Taitanya

Age 25,

[punishmentcup]

The Dialovers TWST crossover NOBODY asked for.

[yobibadoobee]

POSTER

eager to finally get the full package of being a returning legendary commander, a certain winery owner instead cuts the celebrations short.

TAGS: diluc x afab!reader, varka x afab!reader, jealousy, basically varka fucks around (unknowingly) and finds out lol

NOTES: this lovely idea came from @crowttore !! varka SHOULD be banned for leaving jean with so much work (and just because i say so MUAHA)

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

You are probably working the busiest shift Angel’s Share has had in years.

Although Mondstadt is known for ordinary nights akin to festival gatherings, you’re certain the celebration of the Grandmaster’s return is even grander than any kind of festivity. The tavern is abuzz with a full crowd, as tales and drinks pass around the whole room freely. Your patrons are especially generous tonight—ordering vintages and the finest ingredients for mixes left and right, racking up large tabs as if their pockets would never run dry. You’re sure you are due for a hefty paycheck once the night is over. One that you’ll only earn if you give the best customer service a bartender could ever offer.

Customer Service, that is, entertaining the man of the hour’s shameless flirting included.

Having only been on staff for 3 years, you have never encountered the Knight of Boreas beyond the times he was on official business, before he left for the expedition in Nod Krai. Charles says that Varka hasn’t changed—just definitely downing a lot more liquor than he used to. It all makes sense, really. Who wouldn’t want to drink carelessly after conquering trials you’d only hear of in legends?

You just wonder if he is usually this friendly with women.

You can feel his stare by the bar, locking onto you every few minutes or so, flashing you a toothy smile on the occasion you happen to catch his gaze. Shamelessly.

Whenever you would pass by his table to gather empty glasses for a refill, he would have you linger a moment longer—asking whatever he can know about you, always making sure to slip a compliment before you leave. As if that weren’t enough, he would continue on when you return, seemingly never getting enough of your replies.

At this point, you’re sure he’s only drinking to keep talking to you.

“Should you really be going through rounds of Death after Noon this quickly, Grandmaster?”

“I won’t be dead after noon just because of this, my lady,” he laughs, grinning as you place the said mix in front of him, “You can’t blame me, who would not want to drink something made by a stunning beauty?”

“Careful now, that concoction might just be slipped with something unsavory,” you reply, clearing your tray of refills to his companions, who already have their heads on the table. “I believe this is the last turn of the celebrations tonight, good sir, is there anything I can get you before you go?”

Varka clutches his chest dramatically, curling the cloth over his chest, “You wound me, my new favorite bartender. Five years’ worth of hardships yet you turn me away from a good time just as I’ve finally return to leisure—“ He flings his hand by the side, which you figure is his act of throwing his heart away.

You roll your eyes at his antics. “Would that be all, sir?”

“Ah, how cold, I suppose this really must be good night.”

He rises from his seat, stumbling a bit, before taking a step toward you while maintaining a respectful distance despite the influence of alcohol. He offers his hand, which you stare at confusingly, hesitantly placing yours atop his.

The golden knight gives you a handshake. “It is nice to meet you.”

He then lifts your hand towards his lips, shifting his hold onto your fingertips as he presses a light kiss on your knuckles— an act that instantly flusters you.

He grins stupidly again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, eh?”

You quickly pull your hand back, turning your face anywhere but him.

What the hell, what the hell, what the hell. Did he really just do that?

But before you can even respond, a looming figure does it for you.

“There won’t be a tomorrow. We’re closing. Please leave.”

Diluc steps in between you both, bumping into Varka as he passes. There is a scowl etched to his face— sharp, absolutely displeased. You wonder what set him off so suddenly, when not even a full house had shaken him earlier when the celebrations started.

He slams his hand by the table you were serving, jolting the sleeping knights awake, startling the rest of the room.

“Don’t forget to settle your tabs,” voice low, full and firm.

He turns to you, gesturing towards the bar.

You quickly follow his silent orders, watching from behind the counter as he stares off practically the mayor of the town into submission. Varka, drunk but not stupid, ushers his men to take their exit with him, knowing better than to test the young master’s change of demeanor. This prompts the rest of the crowd to follow suit, after dutifully handing their payment.

Before the grandmaster could fully step out of the door, however, he looks over his shoulder right back at you, fluttering his eyelashes before flashing you a wink. He gives you that hideously charming grin again, shamelessly adding, “Tomorrow, miss, okay?”

Diluc steps forward, urging the knight to fully step out, then shuts the door just right— nearly hitting Varka’s back. Just as quickly as he made a scene, he marches off to the cellar, deliberately ignoring the confused looks you and Charles send his way. Heaving a heavy sigh, he takes in the stillness of being alone in a room with nothing but barrels.

He’s displeased. He is absolutely displeased, alright. The sight of you being flustered by that gigantic dog had made his stomach curl. He wonders how many more impulsive incidents might come from the hold you have of him, simply by being yourself. Diluc is painfully aware that if not for the manners instilled to him by his father and the obvious fact he doesn’t have any right to be upset over you simply doing your job, or over you in general, he was certain what happened earlier would have ended very differently.

Tomorrow, my ass.

No right of you, manners present or not—Diluc is still a petty man.

And a petty man would make sure that not even the man holding the highest position in the city could stop his unreasonable decisions.

A hangover would never stop a man deprived of home.

As Varka sneaks off from his office again, leaving an entire stack of paperwork, along with his still recovering companions to set off for Angel’s Share, he already plans what specific mixes he would indulge in that should only be made by the stunning bartender he never encountered before the expedition.

What a pity it was, truly, to not have been graced with the picture of a beauty much earlier with the years past. No matter, he would just make up for it now, practically skipping ahead his men. Their own giddiness, however, suddenly drops the moment they reach the tavern doors.

Varka peaks over, confused. “What’s the matter, boys?”

The awkward silence unsettles him. He steps forward, following where the knights are pointing at. He expects a threat— only to be met with a poster bearing his features, drawn rather offensively.

BANNED.

In bold red lettering across the top. Beneath it settles an awful portrait of his face that does not do him justice at the slightest. It was as if he is not a Grandmaster, but a wanted criminal for the most horrific crimes committed in all of Teyvat.

Varka is left just as dumbfounded as the crowd beginning to gather around his men.

“Preposterous! Who would dare pull such a terrifying prank?” He exclaims dramatically.

Before anyone could further his cause, the owner of the establishment cuts through the crowd, standing his ground directly by the poster.

“I assure you, it is not a prank, Grandmaster.”

“Diluc, my boy! How could this be!? Why would a loyal customer be subjected to such treatment?”

The redhead crosses his arms, leaning against the door, “As the head of this business, don’t I get a say which patrons are permitted entry, especially if they are known to cause trouble?”

Varka opens his to mouth to protest, only for Diluc to cut him off with a sharp look.

“I dont normally suggest our customers to try our own competitors, but Cat’s Tail is just around the corner and would surely serve you to satisfaction, Grandmaster.” His gaze hardens. “For now, you are not welcome. End of story.

End of story, indeed.

As Diluc ignores the various snickers rising from the spectacle of banning a man others might consider too valuable to refuse— he couldn’t care less. Because just beyond the door, inside the tavern, is something he’d rather keep to himself.

You.

Varka can only stare, mouth wildly agape, as the door shuts firmly in front of him. Poster still plastered on.

this took me an alarmingly long time lol, HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOML DILUC. please leave a reblog or reply if you liked it, they’re very much appreciated.

© yobibadoobee. Do not repost, copy, recommend in any other media and feed onto ai.

[solxamber]

Guideverse Masterlist

1. Signed, Sealed, Bonded || Jade Leech

Being an Esper is hard. Finding a Guide is harder. Somehow, the only one who can handle you is Jade Leech, who is both the best and worst thing that has ever happened to you.

2. Guide Rank: Overwhelmed || Malleus Draconia

Being a high-ranked guide is tough—you’re basically a glorified babysitter for overpowered, emotionally constipated espers. But it gets harder when Malleus Draconia, the strongest esper in existence, asks you to guide him.

And somehow, despite it all, you’re pretty sure Malleus is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

3. Unstable Stable || Leona Kingscholar

You were an S-ranked Guide just trying to live your life, but now you're emotionally (and spiritually) babysitting SS-class menace Leona Kingscholar—who’s decided you're his personal charger and refuses to unplug.

