genshin boys overhear you talking to yourself
premise. sometimes, talking to yourself feels safer than facing the guy you can’t stop thinking about…until he walks in on you mid-spiral. from awkward blushes to unexpected confessions, here’s what happens when your most embarrassing moments become the genshin boys' favorite memories
features. kazuha, diluc, childe, wanderer, alhaitham, xiao, ayato, cyno, itto, kaeya, baizhu, dainsleif, tighnari, thoma, heizou, bennett, kaveh, zhongli
You're crouched beside a broken cart wheel, half-hidden in tall grass, muttering furiously to yourself as you examine the splintered wood.
“Of course it had to break here, in the middle of nowhere. No signal flare left, and I let the boat crew leave without me. Brilliant. Great job, really stellar planning—”
“You’re being rather harsh on yourself.”
You startle so hard you nearly fall backward. Kazuha stands a few paces behind, hands tucked calmly into his sleeves, his eyes full of quiet amusement and concern.
“You were gone longer than expected,” he explains, seeing your confusion. “Beidou sent me to check if you’d lost your way—or started arguing with local wildlife.”
You flush. “No, I’m just…talking to myself. Thinking through how to fix it.”
He steps closer and knelt beside you, examining the wheel. “Hm. The axle’s intact. A proper wedge might hold long enough to get you back to the road.”
You blink. “Oh. You’re not going to tease me about earlier?”
“I speak to the wind as if it listens,” he says lightly. “Why would I judge you for speaking to yourself?”
You glance at him. “And does the wind ever answer?”
He smiles faintly. “Only when I’m quiet enough to hear it.”
And then, just like that, he gets to work, gathering branches, finding rope in your satchel, never once asking why you chose to be alone in the first place but just staying until the cart moves again. Maybe the wind hadn’t answered, but he had.
He walks into the tavern early in the morning, expecting silence. Instead, he hears your voice in a low, frantic whisper as you await his arrival: “Okay, you’ve got this. He’s just a man. A tall, brooding, red-haired, intimidatingly handsome man—Archons above, why am I like this?”
He freezes mid-step, but the tap of his boot on the tile is loud enough to betray him. You whirl around, mortified, and lock eyes with him like a deer caught in emotionally compromising headlights.
“…I assume that was about me,” he says, voice neutral, but his ears are visibly pink.
“I—No—I mean—kind of?” you squeak, visibly crumbling under the weight of your own existence.
He clears his throat and looks away, reaching for a mug that absolutely does not need his attention.
“Understood,” he mutters.
For the rest of the day, he’s overly polite, painfully formal, and avoids eye contact like it’s flammable. Later that evening, you find a cup of your favorite tea left out for you—steaming, perfectly steeped, and completely unsupervised. The mug has a folded note under it, consisting of just three words: “You’ve got this.”
He’s passing by your room when he hears your voice, quiet but distinct, and increasingly unhinged: “Okay. Plan A: cry. Plan B: threaten to cry. Plan C: run away and never return.”
He pauses mid-step, then leans against the doorway with a lopsided grin. “Wow, those are some elite-level crisis strategies. You sure you’re not Fatui?”
You shriek in embarrassment. “How long have you been standing there?!”
“Long enough to know you’ve got potential,” he laughs, pushing off the doorframe and stepping inside.
You groan and hide your face. “I was joking. mostly.”
“Nah, I kinda like it,” he teases. “Plan A’s got emotional flair. Plan B? Classic drama. However, Plan C?” his voice softens just a bit. “If you ran, I’d just find you. You know that, right?”
You look up and find his smile stripped of mischief. It’s quiet and gentle in a way that makes your heart trip over itself.
“But…if you do need tissues, I’ve got plenty.”
Somehow, this ends with him dragging you to sit on the couch, arms slung around you, both of you buried under a blanket neither of you remembers pulling over your laps.
“New plan,” he says, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Plan D: stay right here.”
He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He'd simply been on his way when he found you pacing the courtyard, completely unaware of his presence.
“He probably doesn’t even notice when I smile at him. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just ignoring me. Ugh. I should just throw a rock at him.”
He replies instantly. “Try it. I’ll throw one back.”
You flinch so hard you nearly drop your bag. He’s already leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, unreadable as ever. His gaze flicks to you, sharp but dissolving into something strangely unguarded. You open your mouth, but he speaks first.
“I notice,” he tells you, quieter now. almost like it costs him something to admit. “More than you think.”
