dating?
Oh my god—what if you were married? Lohen didn't notice any rings on you, but you guys were reaching that age. You could've been intending on it, or maybe you packed your engagement ring away, all that’s valuable doesn’t belong in the open.
He buried his face into a nearby pillow,
It's not like you've ever loved him back that way, nor did you vow to remain single forever (not that it'd even matter—you're allowed to change your mind whenever), but he felt a sliver of betrayal. If he was going to get rejected, he at least wanted to stand a good chance, rather than being nations away.
Lohen dismissed the thought, reminding himself to simply ask next time he saw you before preparing to go to sleep.
The next morning at work, he earned nothing short of concern and judgement.
"What even happened to you?" Eula commented, poking Lohen's head. His cheek was pressed up against the wooden table, neglected paperwork somewhere off to the side and his quill laid just as dead.
He heard Amber come over, too. "Dunno. He looked awful when he got here, then he kinda just gave up after the Grandmaster went out for lunch. Lohennn, are you alright?"
"Is traveling from nation to nation and living with each other a couple's thing to do?"
The two women paused. Amber spoke first. "I guess so...?"
Lohen's fist pounded the table. "I'm gonna kill that bastard."
With a worried, 'let's give him some time', Eula guided Amber away.
He finally sat up, eyelids fighting for their life to remain open. All he did was spiral instead of sleep, conjuring up all sorts of wacky possibilities. It tortured him until morning, and skipping work wasn't a luxury either, considering how he was already in trouble.
He slouched again, this time his chin resting on his forearms. He closed his eyes, hoping for a quick power nap before Varka could yell at him.
Eula came into the room again, heavy boots stomping and interrupting his attempted nap. He didn't react, until she knocked aggressively on the table.
"Fuck…I was trying to slee—"
From behind Eula you peered at him, an awkward smile plastered on your face.
'You have a visitor.' She said, then she turned to you. "Sorry about him. He hates paperwork."
He was tempted to interject, insisting that he wasn't that bad with paperwork, it was stupid Thoma's fault. All he did was tiredly squint, and burn with shame.
"Should I...come back another time? Work seems hectic."
He shook his head, excessively, leaving his bangs in his face. "No—what's up?" Frantic, he adjusted them,
"I just...wanted to see you. And I have something I need to show you."
(It wasn't an engagement ring, was it?)
Lohen's gaze flitted around before returning to you. If he concentrated hard enough and made the most of his desperation, he'd get all this paperwork done. Hopefully soon. "Okay. Yeah that's fine. Just give me a bit more time, I'll be done soon."
The throbbing in his temples disagreed with him.
"Your library's so nice, I had a fun time talking to Lisa."
Lohen himself was impressed with his own performance. He powered through paperwork, a perfect balance of speed, and care, as to avoid being scolded and ordered to redo it all from scratch.
The fresh air helped out a bit, it woke him up and forced his eyes to stay alert. Being so openly weak was stressing him out, even with the confines of Mondstadt City and its walls, he couldn't help but worry about whether he'd be able to defend the two of you if anything happened.
"Lisa? Yeah she's alright..." He rubbed his eye, fervently.
Your hand clasped around his wrist. "You'll hurt your eye if you do that...did you not sleep enough?"
Not at all, actually. "Somethin' like that." His eye begged to be scratched again, but he held back for your sake. "Had...things on my mind."
You released him and nodded slowly. "Is being a knight that hard?"
(Being a knight was fine. Possibly having an unrequited love was far worse and nothing in comparison.)
He made an incoherent noise, before changing the topic. "Where are we going?"
"Back to mine." You smiled, and the exhaustion clinging onto his eyelid was beginning to fade. "I have stuff for you."
Lohen's face soured. Not at the thought of you, nor whatever you wanted to show him, but at Thoma. Lohen thinks he's going to throw up if he has to think about you two again.
"Wouldn't...Thoma be upset? Isn't he staying there as well? Don’t wanna intrude on you guys."
You shook your head. "He's visiting his mother today. Plus, he's a really sweet person, I'm sure you'd like him too.”
Lohen thinks not. "Are you guys like...friends?"
A pause filled the air. "I guess you could call it that. We met at culinary school."
(So are you dating or not? What kind of answer was that?)
Lohen nodded. He decided to take what he could get, and appreciate that he wouldn't have to see you and Thoma together, whatever your relationship was. He can worry about Thoma when he’s not sleep deprived and barely holding himself up. As you walked the familiar route from yesterday together, he found himself wincing whenever sunlight came too close for his liking, another predicament, alongside his brooding.
‘Oh yeah. I forgot to ask, but how are your parents doing?”
Lohen shrugged.
“Still not talking to them?”
“Yup.” He had no need for them or their ways. The most he did was pay a visit on their birthdays, dropping off a gift and a letter. He popped by on holidays, too, limiting conversation to basic greetings. You questioned it no further, just the way Lohen liked it—it was refreshing for someone to accept the way he lived, rather than yapping on about the importance of family and blood. “Yours?”
“They’re good. Turns out they prefer Inazuma far more than here.”
Lohen liked your parents, it was a shame they didn’t come with you. You inherited your kindness from your mother, who’d always encourage Lohen to come over for a meal whenever, and you had the same understanding as your father. Lohen never confided to him with his familial issues, yet he provided more insight on his situations than anyone else. He wished he could say hi again.
“What about you?” You haven’t told him exactly what you were doing here. “Are you just visiting?”
“Kind of? I’m planning to stay here for a bit. I don’t have a concrete plan.” You hummed, as the wind fluffed up your hair. “Might travel around, now that I’m not in the middle of nowhere.”
Good. That granted him a decent amount of time to confess to you.
“Well, let me know when you figure it out. I want to hear all about it.”
The house you were staying in came into view, but the sound of crying snapped your neck towards it. “What happened?”
Lohen scanned the vicinity, nearby was a child, a young boy, wailing and clutching at his bloodied knee. You wasted no time, rushing to his side.
“Are you okay?”
The kid cried some more.
Lohen joined you two. “Can you walk, kid?”
His tears didn’t stop, but he planted his small hands against your shoulders and pushed himself with a heave, biting his lip and gluing his eyes shut.
The kid turned to Lohen and nodded.
You inspected the graze. It appeared fine, with no visible dirt, and it was relatively shallow. “Well done. That must’ve hurt a lot, hm?”
He nodded. “It still does…”
With a subtle frown, you dug through your pockets, bringing out a small bag. “Want some candy? It’ll make you feel better.”
(Lohen wanted to ask for one too, but he refrained.)
As you tugged the pouch open, the kid deadpanned. “Mummy said I shouldn’t accept candy from strangers.”
Lohen couldn’t help but snicker, turning his face away to hide his amusement. “Smart kid—” He placed a hand on his back. “Mummy and Daddy are raising you right, hm?”
The kid stared back with judgement. Now it was your turn to laugh.
(Who knew kids were so unfiltered? Lohen knew kids were difficult, but looking back, he must’ve been a nightmare for every adult in the vicinity.)
“Sage—I told you not to run.”
The woman’s voice almost echoed across the city, frantic and booming. The boy reacted immediately, hobbling into her arms and resuming his crying. You both stood up as well.
“C’mon, what do you say to the nice couple?” She urged him to say thank you, and the boy reluctantly turned around, hands still clinging onto her clothes. “Thank you for looking out for him…oh, you must be a knight?”
She looked Lohen up and down, he saluted in response. “Yes. Your son should be fine, as long as you clean and bandage it. It doesn’t appear to be serious.” It felt wrong, performing his formalities in front of you. He reserved this tone for diplomatic meetings, where pissing off an official could ruin an entire agreement, not the gentle streets of Mondstadt City, where you could speak to anyone as if they were close friends.
The woman sighed, and thanked you as well. “You guys would make wonderful parents.”
Your eyes grew wide. “P–parents?”
“Yeah.” She repeated, as if it were common sense. “Aren’t you a couple?”
(See? Even the citizens of Mondstadt knew you two would be a great pair. Fuck you, Thoma.)
You corrected her with a stutter and flustered cheeks. “N–no ma’am.”
She was unbothered by it, and seemingly unconvinced as well. “Oh. What a shame, you seem to be close to each other.” With a final goodbye, she walked away with her son, excusing herself with needing to prepare dinner early tonight.
Together, you watched them return home. “Aw. I wanted him to taste test my candy.” The pouch laid in your hands and you frowned. “I didn’t know kids were so…sassy, nowadays.”
Giddy from the woman’s assumption, Lohen leaned closer. “I’m always here. I’ll eat anything and everything.” A random kid wouldn’t appreciate it as much as him, anyways. Those would eat anything as long as there’s enough colour and sugar.
You smiled. “Of course you will. You can try some after I show you what I planned out for you.”
A grin crept onto his lips. With anticipation akin to a child’s, Lohen followed you into your house like a puppy, overflowing with joy.
When he reached your living room, you stopped him, slipping behind the knight before encasing his eyes with your hands. They were soft, and warm, nothing in comparison to the calluses that inhabited his palms. “You’ll keep it a surprise, right?”
He despised the unpredictable and unknown, but he nodded and his eyelids shut willingly. “Of course.”
By his hand, you led him through the place, until coming to a stop.
“Open.” You requested. Then he obeyed.
Lohen blinked. It was just a living room. A bit bare, but it was a normal living room. There were crates stacked in a corner, presumably the belongings you and Thoma brought to Mondstadt.
He began sweating, wondering if he was just being incredibly dense. “Am I…?
You pointed to the corner, scurrying towards it and grabbing the closest one. “Souvenirs. For you. I probably should’ve considered how you were going to bring it home…”
Souvenirs? Those crates could probably carry every possession to his name.
“Come here—” You ushered him closer, placing the crate on the floor and prying off the lid.
He crouched beside you. “A crate is a lot for souvenirs, isn’t it?”
“Is it too much? These are all for you.”
(Lohen has infiltrated illegal auctions. Embarked on trecherous journey to the lawless nation of Nod Krai. Even went face to face with a sinner of Khaenri’ah. But he’s never felt more lost than right now, at this moment.)
“W—How’s there so much? I thought these were all your things.”
You blinked. “Nope. They’re for you.” You shrugged, beckoning him to look through his gifts by himself. “If something made me think of you, I bought it.”
Inside were an assortment of weapons, alongside bottles of what he assumed to be poison.
“Ah—this stuff’s for work and your training.” You beamed. “A friend of mine, his family specialised in bladesmithing. You said the more weapons you have, the safer you feel.”
“Y–yeah I did but—” He gestured to the stack of crates nearby. “But this is insane—this would’ve cost a fortune.” He remembered your family being middle class, neither struggling nor subjugating financially, but this was an absurd amount for anything.
“It’s over six years! I promise I’ve been working hard, I stayed with family majority of the time anyways.” Your eyes sparkled with promise. “Plus, I wanted to do something nice for you. You never buy yourself anything. I bet you still hardly treat yourself.”
(You were right. Unless it was a necessity or gift for another person, Lohen seldom spent money. It was a waste, considering the Knights funded all equipment, which included most of Lohen’s collection, and he preferred to have a great sum saved up, just in case something ever happened to him.)
“I guess not?” He scratched at his nape. Protecting himself and guaranteeing safety was a good enough “treat” for him. “Dunno what I’m supposed to get for myself, anyways.” He craved the things money couldn’t purchase. Getting Varka off his back, never running out of stamina, you—
“Then let me do it for you. You’ve always worked hard, Mr Captain.”
The title made him stutter and blush. “Vice. I told you, I didn’t get the promotion after what happened.”
But you didn’t care. “Well, Adorno and I think you’re worthy of it. And it’s basically yours since it’s vacant, no?”
(God, he’s getting way too far ahead of himself, but Lohen really wants to propose to you on the spot.)
“I—” For a moment, Lohen thinks to hug you, thank you in his own special way, with affection and his entire being—
“y/n! Do you have someone over?”
Great.
“Yeah—it’s Lohen.”
Thoma’s head popped into the doorway, and he grinned from ear to ear. “Hey. Hi again.” He greeted Lohen, who responded curtly. “What are you guys up to? I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
(Yes, yes you are Thoma. Read the fucking room.)
You patted the crate. “Souvenirs.”
Despite his irritation, Lohen wore a smile as he got up. “Hello again. How’s your mother doing?”
Thoma was caught off guard, glancing towards you. “She’s good, it’s been forever since I got to see her. Thanks for asking.”
“I didn’t expect you to remember that.” You mumbled, pushing off the crate to stand up. “He’s really attentive, isn’t he?”
His smile grew into something genuine in the praise. Thoma nodded along, hardly meeting Lohen’s gaze. “Yeah. Do you have any dinner plans?”
(Fuck. Lohen should’ve asked you to dinner before Thoma could.)
You shook your head, turning to Lohen. “Do you?”
He shook his head back, and internally, he was brimming with pride, celebrating the fact that you immediately turned to him.
Thoma readjusted his jacket. “Then since we’re all together, wanna go for a drink? It’ll be on me. I’ve hardly spoken to your friend yet.”
You immediately shook your head. “Lohen doesn’t dri—”
He lied, insisting otherwise. “It's alright. I couldn't possibly decline the kind offer."
And so, Lohen was seated in the Tavern besides you. Conversation of its patrons blended into one big mess, the noise infuriated Lohen, not nearly as much as his drink did.
Alcohol was fucking disgusting, Lohen thought, as he gulped down another ungodly mouthful. He glued his eyelids shut and swallowed, careful not to choke and spill any.
On the way to the Tavern, he watched you two carefully. So far, his theory of you two dating appeared false. There was hardly any physical contact between you two, nor did Thoma seem protective of you (and if Lohen’s assumption was correct, then Thoma was an awful boyfriend—who knows what could happen at night, near a bar where many drunk people were).
Logically, Lohen still stood a chance. However, getting you to like someone like him back, was an entirely new challenge he had to tackle.
Unlike Lohen, you and Thoma were fine, casually sipping without even a flinch. Conversation bounced between you with ease.
“I forgot how different Mondstadt’s beer was.”
“I wasn’t even old enough to drink, last time I was here.” Thoma finished the last of his drink, peering into the glass with an eye. “To be honest, I still prefer sake.”
With your glass to your lips, you chuckled. “Me too. This isn’t too bad, though.”
Lohen picked up his pace, you were finishing up too, he couldn’t fall behind. To find drinking alcohol enjoyable was weird, Varka, or anyone of the knights, had no right to call him insane when they could drink beer as if it were water, and derived pleasure from it.
(His stomach complained and groaned for help, but he kept going. He’ll make himself puke it out his system if needed. Lohen refused to appear weak in front of Thoma, out of all people.)
Another round of beers paid a visit, and Lohen already felt sick at the sight of a full glass.
“So Lohen, I had no idea you were Vice Captain! That’s really impressive.”
(What was that supposed to mean? That he didn’t appear worthy of his position?)
He played it off with a chuckle, thankful that speaking meant he didn’t have to drink. “It was nothing. Just took a few years of work.”
You butted in, protesting. “Liar—what do you mean Vice Captain isn’t a big deal?”
Lohen shrugged. “It’s not like I had to fight for my life for it.”
You huffed, taking another swig. “You still deserve credit.”
“You’re doing much better than me. If anything, hard work should be rewarded.” You were a cook because you dedicated your blood, sweat, and tears to it. Lohen was vice captain because he liked killing shit.
A smirk creased his lips, high off your praise, as he leaned forward to speak to Thoma. ‘What about you, Thoma? What do you do for a living?”
His face was hot and the insides of his mouth didn’t feel like his anymore, but he had to check what sort of guy you were possibly with. He took another large gulp, concealing his disgust with a sigh.
Despite it all, Thoma was unbothered by him. “I’m the housekeeper and Chief Retainer of the Yashiro Commission.” He clarified, proud and bright. “Nothin’ special.”
Damn right. But that was too impolite to say. Lohen kept to himself and nodded. “I see. Any good in a fight?”
You answered before Thoma could. “He actually is—he faced the shogun.”
Lohen choked on his own spit. “What?”
Thoma aggressively shook his head, pink blooming on his cheekbones. “All I did was throw a spear.”
“Oh shut up—you threw it at her and somehow survived.”
“Stop bringing it up already.” But he laughed alongside you, the two of you happily bickered and drank beer.
Lohen doesn’t get what you see in this guy. He took another swig, already adapting to the ugly taste.
Sure, Thoma did have a vision. And he was decently built, his muscles peeked out a bit from his tight top. And he was tall, really tall, but not in the same obnoxious, oversized way as Varka. He had blond, well kept hair and bright, green eyes that resembled green apples and ripe limes sold in the markets of Dornman Po—
Fuck. Now he was just listing all the good things about him. And there were plenty. Lohen himself couldn’t account for all the memories and feelings only you two shared and knew of. Thoma got to be there for you. Lohen was in a completely different continent.
Being blond wasn’t that important, was it? Varka’s blond and he wasn’t even close to marriage, neither was Jean. And it’s not like being short was a bad thing—a super tall partner would be unsettling anyways, wouldn’t it? Lohen had a vision too, and he’d say his physique wasn’t too shabby as well—
“...en? Lohen? Are you okay?”
(Just like how Lohen had to come to terms with his own mortality, he had to come to terms that maybe you weren’t meant to be. He should appreciate he gets to see you, and be within your presence, much like how he needs to acknowledge his human limits.
There was no point in brooding and complaining about Thoma, he’ll probably remain a bit bitter for the rest of time, but he should at least accept that you wanted someone else.)
It hurt, so Lohen drank some more.
His head spun and his face was warm and fuzzy. He rubbed his cheek with his own hand, despite the glove in the way. Even though it acted as a barrier, it felt abnormally warm.
“Lohen?”
He blinked. “I’m fine. I can handle my liquor juuuust fine.” He slurred a bit, but he knew what he was doing, and where he was. He took another gulp. He’ll just get tipsy enough to forget about you and Thoma for a bit. This is why people drank, right? “Something happen? Need me to fight anything?”
Through half lidded eyes, he watched you shake your head. “You seem a bit…drunk?”
He gulped down some more to compensate. “I’m not. You have nothing to worry about.”