4. Sync or Sink || Vil Schoenheit

You, an overworked S-Class esper with the survival instincts of a damp sock, catch the eye of SSS-Class guide Vil Schoenheit. He decides you’re his personal fixer-upper project. Shockingly, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

5. Workplace Hazards: Romance || Idia Shroud

You're a feral SS-class Esper with no off switch. He's an anxious shut-in SS-class Guide just trying to game in peace. Through lies, HR nightmares, dramatic near-deaths, and one candy ring proposal, you accidentally become soulmates. Government benefits may or may not be involved.

6. Ace of Gates || Ace Trappola

You’re an A-rank Esper. He’s an A-rank Guide with too much mouth and not enough fear. Together? You accidentally become the most functional duo in the building.

7. HR's Worst Nightmare || Floyd Leech

You’re an SS Guide who accidentally pioneered hands-free grounding. Floyd is an Esper who pioneered new ways to terrify HR.

Together you form a two-person apocalypse.

8. Gate Crashers and Heart Breakers || Lilia Vanrouge

Part 1 // Part 2

The world has dimensional gates that vomit monsters. This is somehow less horrifying than admitting that you fell hook, line and sinker for your Guide.

9. Fake It Till You Make It (Then Make It Real) || Ruggie Bucchi

You, S-Class Esper, hired a Guide to pretend to guide you. He took the job for the generous paycheck. Neither of you expected the "falling desperately in love" part of the arrangement.

Worldbuilding

1. When do they get their powers?

2. How do bonds work? Types of Espers, Types of Bonds, Forced Bonding, Are Espers just dramatic?

Masterlist

[notesfromthemirror]

Forged in Friction (Varka x Reader)

Synopsis: You camp outside Mondstadt with nothing but spite and your determination to get stronger and find your late mentor's heirlooms. Varka finds you and offers to train you—if you can stop arguing long enough to actually learn. Somewhere along the way, it stops being just training.

Between friction, banter, and too much unresolved tension, you both have to figure out if this is just attraction… or something real.

A/N: This one took on a life of its own somewhere along the way. It started simple back in January and somehow turned into… this. They really made me work for it, but I’m very happy with how it turned out. Hope you enjoy 💙

Tags: Slow Burn. Fluff. Light Angst. Stubborn Reader. Reader is a Bit of a Handful (At First). Mutual Pining. Tension. Banter. Arguments. Restraint. Temporary Rejection. They’re Both Idiots (Affectionate). Learning About Each Other. Emotional Growth. Mutual Understanding. Love Confessions. Kissing. Implied Sex (Fade to Black). Symbolism.

Word count: 18728

⋆ ✦ ⋆

The fire won’t start. You’ve been trying for twenty minutes now, crouched over a pathetic pile of damp sticks and moss you scraped together in the pre-dawn dark. Your fingers are numb. Your back aches from sleeping on the ground.

But you’re not going back.

Not after you stormed out of your apartment three weeks ago with a pack full of half-formed determination and spite, declaring to absolutely no one that you were going to get stronger. Going to finally do what you should have done months ago instead of building your life around someone who didn’t understand, who never would have understood—

“You’re chasing ghosts,” he’d said. “Your mentor filled your head with stories. Let it go.”

But you can’t let it go. Won’t. Master Ren wasn’t just telling stories.

The heirlooms exist. They are real. And if you found three, you can find the rest.

You just need to get stronger first. Strong enough to handle the camps. Strong enough to follow the clues without needing backup or permission or someone telling you it’s foolish to chase family history through dangerous territory.

So what if you’re freezing? So what if your campsite is a disaster? You’ll figure it out. At least you can start a fire properly. Years of forge work taught you that much. In theory. The damp wood hisses and smokes in front of you. You hiss right back.

You strike the flint again. A weak spark catches, flickers, dies. “Damn it—”

“You know,” a voice says behind you, calm and far too amused, “that wood’s too wet to catch. And you’re holding the flint wrong.”

You jolt so hard you nearly drop it. Spinning around, you find yourself staring up at a man who’s somehow appeared without making a sound. Tall, broad-shouldered, with blond hair and blue eyes that are currently watching you with the kind of mild curiosity someone might reserve for a bird trying to build a nest out of rocks.

He’s wearing armor. Well-maintained. You immediately notice the confident way he’s standing there with his arms crossed. Grand Master Varka. You’ve seen him around the city. Heard stories. Never actually spoken to him. Until now.

“I didn’t ask for help,” you say, turning back to your fire with as much dignity as you can salvage.

“Noticed.” He doesn’t leave. You hear the soft crunch of boots on frost-hard ground as he moves closer. “Just observing.”

“Observe somewhere else.”

“Can’t. This is a patrol route.” You grit your teeth and strike the flint again. Nothing. “Interesting approach to survival training. How’s the rock mattress working out?”

Your jaw tightens. “I’m fine.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “And the fire you’ve been trying to start for…” he glances at the sad pile of sticks, “twenty minutes?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Will you?”

You glare up at him. He gazes back. Utterly unbothered, expression somewhere between amused and mildly concerned. He crouches beside you, examining your setup. Too close. You smell leather and pine and wind.

“This because you want to get stronger?” Varka asks, tone conversational. “Or because something else happened?”

You think about home. You’d walked away from the only stable thing you’d had in years. Because staying meant facing questions you didn’t want to answer. Meant admitting the breakup had shattered more than just a relationship. It had shattered your certainty about what you wanted. Who you were. And you were certainly not ready to become someone else just to stay with him.

“Does it matter?” you hear yourself ask.

“Not particularly.” Varka picks up one of your sticks, squeezes it. Water drips out. “Just curious what drives someone to freeze their ass off in the woods when there’s a perfectly good city right there.”

Heat crawls up your neck—part embarrassment, part anger. “Maybe I wanted a change.”

“A change,” he repeats slowly.

“Yes. Maybe I’m tired of—” You gesture vaguely at nothing. “—all of it.” Everything. The dismissal. The people who thought you were wasting your time chasing something that mattered.

His eyebrows rise slightly. “All of it.”

“You don’t need to repeat everything I say.”

“Just making sure I understand.” He sets the stick down carefully and looks at you with those too-observant eyes. “So you’re out here because…?”

“Because I can be.”

“Fair enough.” He stands, brushing his hands off. “Though most people start with something smaller. Learning to cook, maybe. Taking up a hobby.”

“I’m not most people.”

“Clearly.” His tone is dry. “Most people bring dry wood.” You shoot him a look that could peel paint. He just smiles. “Let me guess,” he continues, tilting his head slightly. “Recent breakup? Decided to have a crisis in the wilderness?”

Your face burns. “That’s none of your business.”

“You’re right. It’s not.” He shrugs. “But it’s pretty obvious. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’m going to prove something to absolutely no one’ look.” He pauses. “Seen it before. Usually ends with frostbite or someone falling in a river.”

“I’m not going to fall in a river.”

“Not with that attitude, no. But you might freeze to death.”

You stand abruptly, squaring your shoulders. “I don’t need your concern, Grand Master.”

“Varka,” he corrects mildly. “And I’m not concerned. Just observing.”

“Then observe somewhere else,” you repeat.

He regards you for a long moment. “Quite the lifestyle change,” he says finally, “over a failed relationship.”

The words land like a slap. “That’s not—” You bite off the sentence. Jaw tight. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” He’s not mocking. Just honest. “Someone hurt you. You decided the solution was to sleep on rocks and slowly develop hypothermia.”

“I was the one who left.” He just raises an eyebrow. It frustrates you even more. “It’s a decision.”

“Mm. And how’s that decision treating you?”

You cross your arms. “I’m fine.”

“You’re shivering.”

“It’s cold.”

“It is,” he agrees easily. “Which is why most people use shelter. And fire.” He glances at your pile of failure. “Working fire, specifically.”

Archons, you want to hit him. Or maybe scream. Or maybe both. “Easy for you to judge,” you snap. “When’s the last time you had your life upended?”

Varka considers this, then shrugs. “Wouldn’t know. Married to the job.” He says it matter-of-factly. “Doesn’t leave much room for personal upheaval.”

The casual admission surprises you. ”So you’ve never—”

”Nope.” He straightens. ”Which is probably why I’m not camping outside out of spite.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “I’m not—it’s not spite.”

“What is it, then?”

A promise, you think. Something I should have started a long time ago. But you don’t say that. Don’t explain about Master Ren’s deathbed confession and his regret, about the heirlooms scattered across Teyvat, about the treasure maps and clues and the growing certainty that you’re meant to do this, that you’re the only one left who can.

“Personal business,” you say instead.