Then he’s gone, vanishing down the corridor before you can speak, like he never meant to say anything at all. But later, you find a small, perfectly smooth stone placed outside your windowsill. No note. No explanation. Just one rock, light enough to throw.
He’s walking past the study when he hears you, your voice sounding low, frantic, and clearly not meant for anyone else.
“Okay, if I just put the books back exactly the way he had them, maybe he won’t know I was here. Unless…he cataloged them by page wear. Oh archons—what if he did? Why does he have to be attractive and terrifying?”
His deadpan voice sounds right behind you. “For the record, I do catalog them by page wear.”
You jump, dropping the book you’re holding, but instead of hitting the floor, it lands effortlessly in his palm.
“Also, you’ve been muttering to yourself for three full minutes. You’re not exactly subtle.”
You open your mouth to explain, apologize, evaporate, anything, but he just walks past and plucks a book from your stack.
“You misaligned this one by 0.6 centimeters,” he remarks, tone neutral. “But I’ll let it slide.”
You’re still frozen, blinking at him.
Without looking at you, he adds almost offhandedly, “Next time you wish to come by, just ask. I’d rather see you here than not.”
And then he starts reorganizing beside you. He’s silent, efficient, and just close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.
You’re sitting alone on the quiet terrace just outside Wangshu Inn, knees pulled up to your chest as you mutter into the dusk. “Why did I say ‘sweet dreams’? Who says that to Xiao? He’s the vigilant yaksha, not some character from a bedtime story. He probably thinks I’m a sentimental weirdo—”
You whip around. He’s suddenly there, silent as ever, standing just behind you in the fading light.
“I don’t think you’re weird,” he repeats, voice soft and steady, though there’s the faintest crease in his brow like he’s wondering if he’s said too much.
You scramble to stand, completely flustered. “Wait, how long were you—?”
“I heard my name,” he says plainly, as if that explains everything.
The air feels charged with embarrassment. Yours. Maybe his, too. After a pause, he glances away toward the treetops. His voice is quieter now.
“No one’s said that to me before.”
He doesn’t meet your eyes. “Sweet dreams.”
There’s something almost reverent in the way he says it, like the words feel too fragile in his mouth.
“I didn’t think those were something I could have.”
The breeze carries the scent of silk flowers, and for a long moment, neither of you says anything.
Then, without looking at you, he adds, “But I liked hearing it. From you.”
Your heart flips once, hard.
And before you can spiral all over again, he turns to go, but stops just long enough to murmur, “Goodnight. I hope…yours are sweet, too.”
He’s strolling through the estate gardens when he catches the faint tones of your voice, muffled but unmistakably dramatic. Curious, he peeks around a hedge and discovers you monologuing to a cluster of blue hydrangeas with passionate gestures.
“Lord Ayato, my dearest nemesis. Why must you smile like that? Why must your tea taste like heartbreak and fine politics?”
His brows lift in faint surprise.
“And why did I tell him it was ‘transcendent’? That’s not normal person behavior. That’s the kind of thing a swooning diplomat says before fainting into their fan.”
Ayato brings a hand to his mouth, stifling the laugh that bubbles up. He knows he should announce himself—knows it's indecent to linger—but curiosity roots him in place. It’s rare to see you so unguarded, and rarer still to be the subject of such poetic vitriol.
You pace a few steps, oblivious. “He probably thinks I was flirting. Which I wasn’t. I think. Ugh.”
He waits just a second longer, watching as you sigh and press your fingertips to your forehead like a tragic heroine from a stage play, before stepping forward, his fan snapping closed with a soft click.
“I didn’t realize I’d been cast as the villain in your private soliloquy.”
You freeze. There is no mistaking his voice, nor the silk-smooth amusement threading through it. Slowly, you turn.
“I must say, your critique was…vivid,” he continues. His expression is polite, but his eyes betray him, bright with barely contained laughter. “And rather unfair to the tea, which I assure you is not culpable for your emotional distress.”
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. He tilts his head, as if considering something seriously.
“Though I do wonder what heartbreak tastes like to you.”
You groan and bury your face in your hands.
He inclines his head slightly, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Next time, speak your grievances aloud to me instead. I assure you, I respond far better than flowers.”
He walks in on you muttering and pacing in circles.
“Okay, okay. Don’t laugh if he tells another joke. But also don’t not laugh, because then he’ll think you hate him. Ugh, why is this so complicated?”