You acknowledged it with a hum, and went back to staring at your drink. Lohen wondered why you stopped talking to Thoma—maybe he went to the washroom, or something.
“You never told me you started drinking. I could’ve brought you back some sake.”
Thoma’s absence tempted him. He slouched over, resting his cheek on your shoulder. It was wrong, to snuggle so close with someone else’s lover, but he wanted to do it one last time.
“It’s fine. It tastes like shit, anyways.” He reached for his drink, but you pushed it out of his grasp, and he gave you an indignant look, pale cheeks pouting, round and soft.
“I’m pretty sure you’re very drunk. Drink water first. You need to flush it out your system.” You turned around, finding someone to call for water, but Lohen refused. With an immature whine, his arms wrapped around you, chin nestled into your shoulder.
He could easily kiss you. All he had to do was move forward.
You smelled nice. A scent he couldn’t name, but it was far more pleasant than the colognes and perfumes he’s ever encountered. Something that didn’t fit into existing definition. His eyelids relaxed, and he embraced your proximity.
“Y–you’re drunk—”
“And you’re pretty.”
Lohen pressed even closer, his nose brushing against his neck. He wanted to press a kiss on the flesh, bite a bit, even. He thought to himself, about how badly he wanted to kiss you all over, spoil you with all the affection he could possibly conjure. Maybe leave even a mark or two, bruising you with his love for the rest of the world to see.
(But he held back. It was audacious enough to cling onto someone taken. He needs to pull himself together and apologise before Thoma returns.)
Despite his effrontery, your hand made its way to his head, caressing his hair before patting his back. “Are you alright?”
(He wanted to throw up. Not because of the alcohol.)
“It’s not fair.” Lohen slurred, now burying his face into your shoulder. “You were gone for so long, how was I meant to stand a chance?”
He should’ve scraped up the money and joined you on that boat, and travelled across treacherous seas while by your side. That way, he wouldn’t have to swim in all his desire. Now, he found himself drowning, with no way of reaching the surface again. Lohen’s love filled him up to the brink, from his heart to his lungs, dragging him down to the depths of nothingness.
(Lohen charged at any sort of peril of ease, even back then with six years less of experience. A simple love confession may appear pathetic in comparison to the dangers he faced, but wounds heal and flesh grows back, while a rejection would leave a scar uglier than the ones his skin donned.)
His hand squeezed you even tighter. “I love you—I should’ve told you before you left. Maybe then I would’ve stood a chance against…Thoma.” His words were punctuated by a violent hiccup, it tasted of beer and misery at the back of his throat. “And got to be there for you. All I could do was write letters.” Lohen’s voice broke, almost crumbling into tears. “Do you know how scared I was? What if I somehow forgot your voice, or how you looked…”
Lohen’s face peeled off your shoulder, and his lips daringly inched closer to your ear, though he didn’t go any further. "I know I can't make you love me—” He whined, a pathetic noise, one that not even children could make. “—but I should've found a real dandelion."
He shouldn't have torn his letter apart. "Maybe fate wouldn’t have taken you away from me.”
(Pull away, do it now, Lohen told himself. It grew into insistent commands, echoing in his skull. You’re not his. What he was doing was wrong and was only going to make things harder for everyone, especially you. He could barely excuse himself spewing his emotions like this, now was the time to let go. And throw up.)
You weren’t replying. Of course you weren’t. He’ll have to apologise tomorrow, when his head wasn’t spinning and bile wasn’t growing at the back of his throat.
The world faded to black.
For the first time in his entire life, Lohen was mortified at himself.
He carried not an ounce of shame when poisoning Varka’s oversized beers, nor when hunting down and blackmailing Kaeya for a forged signature. Rumours did nothing to him, he did not care for the opinions of others, only freedom reigned his actions and philosophy.
His eyes hadn’t even opened yet, and behind the darkness of his eyelids, all he saw was disgrace. He’d be impressed by how self conscious he was, if it weren’t for the fact that it was you he embarrassed himself in front of—he probably tarnished your reputation too, the one you barely got to rebuild after your return.
But he was remorseful as he was humiliated. You deserved an apology, and so did Thoma, even if he was envious of him. He’d let you beat him to a pulp if needed, if that was what it took to earn a chance of redemption.
“Fuck…” He groaned, pushing himself up. “Everything hurts.”
The sunlight oozing into the windows was blinding, despite being gentle and soft, all it did was make his head throb uncontrollably. His muscles screeched for help, soreness seized his body hostage. Lohen’s head felt too heavy, as if he could collapse at any moment.
He thought about last night, and everything beyond his body began to hurt.
It really wasn't a nightmare. You being in love with someone else.
Lohen cackled to himself, all alone in his bed. He's a fucking idiot, and loser, and should never be in the proximity of alcohol again.
Why was he even surprised? You were perfection and sunlight personified, it was no wonder whenever someone asked you out. If anything, it was Lohen’s fault not considering that during his last goodbye.
But instead, he tore his confession into pieces, for a wish that came true far too late.
“I'm an idiot, aren't I…?” Lohen whispered, to no one in particular.
“I don't think so.”
“What the fuck—?”
You had just walked in with a glass of water. “Sorry. I heard you laughing and realised you were awake.” You approached his bed with a glass of water. “Feeling okay?”
Lohen accepted wordlessly. He wasn't sure what to be embarrassed for, from his unrequited feelings to whatever the hell he was doing earlier, it felt as though he’d done everything possible to make a fool of himself.
‘Good job.” You praised, taking the glass from his hands.
(You were attractive, even when talking to him like a child. Being praised for drinking water seemed absurd, but he wasn't allowed to say that when he was relishing every word.)
Now wasn't the time—he watched you place the glass on his bedside table, as you settled onto his bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. That makes sense.”
Come to think of it, he hardly had any recollection of last night, aside from his shameless antics. It felt worse, not knowing the full extent of his predicament.
He glanced around his house. “How did I get back home?”
“I carried you.”
Lohen didn't remember that.
“Th–thanks. You didn't have to.”
“I didn't have a choice. You were clinging onto me and saying I had to come over.”
He didn't remember that either.
“It was pretty cute, actually. You were really excited to show me your new place. For good reason, too—”
‘I’m so sorry. I–I–I can slit my stomach open for you—that's how they do it in Inazuma, isn’t it?”
(He enjoyed being called cute far too much. Now was not the time for it.)
“No—I mean yes, they do—that's not the point.” Your hand held his, reassuring him with the rhythmic stroke of your thumb. “No one’s mad at you, Lohen. I’m definitely not.”
God, even now, you managed to be kind. Lohen would go insane if someone behaved as ridiculously as he did.
“Yeah but I bet Thoma is—”
“Why would Thoma be mad at you?”
He waved his hands around frantically. “I was hitting on you—I’d be pissed if a guy was all over my lover like that.”
You blinked once. Then twice.
“Thoma and I aren't dating.”
He was so shocked, that relief didn't even pay him a visit. In fact, nothing went through his head.
“Did you think we were together?”
“Y–yeah?”
You were stunned too, mouth hanging open as you processed his words. “Is that why you were one-upping him?”
“I was doing what?” A sharp pang throbs in his head for speaking too loud.
“While you were drunk—you were rambling about how Thoma. You said stuff about tall men being difficult to date and blond people being insanely overrated—”
Lohen snapped, unintentionally. “Stop. I'm gonna die if I hear the rest of that.”
First, his one and only love didn't want him back, then he got wasted over a conclusion he jumped too, and now he was hungover in front of you.
He swallowed. “I still owe you two.” If anything, he’d prefer you to slit his stomach open, or beat him ‘til you were satisfied. Anything over how calm and understanding you were being. “You must’ve been embarrassed.”
You shrugged. “I told you, it was cute. I've never seen you so clingy.”
Another hot, uncomfortable wave of embarrassment washed over him.
He should bring up his feelings now, shouldn't he? Apologise for confessing in such an inappropriate, dramatic way in a public setting. Then he should walk you home and apologise to Thoma while he was at it.
Where should Lohen start? He drafted an apology in his head; about last night, sorry for—
“—I love you too, by the way.”
“The fuck?”
A hand clasped over his mouth and he felt another urge to profusely apologise.
“Last night. You said you loved me.”
He watched you inch closer, his heart racing even more when he felt your warmth in his proximity. “I did say that.”
“Why are you so surprised then?” Your hand holds onto his, abnormally warm compared to his body temperature. “I'm giving you an answer.”
“Wh—are you sure?” Since when were you this ballsy? You used to be so timid and shy, now you were essentially climbing onto him. “I must be going insane.”
“I had six years to think about you while I was gone. Yes, I’m very sure.” You pinched his cheek, gently tugging at the flesh. “See? You're not dreaming.”
Lohen’s mouth hung open, yet no sound came out. He stared at you, and at your thighs that were on top of his, and the pink permeating the apples of your cheek.
(Words were never his thing. Paperwork was pointless when all the information was in his head and made perfect sense to him. He even had a hard time adapting to writing letters, it didn’t sound nearly as nice when it was in ink instead of speech.)
So Lohen pulled you closer. You landed on his chest, his arms clamped around you like a vice.
You yelped, peering back up at him. “Lohen?”
His fingertips played with the back of your shirt. “May I?”
“Sure but what are you—” A shaky gasp interrupted your question, and the noise drove Lohen insane. “Cold—your hands are so cold—what are you doing?”
"Need to feel you more—" His hands massaged the soft flesh, he was right, you’d gained quite a bit of muscle since you left. His hands paused and his hollow eyes held something akin to sorrow. “Fuck. Do you know how upset I was? I–I–I was worried you were engaged.
You snorted, pinching his cheek again. “Engaged? Why would I be engaged with Thoma, when all I wanted was here in Mondstadt?”
Lohen’s gaze drifted away. “You were blushing.”
“Hm?”
“You were blushing around him. When I dropped you off. So I thought you had a thing going on.”
This time, you burst into laughter. Normally, he’d enjoy how it sounds, but right now, all it did was fuel his embarrassment. He withdrew his hands from your back and rubbed his eyes as you composed yourself. “Sorry—that was mean. Did it not occur to you that I was flustered because of you?”
Lohen frowned and scoffed. “You didn’t even look at me when I dropped you off.”
You rolled over, settling next to him. “Really? I probably got embarrassed. I told Thoma all about you, y’know? Since like...the beginning of our friendship? He kept telling me to confess to you during the trip here. He even made a whole gameplan for me. Y’know he only invited us to dinner to try to get us alone. He slipped away after you got tipsy.”
(Huh. Maybe Thoma was a good guy, after all. Not only does he owe him an apology, but a massive thank you, as well.)
“So. There’s no doubt that you’re the one I want, okay? It was like that long before I left Mondstadt.”
Weakly, he nodded, finally able to feel relief. “Okay.”
You liked him back, no, loved him back. For over six years, too.
Lohen's heartbeat raced, to the point he began to worry about it bursting out of his chest. Unable to cope with all the emotions eating away at it and his pounding headache, he flopped back into bed. He’ll deal with it when he’s not hungover. For now, knowing of your feelings was the only thing keeping him alive at the moment.
He turned away from you, burying his face into his hands, wincing at the aftermath of his drinking. "Ugh. My head fucking hurts...'m gonna die for a bit. Wake me if it's an emergency."
You sat up instead, already heading to the kitchen. "Oh. I just started preparing a hangover soup but—"
Lohen shot up, posture pin straight. "I'll eat."
“You just said your head was hurting. You should rest first.”
But he stood up, throwing his blanket somewhere on the floor. “Soup. I want soup.”
Your mouth opened to protest, but you gave up. “Sure. Whatever you want. Let’s go to the kitchen, then.”
“I love you.” Lohen said, a plea for you to say that you loved him again. Even with evidence, everything still felt like a dream. He wondered if this was another pleasant dream, and he’d wake up, forehead to the desk in Varka’s office with groggy eyes, accompanied by paperwork instead of you.
He begged for it not to.
You took his hand, pulling him along. “I love you too, Lohen.”
“So. Now we’re together.”
Lohen’s quill was nowhere to be seen, and his feet were propped up onto the table, as Varka groaned, arms crossed at his own desk.
“I get that young love is beautiful and whatnot. But might I remind you, that you’re still under strict supervision and you didn’t come in at all yesterday.”
Lohen rolled his eyes, his cheery mood undeterred by Varka’s disappointment. He had spent the entire morning rambling about you, celebrating your new status as lovers and verbally brainstorming his plans for the future. He told Varka of all the souvenirs you brought him (if it could even be called that—there were crates upon crates) and boasted about how lucky he was to be in love. He even went as far as mocking Varka, boasting about how you made him a special hangover soup, all from scratch, while Varka had to tough out his hangovers.
(He even ventured towards the topic of marriage, debating where to get an engagement ring commissioned someday and reminding himself to figure out your favourite gemstone. Varka scoffed when Lohen asked where he got his, rubbing in the fact that the Grandmaster was very much single. The closest thing Varka was married to was duty and responsibility—maybe even alcohol, too.)
A gloved hand rested over his chest. “To be fair, you did pull me out of solitary confinement for them.” He stared at the roof, unbothered by the chandelier’s glare as he swooned. He’ll pick up a nice bouquet of lovers on his way home for you. “Six years have never been more worth it. Barbatos, I'm sorry for cussing you out. You're not so bad.” He said to no one in particular.
The Grandmaster stood up, approaching the young man. He grabbed his quill and tossed it in front of him. “Was your lover worth getting wasted in front of everyone?”
Lohen’s heart sank to his stomach. His neck snapped straight and he looked Varka dead in the eye.
“Oh hey. You’re turning red now. You’re starting to remind me of Diluc’s hair.”
“How’d you even know about that?” Suddenly, his feet were off the table, heels planted to the floor and his body tensed up, as if preparing to escape or attack Varka at any moment.
“I was there? Had a drink with Kaeya and caught up with Thoma. His mother and I go way back” A slight smirk creased his lips. “You don’t seem very fond of him.”
You failed to mention that, all you told him was that he was being clingy and confessed, before begging you to come over. How much did you leave out? You were the type to omit details for the sake of another’s dignity, and the only things Lohen could recall by himself was his slurred speech and whining.
Varka didn’t relent in his teasing. “Huh. You don’t seem so bad when you’re shy. I can see why you’ve finally found yourself a lover. Well done, by the way. Good thing Thoma wasn’t interested in them.”
“I’ll do the paperwork, okay?” He snatched the quill, grip tightening to the point his knuckles faded to white. At this rate, he was going to do things worse than poisoning his beer. He’ll rush through this paperwork before running off to go see you again.
But apparently, his current state wasn’t amusing enough. “I can see why you don’t drink. You’re worse than me. You even threw mora at Thoma to prove you were richer. Kind of cute seeing you jump to conclusions and get all whiny—”
“Shut up.” He really will up his dose of poison. And throw out the antidote while he’s at it.
in which, after years of inhabiting lohen's lonely dreams, you finally return to mondstadt. he finds himself overflowing with joy and relief—until he realises you brought a friend, one you were very close with; one he now deemed his greatest rival.
part two to paper dandelion! but this works as standalone too (i think?)
contents. lohen x gn!reader, childhood friends + reunion, happy ending, fluff, crack (kinda), angst, 12k words, lohen story quest spoilers, (possibly) suggestive, thoma's your close friend, lots and lotssss of jealousy and he's kinda pathetic but it's ok, jokes about killing people/kys, mentions of gore (? offering seppuku as an apology but not actually doing it), swearing, alcohol and getting drunk, mentions of poisoning, lohen jumping to conclusions, doesn't follow genshin timeline/events, no beta we die like adorno
thank you for everyone's patience! much love to you all :)
tags: @swivi, @pjselee, @danielapuppy41, @sksjdkksjsjsh
Despite a considerable amount of time passing since the treacherous Nod Krai expedition, Lohen found himself unable to adapt to the amiable streets of Mondstadt again.
Mondstadt City was dreadfully uncomfortable. It lacked the Favonius Keep's prerequisite of strength and constant vigilance, and the thrill which accompanied. Mondstadt was pathetic in comparison to the perils of the Nod Krai and its beasts. The expectation to be alert was no longer, now earning Lohen absentminded comments to 'relax' and resurfacing rumours of his insanity.
His colleagues earnt shrivelled up expressions of disgust, a violent shudder would pounce on his spine whenever he saw how relaxed they were, drinking their hearts out 'til midnight and puking out on the streets.
(If getting wasted was so necessary, at least remain somewhat competent—Lohen counted twelve opportunities for Gunther to get killed as he stumbled away from the Angel's Share the other night; he should've been grateful it was Lohen judging him, and not a member of the Fatui.)
Human life was fragile, it expired early and death pounced on the nearest person without mercy, and never took breaks, thus, neither should humans.
Today, was no exception to Lohen's discomfort.
He arrived to work late—as always, greeting Mika on his way to the Grandmaster's Office with a lazy wave before slouching into his seat, where an obscene stack of paperwork awaited him. The quill between his fingers was abnormally heavy, and Varka's gaze wouldn't leave him.
"Y'know. You don't have to stare me down that hard."
He scoffed, crossing his arms. "Brat. Who's the one who shortened your confinement?"
For once, Lohen kept his mouth shut, deciding the Grandmaster deserved his best behaviour. It was the least he could do
Solitary confinement, you managed to make tolerable. He wrote of everything to you, from details of his Nod Krai expedition to Adorno's passing and his punishment, scrawling away to process what happened, and to pass the time. Though his solitude remained true, writing to you was essentially the same as company. Day melted into night when he thought of you. He had to regularly call for more paper, only when his words to you reached a length rivaling the novellas of the Favonius Library, Varka convinced Jean to mitigate his punishment. On the basis of his good behaviour, he argued that he deserved the privacy to mourn Adorno, and mail his letter to you. Lohen was free to return home and live normally, at the expense of strict supervision and paperwork during his hours.
(You remained to be a blessing. First, giving Lohen the best childhood and teenage years, and now you were bailing him out of punishment, without even being in the nation.)
Lohen missed you, a lot. Absurdly so. Mountains and oceans apart, you were in Inazuma, where he hoped you felt the same.
Six years was too long. In the first year, he went strong, told himself that you'd be back in no time and that letters were sufficient. By the second, he was going even more insane than he already was, actively searching out ruin guards to bully at Stormbearer Mountains in the dead of night as stress relief.