Varka waits. When you don’t elaborate, he nods slightly—like you’ve confirmed something he already suspected. “Right.” He takes a step back. “Well. Good luck with the fire. And the freezing. And the whole…” he gestures vaguely at your campsite, “…situation.”

“You’re just leaving?”

“You told me to observe somewhere else.” His smile is faint. “I’m obliging.”

“But—”

“But what?” He tilts his head. “You want my help?”

You hesitate. Yes. Obviously yes. But admitting it feels like losing. “No,” you say.

His smile widens slightly. Like he knows you’re lying but isn’t going to call you on it. “Alright then.” He turns and takes three steps. Then he pauses and glances back over his shoulder. “Word of advice, though.”

You don’t respond. He continues anyway. “Being mature means knowing what you want. Not just what you don’t want.” His gaze is direct. “Running away from something isn’t the same as running toward something better.”

The words settle uncomfortably in your chest. “I’m not running away,” you say quietly.

“No?” He scrutinizes you, and the earnestness in his gaze makes you feel raw. “Then what’re you doing?”

You don’t answer. Can’t answer. He nods once. “Take care of yourself,” he says. The way someone might tell a stranger to have a good day. Then he leaves.

The fire still won’t start. You sit back down in the dirt and try again anyway.

Two days later, you wake to the sound of footsteps. You’re curled in your bedroll, trying to convince yourself that the ache in your back and the numbness in your toes are just temporary discomforts. The footsteps stop. “Still here, then.”

You don’t open your eyes. “Go away, Varka.”

“Just checking.” His voice is calm. “Wanted to make sure you hadn’t frozen to death.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m perfect.” You pull the bedroll tighter around yourself. “Living my best life.”

There’s a pause. You hear him shifting, probably crouching. Examining your disaster of a camp with that same assessment from before. “You know,” Varka says eventually, “there are perfectly good inns in the city. Hot food. Beds that don’t give you back problems.”

“I’m aware.”

“Just making sure.”

You finally crack one eye open. He’s crouched a few feet away, arms resting on his knees, expression somewhere between concerned and resigned. “Why do you care?” you ask.

“Professional obligation,” he says simply. “Can’t have people dying of exposure just outside the city. Bad for morale.”

“How considerate.”

Varka sighs like he’s dealing with a particularly stubborn recruit. “Alright,” he says. “Let me be frank. You look miserable. You’re cold. You’re probably hungry. And unless I’m very mistaken, you haven’t slept properly in days.”

“So?”

“So this isn’t proving anything except that you’re stubborn.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

“Is it?” He watches you carefully. “Or are you just too proud to admit this was a bad idea?”

The words sting because they’re true. But you’re not about to give him the satisfaction. “I’m staying,” you say firmly.

He studies you for a long moment, then stands, brushing off his hands. “Alright.” He shrugs. “You’re an adult. Old enough to make your own decisions. Even the stupid ones.”

“This isn’t—”

“I’m not arguing with you.” He’s already turning away. “If you wanna stay out here and be miserable, that’s your choice.”

“So you’re just leaving?”

He glances back. “What did you want me to do? Drag you back to the city? Convince you? Beg?” You don’t answer. “You want to camp in the cold and eat simple food and ruin your back sleeping on rocks?” He shrugs again. “Go ahead.” There’s no judgment in his voice. Just acceptance. Somehow that’s worse than if he’d yelled.

He starts walking away. He gets about ten paces before calling back: “Offer stands, though. If you change your mind.”

Four days after that, you’re attacking a tree. Over and over. You don’t notice Varka. You just keep swinging—each strike jarring your arm, sending vibrations up to your shoulder.

“What,” he says loudly, “are you doing?” You spin around so fast you nearly drop the sword. Varka’s standing at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, expression somewhere between horrified and deeply tired.

“Training,” you say defensively.

“That’s not training. It’s a cry for help.” Varka steps closer, eyeing the tree. There are gouges in the bark. Uneven, scattered, the mark of someone with no idea what they’re doing. “What did that tree ever do to you?”

“I’m practicing.”

“You’re butchering your form.” He moves beside you, examines your grip on the sword. “And probably your shoulder. How long have you been doing this?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does if you want to keep using that arm.”

You yank the sword away from his inspection. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You demonstrably do not.” He’s not even trying to be polite anymore. Just stating facts. “Your stance is too narrow. Your grip is strangling the hilt. And you’re swinging from your shoulder instead of your core.”

“I didn’t ask for a critique.”

“You’re getting one anyway because watching you is physically painful.” He runs a hand through his hair, visibly trying to find patience. “Who taught you to fight?”

“No one.”

“Yeah, that tracks.”

You glare at him. “If you’re just here to insult me—”

“I’m here because I heard someone assaulting a tree and thought maybe a hilichurl had wandered too close to the city.” He gestures at your stance, expression serious. “Turns out it’s worse. It’s you.”

“Wow. Thank you. Very helpful.”

“You want helpful?” He steps closer, direct and unyielding. “Stop. You’re going to hurt yourself. And not in a ‘training is hard’ way. In a ‘permanent damage’ way.”

“I need to get stronger.” The words come out sharper than intended.

“Why?”

You hesitate. “Is it important?”

“It is if you’re destroying yourself over it.” His eyes are steady. “What’s driving this?”

Treasure hoarder camps don’t clear themselves. And Master Ren’s heirlooms, especially the sword with the family crest, aren‘t going to find themselves. But admitting that feels like inviting judgment. Like giving him ammunition to tell you it’s foolish, impractical, exactly what your ex said. “I have my reasons,” you say finally.

“Such as?”

“Personal reasons.”

“You keep saying that.” He’s watching you too carefully now. “Personal reasons for coming here. Personal reasons for camping. Personal reasons for attacking trees. Starting to notice a pattern.”

“Good for you.”

“What’re you actually looking for?” Varka asks quietly.

The question catches you off-guard. “What?”

“You’re not just out here to ‘get stronger’ in some vague sense.” His head tilts slightly. “There’s something specific. What is it?”

You cross your arms. “Why do you care?”

“Professional curiosity.” He pauses. “And you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep this up. So I’d like to know if it’s for something worthwhile or just stubbornness.”

“I’m not telling you my life story.”

“Wasn’t asking for your life story. Just wondering if you have an actual goal or if you’re just flailing.”

Heat rises to your face. “I have a goal.”

“Which is?”

You bite your lip. Then, because maybe saying it out loud will make him leave you alone: “I’m looking for something. Family things. Heirlooms.” You gesture vaguely. “Long story short: There were some family disputes. Treasure hoarders got them. Or someone sold them. Either way, they’re scattered. I’m tracking them down.”

His expression shifts. Interest replacing skepticism. “You’ve been following treasure hoarder camps?”

“Some. Mostly in Liyue. Found a few things already.” You think about the locket around your neck and the music box and the pot you’ve hidden. “Still missing some pieces.”

“And you think attacking trees will help you with that?”

“I think being able to defend myself will help.” Your jaw tightens. “Treasure hoarders don’t exactly hand things over politely.”

Varka’s quiet for a moment. Assessing. “That’s actually not a terrible reason.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“But your approach is still terrible.” He gestures at the tree. “You can’t fight treasure hoarders like this. You’ll get yourself killed.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“No. You asked for self-destruction.” His eyes are intense now.

“I’m not completely useless,” you say, defensive. “I did learn a proper job.”

He pauses. “What kind of job?”

“Blacksmith. Apprenticed for five years. Made weapons, tools, horseshoes, whatever people needed.” You cross your arms. “So I know my way around a blade. Just not formally. Customers showed me tricks. My mentor knew some basics. Adventurers would demonstrate techniques when they picked up commissions.” You shrug. “I’m not completely ignorant.”

“No. Just undisciplined.”

Your jaw tightens. “I said I’m not useless. Didn’t say I was perfect.”

Varka’s quiet for a moment. “Wagner could use help,” he says finally.

You stiffen. “I don’t need charity.”

“It’s not charity.” He meets your eyes. “The expedition just returned. We brought back damaged weapons, worn equipment, knights who need new blades.”

“Convenient,” you say, narrowing your eyes.

“True.” He’s not backing down. “I was just talking to him about it yesterday. He’s been complaining about being overwhelmed for the past week.”

You study him, looking for the angle. The pity. You find only straightforward honesty. “I’ll think about it,” you say finally.

“Good.” He turns to leave, then pauses. “Come with me first.”

“What?”

“Before you decide anything. Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Practical demonstration.” His eyes are serious. “You want to learn combat? I’ll show you what real combat looks like.”