He appears behind you with a perfectly straight face and says, “What do you call a fake noodle? an impasta.”
You shriek and nearly trip over a chair. He waits. You groan.
“That was…better than usual,” you admit.
He pauses as he appraises you. His lips twitch. “So. You’ve been rehearsing responses to my jokes?”
You blink, caught. “No. Definitely not.”
He steps closer, arms folded, head tilting in mock-serious thought. “Interesting. That implies you anticipated more. Which means…you’re expecting me.”
He nods solemnly. “Correct. And now that I know you’re preparing, I’ll have to escalate.”
You groan again, this time into your hands, and he finally cracks a smile. Later, he’ll tell you a compliment disguised as a riddle. You’ll pretend not to swoon. He’ll pretend not to notice. Neither of you is very convincing.
You’re standing in front of a mirror, hyping yourself up. “You’re brave. You’re bold. You can flirt with Itto today. Probably. Maybe. Okay, no, don’t flirt, just survive eye contact.”
A voice behind you booms, “Well hey, I think you’re already killin’ it!”
You scream and spin around so fast you almost knock over a stool. Itto’s standing in the doorway, grinning like a kid who just found candy and a beetle.
“Also, flirting’s totally encouraged. Ten outta ten, would recommend.”
You clutch your chest. “How long have you been standing there?!”
“Since the part where you said you were bold and brave or whatever. Sounded super cool, so I figured I’d stay for the ending.”
You groan. He’s still grinning.
“But hey,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh, “you don’t gotta overthink it. Just talk to me like normal! Or, y’know, you could flirt if that’s easier.”
You entertain the idea of feigning amnesia, knowing he’d probably fall for it. Instead, you mutter, “...I liked your hair today.”
He lights up like the sun. “See? You’re killin’ it!”
Somehow, this ends with him offering to coach you through flirting with him. The audacity.
You were only meant to drop off a report. Nothing more. Just a quick visit to the Knights’ headquarters, a few signatures, and out. And yet here you are, lingering in an empty hallway, your forehead pressed lightly against a stone pillar as you mutter to yourself.
“Genius. Absolutely genius. ‘Nice weather, Kaeya.’ That’s what I went with. Might as well have added, ‘Hi, I’ve been harboring a wildly inconvenient crush on you since Stormterror was still a problem. Want to date and/or be the reason I start writing terrible poetry again?’”
A breath of laughter—not your own—cuts through the silence.
“I’d be open to both,” a familiar voice replies.
He’s there, lounging against the window alcove like he’s been there all along, elbow propped casually on the sill, head tilted with interest. His smile says he heard every word. His eyes say he enjoyed it.
Kaeya pushes off the ledge and strolls toward you, every step perfectly unhurried. “Next time you plan to deliver a monologue about me, perhaps wait until I’ve left the building. Unless,” he adds, voice dropping with playful weight, “you were hoping I’d hear it.”
You can feel the heat rise to your face like a sunrise.
“I was just thinking out loud,” you manage.
“So I gathered. And for the record”—he passes close enough that his cloak brushes your sleeve—“I find it flattering.”
You briefly consider flinging yourself out the nearest window.
At the end of the corridor, he glances back over his shoulder, smile curling just shy of sincere.
“If the weather stays this nice, do let me know if that wildly inconvenient crush turns into something more actionable.”
A junior knight passing by gives you a puzzled look. “You, uh…look like you saw a ghost.”
You exhale, voice thin. “Worse.”
You’re by yourself in the back room of Bubu Pharmacy, sorting herbs and muttering under your breath. It’s been a long day, and unfortunately, your brain has chosen to perseverate.
“If I faint in front of him again, I’m just going to say it was low blood sugar. Not the fact that he tucked my hair behind my ear like it was nothing.”
“Hmm. I’ll make a note to check your glucose levels...and perhaps develop a tincture for sudden-onset romantic distress?”
You whip around so fast that a handful of Qingxin spills onto the table. Baizhu stands in the doorway, serene as ever, holding a tray of tea like he didn’t just obliterate your self-esteem.
“It’s a surprisingly common condition,” he adds, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “Often triggered by gentle gestures and poor coping mechanisms.”
Changsheng pokes her head out from behind his collar and lets out a tiny, delighted laugh. “Lovesick. Very contagious,” she stage-whispers.
You bury your face in your hands.
Baizhu sets the tea down beside you with quiet care. “I could prepare a cure, but I fear the malady is mutual—and, strangely, quite welcome.”