He wanted to touch you, feel your skin against his and to listen to you rant and laugh—a melody that no choir could ever recreate. He wanted to pinch your cheeks again and watch them redden. He missed how you'd cling onto him whenever you got scared, and he wished he was there for every adversity you were facing over there. He wished he could watch how much happier you were becoming with his open two eyes, instead of reading it with months delayed.
Lohen wanted you. Not your letters. Those wouldn't come sleep over when the nightmares became too much, nor bandage his injuries when they were placed so awkwardly. They capture only your handwriting and nothing else. He would’ve forgotten your voice long ago, had he not thought about you constantly, reciting memories like prayer.
Confinement to letters wouldn't be so bad if he didn't have to wait months for mail to arrive. Letters only satiated so much. And they were volatile—who knows if the mailman would drop either one of your letters, or if storm strikes down the ship it sails on. Only Barbatos himself would know of what happens to them.
(With every victory, you came to mind first. Varka and Jean read of it first through paperwork, then word of mouth would inform the rest of the knights. Sometimes it reached the citizens of Mondstadt.
The best Lohen could do was write it for you first, and pretend it was the same as finding you in your favourite spot at the library, or knocking on your window to demand your attention. In his head, you were the first to know because he wanted you to be. It was far better than agreeing with reality.)
After hearing of his complaints, you opted to mailing him a diary, a collection of thoughts and stories you wanted to share with him, organised by date. Inside, you sandwiched a response to the letter he'd send, alongside folded papercraft (known as 'origami', you said). Lohen built a small bookshelf for these, adorning his empty bedroom with your days.
His gaze wandered to the window, surely he could keep his mind preoccupied. There should've been something remotely interesting to watch—the statue of Barbatos stood proud, as always, welcoming all to the open arms of Mondstadt. Towards the bottom was Barbara, serenading a group of people. That stupid, green bard was nearby, and Lohen rolled his eyes and decided it was time to stop looking outside.
His quill hauled itself across the page, leaving the mere date in its trail.
You can do it, I'll wait for you!
Lohen sculpted every drifting thought into an illusion of you, imagining you were there with him, seated on the couch across the room, waiting for him to finish so the two of you could go skip rocks at Cider Lake.
(Back in the day, Adorno would give you guys 'homework', insisting that puzzles were good for your brain. Your logic flowed as seamlessly as your hands, finishing his tasks with ease; Lohen couldn't say the same for himself. Adorno had to give you guys separate worksheets, since you'd simply give the answers to Lohen.)
The room was drained of its sunlight, fading into a soft pink. Every scratch of his quill against the parchment whittled time away. Varka didn't need to snap at him, and
He finds himself connecting his letters. You wrote in cursive ever since you were little, and still did—
Fuck, his concentration was breaking. What he haphazardly glued together were falling apart, shattering into even smaller bits and pieces.
He tried to fall back on his initial tactic, but all he could think of was how different you must've looked by now. You mentioned getting much more exercise. Did you bulk up, or were you the kind to slim down? Maybe you managed to grow a few centimetres, or perhaps you had a tan now? He had no idea what the weather was like over there.
He was unable to conjure an image of you, only wonder and curiosity, and a desperation to see you once more. Questions blurred his vision and hypotheticals presented possibilities without rest. His energy and attention slipped away, leaving him to soak in his pathetic longing.
"Fuuuuuck offff." Lohen slouched onto the table, cheek resting against the cold, polished wood. He entertained the thought of smashing his head into the table until he was out cold, that way, he wouldn't have to do paperwork, nor be forced to cope with the fact that he couldn't see you.
The stupid pile of paperwork was just as prominent, and infuriating, as his inability to focus. Why couldn't you leave him alone?
(Stupid fucking Barbatos. If the god of freedom out of all beings out there couldn't bring you back, he could've at least freed him of this constant craving of you. This was exactly why Lohen hated gods and refused to partake in anything religious)
Then there was the Sakoku Decree too. You insisted the Vision Hunt Decree only targeted Vision wielders, that you were safe and he had nothing to worry about, but Lohen did the exact opposite. A dictator was never honest, a leader that would approve of such policy would not be one fit to protect its people. Those stuck in Inazuma, including you, requested the help of the Knights to return home, though they were fruitless.
Any resemblance of concentration was long gone. It abandoned him the moment he thought of you again, leaving him to spiral.
Varka's heavy footsteps approached him, his large hands sifting through the paperwork Lohen had (somehow) managed to complete successfully. "...not bad. I've never seen you do so much. And your handwriting's neat." Lohen peeled himself off the desk with disheveled hair, and hollow eyes begging Varka for freedom. "You've done enough, I don't like paperwork too. Good improvement."
For a brute that drank like a fish, he was surprisingly thoughtful.
"I'm gonna kill myself."
The Grandmaster chuckled, ruffling the Vice Captain's hair and patting him on the shoulder. "Paperwork does that, kid."
Dusk stained Mondstadt pink. Remains of day bled everywhere, as Lohen walked across stone pavement alongside Varka, watching over children that chased each other by the fountain. The Good Hunter kept many company, its patrons howling with laughter and cheersing obscenely large tankards. His fingers twitched at his sides, missing their skinship with his dagger and lance, while the wind caressed his face.
Doing paperwork was so awful, that Lohen considered getting drunk, calculating whether the vulnerability would be worth the mindless bliss of being wasted—there had to be a reason why everyone in Mondstadt loved beer, and why even the Grandmaster himself had no problem with drinking to his very limits.
"So." He drawled, itching to leave the city and head to Wolvendom to fight something. "Why am I here again?"
"Because you're under supervision. And I need a beer." The man groaned, stretching an arm and scratching his back. "You look like you need a drink."
"A fight, you mean."
Varka slapped him on the back, enough force to almost make him fall over. "Be grateful I didn't make you do my paperwork too, hm? Maybe it's a good thing you didn't become captain. You wouldn't last a day." Before Lohen could retort, something else grabbed Varka's attention. "Be right back—someone looks lost." A finger pointed forwards, Lohen's halflidded eyes didn't bother tracking them as he let out a wordless grunt.
Maybe now was a good chance to run off. And if Varka tried to get him into trouble again, he'd snitch on Varka to Jean for drinking.
He took an analytical glance at Varka, only for his heart to freeze on the spot.
The sun had already set, yet you managed to glow in its absence.
Lohen's feet didn't move, they couldn't—all that went through his head was relief, leaving him in a stupor.
The world went silent, all that was nonessential melted into nothingness. What remained was you, with wide eyes marveled by your home city again.
You. Here. In Mondstadt. Where Lohen was.
You didn't look so different, contrary to all the different theories he had conjured in his curious boredom. You must've lost a bit of weight from travelling so much, but you looked stronger overall. Your smile was bright, as always, only this time it made Lohen choke on his own spit, and question if he had really lost it.
The Vice Captain of the Fifth Company does not cry. However, he'd make an exception for you.
His body finally awoke, and he took a step towards you. And another. Until he could hear you.
You were looking up at Varka, a bit unsettled by the height difference, but friendly nonetheless. "Oh—I'm from here, it's just been a long time. I haven't spoken the language in a while too. I might be lost..."
Lohen didn't even get to say hi, before you pounced on him.
"Oh my god—" Your voice hitched, on the brink of crumbling into tears. "I missed you so much."
Your arms wrapped tightly around his waist and he squirmed—the closest to hugging he ever did was wrestling new recruits, who could never lay a hand on him.
(But his arms reciprocated, carefully feeling your back as he held onto you. It felt harder than before, your working out must've paid off. The muscle was warm, even through your clothes and his gloves.)
He still couldn't speak. No words would come out, immobilised by his shock. All he did was nuzzle his chin into your shoulder and rediscover your warmth.
"Ahem." Varka cleared his throat, immediately pulling you out of your hug. You scrambled to stand straight, glowing a furious red while muttering out apologies. Varka mirrored your words, saying that he hates to ruin your moment.
(Stupid old man. Lohen wasn't nearly as big as enough to throw him into the fountain, unfortunately. He was going to up his dosage of poison next time. He'll spit in his next beer while he's at it, too.)
As if he wasn't going through every emotion he yearned for, Lohen deadpanned, droning at his boss. "Yeah?"
"You guys...friends?"
You answered first. "Yup! I haven't seen him since before I left."
Lohen thought that was sufficient for his question. "You're back...how—? The decree—you never said anything about returning."
Joy scrunched your face. "It ended a while back. I wanted to surprise you, so I didn't write about it."
(Lohen was young, and very much in great shape, but he thought shock was going to force his heartbeat to a halt. He now owes Barbatos for every time he cussed him out bitterly in his head.)
"You're back..." He repeated.
"I am!"
Besides you, Varka cocked a brow. "Decree? You mean Inazuma?"
You nodded. And Varka went pale. He took a step closer to you.
"You must've been scared. Being trapped in the country. I heard about everything that happened over there." Varka was solemn, regret clouded his face and his voice went dry.
You shook your head. "Things have gotten better over there. It feels normal again." There wasn't a sign of dishonesty, but Varka sank down to a knee regardless, hand over his chest.
"I'm sorry we couldn't do anything. Even though it's our role as knights to protect the people of Mondstadt, we couldn't save you guys. As Grandmaster, I failed you all."
He must've been referring to all the letters that were sent, from merchants to separated family members, asking for help and some sort of intervention.
(Lohen used to press his ear against Varka’s door, picking up bits and pieces of his discussions with Jean on what to do, though now wasn't the time to admit that.)
You were flustered at the chivalrous act, frantically glancing around at the stares you were receiving. "It's not your fault—the shogun and her people aren't fond of foreigners. Please don't kneel—"
Lohen rolled his eyes and tapped Varka's calf, bordering on a kick. "You heard 'em. You're embarrassing us."
Now flustered, Varka stood, rubbing the back of his head. "I still feel bad. Adorno was upset when he found out what happened. He even considered sailing all the way there to negotiate on our behalf."
(Lohen remembers that. When he came running to Adorno to lament about the news, the man was equally as heartbroken. While Lohen panicked, Adorno was already planning to use his retirement funds for an expedition there.)
Your eyes lit up. "Speaking of Adorno—how has he been?"
Lohen's throat closed up, before glancing at Varka.
Adorno's grave was still clean from last time he stopped by. That was good.
The cecilia was beginning to wilt, a light brown began permeating its white petals. He's surprised the wind hadn't blown it away—maybe Barbatos was good for something after all.
The two of you were behind the Cathedral, Adorno's final resting place where many lay peacefully. Daylight was no more, and the cold bit at his face.
His gaze trailed over to you, where you were frozen in the evening, staring at the stone cross. "I wrote about it to you. You just got here before it could arrive."
You said nothing in response, blinking slower than usual.
He sucked in a sharp breath of air. "Do not stand by my grave and cry. My life, I gave to wipe tears dry." Lohen recited Adorno's final words, the last wish he made before his passing. He took a step closer, too apprehensive to dare touch you yet. "There's no need to be sad. It was painless, and peaceful. He was gettin' old, too."
Adorno, in bed, life and colour long gone from his face. Despite tethering on the borders of life and death, his wrinkled hands were abnormally warm, far more than the campsites of their expedition. Lohen's eyes burnt and his nose felt funny, but he subsided it for the sake of his last wish.
"But. If you need to cry, go ahead. I won't tell him." Lohen's hand rested on the small of your back. "We can go around the corner for a bit. And come back. O–Or I can give you some time alone if you need—?"
"—no. I'll stay." You scrunched your nose and blinked hard, but you didn't cry. "It's been too long."
So you sat down, and Lohen joined you.
"It was his health, wasn't it? You said he was getting worse a while back. 'm surprised he lived for that long." You murmured, squinting at the date of birth and death. "He only passed recently."
Lohen prepared himself to tell the whole story. His gloves felt uncomfortably stuffy before he told you everything.
By the end of it, your eyes were wide as saucers, bewildered at it all.
"Yeah." He wasn't proud of it, but it felt worse admitting it to you, out of all people. Had you been there at the time, you would've told someone immediately, out of pure concern for everyone's wellbeing. "I wrote it all down for you during my solitary confinement. Haven't even seen Theodore since then. He probably got longer than me."
(He should pay a visit, he thought to himself. Though Theodore was the main instigator, without Lohen, he wouldn't have made it that far. He wonders how he's been doing.)
You, were still processing everything. "So you and Theodore...injected Adorno with Ursa's flesh...the same stuff that we were supposed to be experimented on for?”
Lohen nodded.
"And you were the test subject?"
"Yeah."
"Are you stupid? Why would you willingly do that to yourself?"
You hit him in the shoulder, with a new kind of strength you didn't have last time he met you. "I know—I don't feel good about it either. I was desperate, and y'know, I thought it'd make me stronger, since Ursa's a dragon and all, and whatever. But yeah. It was stupid. I don't really regret it, though. Got to talk to Adorno for a bit longer, and the whole thing helped me accept I was weak.”
He stared at his outstretched palm, where he had pierced with his dagger. Ursa's screams echoed in his skull, and he squeezed his eyelids tight to ignore it. She was dormant, but his fears weren't. At the end of the day, he was nothing more than a mortal.
You nudged him. "I don't think you're weak. Acknowledging it makes you stronger than most people. And I don't think you were wrong for wanting Adorno to live longer."
Lohen shrugged. "I'm only strong among the weak. I'm nothing compared to the people I've met." Racher of Solnari. The Honorary Knight. Even Varka, the Grandmaster—those who belonged in fairytales and legends to be passed down from generation to generation. They all existed in a realm separate to Lohen's, a random boy who almost fell victim to a harbinger. "I'll get there. Someday. Just not today. I won't do anything like that again, old man."
(Of course, the grave did not respond. But he imagines Adorno ruffling his hair and telling him he was proud of Lohen.)
As long as he didn't lose sight of his goals, nor himself. Lohen had no need for power he couldn't control, for it wouldn't be known as power anymore—only poison.
You agreed with a hum. "You better not. You can't get stronger if you're dead."
Lohen let out a dry chuckle, then silence spoke next.
The wind got colder, though gentle, the grass danced alongside it. Fireflies paid a visit, some fascinated by the gravestones that stood tall, others preferred the flowers gifted to them. Day was no longer, aside from the dainty lights of streetlamps standing guard and the lantern sitting nearby, there was no light.
"Your turn." Lohen nudged you.
"What?"
"Tell him all about Inazuma. He wants to know how you've been doing. This time from you, and not the letters you sent over."
(Lohen never shut up about you, Adorno was the closest thing to a father for him, so naturally, he endured the most of his rambling. You'd write him something as simple as "I love sashimi" and Lohen managed to turn it into an essay's worth of conversation, pondering to Adorno on how he could prepare some as a gift to your return, or marveling at how the people of Inazuma ate fish raw, commending their bravery and immune systems.
Adorno often joked that you wouldn't be able to tell him anything about your time away, since he'd have already heard it from Lohen too.)
"You don't have to say it out loud. I just say it in my head if I don't want someone else to hear." He clarified. "Or you can pay another visit next time, if y'know, you need time to process?"
You shook your head. "I'm alright—I just don't know where to start."
"Wherever you want."
You took a deep breath, Lohen noticed the ever so slight tremble. "Hi Adorno. Long time no see." He leaned back on his palms, watching you tell your story. "I've gotten a lot better. Like really better, the psychologist I was seeing was actually a youkai. It's a kind of spirit from Inazuma and..."
...you told Adorno of Yumemizuki Mizuki, the dream eating tapir, and your psychologist, whom you held a world of gratitude for. You shared your progress, from learning to open up about your past to no longer having nightmares.
The story trailed to your job. It started as Mizuki providing you work at her bathhouse, a role where you prepared their snacks and meals for her clients. It was life-changing, as you described it. You let Adorno know that he didn't have to worry for your future, the job had given you the confidence to pursue culinary school, and you'd been financially stable by yourself ever since. Your career had given you a sense of direction, and you finally felt you belonged in the world.
"Having money's a lot of fun, to be honest. I'm glad I could finally do something for my parents with it."
Your words were soft, yet it strangled Lohen violently.
It was a long time ago, but there was a time where you cried more often than you smiled. Regrettably, you had argued over it. Multiple times.
I hate being so useless. I wish I wasn't a burden to everyone.
The fuck are you talking about? Lohen usually snapped, a tone he wished remained foreign to you. If you need money I'll give it to you. Stop beating yourself up over a stupid job. It wasn't worth your time if everyone there picked on you, was it? Your boss was a piece of shit anyways.
Nausea hit him in a violent wave. He always apologised without fail and you talked things out properly, but he knows he shouldn't lose control. Not towards the people he loves.
"...now that the Sakoku Decree's lifted, I'm back here." You concluded, look back at Adorno with a smile. "I'm probably going to...Lohen? Are you crying?"
Only then, did Lohen notice the wetness on his cheeks.
"No—" He lifted his half cape to conceal his face, recompose himself, and blame it on his dandelion allergy that he'd killed off years ago, but you were faster, prying his wrists away.
Your eyelids fluttered, as if you were the one crying instead. "Is it Adorno...?" You let his wrists go and crawled closer, soft thumbs wiping his tears away.
He shook his head, vision blurring with more tears. "It's yo—you, you're so happy now. And I dunno—I just feel relieved." His sinuses began to clog. "I thought of every time you cried and talked badly about yourself. And then I thought about whenever I lost my temper at you. And now I feel like shit. " His voice crumbled to nothing but weak sobbing. Lohen aggressively rubbed his eyes, as if he could rid of his tears that way.
Your last night in Mondstadt, six years ago, flashed in his head. Your posture was slumped, a contrast to how you stood tall today. He didn’t have to work for a full smile from you, it replaced the half-assed one you donned to cover up your feelings.
(Lohen wasn't sure what was fluttering in his stomach. Pride? Relief? A hybrid of both? He knew you were far more capable than you deemed yourself to be, so he wasn't sure why he was getting so emotional.)
His tears died down, and you wiped each and every one of them, until they were no more. Your hands remained on his cheeks, holding them, before giving them a gentle pinch.
"Nmmph?"