He takes you outside the city walls. It’s not far, maybe a fifteen minutes walk. On the way, he tells you there is a small hilichurl camp that’s been causing problems for travelers.

“What are we doing here?” you ask.

“Observation.” He’s already assessing the camp—three hilichurls, one mitachurl. “Watch.”

Then he’s moving. You‘ve seen people fight before. Adventurers. Guards. Drunk idiots outside taverns. This is different.

When the first hilichurl lunges, Varka sidesteps, and his counter is precise. Controlled. The hilichurl goes down hard. The mitachurl charges. Varka doesn’t dodge frantically, just shifts his weight, redirects the momentum, and suddenly the massive creature is off-balance and vulnerable. The fight is over in ninety seconds.

He’s barely breathing hard. ”See the difference?” he asks, turning to you.

You’re staring. ”You made that look easy.”

”It’s not easy. It’s practiced.” He sheaths his weapon. “The tree can’t fight back. Can’t counter. Can’t punish mistakes.” His voice is firm but not unkind. “Real combat does. And if you go into it with bad habits—attacking wildly, no defense, no strategy—you’ll get hurt. Or worse.”

He starts walking back toward the city. You follow. “That’s why I’m training,” you mutter.

“Glad to hear it.” He keeps walking. “Because going after them unprepared isn’t brave. It’s suicide.” Silence for a few steps. Then he asks: “You said you found some things already?”

You hesitate. Then pull the locket from beneath your shirt.

Varka stops. Studies it. “Liyue?” he asks.

“Yeah. Small camp near Wangshu Inn. Took me two weeks to confirm they had it. Another week to figure out how to get it without getting killed.”

“How’d you manage?”

“Waited until most of them left. Snuck in. Grabbed it. Ran.” You tuck it back under your shirt. “Wasn’t pretty.”

“But you got it.”

“Yeah. Also got two other heirlooms back. Found one, bought the other from a merchant. They’re hidden safely for now. Didn’t want to risk someone stealing them again.“

“Smart.” He’s looking at you differently now. “What else are you looking for?”

“A set of engraving tools. I think they’re in Sumeru. Took forever to get a confirmed sighting.” You count on your fingers. “A small hammer, custom-made. Master Ren’s grandfather used it. Still tracking that one down.”

“And?”

“And a sword. Family sword with a specific crest.” You pause. “That’s the most important one. The centerpiece. But the others all tell part of the story. The tools represent the craft. The hammer represents the legacy passed down. The sword represents—” You stop.

“Everything,” he finishes quietly.

“Yeah.”

Varka’s quiet for a moment. Then: “If you’re going to do this, you should do it right.” His voice is matter-of-fact. “And that means training. Properly. So you don’t die trying to recover family heirlooms.”

You’ve been so focused on proving you could hit something, you forgot to think about what happens when something hits back.

“Let me teach you.”

The words hang in the air between you. You blink. “What?”

“You wanna get stronger?” He gestures at a tree nearby. “This isn’t how. But I can show you how.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because watching you do this is worse than just fixing it.” His mouth quirks. “And because if you’re going to be stubborn about staying out here, you might as well learn to do it right.”

You hesitate. Every instinct screams at you to say no. To tell him you don’t need his help. To keep proving you can do this alone. You want to argue, want to say you don’t need him, but you just watched him dismantle a camp in ninety seconds with the kind of skill that comes from years of discipline and practice. And your shoulder aches. Your hands are blistered. “Fine,” you say quietly.

His eyebrows rise. “Fine?”

“Don’t make me repeat it.”

A smile tugs at his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Varka steps back. Gives you space. “Tomorrow morning,” he says. “Meet me at the training grounds. Dawn.”

Then he’s gone. You stand there in the clearing, sword lowered, staring at the tree you’ve been attacking for an hour. It stares back. Unmoved. Unimpressed. Exactly like Varka.

“Damn it,” you mutter. The tree doesn’t respond.

You show up at the forge mid-morning. Wagner’s hammering something at the anvil. Focused, precise, the kind of rhythm that comes from years of practice. You wait until he finishes the stroke. “Varka said you might need help.”

He doesn’t look up immediately. Finishes the piece. Dunks it in water with a hiss of steam. Then turns. He studies you with the critical eye of someone who’s seen too many incompetent apprentices. “He did, did he?”

“Said the expedition brought back a lot of damaged equipment. That you’re overwhelmed.”

“Overwhelmed.” He snorts. “I’m managing.”

“Sure.” You cross your arms. “That’s why you’ve got a backlog of commissions posted outside and your current apprentice looks ready to collapse.”

His eyes narrow. “You always this blunt?”

Then his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “You always this stubborn?”

“So you’re a smith.”

“Five years apprenticed. Another two on my own before—” You stop. “Before I left.”

“Prove it.”

You blink. “What?”

“Prove it.” He gestures at the forge. “I’ve got a damaged sword that needs repair. Guard’s cracked, edge is chipped, balance is off. Fix it. If you can do it properly, you’re hired. If you can’t—” He shrugs. “You can leave.”

You’re almost smiling. “Fine. Show me the sword.”

Then you get to work. It takes two hours. Wagner watches the entire time. Doesn’t help. Doesn’t comment. Just observes. When you finally finish and hand him the sword, he tests it thoroughly. “It’ll do.”

You exhale. “It’ll do?”

Wagner sets the sword aside. “You’re hired. Start the day after tomorrow. Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”

That night you lie in your rented bed—actual bed, actual roof—and think: I have a job. A real job. Maybe I can start building something here.

You arrive at the training grounds at dawn. Barely. You’re exhausted and your shoulder still aches from yesterday’s tree assault. Varka is already there. He’s stretching near the equipment rack.

He glances over when you approach, takes in your appearance with a single sweep of his eyes. “You look terrible,” he observes.

“Good morning to you too.”

“I’m being honest.” He straightens. “When’s the last time you actually slept?”

“I slept.”

“On rocks doesn’t count.”

You drop your bag on the ground with more force than necessary. “Are we training or are you going to critique my life choices some more?”

“Both, probably.” Varka tosses you a practice sword. You catch it reflexively. “But we’ll start with training.”

You test the weight. It’s lighter than the one you were using yesterday. Easier to handle. “Too light,” you say.

His eyebrows rise. “Too light?”

“I need something heavier. To build strength.”

“You need something you can actually control.” He picks up his own practice sword—also wooden, but larger. “Strength comes from technique. Not from swinging around a weapon you can barely lift.”

“I can lift it fine.”

“You can lift it,” Varka agrees. “You can’t use it. There’s a difference.”

You grit your teeth. “I was doing fine.”

“You were destroying a tree and your shoulder joint.” He moves to the center of the yard. “Now come here. Show me your stance.” You follow, grip the practice sword, and settle into what you think is a decent position. Varka circles you slowly. Assessing. “Too narrow,” he says after a moment.

“What?”

“Your stance. Too narrow.” He taps the outside of your foot with his boot. “Wider. You need a stable base.” You adjust. Barely. He sighs. “Wider.”

“This is wide.”

“This is you being stubborn.” He demonstrates. Feet shoulder-width apart, weight evenly distributed, knees slightly bent. “Like this.”

You copy the stance. It feels awkward. “Happy?” you ask.

“Not yet.” His tone is dry. “Do it again.” You do, and barely register that he's coming closer. “Better.” He moves behind you, hands settling at your hips to correct your positioning.

And that's when it hits you. The warmth of his hands. The solid presence of him standing close enough that you can feel body heat. The way his voice sounds different when he’s right there, low and focused and entirely too distracting.

You’ve been so focused on being defensive, on proving you don’t need help, that you somehow missed that he’s objectively attractive. In a way that’s decidedly unhelpful when you’re trying to concentrate on footwork.

“Your stance is better,” he says. “But you’re tensing up.” Because you're touching me, you don't say. Varka seems unfazed by the whole situation. “Now your grip.”

You regain your ability to speak. “What’s wrong with my grip?”

“You’re strangling the hilt.” He examines your hands. “You’re still tense. Loosen up.”

“I’m not tense.” You glance down. He’s right. Damn it. You force your hands to relax slightly.

“Better,” he says. “Now swing.” You do. The practice sword cuts through the air in what feels like a decent arc.

He’s silent for a moment. Then: “Again.” You swing again. Same motion. Same result. “You’re swinging from your shoulder,” he says.

“So?”

“So that’s inefficient. And it’s how you hurt yourself yesterday.” Varka steps behind you again. “The power comes from your core. Your hips. Your legs.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” He sounds genuinely curious. “Because you’re not doing it.”