You think you’re alone, sitting quietly in a dim corner of the library and murmuring your frustrations to yourself. Dainsleif, combing the shelves for a particular volume, pauses when he hears the soft thread of your voice carry through the candlelight: “I bet he doesn’t even remember my name. I’m probably just a temporary footnote to him anyway. Someone who fades like shadows at dusk.”
His low voice answers from just beyond the glow of your lantern. “You are not a footnote.”
You nearly jump out of your skin as Dainsleif steps into view. The candlelight flickers across the lines of his face, which remains composed and unreadable but not unfeeling. He doesn’t speak gently, not exactly, but there’s a steadiness to his tone that seems to lessen the musty air.
“Names are more than words,” he says. “They are memory. History. Presence.”
He kneels slightly and locks eyes with you, his gaze piercing.
“I remember your name,” he continues. “Not only the shape of it. I remember the weight it carries when you speak it. I remember the careful way you said goodnight two nights ago, as if you weren’t sure I’d hear it, or hold it.”
You can’t breathe. You can’t look away.
“Don’t assume I forget the things that matter,” he says, rising to his full height again. His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his posture softens. And then, without waiting for a reply, he turns and disappears into the stacks. For a long moment, all you can hear is the echo of his footsteps and the pulse of your own heart—louder now, and somehow less alone.
You’re elbow-deep in soil, half-focused on coaxing the withered pardisah into a new pot, when your frustration finally boils over.
“Okay, next time, just say thank you and walk away. Easy. Normal. Not, ‘Wow, your ears are so expressive today,’ like some feral maniac.” You groan and press your forehead to your palm. “He probably thinks I’m studying him like a botanical specimen. What is wrong with me?”
“To be fair,” a dry voice answers behind you, “most people don’t notice ear movement unless they’re watching very closely.”
You nearly send the pot flying as you whip around. Tighnari is leaning beside your bag of soil, arms folded, one brow arched in faint incredulity.
“You were there…the whole time,” you croak.
“Roughly since the ‘feral maniac’ part,” he amends, tail flicking with suspicious amusement. “You were a bit harsh on yourself, but entertaining.”
You cover your face. “I swear I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“You didn’t,” he says gently, and then—surprisingly—smiles. “I didn’t mind the compliment. It was…oddly specific, but sincere. And clearly the result of long observation.”
He steps past you, crouching to inspect the flower you nearly murdered in your panic.
“Next time,” he adds, not looking up, “less spiraling, more speaking.”
His tone is neutral, but his ears betray him with the smallest, involuntary flick.
And then he mutters to himself, “They’re only expressive when you’re around, anyway.”
You pretend not to hear. For now.
You’re alone in the kitchen—or so you believe—flipping gyozas with intense concentration and muttering under your breath. “Okay, Thoma likes them crispy. Not burnt. Crispy, like his smile. No, wait, what? Focus!”
“Crispy like my smile, huh?”
You flinch. The spatula slips from your fingers and clatters to the stovetop. Thoma is casually leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and grinning like he definitely heard more than he should have.
“I’m flattered,” he says, stepping closer. “But now I’ve got questions. What, exactly, does a crispy smile look like?”
“I—I meant the gyoza, not your— Wait, no, I meant both—I mean—”
The oil hisses sharply, like even the pan can’t take it anymore. Smoke streams upward.
Thoma is already by your side, grabbing the pan with practiced ease and sliding it off the stove.
“You know,” he says, grinning as he surveys the damage, “you didn’t have to set them on fire just to impress me.”
“Hey, I’m not complaining. Means I get to help.” He tosses you a wink. “Teamwork, right?”
Somehow, you end up shoulder to shoulder, sleeves rolled up, hands floured, trying again as he gives teasing tips on “optimal gyoza symmetry.”
Later, as the final batch sizzles golden and perfect, he leans just close enough to murmur, “Still not sure what a crispy smile is, but if we’re talking about yours…I think I get it now.”
You march down the corridor, shoulders tense, voice pitched low but laced with despair.
“No, Heizou, I don’t need your help picking up the papers I dropped. I just need a convenient hole to bury the cadaver of my dignity in, thank you very much—”
A hand suddenly lands on your shoulder.
“AAHH—” you scream mid-sentence, spinning on instinct and swinging your bag in self-defense.