"Your skin's so soft!" You pinched again, this time tugging on his cheeks. "You really haven't changed. You're just a bigger version of your little self."
(Lohen would've smited anyone else who tried to touch him like this, or made such a patronising comment about him. And although you were the sole exception, he'd also never admit he likes being coddled like this.)
"You're sooo cute." You let go of his cheeks, leaving him feeling bare. Your skin was no longer on his, but his face remained warm. "It's okay though. I told you, I'd be back as a happier person."
He nodded, sick of how he sounded when he spoke. The quiver in his voice was nothing short of embarrassing and pathetic. He watched you shiver, hugging your knees tighter for any sort of comfort.
Lohen sniffled. "You're cold. Sorry, not tryna change the topic or anything. But you're shaking."
The moment you became aware of it, it seemed to intensify. "A bit. It rained a lot on the way here."
He sighed, huddling closer to wrap his cloak around you. "You should've rested first then, before doing anything."
"Probably." You coughed a couple times, pressing closer to him. "I got too excited though. I'll just eat a bunch of ginger."
Lohen huffed, guiding you to stand up. "I'm not going anywhere, neither is Adorno. Let's get you home."
You didn't resist, dusting off your knees. "Alright, alright—see you Adorno." You gave the grave one last stare. "And thank you for everything. Without you, today wouldn't have existed for me. For us."
A solemn nod from Lohen, and he silently agreed.
As you walked into the night, you gasped, peering down at the city before walking down the cobblestone stairs. “It’s so pretty. Look at all the lights from everyone’s house—oooh, and the stars!”
Lohen watched you smile. “Yeah. It’s beautiful. Very.”
“I missed Mondstadt.” You declared, jumping down each step one at a time.
(And Lohen missed you. Dearly so.)
“Mondstadt missed you too.” He murmured, a gloved hand reaching out for you, just in case you tripped or hurt yourself.
Together, you walked down the empty streets of Mondstadt City. The working week hadn't ended yet, leaving the city quiet and desolate, Lohen preferred this over seeing drunk men cheer and trip over their own feet.
"Where are you staying?"
(Though he appreciates your surprise return, he wishes you would've told him. Not only he thought he was having a heart attack, but he wanted to let you stay at his place—show off the fruits of his efforts and be the best host he could.
His shock died down, and now all he could think of was his confession to you. The moment he sends you back to your place, he was going to launch into frenzied brainstorming.)
"I'm renting a place at the moment."
His paranoia flared, questioning whose property it was. Shady landlords always targeted foreigners. Obviously, you weren’t one, but anyone could easily treat you as one after how long you were gone for.
But he didn't want to intrude. You’re smart enough to be cautious of scammers. "You could've stayed in my place. I moved into a bigger house since you left." He says, as if he hadn't told you this over parchment and ink already.
You chuckled, a tune he was addicted to. "I know, but I told you, I wanted this to be a surprise. The rent isn't too bad."
Maybe it was better that you weren't staying at his place. It gave Lohen better opportunity to figure out how he wanted to declare his love. It'd be awful if you walked into his preparations.
"Whatever you say."
Past the Good Hunter you turned, and there it was. You pointed to a building, it wasn't anything grand, but felt excessive for only one person to live in.
"We're here. Thanks again for walking me home." You grinned before sneezing, immediately covering your nose with your palm. The other hand fumbled through a pocket for a tissue.
"Geez—I thought you said your cold wasn't that bad?"
Before Lohen could speak, another voice reached for you.
The door to your house was open, and out came a man. He was tall, short, blond hair propped up by a black hairband. He donned a red jacket, over a tight, black shirt decorated by a silver dog tag.
Down the stairs he hurried, to check up on you and nag about your health.
Who the fuck is this?
After blowing your nose properly, you recomposed yourself, standing straight. "Sorry—I didn't think I'd be out this late." You looked back at Lohen. "Right. Lohen, this is Thoma." You gestured to the man besides you, who waved politely at Lohen, resembling a carefree dog. "Thoma, this is Lohen."
What the fuck is Thoma?
Despite being a man of quick decisions and logic, Lohen had little coherency in his thoughts.
"Nice to meet you, Lohen!" Thoma reached a hand out, and Lohen took far too long to reciprocate with his own. "Thanks for walking y/n home."
Were you seeing someone? This guy?
"Uh—yeah, no worries. Anytime."
No, he's jumping to conclusions. Friends travel and live together—
An aggressive shade of red dusted over your cheeks, reaching even your ears. "I'll see you soon. Thanks again." You quickly turned away from Lohen, ushering Thoma inside, muttering something about being cold.
With a final wave, you were inside. Through the window, he could see your blurry figures talk, and muffled laughter slipped out.
Lohen's expertise was vast, but was not applicable to romance in the slightest. However, everyone knows that a blush that deep had to indicate something, a crush, possibly even love, considering how far you had traveled together.
Paralysed and cold, he stood there, a storm of frantic thought brewing in his head. There's no way you guys were dating, right? You would've told him if someone had asked you out, or if you had a crush in the works. But what if this was another surprise?
For a brief moment, he pictured you guys on a date, and was met with immediate nausea.
(He was going to kill "Thoma", or whatever his name was, if it was the last thing he'd do.)
Since then, he was oddly provoked by Thoma, despite his polite demeanour and warmth.
When he returned home, he laid in bed and tried to rationalise the situation.
You. "Thoma". Dating?
Oh my god—what if you were married? Lohen didn't notice any rings on you, but you guys were reaching that age. You could've been intending on it, or maybe you packed your engagement ring away, all that’s valuable doesn’t belong in the open.
He buried his face into a nearby pillow,
It's not like you've ever loved him back that way, nor did you vow to remain single forever (not that it'd even matter—you're allowed to change your mind whenever), but he felt a sliver of betrayal. If he was going to get rejected, he at least wanted to stand a good chance, rather than being nations away.
Lohen dismissed the thought, reminding himself to simply ask next time he saw you before preparing to go to sleep.
The next morning at work, he earned nothing short of concern and judgement.
"What even happened to you?" Eula commented, poking Lohen's head. His cheek was pressed up against the wooden table, neglected paperwork somewhere off to the side and his quill laid just as dead.
He heard Amber come over, too. "Dunno. He looked awful when he got here, then he kinda just gave up after the Grandmaster went out for lunch. Lohennn, are you alright?"
"Is traveling from nation to nation and living with each other a couple's thing to do?"
The two women paused. Amber spoke first. "I guess so...?"
Lohen's fist pounded the table. "I'm gonna kill that bastard."
With a worried, 'let's give him some time', Eula guided Amber away.
He finally sat up, eyelids fighting for their life to remain open. All he did was spiral instead of sleep, conjuring up all sorts of wacky possibilities. It tortured him until morning, and skipping work wasn't a luxury either, considering how he was already in trouble.
He slouched again, this time his chin resting on his forearms. He closed his eyes, hoping for a quick power nap before Varka could yell at him.
Eula came into the room again, heavy boots stomping and interrupting his attempted nap. He didn't react, until she knocked aggressively on the table.
"Fuck…I was trying to slee—"
From behind Eula you peered at him, an awkward smile plastered on your face.
'You have a visitor.' She said, then she turned to you. "Sorry about him. He hates paperwork."
He was tempted to interject, insisting that he wasn't that bad with paperwork, it was stupid Thoma's fault. All he did was tiredly squint, and burn with shame.
"Should I...come back another time? Work seems hectic."
He shook his head, excessively, leaving his bangs in his face. "No—what's up?" Frantic, he adjusted them,
"I just...wanted to see you. And I have something I need to show you."
(It wasn't an engagement ring, was it?)
Lohen's gaze flitted around before returning to you. If he concentrated hard enough and made the most of his desperation, he'd get all this paperwork done. Hopefully soon. "Okay. Yeah that's fine. Just give me a bit more time, I'll be done soon."
The throbbing in his temples disagreed with him.
"Your library's so nice, I had a fun time talking to Lisa."
Lohen himself was impressed with his own performance. He powered through paperwork, a perfect balance of speed, and care, as to avoid being scolded and ordered to redo it all from scratch.
The fresh air helped out a bit, it woke him up and forced his eyes to stay alert. Being so openly weak was stressing him out, even with the confines of Mondstadt City and its walls, he couldn't help but worry about whether he'd be able to defend the two of you if anything happened.
"Lisa? Yeah she's alright..." He rubbed his eye, fervently.
Your hand clasped around his wrist. "You'll hurt your eye if you do that...did you not sleep enough?"
Not at all, actually. "Somethin' like that." His eye begged to be scratched again, but he held back for your sake. "Had...things on my mind."
You released him and nodded slowly. "Is being a knight that hard?"
(Being a knight was fine. Possibly having an unrequited love was far worse and nothing in comparison.)
He made an incoherent noise, before changing the topic. "Where are we going?"
"Back to mine." You smiled, and the exhaustion clinging onto his eyelid was beginning to fade. "I have stuff for you."
Lohen's face soured. Not at the thought of you, nor whatever you wanted to show him, but at Thoma. Lohen thinks he's going to throw up if he has to think about you two again.
"Wouldn't...Thoma be upset? Isn't he staying there as well? Don’t wanna intrude on you guys."
You shook your head. "He's visiting his mother today. Plus, he's a really sweet person, I'm sure you'd like him too.”
Lohen thinks not. "Are you guys like...friends?"
A pause filled the air. "I guess you could call it that. We met at culinary school."
(So are you dating or not? What kind of answer was that?)
Lohen nodded. He decided to take what he could get, and appreciate that he wouldn't have to see you and Thoma together, whatever your relationship was. He can worry about Thoma when he’s not sleep deprived and barely holding himself up. As you walked the familiar route from yesterday together, he found himself wincing whenever sunlight came too close for his liking, another predicament, alongside his brooding.
‘Oh yeah. I forgot to ask, but how are your parents doing?”
Lohen shrugged.
“Still not talking to them?”
“Yup.” He had no need for them or their ways. The most he did was pay a visit on their birthdays, dropping off a gift and a letter. He popped by on holidays, too, limiting conversation to basic greetings. You questioned it no further, just the way Lohen liked it—it was refreshing for someone to accept the way he lived, rather than yapping on about the importance of family and blood. “Yours?”
“They’re good. Turns out they prefer Inazuma far more than here.”
Lohen liked your parents, it was a shame they didn’t come with you. You inherited your kindness from your mother, who’d always encourage Lohen to come over for a meal whenever, and you had the same understanding as your father. Lohen never confided to him with his familial issues, yet he provided more insight on his situations than anyone else. He wished he could say hi again.
“What about you?” You haven’t told him exactly what you were doing here. “Are you just visiting?”
“Kind of? I’m planning to stay here for a bit. I don’t have a concrete plan.” You hummed, as the wind fluffed up your hair. “Might travel around, now that I’m not in the middle of nowhere.”
Good. That granted him a decent amount of time to confess to you.
“Well, let me know when you figure it out. I want to hear all about it.”
The house you were staying in came into view, but the sound of crying snapped your neck towards it. “What happened?”
Lohen scanned the vicinity, nearby was a child, a young boy, wailing and clutching at his bloodied knee. You wasted no time, rushing to his side.
“Are you okay?”
The kid cried some more.
Lohen joined you two. “Can you walk, kid?”
His tears didn’t stop, but he planted his small hands against your shoulders and pushed himself with a heave, biting his lip and gluing his eyes shut.
The kid turned to Lohen and nodded.
You inspected the graze. It appeared fine, with no visible dirt, and it was relatively shallow. “Well done. That must’ve hurt a lot, hm?”
He nodded. “It still does…”
With a subtle frown, you dug through your pockets, bringing out a small bag. “Want some candy? It’ll make you feel better.”
(Lohen wanted to ask for one too, but he refrained.)
As you tugged the pouch open, the kid deadpanned. “Mummy said I shouldn’t accept candy from strangers.”
Lohen couldn’t help but snicker, turning his face away to hide his amusement. “Smart kid—” He placed a hand on his back. “Mummy and Daddy are raising you right, hm?”
The kid stared back with judgement. Now it was your turn to laugh.
(Who knew kids were so unfiltered? Lohen knew kids were difficult, but looking back, he must’ve been a nightmare for every adult in the vicinity.)
“Sage—I told you not to run.”
The woman’s voice almost echoed across the city, frantic and booming. The boy reacted immediately, hobbling into her arms and resuming his crying. You both stood up as well.
“C’mon, what do you say to the nice couple?” She urged him to say thank you, and the boy reluctantly turned around, hands still clinging onto her clothes. “Thank you for looking out for him…oh, you must be a knight?”
She looked Lohen up and down, he saluted in response. “Yes. Your son should be fine, as long as you clean and bandage it. It doesn’t appear to be serious.” It felt wrong, performing his formalities in front of you. He reserved this tone for diplomatic meetings, where pissing off an official could ruin an entire agreement, not the gentle streets of Mondstadt City, where you could speak to anyone as if they were close friends.
The woman sighed, and thanked you as well. “You guys would make wonderful parents.”
Your eyes grew wide. “P–parents?”
“Yeah.” She repeated, as if it were common sense. “Aren’t you a couple?”
(See? Even the citizens of Mondstadt knew you two would be a great pair. Fuck you, Thoma.)
You corrected her with a stutter and flustered cheeks. “N–no ma’am.”
She was unbothered by it, and seemingly unconvinced as well. “Oh. What a shame, you seem to be close to each other.” With a final goodbye, she walked away with her son, excusing herself with needing to prepare dinner early tonight.
Together, you watched them return home. “Aw. I wanted him to taste test my candy.” The pouch laid in your hands and you frowned. “I didn’t know kids were so…sassy, nowadays.”
Giddy from the woman’s assumption, Lohen leaned closer. “I’m always here. I’ll eat anything and everything.” A random kid wouldn’t appreciate it as much as him, anyways. Those would eat anything as long as there’s enough colour and sugar.
You smiled. “Of course you will. You can try some after I show you what I planned out for you.”
A grin crept onto his lips. With anticipation akin to a child’s, Lohen followed you into your house like a puppy, overflowing with joy.
When he reached your living room, you stopped him, slipping behind the knight before encasing his eyes with your hands. They were soft, and warm, nothing in comparison to the calluses that inhabited his palms. “You’ll keep it a surprise, right?”
He despised the unpredictable and unknown, but he nodded and his eyelids shut willingly. “Of course.”
By his hand, you led him through the place, until coming to a stop.
“Open.” You requested. Then he obeyed.
Lohen blinked. It was just a living room. A bit bare, but it was a normal living room. There were crates stacked in a corner, presumably the belongings you and Thoma brought to Mondstadt.
He began sweating, wondering if he was just being incredibly dense. “Am I…?
You pointed to the corner, scurrying towards it and grabbing the closest one. “Souvenirs. For you. I probably should’ve considered how you were going to bring it home…”
Souvenirs? Those crates could probably carry every possession to his name.
“Come here—” You ushered him closer, placing the crate on the floor and prying off the lid.
He crouched beside you. “A crate is a lot for souvenirs, isn’t it?”
“Is it too much? These are all for you.”
(Lohen has infiltrated illegal auctions. Embarked on trecherous journey to the lawless nation of Nod Krai. Even went face to face with a sinner of Khaenri’ah. But he’s never felt more lost than right now, at this moment.)
“W—How’s there so much? I thought these were all your things.”
You blinked. “Nope. They’re for you.” You shrugged, beckoning him to look through his gifts by himself. “If something made me think of you, I bought it.”
Inside were an assortment of weapons, alongside bottles of what he assumed to be poison.
“Ah—this stuff’s for work and your training.” You beamed. “A friend of mine, his family specialised in bladesmithing. You said the more weapons you have, the safer you feel.”
“Y–yeah I did but—” He gestured to the stack of crates nearby. “But this is insane—this would’ve cost a fortune.” He remembered your family being middle class, neither struggling nor subjugating financially, but this was an absurd amount for anything.
“It’s over six years! I promise I’ve been working hard, I stayed with family majority of the time anyways.” Your eyes sparkled with promise. “Plus, I wanted to do something nice for you. You never buy yourself anything. I bet you still hardly treat yourself.”
(You were right. Unless it was a necessity or gift for another person, Lohen seldom spent money. It was a waste, considering the Knights funded all equipment, which included most of Lohen’s collection, and he preferred to have a great sum saved up, just in case something ever happened to him.)
“I guess not?” He scratched at his nape. Protecting himself and guaranteeing safety was a good enough “treat” for him. “Dunno what I’m supposed to get for myself, anyways.” He craved the things money couldn’t purchase. Getting Varka off his back, never running out of stamina, you—
“Then let me do it for you. You’ve always worked hard, Mr Captain.”
The title made him stutter and blush. “Vice. I told you, I didn’t get the promotion after what happened.”
But you didn’t care. “Well, Adorno and I think you’re worthy of it. And it’s basically yours since it’s vacant, no?”
(God, he’s getting way too far ahead of himself, but Lohen really wants to propose to you on the spot.)
“I—” For a moment, Lohen thinks to hug you, thank you in his own special way, with affection and his entire being—
“y/n! Do you have someone over?”
Great.
“Yeah—it’s Lohen.”
Thoma’s head popped into the doorway, and he grinned from ear to ear. “Hey. Hi again.” He greeted Lohen, who responded curtly. “What are you guys up to? I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
(Yes, yes you are Thoma. Read the fucking room.)
You patted the crate. “Souvenirs.”
Despite his irritation, Lohen wore a smile as he got up. “Hello again. How’s your mother doing?”
Thoma was caught off guard, glancing towards you. “She’s good, it’s been forever since I got to see her. Thanks for asking.”
“I didn’t expect you to remember that.” You mumbled, pushing off the crate to stand up. “He’s really attentive, isn’t he?”
His smile grew into something genuine in the praise. Thoma nodded along, hardly meeting Lohen’s gaze. “Yeah. Do you have any dinner plans?”
(Fuck. Lohen should’ve asked you to dinner before Thoma could.)
You shook your head, turning to Lohen. “Do you?”
He shook his head back, and internally, he was brimming with pride, celebrating the fact that you immediately turned to him.
Thoma readjusted his jacket. “Then since we’re all together, wanna go for a drink? It’ll be on me. I’ve hardly spoken to your friend yet.”