You glare at him. He gazes back. “Try again,” Varka says. “But this time, engage your core. Rotate from your hips.”

You try again. You focus on your core. Your hips. The rotation. It’s better. Not good. But better. “Better,” Varka echoes. “Again.” You swing again. And again. And again. After twenty minutes, you’re breathing hard. Sweating despite the cold. “Break,” he says.

You lower the sword gratefully, rolling your shoulder. He’s watching you with that assessing look again. “Gotta hand it to you. You’re picking it up quickly.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not surprised. Just making an observation.” He takes a drink from his water flask. Offers it to you. You hesitate, then take it. The water is cold and perfect.

“You’ve got good instincts,” he continues. “And you’re fast. Faster than you think.”

“But?” You can hear the unspoken criticism.

“But you’re reckless.” He takes the flask back. “You commit too hard to every strike. Leave yourself open.”

“Maybe that’s intentional.”

“It’s not.” His eyes are direct. “It’s fear.”

You stiffen. “I’m not afraid.”

“Everyone’s afraid.” He caps the flask. “And that’s not a bad thing. The question is whether you let it control you or use it.”

“I’m not letting anything control me.”

“Aren’t you?” He tilts his head slightly. “You’re out here trying to prove something. To who? Your ex? Yourself? Everyone who thinks you can’t handle it?”

The words hit too close. “That’s none of your business,” you say quietly.

“You’re right. It’s not.” He sets the flask down. “But it affects how you fight. And if I’m teaching you, I need to understand what I’m working with.”

“You’re working with someone who wants to get stronger.”

“Then prove it.” He picks up his practice sword again. “Stop fighting yourself and actually fight me.”

You lunge. Varka sidesteps effortlessly. “Too committed,” he says. You adjust, try a different angle. He parries, redirects your blade with minimal effort. “Better. But you’re telegraphing.” You grit your teeth and press forward. Faster. Sharper. He meets every strike with calm precision, correcting your form even as he blocks.

“Footwork.”

“Breathing.”

“You’re dropping your guard.”

Each correction feels like a criticism. Each block feels like a dismissal. Your frustration builds. You swing harder. Faster. He catches your wrist mid-strike. Stops you completely. “Hey,” he says quietly. You’re breathing hard. Your heart is hammering. Adrenaline is singing through your veins. “What’re you doing?” he asks.

“Fighting.”

“No.” His grip is firm but not painful. “You’re venting. Again.”

“And?” You swing harder. “Maybe I need to vent.”

“It makes you sloppy.” His voice is even. “Anger is fine. Use it. Channel it. But don’t let it use you.”

“Easy for you to say,” you snap. “You’re not the one getting corrected every two seconds.”

“Everyone gets corrected when they’re learning.” He crosses his arms.

“It feels like you’re just telling me I’m wrong about everything.”

“Because right now, you are.” He’s looking at you. “That’s not an insult. It’s just where you are.”

The words should sting. Instead they just make you tired. And something in you cracks. “Well the person I wanted to make proud is dead now, so—” You cut yourself off and wipe your eyes in frustration.

His expression shifts. “What?”

“Nothing. Forget it.” You turn away.

“Hey.” His voice is gentler now. “Who are you talking about?”

You don’t answer for a moment. Then, because you’ve already said too much: “My mentor. Master Ren. He died last year.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” You keep your back to him. “It’s a long story.”

There’s a pause. Then he says: “You know, I get it.”

You glance back at him. “You do?”

“Yeah.” His expression is serious. “Losing someone who taught you everything. Who shaped who you are. That’s—” He stops. “That’s not easy. And trying to preserve their memory your way, on your own terms—that’s honorable.”

Something in your chest loosens slightly. “Thank you,” you manage.

Varka nods once and doesn’t comment further. And somehow that’s exactly what you need. He picks up the water flask again, takes a drink, then tosses it to you. You catch it automatically. “Drink,” he says. “Then we’ll go again.”

By the end of the session, you’re exhausted. Every muscle aches. Your hands are blistered despite the practice sword. Your pride is somewhere in the dirt with your dignity. But you’re not worse. Actually, you might be slightly better. You’d never admit it out loud.

Varka rolls his shoulders with a satisfied crack. “Good work today,” he says. “5 o’clock tomorrow?”

You hesitate. Part of you wants to say no. To go back to your disaster camp and never see him again. But another part knows you learned more in two hours than you would have in a week of hitting trees.

“Fine,” you mutter.

“Fine,” he echoes, that amusement back in his voice. You grab your bag, start to leave. “Hey,” he calls after you. You glance back. “Get some real sleep tonight,” he says. “You’ll need it.”

You leave without responding. Behind you, you hear him chuckle quietly. Infuriating man.

— ✦ —

The days start to form a pattern. You work at Wagner’s forge in the mornings—repairing blades, crafting new pieces, falling back into the rhythm of hammer and heat and metal that feels like coming home.

Wagner is gruff but fair, and there’s satisfaction in seeing the pile of commissions slowly shrink, in hearing him grunt approval when you finish a particularly tricky repair.

The merchant from Liyue mentions hearing about engraving tools in Fontaine. You make a note. Cross-reference with your existing leads. It’s not the sword, but every piece matters. Training happens either at dawn or in the afternoons when the forge work is done and Varka finishes his work. And in between, you keep running into him.

Mondstadt is small. And apparently Varka is everywhere. When you’re buying supplies. When he’s checking on equipment orders. Near the fountain when you’re taking a break between errands. Every encounter follows the same pattern: He says something direct. You push back. He doesn’t budge. You don’t either. Banter that feels like sparring without weapons.

It’s maybe two weeks into this routine when you’re negotiating over a set of whetstones you need. As you’re collecting your purchase, you hear a voice behind you: “So you are capable of accepting help without making a fuss.”

You turn. Varka is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with that infuriatingly amused expression.

“That wasn’t help,” you say, tucking the whetstones into your bag. “That was negotiation.”

“Looked like accepting a discount to me.”

“Exactly. Negotiation. Because I helped them for free before.”

“Mm.” He’s trying not to smile. “And when I offer to help, that’s…?”

“Unnecessary.”

He does smile then. “If you say so.”

You move past him toward the exit. He falls into step beside you without invitation. “You’re in a good mood today,” he observes.

You grin. “Mmm. It’s called variety. You like it?”

His expression shifts—something between confused and intrigued. “You’re confusing today.”

“The sun’s shining. I have a nice job. I’m getting better at fighting.” You adjust your bag. “I’m making progress with my heirlooms. Could be worse.”

“Progress?”

“Found a lead on that sword. Or at least, confirmation it exists. Someone in Liyue Harbor remembers seeing it sold to a collector.” You shrug. “Might be nothing. But it’s more than I had before.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Easy. Almost comfortable. Then you shift the bag—heavier than you expected with all the supplies—and he reaches out reflexively. “Need help with that?”

You stop walking. Look at him. “Told you. Your chivalry is lost on me.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t drop his hand. “That much is obvious.”

“So why do you keep offering?”

“Force of habit, probably.”

You study him for a moment. He looks genuinely confused. Despite yourself, you sigh. “If it makes you happy,” you say, “go ahead. I appreciate your help.”

You start walking again. He follows. He’s watching you with that intense focus again. “You’re different today.”

“Maybe you just caught me at a good time,” you say lightly.

“Or maybe you’re starting to trust me.”

You snort. “Don’t push it.” But you don’t deny it either.

The training continues. Some days you clash: arguments about technique that turn into arguments about philosophy that turn into stubborn silences where you both refuse to back down until one of you breaks first.

Other days it’s easier. Almost playful. He’ll demonstrate a move and you’ll critique his form just to see his reaction. He’ll correct your stance and you’ll overcorrect deliberately until he realizes you’re messing with him.

You notice things about him: The way he’s more talkative in the mornings, more contemplative in the evenings. The way he checks his surroundings constantly even in casual conversation. The way he treats everyone with the same steady respect and warmth whether they’re a knight or a street vendor.

And you tell him things you didn’t plan to tell him.

More details about the sword lead in Liyue Harbor. You aim for casual, like you’re just making conversation, but really you want to see if he thinks it’s worth pursuing. About Wagner’s approval when you fixed a particularly complex mechanism. Matter-of-fact, like it doesn’t matter, but you’re proud and want someone to acknowledge it. About Master Ren’s teaching methods. You’re defensive at first, then warming as Varka asks genuine questions, seems actually interested.

Varka shares too. Stories about the expedition. About Nod-Krai. Observations about fighting styles from different regions. His thoughts on leadership and responsibility and the weight of making decisions that affect people’s lives. You also realize he’s funny, and find yourself laughing at his goofy jokes often. It’s conversational. Easy.