Heizou barely ducks in time, a laugh tumbling out as he stumbles back, half-shielding himself. “Whoa, violent thoughts and airborne satchels? I should’ve brought a warrant first.”
You freeze, mortified. He’s already dusting off his sleeves like it’s just another day at the precinct.
“Really now, that’s the welcome I get?” he continues, far too amused for someone who was nearly concussed.
“You snuck up on me mid-spiral,” you retort, torn between embarrassment and residual adrenaline. “That’s reckless behavior, even for you.”
He raises a brow, utterly unbothered. “I prefer to think of it as instinct. I happen to have an uncanny sense for when people are saying my name behind my back. Or in this case, aloud. To themselves.”
Your eyes widen just enough to give you away. Heizou smiles like he’s just cracked another case.
“You know,” he adds, stepping just close enough for his voice to drop a tone, “talking to oneself is a perfectly natural response to emotional distress. Especially when that distress has, say…a face and a name?”
You groan and press a hand to your forehead. “You’re insufferable.”
He tilts his head. “And yet, I’m the one you keep muttering about.”
You try to come up with a retort. You fail.
“Don’t worry,” he continues smoothly, already turning on his heel, “your secrets are safe with me.”
“You are the secret,” you call after him.
“And still,” he says without looking back, “you can’t seem to stop confessing to it.”
“Okay, just be normal. If I trip, I’ll just play dead. He won’t even notice. He’s used to disasters,” you tell yourself as you pace in tight little circles outside the Adventurers’ Guild.
“Wait, was that about me?”
You nearly leap into the decorative flower box beside the stairs.
Bennett stands behind you, blinking wide-eyed, equal parts confused and concerned.
“No—I mean—kind of?” you stammer.
He scratches the back of his neck, flustered. “I mean, yeah, stuff does kinda explode around me sometimes, but…hey, you’re not gonna trip.”
He pauses, then adds quickly, “But if you do, I’ll totally catch you! Probably! I mean, I’ve got decent reflexes! Usually!”
He’s turning red now, voice rising an octave as he tries to dig himself out.
“Not that you’ll fall, or need catching! It’s just—If you did fall, hypothetically, I’d be there. Probably. Hopefully. Unless something explodes first.”
You both stare at each other in silence for a beat and then burst out laughing.
“So,” you say, grinning, “wanna grab lunch before something does explode?”
“Yes! Wait, are you asking me out?”
You hesitate. “…Would it make you trip if I said yes?”
“Then, I’ll give you ‘probably’ as my answer.”
He hears your muffled voice through the wall.
“If I see his ridiculously pretty face one more time, I’m going to cry. Or combust. Or both. There is no middle ground anymore.”
A suspicious creak of the floorboard makes your soul exit your body. The door swings open slowly. Kaveh stands there with a tea tray and the most theatrical expression known to man.
“Well,” he says, in full dramatic cadence, “had I known my face was wreaking such havoc on your emotional equilibrium, I would’ve brewed peppermint for the nerves.”
You groan and throw a pillow at him.
“Ah! betrayed by the very person moved to tears by my beauty. So you’ve chosen emotional combustion. Noted.”
You peek between your fingers. “Kaveh, please go.”
He places the tea tray down very deliberately. “I’ll leave,” he says, moving toward the door, “but only after I point out that I’m flattered, deeply and profoundly.”
He stops in the doorway, looks back with a grin just slightly too genuine.
“By the way,” he adds, not quite looking at you, “it’s mutual. The whole…emotional-overload-in-each-other’s-presence thing.”
And with that, he leaves. The tea cools quickly. You do not.
You’re standing outside Wánmín Restaurant, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and muttered self-advice as you wait for a certain funeral consultant to join you for lunch.
“You can’t just stare at him every time he talks. He’s not poetry. He’s a man. A terrifyingly wise, elegant man made of tea and regret.”
You pause, frowning at the phrase.
You jolt and whirl around. Zhongli is standing just behind you, his expression unreadable, as if weighing your words with the patience of centuries.
After a moment’s pause, a faint smile graces his lips. “I believe that’s a new metaphor.”
Then, with a quiet elegance, he gestures in the space between you.
“You may continue your soliloquy. I find it…endearing.”
You feel your composure unravel, cheeks flushing crimson as you try to meet his calm, knowing gaze. For a moment, the world narrows to the soft sound of your breathing and the quiet dignity of a man who understands more than he lets on, and you silently wonder if maybe, just maybe, he is poetry after all.