You immediately shook your head. “Lohen doesn’t dri—”
He lied, insisting otherwise. “It's alright. I couldn't possibly decline the kind offer."
And so, Lohen was seated in the Tavern besides you. Conversation of its patrons blended into one big mess, the noise infuriated Lohen, not nearly as much as his drink did.
Alcohol was fucking disgusting, Lohen thought, as he gulped down another ungodly mouthful. He glued his eyelids shut and swallowed, careful not to choke and spill any.
On the way to the Tavern, he watched you two carefully. So far, his theory of you two dating appeared false. There was hardly any physical contact between you two, nor did Thoma seem protective of you (and if Lohen’s assumption was correct, then Thoma was an awful boyfriend—who knows what could happen at night, near a bar where many drunk people were).
Logically, Lohen still stood a chance. However, getting you to like someone like him back, was an entirely new challenge he had to tackle.
Unlike Lohen, you and Thoma were fine, casually sipping without even a flinch. Conversation bounced between you with ease.
“I forgot how different Mondstadt’s beer was.”
“I wasn’t even old enough to drink, last time I was here.” Thoma finished the last of his drink, peering into the glass with an eye. “To be honest, I still prefer sake.”
With your glass to your lips, you chuckled. “Me too. This isn’t too bad, though.”
Lohen picked up his pace, you were finishing up too, he couldn’t fall behind. To find drinking alcohol enjoyable was weird, Varka, or anyone of the knights, had no right to call him insane when they could drink beer as if it were water, and derived pleasure from it.
(His stomach complained and groaned for help, but he kept going. He’ll make himself puke it out his system if needed. Lohen refused to appear weak in front of Thoma, out of all people.)
Another round of beers paid a visit, and Lohen already felt sick at the sight of a full glass.
“So Lohen, I had no idea you were Vice Captain! That’s really impressive.”
(What was that supposed to mean? That he didn’t appear worthy of his position?)
He played it off with a chuckle, thankful that speaking meant he didn’t have to drink. “It was nothing. Just took a few years of work.”
You butted in, protesting. “Liar—what do you mean Vice Captain isn’t a big deal?”
Lohen shrugged. “It’s not like I had to fight for my life for it.”
You huffed, taking another swig. “You still deserve credit.”
“You’re doing much better than me. If anything, hard work should be rewarded.” You were a cook because you dedicated your blood, sweat, and tears to it. Lohen was vice captain because he liked killing shit.
A smirk creased his lips, high off your praise, as he leaned forward to speak to Thoma. ‘What about you, Thoma? What do you do for a living?”
His face was hot and the insides of his mouth didn’t feel like his anymore, but he had to check what sort of guy you were possibly with. He took another large gulp, concealing his disgust with a sigh.
Despite it all, Thoma was unbothered by him. “I’m the housekeeper and Chief Retainer of the Yashiro Commission.” He clarified, proud and bright. “Nothin’ special.”
Damn right. But that was too impolite to say. Lohen kept to himself and nodded. “I see. Any good in a fight?”
You answered before Thoma could. “He actually is—he faced the shogun.”
Lohen choked on his own spit. “What?”
Thoma aggressively shook his head, pink blooming on his cheekbones. “All I did was throw a spear.”
“Oh shut up—you threw it at her and somehow survived.”
“Stop bringing it up already.” But he laughed alongside you, the two of you happily bickered and drank beer.
Lohen doesn’t get what you see in this guy. He took another swig, already adapting to the ugly taste.
Sure, Thoma did have a vision. And he was decently built, his muscles peeked out a bit from his tight top. And he was tall, really tall, but not in the same obnoxious, oversized way as Varka. He had blond, well kept hair and bright, green eyes that resembled green apples and ripe limes sold in the markets of Dornman Po—
Fuck. Now he was just listing all the good things about him. And there were plenty. Lohen himself couldn’t account for all the memories and feelings only you two shared and knew of. Thoma got to be there for you. Lohen was in a completely different continent.
Being blond wasn’t that important, was it? Varka’s blond and he wasn’t even close to marriage, neither was Jean. And it’s not like being short was a bad thing—a super tall partner would be unsettling anyways, wouldn’t it? Lohen had a vision too, and he’d say his physique wasn’t too shabby as well—
“...en? Lohen? Are you okay?”
(Just like how Lohen had to come to terms with his own mortality, he had to come to terms that maybe you weren’t meant to be. He should appreciate he gets to see you, and be within your presence, much like how he needs to acknowledge his human limits.
There was no point in brooding and complaining about Thoma, he’ll probably remain a bit bitter for the rest of time, but he should at least accept that you wanted someone else.)
It hurt, so Lohen drank some more.
His head spun and his face was warm and fuzzy. He rubbed his cheek with his own hand, despite the glove in the way. Even though it acted as a barrier, it felt abnormally warm.
“Lohen?”
He blinked. “I’m fine. I can handle my liquor juuuust fine.” He slurred a bit, but he knew what he was doing, and where he was. He took another gulp. He’ll just get tipsy enough to forget about you and Thoma for a bit. This is why people drank, right? “Something happen? Need me to fight anything?”
Through half lidded eyes, he watched you shake your head. “You seem a bit…drunk?”
He gulped down some more to compensate. “I’m not. You have nothing to worry about.”
You acknowledged it with a hum, and went back to staring at your drink. Lohen wondered why you stopped talking to Thoma—maybe he went to the washroom, or something.
“You never told me you started drinking. I could’ve brought you back some sake.”
Thoma’s absence tempted him. He slouched over, resting his cheek on your shoulder. It was wrong, to snuggle so close with someone else’s lover, but he wanted to do it one last time.
“It’s fine. It tastes like shit, anyways.” He reached for his drink, but you pushed it out of his grasp, and he gave you an indignant look, pale cheeks pouting, round and soft.
“I’m pretty sure you’re very drunk. Drink water first. You need to flush it out your system.” You turned around, finding someone to call for water, but Lohen refused. With an immature whine, his arms wrapped around you, chin nestled into your shoulder.
He could easily kiss you. All he had to do was move forward.
You smelled nice. A scent he couldn’t name, but it was far more pleasant than the colognes and perfumes he’s ever encountered. Something that didn’t fit into existing definition. His eyelids relaxed, and he embraced your proximity.
“Y–you’re drunk—”
“And you’re pretty.”
Lohen pressed even closer, his nose brushing against his neck. He wanted to press a kiss on the flesh, bite a bit, even. He thought to himself, about how badly he wanted to kiss you all over, spoil you with all the affection he could possibly conjure. Maybe leave even a mark or two, bruising you with his love for the rest of the world to see.
(But he held back. It was audacious enough to cling onto someone taken. He needs to pull himself together and apologise before Thoma returns.)
Despite his effrontery, your hand made its way to his head, caressing his hair before patting his back. “Are you alright?”
(He wanted to throw up. Not because of the alcohol.)
“It’s not fair.” Lohen slurred, now burying his face into your shoulder. “You were gone for so long, how was I meant to stand a chance?”
He should’ve scraped up the money and joined you on that boat, and travelled across treacherous seas while by your side. That way, he wouldn’t have to swim in all his desire. Now, he found himself drowning, with no way of reaching the surface again. Lohen’s love filled him up to the brink, from his heart to his lungs, dragging him down to the depths of nothingness.
(Lohen charged at any sort of peril of ease, even back then with six years less of experience. A simple love confession may appear pathetic in comparison to the dangers he faced, but wounds heal and flesh grows back, while a rejection would leave a scar uglier than the ones his skin donned.)
His hand squeezed you even tighter. “I love you—I should’ve told you before you left. Maybe then I would’ve stood a chance against…Thoma.” His words were punctuated by a violent hiccup, it tasted of beer and misery at the back of his throat. “And got to be there for you. All I could do was write letters.” Lohen’s voice broke, almost crumbling into tears. “Do you know how scared I was? What if I somehow forgot your voice, or how you looked…”
Lohen’s face peeled off your shoulder, and his lips daringly inched closer to your ear, though he didn’t go any further. "I know I can't make you love me—” He whined, a pathetic noise, one that not even children could make. “—but I should've found a real dandelion."
He shouldn't have torn his letter apart. "Maybe fate wouldn’t have taken you away from me.”
(Pull away, do it now, Lohen told himself. It grew into insistent commands, echoing in his skull. You’re not his. What he was doing was wrong and was only going to make things harder for everyone, especially you. He could barely excuse himself spewing his emotions like this, now was the time to let go. And throw up.)
You weren’t replying. Of course you weren’t. He’ll have to apologise tomorrow, when his head wasn’t spinning and bile wasn’t growing at the back of his throat.
The world faded to black.
For the first time in his entire life, Lohen was mortified at himself.
He carried not an ounce of shame when poisoning Varka’s oversized beers, nor when hunting down and blackmailing Kaeya for a forged signature. Rumours did nothing to him, he did not care for the opinions of others, only freedom reigned his actions and philosophy.
His eyes hadn’t even opened yet, and behind the darkness of his eyelids, all he saw was disgrace. He’d be impressed by how self conscious he was, if it weren’t for the fact that it was you he embarrassed himself in front of—he probably tarnished your reputation too, the one you barely got to rebuild after your return.
But he was remorseful as he was humiliated. You deserved an apology, and so did Thoma, even if he was envious of him. He’d let you beat him to a pulp if needed, if that was what it took to earn a chance of redemption.
“Fuck…” He groaned, pushing himself up. “Everything hurts.”
The sunlight oozing into the windows was blinding, despite being gentle and soft, all it did was make his head throb uncontrollably. His muscles screeched for help, soreness seized his body hostage. Lohen’s head felt too heavy, as if he could collapse at any moment.
He thought about last night, and everything beyond his body began to hurt.
It really wasn't a nightmare. You being in love with someone else.
Lohen cackled to himself, all alone in his bed. He's a fucking idiot, and loser, and should never be in the proximity of alcohol again.
Why was he even surprised? You were perfection and sunlight personified, it was no wonder whenever someone asked you out. If anything, it was Lohen’s fault not considering that during his last goodbye.
But instead, he tore his confession into pieces, for a wish that came true far too late.
“I'm an idiot, aren't I…?” Lohen whispered, to no one in particular.
“I don't think so.”
“What the fuck—?”
You had just walked in with a glass of water. “Sorry. I heard you laughing and realised you were awake.” You approached his bed with a glass of water. “Feeling okay?”
Lohen accepted wordlessly. He wasn't sure what to be embarrassed for, from his unrequited feelings to whatever the hell he was doing earlier, it felt as though he’d done everything possible to make a fool of himself.
‘Good job.” You praised, taking the glass from his hands.
(You were attractive, even when talking to him like a child. Being praised for drinking water seemed absurd, but he wasn't allowed to say that when he was relishing every word.)
Now wasn't the time—he watched you place the glass on his bedside table, as you settled onto his bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. That makes sense.”
Come to think of it, he hardly had any recollection of last night, aside from his shameless antics. It felt worse, not knowing the full extent of his predicament.
He glanced around his house. “How did I get back home?”
“I carried you.”
Lohen didn't remember that.
“Th–thanks. You didn't have to.”
“I didn't have a choice. You were clinging onto me and saying I had to come over.”
He didn't remember that either.
“It was pretty cute, actually. You were really excited to show me your new place. For good reason, too—”
‘I’m so sorry. I–I–I can slit my stomach open for you—that's how they do it in Inazuma, isn’t it?”
(He enjoyed being called cute far too much. Now was not the time for it.)
“No—I mean yes, they do—that's not the point.” Your hand held his, reassuring him with the rhythmic stroke of your thumb. “No one’s mad at you, Lohen. I’m definitely not.”
God, even now, you managed to be kind. Lohen would go insane if someone behaved as ridiculously as he did.
“Yeah but I bet Thoma is—”
“Why would Thoma be mad at you?”
He waved his hands around frantically. “I was hitting on you—I’d be pissed if a guy was all over my lover like that.”
You blinked once. Then twice.
“Thoma and I aren't dating.”
He was so shocked, that relief didn't even pay him a visit. In fact, nothing went through his head.
“Did you think we were together?”
“Y–yeah?”
You were stunned too, mouth hanging open as you processed his words. “Is that why you were one-upping him?”
“I was doing what?” A sharp pang throbs in his head for speaking too loud.
“While you were drunk—you were rambling about how Thoma. You said stuff about tall men being difficult to date and blond people being insanely overrated—”
Lohen snapped, unintentionally. “Stop. I'm gonna die if I hear the rest of that.”
First, his one and only love didn't want him back, then he got wasted over a conclusion he jumped too, and now he was hungover in front of you.
He swallowed. “I still owe you two.” If anything, he’d prefer you to slit his stomach open, or beat him ‘til you were satisfied. Anything over how calm and understanding you were being. “You must’ve been embarrassed.”
You shrugged. “I told you, it was cute. I've never seen you so clingy.”
Another hot, uncomfortable wave of embarrassment washed over him.
He should bring up his feelings now, shouldn't he? Apologise for confessing in such an inappropriate, dramatic way in a public setting. Then he should walk you home and apologise to Thoma while he was at it.
Where should Lohen start? He drafted an apology in his head; about last night, sorry for—
“—I love you too, by the way.”
“The fuck?”
A hand clasped over his mouth and he felt another urge to profusely apologise.
“Last night. You said you loved me.”
He watched you inch closer, his heart racing even more when he felt your warmth in his proximity. “I did say that.”
“Why are you so surprised then?” Your hand holds onto his, abnormally warm compared to his body temperature. “I'm giving you an answer.”
“Wh—are you sure?” Since when were you this ballsy? You used to be so timid and shy, now you were essentially climbing onto him. “I must be going insane.”
“I had six years to think about you while I was gone. Yes, I’m very sure.” You pinched his cheek, gently tugging at the flesh. “See? You're not dreaming.”
Lohen’s mouth hung open, yet no sound came out. He stared at you, and at your thighs that were on top of his, and the pink permeating the apples of your cheek.
(Words were never his thing. Paperwork was pointless when all the information was in his head and made perfect sense to him. He even had a hard time adapting to writing letters, it didn’t sound nearly as nice when it was in ink instead of speech.)
So Lohen pulled you closer. You landed on his chest, his arms clamped around you like a vice.
You yelped, peering back up at him. “Lohen?”
His fingertips played with the back of your shirt. “May I?”
“Sure but what are you—” A shaky gasp interrupted your question, and the noise drove Lohen insane. “Cold—your hands are so cold—what are you doing?”
"Need to feel you more—" His hands massaged the soft flesh, he was right, you’d gained quite a bit of muscle since you left. His hands paused and his hollow eyes held something akin to sorrow. “Fuck. Do you know how upset I was? I–I–I was worried you were engaged.
You snorted, pinching his cheek again. “Engaged? Why would I be engaged with Thoma, when all I wanted was here in Mondstadt?”
Lohen’s gaze drifted away. “You were blushing.”
“Hm?”
“You were blushing around him. When I dropped you off. So I thought you had a thing going on.”
This time, you burst into laughter. Normally, he’d enjoy how it sounds, but right now, all it did was fuel his embarrassment. He withdrew his hands from your back and rubbed his eyes as you composed yourself. “Sorry—that was mean. Did it not occur to you that I was flustered because of you?”
Lohen frowned and scoffed. “You didn’t even look at me when I dropped you off.”
You rolled over, settling next to him. “Really? I probably got embarrassed. I told Thoma all about you, y’know? Since like...the beginning of our friendship? He kept telling me to confess to you during the trip here. He even made a whole gameplan for me. Y’know he only invited us to dinner to try to get us alone. He slipped away after you got tipsy.”
(Huh. Maybe Thoma was a good guy, after all. Not only does he owe him an apology, but a massive thank you, as well.)
“So. There’s no doubt that you’re the one I want, okay? It was like that long before I left Mondstadt.”
Weakly, he nodded, finally able to feel relief. “Okay.”
You liked him back, no, loved him back. For over six years, too.
Lohen's heartbeat raced, to the point he began to worry about it bursting out of his chest. Unable to cope with all the emotions eating away at it and his pounding headache, he flopped back into bed. He’ll deal with it when he’s not hungover. For now, knowing of your feelings was the only thing keeping him alive at the moment.
He turned away from you, burying his face into his hands, wincing at the aftermath of his drinking. "Ugh. My head fucking hurts...'m gonna die for a bit. Wake me if it's an emergency."
You sat up instead, already heading to the kitchen. "Oh. I just started preparing a hangover soup but—"
Lohen shot up, posture pin straight. "I'll eat."
“You just said your head was hurting. You should rest first.”
But he stood up, throwing his blanket somewhere on the floor. “Soup. I want soup.”
Your mouth opened to protest, but you gave up. “Sure. Whatever you want. Let’s go to the kitchen, then.”
“I love you.” Lohen said, a plea for you to say that you loved him again. Even with evidence, everything still felt like a dream. He wondered if this was another pleasant dream, and he’d wake up, forehead to the desk in Varka’s office with groggy eyes, accompanied by paperwork instead of you.
He begged for it not to.
You took his hand, pulling him along. “I love you too, Lohen.”
“So. Now we’re together.”
Lohen’s quill was nowhere to be seen, and his feet were propped up onto the table, as Varka groaned, arms crossed at his own desk.
“I get that young love is beautiful and whatnot. But might I remind you, that you’re still under strict supervision and you didn’t come in at all yesterday.”
Lohen rolled his eyes, his cheery mood undeterred by Varka’s disappointment. He had spent the entire morning rambling about you, celebrating your new status as lovers and verbally brainstorming his plans for the future. He told Varka of all the souvenirs you brought him (if it could even be called that—there were crates upon crates) and boasted about how lucky he was to be in love. He even went as far as mocking Varka, boasting about how you made him a special hangover soup, all from scratch, while Varka had to tough out his hangovers.
(He even ventured towards the topic of marriage, debating where to get an engagement ring commissioned someday and reminding himself to figure out your favourite gemstone. Varka scoffed when Lohen asked where he got his, rubbing in the fact that the Grandmaster was very much single. The closest thing Varka was married to was duty and responsibility—maybe even alcohol, too.)