“You know,” you say one day after training, “you’re different with me.”

Varka glances over. “Different how?”

“Less…” You gesture vaguely. “Grand Master-y.”

“Grand Master-y?”

“You know what I mean. The whole—” You straighten, put on a deeper voice. “—‘As Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius, I must ensure the safety of all citizens’—thing.”

He laughs. “I don’t sound like that.”

“You absolutely do.” You cross your arms. “I told you before. I don’t need the treatment you give other people.”

His amusement fades slightly. “That’s not treatment. That’s who I am.”

“Never said it was a bad thing.” You meet his eyes. “I’m saying I don’t need it. There’s a difference.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Studying you. “Did you talk to your mentor like this too?” he asks finally.

The question catches you off-guard. “Like what?”

“Like you’re constantly testing boundaries. Pushing back. Refusing to accept things at face value.”

You think about Master Ren. The easy rapport, the honest critiques, the mutual respect built over years. “We were honest with each other,” you say slowly. “Blunt, even. But never like this, no.” You look at him. “Why?” you ask.

“Just curious.” But his expression is complicated. Like he’s trying to figure something out and not quite succeeding. You look away first. Because looking at him too long makes something in your chest tighten in a way you don’t want to examine.

The days continue like that. Training where you argue as much as you fight. Encounters around the city that turn into banter that turns into something you can’t quite categorize. Conversations that start professional and end personal without either of you meaning for them to shift.

— ✦ —

The training session starts the same as the others. Except it doesn’t feel the same. There’s an edge to it. A sharpness. You’re both wound tight.

“Again,” he says after you complete a sequence.

“I just did it.”

“And you dropped your elbow. Do it again.” You do. He corrects something else. You adjust. He finds another issue. The cycle repeats. Faster. Tighter. You’re both getting frustrated. You can feel it building, can see it in the way his corrections are getting sharper, less patient.

“Your footwork—”

“Is fine,” you snap.

“It’s not—”

“It is.” You’re breathing hard. Not from exertion. From tension. “You’re just looking for problems now.”

“I’m looking for improvement.” His voice is harder than usual. Rough. “Which requires addressing problems.”

“Or maybe you’re being unnecessarily critical today because something’s bothering you.”

“Unnecessarily—” He stops. Takes a breath. “Do it again.”

“No.” You’re pushing now. Deliberately. “I’ve done it five times. It’s fine. You’re just—”

“Just what?”

You lift your chin. “Nitpicking. Because you have nothing better to do.”

He goes completely still, then sets down his practice sword. “Nothing better to do,” he repeats. His voice is very controlled. Too controlled. “That’s what you think?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No, let’s explore that.” He turns to face you fully, and there’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. Real, genuine frustration bleeding through his usual composure. “You think I’m here, every damn day, correcting your form because I got nothing better to occupy my time?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you implied.” His jaw is tight. “So let me be very clear. I’m the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius. I have approximately a hundred things I should be doing right now that are not standing in a training yard at dawn getting pushed back on every single correction I make.”

You open your mouth. Varka continues before you can speak. “I have strategy meetings. Resource allocation. Expedition planning. Personnel issues. Diplomatic correspondence.” His voice is still controlled but there’s heat underneath. “I have knights who actually listen when I give them instruction. Knights who don’t question every single thing I say. Knights who don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

The words sting. “Then why are you here?” Your voice is sharper than intended.

“Because—” He runs a hand through his hair. “Because apparently I can’t help myself. Because despite the fact that you’re the most frustrating person I’ve ever met, I keep showing up anyway.”

“Frustrating,” you repeat flatly.

“Yes. Frustrating.” He’s not backing down. “You question everything. Push back on everything. Act like every correction is a personal attack. And it’s—” He stops. “It’s exhausting.”

The honesty of it hits harder than any criticism of your form. “Then maybe we should stop,” you say quietly.

“Maybe we should.”

But he doesn’t move. Neither do you. You’re both just standing there, breathing hard, wound tight with weeks of tension that has nowhere to go. Then something in his expression shifts. The frustration recedes. “I thought we were past this phase,” he says, and his voice is softer now. Still firm, but not angry.

You blink. “What phase?”

“The one where you push back on everything because you’re too proud to admit you need help.” He’s watching you with that too-perceptive gaze. “I’m here because I decided you were worth my time.”

“Worth your time,” you echo, genuinely confused now.

“Yes.” Simple. Direct. “But if you’re going to fight me on every correction, if you’re going to act like this is some personal attack instead of instruction—” He shakes his head. “Then maybe we’re both wasting our time.”

The words settle heavy. You want to argue, want to tell him he’s wrong, that you’re not being difficult, that you’re trying. But you can’t. Because he’s right. “I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

Varka blinks. Clearly wasn’t expecting that.

“I’m not good at this,” you continue. “At accepting help. At admitting I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I noticed.”

“And you’re very…” You search for the word. “Direct.”

“I am,” he agrees. “I don’t soften things or dress them up.”

“Right.” You exhale slowly. “I get that. I’ll try. To be less—” You gesture vaguely. “Defensive.”

“Good.” He nods once. “Then let’s try again. From the top.”

You pick up your practice sword. This time, when he corrects your stance, you adjust without argument. When he points out your grip is too tight, you loosen it. When he demonstrates a better way to pivot, you copy him. The session continues. Better. Smoother. By the end, you’re exhausted but not frustrated. Good tired.

Varka’s packing up the equipment when he speaks again. “There’s a gathering tonight,” he says casually. “At Angel’s Share. Some of the knights. Nothing formal.”

You glance over. “Okay?”

“You’re welcome to join.” He says it like an afterthought.

You hesitate. “Why would I want to do that?”

He shrugs. “You don’t have to.”

“I’m not really a…” You search for words. “Social gathering person.”

“Noted.” He doesn’t seem bothered. “Offer stands anyway.” Then he’s gone, leaving you standing in the training yard, sweaty and sore and thinking about the fact that you just made him lose his patience. And that somehow, despite the argument—or maybe because of it—you want to see him again tonight.

You show up at Angel’s Share at sunset. The tavern is warm and loud. Full of voices and laughter and the smell of wine and food. Varka is at the center. You hover near the entrance, suddenly regretting this decision. Then his eyes find yours across the room. Something flickers in his expression. You make your way over, weaving through the crowd.

“Well,” Varka says as you approach. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

“I’m not here because you invited me,” you say immediately.

His mouth twitches. “Of course not.”

“I’m here because I wanted to be. My choice.”

“Noted.” He takes a drink. “You want to sit or are you going to stand there announcing your independence?”

You glare at him. Someone slides a drink in front of you as you sit. The evening unfolds in overlapping conversations and laughter. Stories about missions, arguments about tactics, the easy camaraderie of people who trust each other with their lives.

And Varka is different. Warm. Open. Laughing in a way you’ve never seen during training. You find yourself smiling despite yourself. “See?” Varka says, catching your eye. “I’m not always the severe instructor.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Oh, I’m still severe. Just selectively.” His eyes are warm. Teasing. “You bring it out in me.”

“Lucky me.”

“Very lucky.” He takes a drink. “Most people don’t get the full experience.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Among other things.”

The banter is easy. Natural. So different from the tension of training. Later, when the crowd has thinned slightly, you’re both still at the table. Most of the other knights have dispersed. Some to other corners of the tavern, some gone entirely. The conversation has shifted. Quieter. More personal.

“So what do you actually do?” Varka asks. “When you’re not attempting to attack trees or arguing with me about footwork.”

“Maybe I just sit in my tent and brood.”

He snorts. “That’s not a hobby. Besides, you‘re not living in that tent anymore.” You definitely don’t pay attention to the teasing in his voice.

“What’s your hobby then? Criticizing people?”

“That’s not a hobby. That’s a calling.” But he’s smiling. “I read. Sometimes. When there’s time.”

“You read?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I just—” You stop. “I can’t picture it. You. Reading.”

“What did you think I did? Stared at walls?”

“Something like that.”

He shakes his head. “I’m more interesting than you give me credit for.”

“Are you?”

“Only one way to find out.” He leans back in his chair. “I also collect old weapons. Historical pieces. Study different fighting styles from different regions.”

“That’s very on-brand for you.”

He laughs. There’s a pause. Comfortable. “What about you?” he asks. “What did you do? Before all this.”

You shrug. “Worked. Lived. The usual.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the answer you’re getting.”