A gloved hand rested over his chest. “To be fair, you did pull me out of solitary confinement for them.” He stared at the roof, unbothered by the chandelier’s glare as he swooned. He’ll pick up a nice bouquet of lovers on his way home for you. “Six years have never been more worth it. Barbatos, I'm sorry for cussing you out. You're not so bad.” He said to no one in particular.
The Grandmaster stood up, approaching the young man. He grabbed his quill and tossed it in front of him. “Was your lover worth getting wasted in front of everyone?”
Lohen’s heart sank to his stomach. His neck snapped straight and he looked Varka dead in the eye.
“Oh hey. You’re turning red now. You’re starting to remind me of Diluc’s hair.”
“How’d you even know about that?” Suddenly, his feet were off the table, heels planted to the floor and his body tensed up, as if preparing to escape or attack Varka at any moment.
“I was there? Had a drink with Kaeya and caught up with Thoma. His mother and I go way back” A slight smirk creased his lips. “You don’t seem very fond of him.”
You failed to mention that, all you told him was that he was being clingy and confessed, before begging you to come over. How much did you leave out? You were the type to omit details for the sake of another’s dignity, and the only things Lohen could recall by himself was his slurred speech and whining.
Varka didn’t relent in his teasing. “Huh. You don’t seem so bad when you’re shy. I can see why you’ve finally found yourself a lover. Well done, by the way. Good thing Thoma wasn’t interested in them.”
“I’ll do the paperwork, okay?” He snatched the quill, grip tightening to the point his knuckles faded to white. At this rate, he was going to do things worse than poisoning his beer. He’ll rush through this paperwork before running off to go see you again.
But apparently, his current state wasn’t amusing enough. “I can see why you don’t drink. You’re worse than me. You even threw mora at Thoma to prove you were richer. Kind of cute seeing you jump to conclusions and get all whiny—”
“Shut up.” He really will up his dose of poison. And throw out the antidote while he’s at it.
Synopsis: as a cupid migrated to Mondstadt, you found it that instigating love was your best calling. So what was with this man named Lohen, and why won't he leave you alone?
Tags: gn!reader, no use of y/n, general fluff, slight angst (blink and you miss it), lots of backstory for reader, slow-burn(?), annoyances to lovers, Lohen and reader physically fight at the end, brief mentions of stalking, banter, open ending, slightly rushed?, not proofread, English is not my first language, 6.8k words
Og post side story 1
A/N: we're just going to ignore how this took much longer than it should have...
Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa, did well in creating you.
The god of love, you surmised, was one that, in recent times seems more closed off, standoffish even compared to the humans that she rules over. She is a woman, who is seemed to have no love left for her people, an irony of all things considered her title and role, yet to compensate for that, she created the cupid race. Born to the Tsaritsa's command in order bring forth humans in romantic and platonic kinship, that was your purpose, your fate, and you couldn't have had it better.
Humans, for their endless entropy of emotions, were quite entertaining to watch when all you have to do is to observe and tie the strings to their soulmates. Their tears, their smiles, their blushes, emotions that you could never experience yourself with such detail compared to your mortal counterparts. And, in a way, you didn't mind. Observing these mortals brought you great joy in and of itself, as did bringing forth soulmates regardless of how far apart they existed.
Though, Snezhnaya was a nation quick to adapt to her majesty's mood, for now the nation of love was just an endless tundra, filled to the brim with scowls and alcohol brewing under their chins. You couldn't blame them. To live in a nation, whose reputation remained tarnished due to its aggressive military, was bound to make one grumpy. Even your mood fouled far often than it should have in these solemn conditions.
So, you took a different approach.
The north had no place for your everlasting boredom, so you ventured, from Snezhnaya to Nod Krai, skipping over the regions till you came to Mondstadt. The nation of wine and freedom. Even the air here was no short of impressive, with the scent of dandelions wafting through the air like the subtlest yet soothing companion. This region... Was all you could ask for in regards to humanity. Here, the knights wore honor as their greatest badge, the church worshipped with fervor regardless of their absentee archon, the men and women mingled with such unique romances, that you yourself could not help but sigh in utter delight at the sight of a couple giving each other flowers, or perhaps having a picnic together at the fresh meadow.
Truly, this is where you belonged.
Day by day, you sat on the windrise tree, munching on either a sunsettia or apple, positioning your (harmless) bow and arrow to an unsuspecting couple, and watching your arrow disappear into the wind to tighten the bond between the two humans. You watched, as their eyes lit up with renewed yearning, and the grip of their hands enveloped in their partner's grew stronger.
This was your whole life really. You slept on most days, when you yearned for a snack you'd simply wander around, careful to avoid the hillichurl camps and just pick up a fruit or two for your indulgence. And, when inspiration struck you'd carefully position your bow and arrow to strengthen the string of love regardless of its nature as romantic or platonic.
Ah but of course, people would catch on about your little whimsical life.
Sometimes, you left your bow on the tree during your wanderings, others you'd be a bit sloppy and fail to conceal your presence as much as you would've liked. It didn't matter, for the people of Mondstadt noticed, and you were happy to oblige to their little whims.
You'd see girlish letters asking you to send it to the object of their admiration, and you did. You'd see couples asking for your blessings and you gave them. You'd see little kids playing house, begging to allow their friendship to continue forevermore, and you'd help fulfill that wish. All anonymously of course. And yet, with each letter, heartfelt wish and whatnot, your heart didn't grow cold at the monotony, but warmer at the prospect of human kinship, sometimes bold and sometimes more reserved, growing even greater by the decade. You have practically lost count of the romances and friendships you've supported up until now, and you couldn't have had it any better.
But did romances only have to occur between humans? Why of course not!
Right now as of the moment, you sat on the branches of another tree, the grip of your legs over the branch taut, and the precision of your bow even greater. You were pointing your arrow to two lovely birds singing along in melodious harmony, and to think to not bind them in friendship was absolutely blasphemous. Obviously, the intensity of the arrow had to be lessened according to the bodies of the birds, but the calculations leading to that point were too vague and the chances of you messing up were far higher than expected. Too much intensity would kill them, might even cook them from the potency, and too little wouldn't do anything.
But mulling over it won't do much now would it? The birds would finish their singing sooner or later. You shot your arrow...
...And it turned into fowl. How great. You really needed to improve upon your arche-
"That was a nice shot there!"
You almost fell off of your branch.
Quickly adjusting your position so as to not fall off startled, your graze drifted upon the snarky and boyish voice below you. You really should've practiced concealing your presence better, but oh well. Instead of, what you would've preferred, a clean grass field, you were met with a young man, eyes dark, dead and crimson and with lovely dark hair. His uniform, you could tell, belonged with the knights of favonius, and he was covered in... Blood. You scrunched up your nose in discomfort.
"Hey now, don't look so displeased, I'm just a knight passing by!"
"A knight with so much blood," you secured your bow on your back. "I'm afraid I can't exactly trust a man with that much gore on his person."
"Just a few hilichurls ravaging the place out of order," he laughed, a bit maniacal, and your discomfort grew by the slightest. "I'm Lohen, vice captain of the fifth company of the knights of favonius," what a mouthful, "and what might your name be?"
Should you even tell him? Staring down at the man, grin undeniably cheshire and his eyes holding a sort of lack of light that you couldn't discern the emotion of, he still seemed earnest, if in a twisted way. His grip on his spear tightened the lightest, and his eyes always found themselves attracted to that bow on your back. Of course. War mongerers will always look for a sign to fight.
"Not a talker, eh?" You didn't answer either, and ended up going back to staring at the dead bird on the branch. You pitied it, it didn't deserve being at the end of your bow.
"Are you perhaps a hunter?"
"... What makes you say that?"
"Your precision at that bird was exquisite," oh? You didn't expect him to be the type for flattery. "And your bow seems to be high quality," he crossed his arms. Your gaze drifted again, and you couldn't help but watch as the blood dripped from his bangs to his nose, before eventually falling on the ground again.
"And yet, you're not dressed like one."
You narrowed your eyes. He was perceptive. You weren't all too familiar with Mondstadt laws, but poaching without a permit was surely enough a grave offense that had to be paid with a fine. Well, you would think, you haven't been interacting with human life directly for a long time now. To be faced with the implications of your own mistakes to not hide your presence better was truly distressing, especially since he knew your face and voice now.
"I'm just a typical wanderer, you don't have to worry about me," you paused, before speaking again. "I'm not here to cause trouble," in a way, the man questioning you looked like he caused greater issues than what of you might have done.
He chuckled, for whatever reason, you didn't exactly know. Instead, he brought his gloved hand to shoulder and waved, before eventually walking off into the distance, towards the city of Mondstadt. Though, with the way he kept glancing at you even after he left the scene, told you enough that he'd try to find you again, if only for the thrill of a good fight. You recognize that look all the way from the humans in Snezhnaya.
"Well, it's been a while since I had to tackle bloodlust instead of its other counterpart," you muttered to yourself, before jumping off that branch of yours, staring at the other tree and the fowl, that still had your arrow stuck through its eyes. Guess you were having meat for sustenance today then.
This Lohen was a real pain.
Day by day, you often spent your time sleeping or fulfilling the wishes of your fellow Mondstatians, yet you never did much after that. Explore? Sure, but due to the egregious amount of hilichurls near Mondstadt you weren't one to risk it. And yet, despite all your laxness, your lack of enthusiasm for anything that wasn't your purpose, you found it that Lohen wasn't one to like to leave someone peacefully minding their own business alone.
You rest near a pond or perhaps in Windrise, and you found that dastard Lohen grinning stupidly, his hand mildly shaking from gripping his polearm so hard, and always covered in crimson. You've grown to learn to ignore him, more often than not, since there wasn't much reason to just attack someone out of nowhere. At least he had the dignity for that of all things, even if most times he's just poking your bow to get a reaction out of you.
"It's a very fine quality bow. Say, care telling me where you had it made?"
"It's a family heirloom."
It wasn't, but its not like he could really do anything about that. You made your own bow and arrow, but he didn't need to know that.
Most times you just run away from him, your feet gliding across the harsh blades of grass as he calls after you with brash and hurried apologies that has no actual weight. All he wanted to do was fight, and you weren't one prone to violence by any means, especially when you knew, even with your limited combat experience, that you could end his life if you tried just the slightest. He wanted your bow to injure, but unfortunately for him you were created for love, and to hurt humans was something you didn't want to explicitly do in all things.
As of the moment, there you were, watching the crystalflies land on your index and watching as its wings flap with such beauty, yet as soon as Lohen came, it flew away, as if knowing that his bloodlust will get them killed. You remained nonchalant nonetheless, despite missing the pretty sight on your finger.
There came your dark haired knight, already covered in blood from Barbatos knows what he did, still with that annoying grin plastered on his face. It was beginning to become a part of your daily routine, and you couldn't have been more distraught at the fact that you were getting used to humans like these. You sat up from the grass, brushing the dirt from your outfit and already turning your back on him.
And he was... Pouting. Gosh, how much attention did he need really?
"Oh come on, not interested in a fight?"
"Not particularly."
Ignore, ignore ignore, that was all that was chanting in your head right now. Why did you even respond to his question? That you yourself didn't even know, people like him are bound to give up if you don't give them the thought of day, but here you were falling into a trap that he himself didn't know he placed.
"What do you even do then? Such great precision on your archery, and yet you're without a permit."
"Just for self defence," you breathed through your nose, "I might just attack you from your incessant questions now." Said through gritted teeth.
"Oh please do!"
"No thank you," your expression turned to one of disgust again. "Won't exactly count as self defence."
"I say it would, if I just strike right now," what was he even saying?! His body shifted, and now he was taking a stance for... Fighting! This man really doesn't know when to quit!
"I said no, Lohen!"
He pouted, and you practically shivered in your cloth. "Ahh what a buzz kill," he rolled his neck, and you could hear the cracks pop one by one, which was disturbing. Gods, he really was just planning on attacking you right then and there. One had to be a real kind of crazy to even do that without warning.
"And besides, it wouldn't exactly be a fair fight anyway. You have a vision and I don't." Why were you even trying to reason with him? You could've just walked away, never to see him again as you reside in a more secluded area. Your love for humans must have been so great to indulge even the irrational of humans, those who have only fight in their heart and brain.
"I'll throw away my vision."
You quirked an eyebrow. So much for just a fight? You wonder if he became a knight just to duel people. "You're a knight and I'm just a passing Traveler. Still wouldn't be fair."
"I'll compensate you!"
With what exactly? You almost said, but instead rolled your eyes. You've had enough conversation with this man and it was getting on your nerves. So, as promptly as you could, you began walking away from the man, ignoring his pouty protests.
He was interesting to observe however, maybe you should do more research on people like him.
You stood in front of Mondstadt gates, and could only sigh as you walked in.
To be completely honest, interactions with humans (aside from... You hate to say it but Lohen) were few and negligible in your long life, so, approaching the city with stone gates left you feeling a tad bit nervous. The guards greeted you kindly, which should be a source of comfort, and you bowed your head in turn, if only to be polite.
The city was quite... Lively. Lively for your taste specifically, with the children running amok and the constant company that was the bustling conversation between the people. You even saw some people releasing love letters into the air, which you cheekily collected and made sure to carefully place in your handbag. No rest for the cupid you supposed, you smiled into your cloak. But, as always, you wouldn't have had it any other way.
Your intention for even coming into the city, was, for one, to observe how Mondstadtians get along in their day to day lives, and to also gather more information about Lohen's environment to find out about what made him such a battle maniac. He was a tad bit of an enigma for you, inhibiting characteristics of a psychopath, yet still holding this humanity in him that signifies that he was more than just a man who liked to wander about and fight things and creatures for no reason. He was annoying, but in a way you wanted to study him. Just that, asking him directly, knowing that he'll be on your tails for as long as you exist afterwards, was not your particular cup of tea.
And this city was too cheerful. Too much for someone like him.
You truly wonder, you really do, what about this freeing environment made him so battle hungry? Even those with the more serious disposition, always carried that air of softness, or had at least some kind of care for their own city to crack a smile every once in a while. Him? He belonged more in Natlan than he did in Mondstadt. What made him so bored of this lovely city? You truly wondered.
Here, it felt as if the word "home" was personified in a way, the cozy warm feeling and the general public adding to that whole vibe of the place. And yet, Lohen feels like such a stark, cold contrast against that home which you've lived in for so many decades. You're not sure how to feel, and yet surprisingly enough you don't feel malice.
For now, you'd just enjoy your day. The children around brought you dandelions to your palms, and you smiled and pat their heads as a thanks for their gesture. With the limited mora you carried, you used it to buy some food from good hunter, and it was far more pleasing than of what you might have expected. You walked from area to area, taking in this glorious city with fresh eyes and a warmer heart, and your little love for humanity sparkled just a tad bit brighter, and it felt like such a great euphoria.
... If it weren't for the fact that you were being watched.
You noticed almost immediately when you checked out the Knights of favonius headquarters and then left to discover more parts of the city, but someone was certainly following you if anything. They were sneaky, that was to be sure, and certainly not to be messed with, but you couldn't sense any bloodlust on their person even with the unnerving presence watching you. You sighed, wishing you had eyes at the back of your head. It would save you the trouble of constantly looking back and seeing that your assailant had all but disappeared.
Couldn't even enjoy an afternoon. You sighed.
You suspect that Lohen might be following you. Why? Well, regardless of how well he did at deception, he couldn't hide his elemental traces regardless of how hard he tried. It didn't help that your senses were far more attuned to Teyvat than that of the normal person, but considering that Lohen hadn't done anything yet, you'd let him slide for once.
For now, you'd just buy a memoir to remember your trip.
"Any flower you'd like?"
Flora, you heard, offered you the array of flowers, and you couldn't help but chew on your fingers for a bit. Even if this was just a personal gift, it didn't make the act of buying something any less difficult. Sighing you asked for the Cecilias, but unfortunately someone had bought them already. The whole stock. Which was... Strange, but you could manage, and instead bought some small lamp grass.
The flowers were pretty at least, and the sun was already setting. You were about to leave the city gate, but unfortunately, were stopped by an all too familiar voice.
"Wait a sec!" It was Lohen.
He ran up to you while you were already on the path with a frightening speed that you hadn't seen him use before, which, to be fair, was expected since you hadn't seen him actually in combat before, and left him in the dust before he could actually catch up. He panted the faintest, and you could see from your vision that his top was the slightest ruffled. His face however, was a whole other story. It was flushed, a tad bit pink, likely from running to you so fast and so hurriedly, and yet he still kept that manic grin on his face that you've grown accustomed to.
"Lohen?"
"Yes, my liege?"
You rolled your eyes at the nickname, and then sighed, exasperated.
"Why are you here, exactly?" Choosing your words carefully. You wouldn't want to catch the unnecessary attention of the guards, who were watching your interaction with far too much interest than of what you might be comfortable with. Somehow, Lohen noticed your discomfort, and moved his body so that he was covering the sight of you from the guards.
That was oddly thoughtful.
"Can't get a chance to see the lovely you?"
"You can but I'm pretty sure that flattery wasn't in the topic of "meeting" me."
"Is it really flattery if it's all true?"
You raised a brow. Now he was acting slightly suspicious. He didn't seem like the type to care about overt complementing, especially since you assumed him to only acknowledge those that matched his fighting prowess. You didn't even clash your bow against his yet.
"Just tell me what you want Lohen."
You crossed your arms, and he pouted again. Seriously, you might just have to start counting the number of times he's being dramatic.
"Trying to get rid of me?"
"If you don't hurry up I might just," your glare didn't exactly match his carefree look, but then again your threat must have worked since he took out the thing that he was hiding behind his back-
And it was Cecilias. Huh.
... But they were covered in blood.
You stared at Lohen, then back at the flowers again, holding the crimson carnage and the distinct scent of iron. Tentatively, you grabbed the flowers, narrowing your eyes when the blood dripped into your palm.
"Why blood?"
"Well, I feel like red suits you."
"It suits you more," you sighed, picking one flower and twirling it between your index and middle. "Considering you're so battle hungry. I'd prefer it if it was white."
"Well, it wouldn't exactly say anything that it would match me now would it? I feel like I had to impart at least some of my charm."
Ugh. He had a point.
But then again... "Where did you get the blood from?"
"Oh do you really need to know?"
"I feel as if I must."