He studies you for a moment. Then nods. “Fair enough.”

The way he looks at you does something you can’t quite name. So you end up telling him more anyway. Small things. Nothing important, strictly speaking. Activities you like, people from your life, how you grew up, details about your work. It shouldn’t feel like much. But it is.

And the more you talk, the closer Varka leans in, listening in that focused, intent way of his—until you’re saying more than you meant to, more than you usually would.

The evening settles into comfortable conversation. Stories about missions, arguments about the best tavern food, easy laughter. At one point, a knight is showing off a new sword at another table. Ornate and clearly expensive.

“It’s for appearances,” he explains. “No one takes me seriously if his weapon looks boring.”

“No one takes you seriously anyway,” another knight points out.

“Exactly. So I need all the help I can get.”

The table laughs. You notice that Varka is only observing and not commenting. It surprises you. After the knight moves on to show the sword to someone else, Varka shakes his head. “Decorative weapons. Never understood the appeal.”

“No?” You’re genuinely curious. He takes a drink. “A weapon should be functional first. Everything else is secondary.”

“Practical man.”

“Practical man,” he agrees. He is quiet for a moment. “Though I had a sword once. When I was younger. Wasn’t decorative exactly, but it was—” He stops. “It was more than just functional.”

You lean forward slightly. Interested. “I found it while exploring,” he continues and there‘s something almost mischievous in his voice now. “Plain design. Nothing fancy. But perfectly balanced. Figured it was worthless, though. Showed it to a blacksmith. He scolded me. Told me—” His mouth quirks. “—told me that a good weapon is like a good relationship. Takes work to maintain. Gets better with time. And if you take care of it properly, it’ll save your life when it matters.”

“That’s—” You almost smile. “That’s very practical advice disguised as sentiment.”

Varka chuckles. “Yeah. But it spoke to me. And I haven‘t forgotten about it ever since.“

“What happened to the sword?”

“Used it for my own adventures back then.“ He grins, and your stomach does a flip. “Still have it. Don’t use it anymore, but it’s in my collection.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Sometimes I take it out. Clean it. Check the edge. Feels like—” He shrugs. “Like it’s still teaching me things.”

You’re very still. “That’s beautiful,” you say quietly.

He glances at you. “Yeah. I suppose it is.” The conversation shifts then, but not away from weapons. Varka starts musing about the different kinds of blades he’s encountered over the years.

The purely functional ones. Mass-produced, identical, serving their purpose without personality. The ones passed down through generations. The ones with magic or elemental properties. The ones with history, carried by heroes, wielded in famous battles, becoming legend.

“Each one has value,” he says. “But the ones that matter most aren’t always the most powerful. Sometimes they’re the ones with meaning attached. Purpose beyond just cutting.”

You’re nodding, completely absorbed. Because he gets it. “Master Ren’s sword was like that,” you hear yourself saying.

Varka turns his attention fully to you. And suddenly you’re telling him everything. About how the sword wasn’t just a weapon—it had been in the family for generations. How each owner added something to it. A repair here, a modification there. How the blade itself had evolved over time while keeping its core identity.

How Master Ren told you stories about it. About his grandfather using it to defend a village during a monster attack. About his uncle carrying it across Teyvat on a journey that took three years. About Master Ren himself using it to craft his first masterpiece—using the family sword as inspiration for his own work. Your voice falters slightly. By then, the sword had already been sold. He worked from a drawing instead.

“He said it represented everything a weapon should be,” you continue, voice soft. “Strong but adaptable. Functional but meaningful. Something you could rely on in a crisis but also something worth passing down.”

You pause. “He raised me after my parents died. Taught me everything. Not just smithing, but—how to think. How to persist. How to find meaning in the work.” Your throat tightens. “The last thing he told me before he died was that the heirlooms were out there somewhere. That I should try to find them. Not because I needed them, but because—”

“Because they deserved to come home,” Varka finishes quietly.

“Yeah.” You look at him. “Exactly that.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, just watching you with an expression you can’t quite read. Then he says: “Your ex called that chasing ghosts.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah.”

“Idiot.” The word is matter-of-fact. “Dismissing something like that. Something that clearly matters. Something that’s about honoring someone who shaped your entire life.” He shakes his head. “Complete idiot.”

“He thought it was impractical.”

“It is impractical.” Varka’s voice is firm. “But that doesn’t make it worthless. Some of the best things in life are impractical. Difficult. Pursuing them anyway—that takes courage.” Your chest is tight. “You know,” he continues, “I often tease you. About being impractical. Stubborn. Making questionable life choices.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“But I realized something.” He’s looking at you directly now. “Your ex was the immature one. Trying to change you. Making you believe you were wrong for staying true to yourself, to what you believe in. Dismissing what mattered to you instead of trying to understand it.” He pauses. “That’s not love. That’s just—someone who wanted you to be convenient instead of yourself.”

Your throat is tight. “I—”

“Just saying.” He stands, stretching casually like he didn’t just articulate something you’ve been trying to put into words for months. “Anyway. I should probably head out soon. Before I say anything else I’ll regret tomorrow.”

“Wait—”

But Varka’s already calling goodbyes, moving toward the exit with that easy confidence. Leaving you sitting there with a half-empty drink and a chest that feels too tight. You sit there for a moment, processing. Then you grab your cloak and follow.

You find him sitting on a low wall near the plaza. Away from the tavern noise but not quite headed home. He’s just looking out at the darkening sky. More sober than he was but still loose in a way you’ve never seen him. “Following me now?” he asks without turning.

“You’re very full of yourself.”

“I’m very aware of my surroundings.” He glances over. “What are you doing here?”

“Could ask you the same thing.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Rationally speaking, I should‘ve let you be the first time you sent me away at your camp.”

You blink. “Where did that come from?”

“Just thinking.” He looks at you. “You made it clear you didn’t want help. I should’ve respected that. Walked away.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.” He looks back at the sky. “I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Still trying to figure that out.”

You move closer and sit on the wall beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of him in the cooling night air. “Were you just thinking about me then?” you ask.

“Often do,” Varka says. He doesn’t even seem to realize what he’s admitting.

Your breath catches. “What?”

“Huh.” He doesn’t look embarrassed. “Wasn’t gonna say that out loud.”

You don’t have an answer for that. There’s a pause. Then you try to redirect. “So what were you thinking? About training?”

“No.” Varka shakes his head. “Just you. What you did before you ended up camping in the woods. Whether there are other things you’d like to learn. What else you’re good at. Whether you’re sleeping better now.” He pauses. “Random things.”

You blink. “Random things.”

“Mm.”

This conversation is not going how you expected. “You’re very direct when you’ve been drinking,” you observe.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Am I?”

“More than usual. And you’re already pretty direct.”

“Mm.” He thinks about this. “Well. The thoughts are always there. I suppose there’s less filter now.”

“I’m really curious,” you say before you can stop yourself. “What else is there when there’s no filter?”

Varka turns to look at you and raises an eyebrow. “Are you flirting with me?”

Your face heats. “Let’s call it curiosity.”

“Curiosity, huh?” He’s smiling now.

“It is curiosity.”

“If you say so.”

There’s a comfortable silence for a moment. Then you hear yourself saying: “There’s another one. Another heirloom.”

Varka glances at you. Interested.

“A music box. Wooden. Small.” You’re not sure why you’re telling him this. “I have it now. Had to get it back, actually.” Varka’s gaze sharpens, and something in his eyes makes you continue. “After Master Ren’s death, one his relatives just took it with them during a visit and sold it later. Treasure hoarders got their hands on it, eventually. I tracked them down. Now it’s safe.”

Varka hums approvingly. “What makes it so special?”

You hesitate. Then you just continue talking because you haven’t felt so calm in a long time. Maybe never. Not like this, at least. “Master Ren gave it to me when I was younger. Maybe fifteen, sixteen. I was sleeping poorly. Nightmares.” You pause. “Years after my parents died but they never really stopped.”

Varka’s very still.

“I thought I was weak for it. That I should’ve moved past it. But he just gave me this music box. Said sometimes we need help sleeping and there’s no shame in that.”

“Go on,” he says quietly, voice even deeper than usual.

“It plays this tune. Slow, gentle. Kind of melancholy but soothing.” You try to describe it. The rhythm, the notes, the way it made you feel safe even on the worst nights. “I’d wind it up and just listen until I fell asleep.”

You take a deep breath. “I never told anyone else about this. My ex didn’t even know I had nightmares. I never felt—” You stop, your throat suddenly feeling too tight. “Safe enough. To tell him.”