You stared at Lohen, who was consequently staring off into the distance with the most neutral expression you had ever seen, likely to not give away his thoughts. You narrowed your eyes and furrowed your brow, and he still had the audacity to act unbothered. You were seriously considering kicking him.
Forcibly shoving his body, which was frustratingly sturdy and didn't seem to want to budge, you looked behind him. There was nothing out of the ordinary of course, just guards doing their job and the sun setting from the long day that it spent. However, you were not one easily deterred. Squinting your eyes, you saw a few people walking out the city gates in the adventurer's guild uniform, their expressions foul and all, and as they walked passed, you noticed how the biggest one was holding his head covered in bandages, and his lackeys were talking about a concussion of sorts.
You whipped your head back to Lohen, not impressed in the slightest.
"Why would you fight someone so carelessly, Lohen?"
He was... whistling now? Gosh why doesn't he ever stay on topic?!
"Lohen."
"Oh fine, you really wanna know?"
Yes, you really did. And you were mostly sure that your expression conveyed that perfectly fine, much to his likely dismay.
He leaned into you, and for a moment you thought he was about to do something absolutely ridiculous, but instead all he did was whisper into your ear:
"I did it for the thrill. Say, isn't it fun to see these pitiful men limping and scampering all caused by my gift for you?"
"Wha- no, Lohen! Why would I ever want people to be hurt because of me?!"
"Eh, why not? I mean, personally speaking if you fought someone for me I'd be at your neck and call like a pitiful servant," you tried not to think about the implications of that.
"That's for you personally, not me!"
"Well, they are known to be slackers in the adventurer's guild, I was just roughing them up!"
You sighed, pointedly sighed, attempting to not let your absolute irritation with him show. He was at least observant enough to know he had fucked up, but at the same time it seemed like he didn't give a rat's ass about what you thought of it.
"Then take it as a token of... My gratitude!" Now he was just spewing bullshit, but who were you to call him out really? At least he returned to normal. His snarky, cheerful voice returned again, and you couldn't help but find it ridiculous that you were glad he returned to his original personality of all things. Seriously, you were growing soft.
"Gratitude for what?" You raised a brow, and all he did was chuckle.
"Well, as the knights say, for not running off when I quote on quote "behaved like a freak"."
You still behave like one, you almost uttered whilst rolling your eyes, but you had enough of self preservation to know when and when not to respond to precarious situations.
"Well then!" He finally leaned away, and you almost missed his warm breath hitting your face, "any other questions needing answering?"
Well, best to ask something mundane you supposed. "Why flowers?"
He was the one now staring at you, blankly in fact, his cheeks still pink of all things and definitely lost in thought. Then, with his bloody hand, he picked a flower in your hand, carefully making sure the blood wouldn't stain your outfit (which was a surprisingly thoughtful gesture) and placed it on your ear, the red a contrast against your face.
"You could say it's a trade."
You paused. "Trade?"
He grinned back, which he was doing awfully often. "Well, despite all the times I've already met you, I've found to it that, I actually still don't know your name."
You paused again, this time with more emphasis on the disbelief on your face. "So you want my name because you gave me flowers?"
He nodded, and you could only sigh.
"It's (Name)." And you prevent him from seeing the redness on your ears, you quickly went on your own separate ways, carefully carrying the red cecelias in your hands too. Briefly, you heard Lohen testing your name on his tongue, but you promptly ignored him. It was sunset after all, there was no need to bother him much longer than you should have.
Cupid's way of delivering letters were simple.
First, they'd receive the letters of course, folded in a neat envelope, and they'd also read it, which was typical. Then they'd converge into either two routes, either guiding the words of the letter across the wind, making sure they reached their predetermined destination, or perhaps cupid themselves would come to that person in disguise and give them the love letter themselves.
Cupid rarely ever threw away letters, and only did so when it was an unwanted stalker of such. However, you might make an exception for the letter in front of you.
The letter in your hand, stamped with the favonius wax and with imported paper, was slightly crumpled and worn, reminiscent of a certain Mondstadter that you'd meet quite often in your current days. It was unusual, Lohen was never one to sit still and actually write a letter due to his personality, he'd, in fact, much rather just have an assistant take care of his paperwork, maybe overload acting grandmaster jean again, but he would be out in the wild killing the poor animals and hilichurls.
To write a letter to cupid? That was the ultimately bizarre part.
Carefully, you made sure not to tear the paper, and opened it without the wax ruining the letters. Inside, was, of course, the most crooked and hasty handwriting you had ever seen. So, you could at least confirm it was Lohen, but you never knew that he admired someone. Huh. Guess you learn new things every day, even if they slightly make your heart ache for whatever reason, which was something that you yourself didn't know of sorts.
Of course, you had to actually read the letter. Sucking in a breath, you began:
"Dear cupid,
Grandmaster Varka had told me to write this for whatever reason, which was... Annoying. But nothing I couldn't handle. See, there was this certain person I met in Mondstadt, nothing out of the ordinary, people do wander about and frankly it's none of my business. Still, they were sort of odd. Sitting on a tree of all things, and pointing an arrow with the nicest form I had seen, towards an unsuspecting bird. They were good, I could confidently say. But, unfortunate as it was they aren't too keen on seeing eye to eye in any of our prospects of whatever. I try to get along, a person with such talent surely deserves for a clean fight, but it was strange seeing them so adverse to fighting, considering that they're that talented. I couldn't even catch their name until recently! Their name was (Name), it sounded nice in my mouth at the very least, and I only got it when I got them a gift, and even then they seemed more than pleased to run away. Quite frustrating in my place.
Anyway, all I ask of you (which the other knights and Grandmaster are telling me to ask of you), is to help me find out more about them and what they want with me or anything else. They're far too intriguing for me to let them go, so I'm not inclined to do that. Give a sign or whatever, and give it quick.
From,
Lohen."
It was quite a short letter, and yet you didn't know how to feel about it, considering that it was about you of all people. Lohen wasn't one to mull over the details it seemed. He ran over how the two of you met, how he felt that your combat prowess was a gem in talent of sorts, and most of all, how willing he had been to continue talking to you, heck, even to find out your name. He wasn't a romantic, or something, he didn't write about how he felt when you ignored him, or how much desperation claws at him whenever he saw you running off or whatever. Instead, it seemed as if he was just trying to relay his points and quick, considering the tardiness of his writing and how many words he had cut and rewritten over and over again.
You didn't know how to feel.
How could you even tell him that his thoughts (confusing as it was) was being relayed to the object of his interest or whatever? You were cupid, and you had an admirer yourself, and yet, you didn't know how you were supposed to take it. With pride? Joy? Perhaps even indulge his rapid curiosity? You didn't frankly know, and you're not exactly sure you want to know.
For now, you'd carefully fold the letter and place it into your pockets and ponder, as the sun set and the moon's visibility shone again, you decided that you were going to think for a long while.
"Oh come on Mx (Name)!"
"No Lohen."
Ever since that letter, for whatever reason that you didn't know of yourself, you've been more inclined to allow Lohen into your vicinity. Well, Vicinity as in, the two of you walking together without talking or perhaps having a meal together. You still block out the nonsense that somehow escapes his mouth into the human realm, but that was something that you did all the time so you don't think it counts.
Though, no matter how hard you tried in blocking out the noise, he always had a way to ask the same questions over and over again.
"I'm not going to fight you Lohen."
"You're acting like fighting is going to drain the life out of you or something."
Somewhere in the back of your throat, you were about to say yes before calming yourself.
"I'm just simply not interested."
Couldn't he get that in the slightest? Plenty of times you've told him no, how you did not want to cross weapons near the statue of the seven, nor did you want him to surprise attack you with his polearm. He was usually tolerable enough, and that was made this whole ordeal double the annoyance.
You've made sure that your bow was nowhere near your hands lest he mistake that for agreeing to fight, and you were obviously careful enough to make sure your arrows were out of sight too, there was no need for him to get all too excited. You could already imagine the pout plastered on Lohen's face, but unfortunately you weren't going to give him the time of day.
... Hopefully you weren't going to give him the time of day. Nowadays your mentality was horrifically easy to change its mind with just the slightest persuasion, and you decided that you didn't like that at all. Curse that darn Lohen.
"(Name)!"
"Screaming my name is going to get you nowhere Lohen believe me."
Unfortunately, he's also gotten far more obnoxious ever since he's learnt your name, and it seems to be his favorite word to shout into your ear now. (Name) This, (Name) that, your own name was starting to sound like it wasn't supposed to exist with his frequent usage.
You could hear him audibly sigh, in disappoinment or whatever, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes. Him and his overt need for everything to go his way. You yourself couldn't believe that you found that a bit charming.
But then, you heard the distinct sound of metal clanging together to create a rather annoying chime, and when you looked back, there was Lohen, his vision in his hand and he... Tossed it to the floor?!
"Lohen what are you-"
"You're always one to ramble on and on about how you don't want to fight, so I have just decided to make things a while lot easier for you. Come on, I'm practically defenseless without my vision now aren't I?"
He's... Taunting you. No, his tone of voice seemed less mocking and way too level, more like, coaxing you. All this for a fight? He even grabbed his polearm in the midst of your irritation with him!
"Didn't we have a whole conversation on how it would still be unfair even if you threw away your vision?"
"Aw, you think I didn't account for that? Relax! I'll go easy on you."
And would you look at that. "I'll go easy on you"? What a laughable quote, as if you were far lesser than him. Well, technically you did run around in circles trying to convince him that you were weak, but now that you were closer and now that you were actually subtly fond of him, the whole thing stroked your ego in the opposite direction of what you wanted.
Well, if a fight is what he wants then a fight is what he gets.
Quickly grabbing your bow from your back, you allow the friction beneath your feet to drag you away from Lohen so you could gain some kind of distance and shoot your arrows. Of course, the arrows themselves came with their own safety features, you weren't actually going to hurt him, but it's best to give someone the illusion of their desire when said desire is going to actively harm them in the process. Three arrows went, two for each of his eyes and one for his head, but he easily deflected and swatted the arrows away with his polearm.
"Hahah! Bring it on!" That maniacal grin on his face again, you couldn't help but smirk in return of his enthusiasm.
Lohen was fast, he managed to close the distance between the two of you pretty quickly, leading you to quickly go on the defensive. His polearm slashed up, right then left, and you carefully dodged each hit. Luckily, the length of the polearm caused the swings to allow you to gain more distance, so by the time he was done with the first set of his attacks, you had already moved a great distance away from him to use your bow and arrow to shoot him again.
This time you wanted to test his reaction speed, really check the waters with what you could do and how long you could do it before Lohen could get suspicious about your lack of loss of stamina. Three arrows again, the first one aimed for his left hand, which he quickly dodged. The second came for his eyes, where he used his weapon to snap your arrow in half before it could actually pierce him. And the third for his feet...
Which he failed to dodge in the fraction of a second, so while it didn't injure much it still mildly poked him. You'd finally find his blind spot.
"What? Already failing to keep up pretty boy?" You suppose it couldn't hurt to tease him a little.
"Well, if it's you how could I possibly imagine keeping up?"
What a smartass. Still, you found yourself smiling along with him too, somehow finding the act of fighting of all things "fun", but for now you just had to focus.
You'd have to find a way to offset the balance of his footwork in order to pin him down with your arrows, but that would have to come later when his movements with his polearm became more sluggish. For now, you were perfectly fine with distracting him until you gained an opening.
He was clearly limping the slightest, you wondered if you actually pierced a toe of his, but his smiled never swept out of place, in fact his grin was possibly wider than before, and a face far more flushed with the prettiest blush you'd seen. A thrust of his polearm, of which you had to carefully dodge to the side.
"You're good at this! Makes me wonder why you didn't agree to a fight all those times," his tone was the breathy, and yet all you noticed was how he was paying attention to talking instead of fighting for now. You narrowly avoided his polearm, though it cut the bridge of your nose, and another thrust was about to stab you through the heart, and though you knew that Lohen put no killing intent behind that and would likely stop and declare himself winner or whatever, you still made sure to use an arrow of yours to prevent the stab altogether, even if it broke in half.
From this close a distance you could observe his face, the smirk he sported, the blood on his shoes and the feather from your arrow, his messy, unkept hair and wide blood red eyes. It was endearing, seeing him so joyful. Unfortunately for him though, you were excellent at providing distractions during a losing stalemate. His footwork was rigid, one that you couldn't displace, but his spear was fair game in your terms.
Carefully uplifting your foot, a difficult endeavor with the proximity of your bodies, you lodged the polearm between the small gap between the heel and sole of your boot, watching the handle get stuck momentarily. Lohen's eyes widened, his gaze suddenly blank, and you used that distraction to kick him. Hard. Real hard. The metal handle of the weapon, combined with the pointy front of your boot, did well in causing him to cough up spit within how hard his guts were kicked. He was practically sent flying, his back to a tree and his head pushed back. You cringed at the sight, and hopefully you didn't break any of his bones. Well, even if he did break a bone you'd still drag him all the way to Mondstadt church, uncaring of the glances just to get him healed.
For now though, all you had to do was point an arrow to his neck and assume your victory. Well, that and making sure your strength didn't kill him.
Quickly walking over, borderline running, your figure towered over Lohen who was clutching his midsection with his arms, and you couldn't help but contort your brow in worry. It didn't seem like you broke a bone of his, but you wouldn't rely on your judgement entirely. Even still, as Lohen stared up at you, delirious and all from the adrenaline, you couldn't help the spike of pride in your ego as you'd got even the chronic fighter to be stupefied. Crouching down, you carefully pressed the tip of the arrow over his Adam's apple, watching as his breath hitched for a hot second.
For a moment, you recalled your master's teachings in regards to using the bow and arrow.
"Pointing a cupid's arrow at someone is a great hit or miss. Your arrow, when released, either tightens the blossoming relationship and disappears into the wind, or breaks in half due to no mutual feelings between the lover and recipient. If you are in fight, you have to be very careful so as the arrow doesn't fade away."
"Yes ma'am," you remember responding.
The arrow, lodged between the gaps of your fingers, began to fade away, and your eyes could only widen in shock.
Shit.
Lohen seemed to catch drift of the disappearing arrow, and yet instead of the incriminating and confused look that you expected, his mouth instead widened into a grin.
Qifrey and very clumsy Reader, who at times can be a bit forgetful. At the same time Reader is a highly accomplished witch, could be a crafty inventor or maybe a skilled combatant. Anyhow just the contrast between Reader at home and relaxing, when compared to protecting others or working on projects.
I bet he would find it very endearing how they have to quickly run back in to grab another thing when taking the girls out for the day. I have this amazing image of Qifrey just gently catching Reader before the fall or trip
A silly idea I had was Coco being super excited to meet Reader but Agott making some about Reader not being how she expects. What would make it even sillier is if Agott actually really likes Reader, even in her clumsiness.
I am now 🦭 anon (don’t know if I have already claimed that or not)
Our very own Tinkerbell
Qifrey x reader
cw: none
AN: I love Agott, can you tell? Anyway 🦭 anon I hereby declare you as my most loyal requester because the amount of asks I have from you in my inbox is actually insane
Before meeting you, Agott had very specific expectations about the kind of person who could possibly manage to impress Qifrey.
Considering your reputation, nobody could really blame her. Stories about you traveled easily among witches. Some spoke about your inventions with near disbelief, describing intricate magical tools capable of shielding entire villages or dismantling dangerous spells in seconds. Others talked about watching you fight, about the terrifying precision of your magic and the way you could cut through hostile creatures so quickly it barely looked real. Coco had once overheard a group of older witches discussing you in hushed voices at the market, and afterward she spent nearly an hour excitedly telling everyone she was absolutely going to meet “the amazing witch Qifrey knows.”
So naturally, Agott expected someone impossibly intimidating.
Then you arrived at the atelier carrying three bags, tripped on the front step almost immediately, and would have fallen face-first onto the wooden porch if Qifrey had not caught you by the waist without even looking up from the book in his hands.
“There you are,” he said calmly, like this happened every single day.
You blinked at him in surprise while clutching his sleeve. “I didn’t even see the step.”
“I know.”
Behind him, the apprentices stared in complete silence.
You straightened quickly, visibly embarrassed, before trying to regain some dignity and offering them all a warm smile. “Hello. I brought pastries.”
Then one of the bags split open because you had apparently forgotten to tie it properly.
Pastries rolled everywhere.
Coco loved you instantly.
Agott, meanwhile, looked deeply confused.
This only became worse over the next few hours. You forgot where you placed your gloves three separate times despite holding them once while actively searching for them. You walked directly into a doorway because you got distracted explaining a spell theory to Coco. At one point, you ran halfway out the front gate with everyone before suddenly freezing in horror. “I forgot the maps,” you announced. Then you rushed back inside. Less than a minute later, you returned looking triumphant before stopping again. “No, wait. I forgot my satchel too.” Agott watched this happen with increasing disbelief while Qifrey stood nearby looking entirely unsurprised.
“Does this happen often?” she finally asked quietly.
Qifrey smiled faintly over the rim of his tea. “Constantly.”
Sure enough, five minutes later you reappeared in the doorway holding your satchel, your maps, and somehow also one of Qifrey’s scarves because you apparently forgot which belongings were yours halfway through gathering everything.
“You took my scarf,” Qifrey pointed out gently.
You looked down. “...Ah.”
There was a pause.
Then Qifrey reached over and fixed the scarf around your shoulders properly anyway.
Agott did not know what to make of the fact that one of the most accomplished witches she had ever heard of kept nearly walking into furniture.
The strangest part was how quickly the contrast became obvious once you actually started working.
Because the moment magic entered the equation, you became someone entirely different.
It happened during a small outing with the girls a few days later. The trip had been peaceful until a spell device sold at the market malfunctioned nearby, sending unstable glyphs spiraling wildly through the street. Before anyone else could properly react, you moved.
Agott would remember that moment for a very long time afterward.
One second you had been laughing softly while trying to remember whether you packed enough ink. The next, your expression sharpened with frightening focus. Your movements became precise, immediate, practiced in a way that felt almost unreal compared to your usual absentminded softness. You stepped directly in front of the apprentices without hesitation while glyphs bloomed beneath your hands in smooth rapid patterns. The unstable magic collapsed instantly under your control. Every line you drew was perfect. Every movement deliberate. Within moments, the damaged device safely unraveled into harmless sparks.
The entire street had gone silent.
Then you blinked once, looked down at your hands, and sighed quietly. “Oh no,” you murmured. “I think I dropped the pastries.”
Sure enough, the pastry box sat upside down several feet away.
Coco burst out laughing first.
Even Agott had to look away to hide her expression.
Qifrey, however, looked unbearably fond.
It was almost embarrassing how obvious it became whenever he watched you. His gaze softened constantly around you, warm amusement lingering even during your most chaotic moments. Whenever you forgot something, he already had it ready before you realized it was missing. Whenever you stumbled, his hand appeared at your waist or against your arm with perfect timing, steadying you so naturally it seemed practiced.
Which, unfortunately, it absolutely was.
One rainy afternoon, the apprentices witnessed perhaps the worst example yet.
You were carrying supplies through the atelier while distractedly explaining a new invention to Qifrey, speaking quickly with animated gestures while he listened with patient interest beside you. “—and if the pressure release rune activates too early, the whole thing destabilizes, so I had to redesign the inner cir—”
Your foot caught against the edge of the carpet.
Agott physically saw disaster approaching.
Without interrupting your sentence, Qifrey caught you smoothly against his chest before you could fall. One hand steadied the supplies while the other rested securely at your waist. You blinked up at him mid-conversation like nothing unusual had happened.
“Thank you,” you said automatically before continuing, “—which means the copper wiring has to be layered differently—”
Qifrey nodded attentively. “Mm. That makes sense.”
The apprentices stared.
“You didn’t even pause,” Tetia whispered.
“We stopped pausing months ago,” Qifrey admitted.
You looked mildly offended. “I am not that clumsy.”
At that exact moment, you nearly stepped backward into a stool.
Qifrey caught you again immediately without even turning around this time.
Agott covered her face with her hand.
The truly unfair part was that despite all of this, she ended up liking you far more than expected. Maybe it was because you never acted embarrassed about your accomplishments despite how extraordinary they were. Maybe it was because you treated the apprentices seriously, listening carefully to every question Coco asked and praising Agott’s precision with complete sincerity. Or maybe it was simply impossible not to grow attached to someone who could dismantle dangerous magic in seconds yet still forget where they left their own shoes.
One evening, Agott found you asleep at the workshop table after spending hours helping Richeh repair damaged tools. Your notes were scattered everywhere in messy overlapping stacks. One of your sleeves had ink smeared across it. Qifrey stood nearby watching you with quiet affection while gently lifting your glasses from where they sat crookedly against your face.
“She fell asleep looking for her own notebook,” he said softly.
Agott stared at you for a long moment before muttering, “She’s weird.”
Qifrey smiled knowingly. “Very.”
There was a small pause before Agott crossed her arms and looked away.
“…I understand it, though,” she admitted quietly.
Qifrey’s expression softened immediately because he understood exactly what she meant.
Because somehow you were both things at once. You were terrifyingly skilled and hopelessly forgetful. Brilliant and absentminded. Capable of protecting everyone around you without hesitation while still needing Qifrey to remind you where you placed your coat five minutes earlier. And perhaps the strangest thing of all was how naturally those pieces fit together.
Especially to him.
Especially when he caught you against his chest after another near fall and you instinctively relaxed there for half a second longer than necessary, smiling up at him with sleepy trust while he steadied you carefully like it was the easiest thing in the world.
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Qifrey and very clumsy Reader, who at times can be a bit forgetful. At the same time Reader is a highly accomplished witch, could be a crafty inventor or maybe a skilled combatant. Anyhow just the contrast between Reader at home and relaxing, when compared to protecting others or working on projects.
I bet he would find it very endearing how they have to quickly run back in to grab another thing when taking the girls out for the day. I have this amazing image of Qifrey just gently catching Reader before the fall or trip
A silly idea I had was Coco being super excited to meet Reader but Agott making some about Reader not being how she expects. What would make it even sillier is if Agott actually really likes Reader, even in her clumsiness.
I am now 🦭 anon (don’t know if I have already claimed that or not)
Our very own Tinkerbell
Qifrey x reader
cw: none
AN: I love Agott, can you tell? Anyway 🦭 anon I hereby declare you as my most loyal requester because the amount of asks I have from you in my inbox is actually insane
Before meeting you, Agott had very specific expectations about the kind of person who could possibly manage to impress Qifrey.
Considering your reputation, nobody could really blame her. Stories about you traveled easily among witches. Some spoke about your inventions with near disbelief, describing intricate magical tools capable of shielding entire villages or dismantling dangerous spells in seconds. Others talked about watching you fight, about the terrifying precision of your magic and the way you could cut through hostile creatures so quickly it barely looked real. Coco had once overheard a group of older witches discussing you in hushed voices at the market, and afterward she spent nearly an hour excitedly telling everyone she was absolutely going to meet “the amazing witch Qifrey knows.”
So naturally, Agott expected someone impossibly intimidating.
Then you arrived at the atelier carrying three bags, tripped on the front step almost immediately, and would have fallen face-first onto the wooden porch if Qifrey had not caught you by the waist without even looking up from the book in his hands.
“There you are,” he said calmly, like this happened every single day.
You blinked at him in surprise while clutching his sleeve. “I didn’t even see the step.”
“I know.”
Behind him, the apprentices stared in complete silence.
You straightened quickly, visibly embarrassed, before trying to regain some dignity and offering them all a warm smile. “Hello. I brought pastries.”
Then one of the bags split open because you had apparently forgotten to tie it properly.
Pastries rolled everywhere.
Coco loved you instantly.
Agott, meanwhile, looked deeply confused.
This only became worse over the next few hours. You forgot where you placed your gloves three separate times despite holding them once while actively searching for them. You walked directly into a doorway because you got distracted explaining a spell theory to Coco. At one point, you ran halfway out the front gate with everyone before suddenly freezing in horror. “I forgot the maps,” you announced. Then you rushed back inside. Less than a minute later, you returned looking triumphant before stopping again. “No, wait. I forgot my satchel too.” Agott watched this happen with increasing disbelief while Qifrey stood nearby looking entirely unsurprised.
“Does this happen often?” she finally asked quietly.
Qifrey smiled faintly over the rim of his tea. “Constantly.”
Sure enough, five minutes later you reappeared in the doorway holding your satchel, your maps, and somehow also one of Qifrey’s scarves because you apparently forgot which belongings were yours halfway through gathering everything.
“You took my scarf,” Qifrey pointed out gently.
You looked down. “...Ah.”
There was a pause.
Then Qifrey reached over and fixed the scarf around your shoulders properly anyway.
Agott did not know what to make of the fact that one of the most accomplished witches she had ever heard of kept nearly walking into furniture.
The strangest part was how quickly the contrast became obvious once you actually started working.
Because the moment magic entered the equation, you became someone entirely different.
It happened during a small outing with the girls a few days later. The trip had been peaceful until a spell device sold at the market malfunctioned nearby, sending unstable glyphs spiraling wildly through the street. Before anyone else could properly react, you moved.
Agott would remember that moment for a very long time afterward.
One second you had been laughing softly while trying to remember whether you packed enough ink. The next, your expression sharpened with frightening focus. Your movements became precise, immediate, practiced in a way that felt almost unreal compared to your usual absentminded softness. You stepped directly in front of the apprentices without hesitation while glyphs bloomed beneath your hands in smooth rapid patterns. The unstable magic collapsed instantly under your control. Every line you drew was perfect. Every movement deliberate. Within moments, the damaged device safely unraveled into harmless sparks.
The entire street had gone silent.
Then you blinked once, looked down at your hands, and sighed quietly. “Oh no,” you murmured. “I think I dropped the pastries.”
Sure enough, the pastry box sat upside down several feet away.
Coco burst out laughing first.
Even Agott had to look away to hide her expression.
Qifrey, however, looked unbearably fond.
It was almost embarrassing how obvious it became whenever he watched you. His gaze softened constantly around you, warm amusement lingering even during your most chaotic moments. Whenever you forgot something, he already had it ready before you realized it was missing. Whenever you stumbled, his hand appeared at your waist or against your arm with perfect timing, steadying you so naturally it seemed practiced.
Which, unfortunately, it absolutely was.
One rainy afternoon, the apprentices witnessed perhaps the worst example yet.
You were carrying supplies through the atelier while distractedly explaining a new invention to Qifrey, speaking quickly with animated gestures while he listened with patient interest beside you. “—and if the pressure release rune activates too early, the whole thing destabilizes, so I had to redesign the inner cir—”
Your foot caught against the edge of the carpet.
Agott physically saw disaster approaching.
Without interrupting your sentence, Qifrey caught you smoothly against his chest before you could fall. One hand steadied the supplies while the other rested securely at your waist. You blinked up at him mid-conversation like nothing unusual had happened.
“Thank you,” you said automatically before continuing, “—which means the copper wiring has to be layered differently—”
Qifrey nodded attentively. “Mm. That makes sense.”
The apprentices stared.
“You didn’t even pause,” Tetia whispered.
“We stopped pausing months ago,” Qifrey admitted.
You looked mildly offended. “I am not that clumsy.”
At that exact moment, you nearly stepped backward into a stool.
Qifrey caught you again immediately without even turning around this time.
Agott covered her face with her hand.
The truly unfair part was that despite all of this, she ended up liking you far more than expected. Maybe it was because you never acted embarrassed about your accomplishments despite how extraordinary they were. Maybe it was because you treated the apprentices seriously, listening carefully to every question Coco asked and praising Agott’s precision with complete sincerity. Or maybe it was simply impossible not to grow attached to someone who could dismantle dangerous magic in seconds yet still forget where they left their own shoes.
One evening, Agott found you asleep at the workshop table after spending hours helping Richeh repair damaged tools. Your notes were scattered everywhere in messy overlapping stacks. One of your sleeves had ink smeared across it. Qifrey stood nearby watching you with quiet affection while gently lifting your glasses from where they sat crookedly against your face.
“She fell asleep looking for her own notebook,” he said softly.
Agott stared at you for a long moment before muttering, “She’s weird.”
Qifrey smiled knowingly. “Very.”
There was a small pause before Agott crossed her arms and looked away.
“…I understand it, though,” she admitted quietly.
Qifrey’s expression softened immediately because he understood exactly what she meant.
Because somehow you were both things at once. You were terrifyingly skilled and hopelessly forgetful. Brilliant and absentminded. Capable of protecting everyone around you without hesitation while still needing Qifrey to remind you where you placed your coat five minutes earlier. And perhaps the strangest thing of all was how naturally those pieces fit together.
Especially to him.
Especially when he caught you against his chest after another near fall and you instinctively relaxed there for half a second longer than necessary, smiling up at him with sleepy trust while he steadied you carefully like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Like the content? Let me know by interacting with this post!
Qifrey and very clumsy Reader, who at times can be a bit forgetful. At the same time Reader is a highly accomplished witch, could be a crafty inventor or maybe a skilled combatant. Anyhow just the contrast between Reader at home and relaxing, when compared to protecting others or working on projects.
I bet he would find it very endearing how they have to quickly run back in to grab another thing when taking the girls out for the day. I have this amazing image of Qifrey just gently catching Reader before the fall or trip
A silly idea I had was Coco being super excited to meet Reader but Agott making some about Reader not being how she expects. What would make it even sillier is if Agott actually really likes Reader, even in her clumsiness.
I am now 🦭 anon (don’t know if I have already claimed that or not)
Our very own Tinkerbell
Qifrey x reader
cw: none
AN: I love Agott, can you tell? Anyway 🦭 anon I hereby declare you as my most loyal requester because the amount of asks I have from you in my inbox is actually insane
Before meeting you, Agott had very specific expectations about the kind of person who could possibly manage to impress Qifrey.
Considering your reputation, nobody could really blame her. Stories about you traveled easily among witches. Some spoke about your inventions with near disbelief, describing intricate magical tools capable of shielding entire villages or dismantling dangerous spells in seconds. Others talked about watching you fight, about the terrifying precision of your magic and the way you could cut through hostile creatures so quickly it barely looked real. Coco had once overheard a group of older witches discussing you in hushed voices at the market, and afterward she spent nearly an hour excitedly telling everyone she was absolutely going to meet “the amazing witch Qifrey knows.”
So naturally, Agott expected someone impossibly intimidating.
Then you arrived at the atelier carrying three bags, tripped on the front step almost immediately, and would have fallen face-first onto the wooden porch if Qifrey had not caught you by the waist without even looking up from the book in his hands.
“There you are,” he said calmly, like this happened every single day.
You blinked at him in surprise while clutching his sleeve. “I didn’t even see the step.”
“I know.”
Behind him, the apprentices stared in complete silence.
You straightened quickly, visibly embarrassed, before trying to regain some dignity and offering them all a warm smile. “Hello. I brought pastries.”
Then one of the bags split open because you had apparently forgotten to tie it properly.
Pastries rolled everywhere.
Coco loved you instantly.
Agott, meanwhile, looked deeply confused.
This only became worse over the next few hours. You forgot where you placed your gloves three separate times despite holding them once while actively searching for them. You walked directly into a doorway because you got distracted explaining a spell theory to Coco. At one point, you ran halfway out the front gate with everyone before suddenly freezing in horror. “I forgot the maps,” you announced. Then you rushed back inside. Less than a minute later, you returned looking triumphant before stopping again. “No, wait. I forgot my satchel too.” Agott watched this happen with increasing disbelief while Qifrey stood nearby looking entirely unsurprised.
“Does this happen often?” she finally asked quietly.
Qifrey smiled faintly over the rim of his tea. “Constantly.”
Sure enough, five minutes later you reappeared in the doorway holding your satchel, your maps, and somehow also one of Qifrey’s scarves because you apparently forgot which belongings were yours halfway through gathering everything.
“You took my scarf,” Qifrey pointed out gently.
You looked down. “...Ah.”
There was a pause.
Then Qifrey reached over and fixed the scarf around your shoulders properly anyway.
Agott did not know what to make of the fact that one of the most accomplished witches she had ever heard of kept nearly walking into furniture.
The strangest part was how quickly the contrast became obvious once you actually started working.
Because the moment magic entered the equation, you became someone entirely different.
It happened during a small outing with the girls a few days later. The trip had been peaceful until a spell device sold at the market malfunctioned nearby, sending unstable glyphs spiraling wildly through the street. Before anyone else could properly react, you moved.
Agott would remember that moment for a very long time afterward.
One second you had been laughing softly while trying to remember whether you packed enough ink. The next, your expression sharpened with frightening focus. Your movements became precise, immediate, practiced in a way that felt almost unreal compared to your usual absentminded softness. You stepped directly in front of the apprentices without hesitation while glyphs bloomed beneath your hands in smooth rapid patterns. The unstable magic collapsed instantly under your control. Every line you drew was perfect. Every movement deliberate. Within moments, the damaged device safely unraveled into harmless sparks.
The entire street had gone silent.
Then you blinked once, looked down at your hands, and sighed quietly. “Oh no,” you murmured. “I think I dropped the pastries.”
Sure enough, the pastry box sat upside down several feet away.
Coco burst out laughing first.
Even Agott had to look away to hide her expression.
Qifrey, however, looked unbearably fond.
It was almost embarrassing how obvious it became whenever he watched you. His gaze softened constantly around you, warm amusement lingering even during your most chaotic moments. Whenever you forgot something, he already had it ready before you realized it was missing. Whenever you stumbled, his hand appeared at your waist or against your arm with perfect timing, steadying you so naturally it seemed practiced.
Which, unfortunately, it absolutely was.
One rainy afternoon, the apprentices witnessed perhaps the worst example yet.
You were carrying supplies through the atelier while distractedly explaining a new invention to Qifrey, speaking quickly with animated gestures while he listened with patient interest beside you. “—and if the pressure release rune activates too early, the whole thing destabilizes, so I had to redesign the inner cir—”
Your foot caught against the edge of the carpet.
Agott physically saw disaster approaching.
Without interrupting your sentence, Qifrey caught you smoothly against his chest before you could fall. One hand steadied the supplies while the other rested securely at your waist. You blinked up at him mid-conversation like nothing unusual had happened.
“Thank you,” you said automatically before continuing, “—which means the copper wiring has to be layered differently—”
Qifrey nodded attentively. “Mm. That makes sense.”
The apprentices stared.
“You didn’t even pause,” Tetia whispered.
“We stopped pausing months ago,” Qifrey admitted.
You looked mildly offended. “I am not that clumsy.”
At that exact moment, you nearly stepped backward into a stool.
Qifrey caught you again immediately without even turning around this time.
Agott covered her face with her hand.
The truly unfair part was that despite all of this, she ended up liking you far more than expected. Maybe it was because you never acted embarrassed about your accomplishments despite how extraordinary they were. Maybe it was because you treated the apprentices seriously, listening carefully to every question Coco asked and praising Agott’s precision with complete sincerity. Or maybe it was simply impossible not to grow attached to someone who could dismantle dangerous magic in seconds yet still forget where they left their own shoes.
One evening, Agott found you asleep at the workshop table after spending hours helping Richeh repair damaged tools. Your notes were scattered everywhere in messy overlapping stacks. One of your sleeves had ink smeared across it. Qifrey stood nearby watching you with quiet affection while gently lifting your glasses from where they sat crookedly against your face.
“She fell asleep looking for her own notebook,” he said softly.
Agott stared at you for a long moment before muttering, “She’s weird.”
Qifrey smiled knowingly. “Very.”
There was a small pause before Agott crossed her arms and looked away.
“…I understand it, though,” she admitted quietly.
Qifrey’s expression softened immediately because he understood exactly what she meant.
Because somehow you were both things at once. You were terrifyingly skilled and hopelessly forgetful. Brilliant and absentminded. Capable of protecting everyone around you without hesitation while still needing Qifrey to remind you where you placed your coat five minutes earlier. And perhaps the strangest thing of all was how naturally those pieces fit together.
Especially to him.
Especially when he caught you against his chest after another near fall and you instinctively relaxed there for half a second longer than necessary, smiling up at him with sleepy trust while he steadied you carefully like it was the easiest thing in the world.
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