Varka’s very still. His eyes haven’t left your face.

“I haven't needed it in weeks but I keep it anyway. Because it reminds me that—” You stop. “You were right,” you continue. “When you said fears aren’t weakness. That everyone’s afraid sometimes.”

“Glad you think so,” Varka says. “Tune sounds lovely,” he adds, and there’s something in his voice. Warmth, curiosity, like he’d like to hear it someday but won’t ask.

You almost tell him he could. Almost. But the moment passes and you’re both just sitting there, something new and fragile built between you. You fall into conversation after this. Just sharing stories. You make him laugh sometimes and try to do it again.

Eventually, he stands and offers his hand. You stare at it. “What?”

“You said you were curious.” His eyes are warm and amused. “Let me show you something.”

You take his hand. His grip is warm. Steady. He pulls you up easily. That’s when the first drops of rain start falling. “Ah,” he says, looking up. “Perfect timing.”

“What?”

“C’mon.” He’s still holding your hand, already walking. “Before it really starts.” He’s leading you toward the city gates. Past the guards who nod at him. Out into the open air beyond the walls. The rain picks up, soaking through your clothes. “What are we doing?” you ask.

He lets go of your hand. Steps back. “Running,” he says.

“What?”

“I do this sometimes.” He’s already soaked. His hair is plastered to his head, and he’s smiling in a way that’s almost wild. “When I’m more on edge than I usually let on.” He gestures at the open space. The rain. The night. “This helps.”

You stare at him. “I didn’t know there was a version of you that got on edge,” you admit.

“Most people don’t.” He looks at you. “It’s called self-control. Discipline. Keeping everything in check.” He grins. “This is letting go.”

The words hang between you. Heavy with implication. “So let’s do it,” you say.

His expression shifts. Surprise. Something else. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to be completely soaked.”

“Already am.”

He grins. “Alright then.”

Then he runs. And you run after him. Fast. Through grass and mud and rain. Your lungs burn. Your legs pump. Rain streams down your face, into your eyes, soaking every inch of you. Varka is ahead—long strides eating up ground, powerful and sure even on slick terrain. You push harder and catch up. He glances over, then grins. He runs faster, and you match him.

For a while it’s just movement and breathing and the sound of rain and footsteps in mud. Then your foot hits a slick patch. You go down hard.

Varka stops immediately. Turns. “You okay?”

You’re laughing. Can’t help it. You‘re covered in mud, soaked through, sitting in a puddle. It’s absurd. “I’m fine,” you manage between gasps.

He moves back to you, and there’s amusement mixed with something warmer in his expression. He offers his hand. His grip is solid, warm despite the rain, and when he pulls, his foot slips.

Then he’s falling. Right on top of you.

His reflexes are impressive even in freefall. He manages to twist slightly, catch himself on his forearms so his full weight doesn’t crush you, muscles tensing as he braces on either side of your head. But he’s still very much on top of you. Chest pressed against yours. Hips aligned. Legs tangled with yours in a way that would be impossible to achieve accidentally if you’d tried.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. You can feel everything. The solid weight of him, his chest rising and falling against yours with each breath. Fast, ragged, either from the running or from this, you can’t tell. The heat of him even through soaked clothing, a sharp contrast to the cold rain still falling, still running in rivulets down his face and dripping onto yours.

His face is inches away. Close enough that you can see the rain clinging to his eyelashes. Close enough to see his pupils blown wide, dark and intense. Close enough that if either of you moved even slightly… “Sorry,” he says, and his voice comes out rough, lower than usual, barely above a whisper.

“It’s fine.”

But neither of you moves. His eyes are locked on yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch, makes your heart hammer so hard you’re certain he can feel it where your chests are pressed together. You can feel his heart too. Racing. Pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to break through.

The rain continues, cold drops hitting overheated skin, running down the sides of your face, pooling in the hollow of your throat. Varka’s gaze flicks down to where the water is collecting. Then back up to your eyes. “We should—” he starts, but his voice cracks slightly on the words.

“Yeah.”

One of his hands is beside your head, fingers pressed deep into the mud for leverage. The other is wrapped around your waist. You didn’t feel him grab you, but his hand is there now, large and warm even through wet fabric, fingers spread wide across your lower back.

Your hands are on his shoulders, gripping hard enough that you can feel the defined muscle beneath his shirt, feel the way he’s trembling slightly. From exertion or from holding himself still or from something else entirely. When did you grab him? You don’t remember.

He stares at you like you’re a problem he’s trying to solve, a tactical situation he’s assessing, except there’s nothing tactical about the way his breathing has gone uneven or the way his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth before jerking back up. His hand on your waist flexes, fingers pressing in like he’s testing his own control, like he’s seeing how much pressure he can apply before something breaks.

He takes one sharp breath and then he pushes up like staying there one more second would be dangerous. Standing in one smooth motion despite the mud, despite the way his hand seems to linger on your waist for just a fraction longer than necessary before he pulls away completely.

He offers his hand again. You take it. His grip is too tight, and he pulls you up with more force than needed, steadying you when you stumble slightly. “We should get back,” he says.

“Yeah.”

The walk back is quiet. Too quiet. Your hand swings as you walk, and your knuckles brush his. The contact is brief, barely, there, but he jerks his hand away like he’s been burned. “Sorry,” you say automatically.

“It’s fine.” His voice is rough.

At one point you stumble slightly on uneven ground. His hand shoots out and catches your elbow to steady you, then drops away immediately. “Thanks,” you manage.

At the city gates, he stops. You stop too. “Get some rest,” he says, and his voice is too controlled, too careful. “You’ll need it for training tomorrow.”

“Varka—”

“Goodnight.” But he doesn’t move. Just stands there looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read. Something between frustration and confusion and something so raw it makes your breath catch.

You open your mouth. Close it. Don’t know what to say that won’t make this worse. He takes a step back. Then another. Creating distance. Like he doesn’t trust himself to stay close. “Goodnight,” he repeats.

Then he’s turning away. Walking fast. Faster than necessary. Not looking back even though you’re standing there watching him go. Still soaked, still muddy, still feeling the ghost of his weight on top of you, still feeling the imprint and warmth of his hand on your waist.

— ✦ —

You’re not expecting to see anyone. That’s why you chose this spot—a small inlet off Cider Lake, far enough from the main areas that most people don’t bother. The water is cold but not freezing. You’ve been swimming for maybe twenty minutes when you hear footsteps on the shore. You turn in the water. Varka. Of course.

He stops when he sees you, clearly wasn’t expecting anyone either. For a moment, you both just stare. “I can leave,” he offers. “If you want the space.”

“It’s a public lake.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You consider, then shake your head. “Stay. I don’t mind.”

He nods slowly. Sets down his things. Starts unlacing his boots. You watch him for a moment, then turn back to the water and focus on swimming. When you surface after diving under, he’s in the water too. A respectful distance away.

You swim parallel for a while. It’s nice, easier than you expected. Eventually you drift closer to shore. Shallow enough to stand. He does the same, still keeping distance, but closer than before. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says.

“Could say the same.”

“I come here sometimes. To think. Clear my head.” He runs a hand through wet hair. “You?”

“Same.”

He looks at you. Really looks. “You seem different.”

“Different how?”

“Lighter.” He seems to be searching for words. “Less…”

“Defensive?”

“Yes.” His eyes are curious. “What changed?”

You shrug. “Stopped camping in the woods. Got an actual bed. Realized maybe I was being impractical.”

His mouth twitches. “Only maybe?”

“Definitely impractical.” You splash water at him lightly. “Happy?”

He blinks—surprised by the playfulness. Then smiles. “A little.”

You laugh. Can’t help it. The absurdity of this: standing in a lake with the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius, trading banter like it’s normal. “What?” he asks.

“Nothing. Just—” You gesture between you. “This. Wasn’t how I pictured my day going.”

“Mine either.” But he’s still smiling. “Though I’m not complaining.”

The words settle warm in your chest. You swim a bit more. He does too. Sometimes close, sometimes far. At one point you dive under, stay down longer than usual, surface with a laugh because the cold is shocking and invigorating and you feel more alive than you have in weeks.

When you surface, he’s watching you. “What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” But his expression is soft. Confused, maybe. “You just seem happy.”

“I am happy.” You float on your back, looking at the sky. “Turns out not sleeping on rocks improves your mood. Who knew?”

He huffs a laugh. “Revolutionary discovery.”

“I’m very wise.”

“Very.”

You glance over at him. He’s still watching you with that expression you can’t quite read. “You okay?” you ask.

“Yeah.” He shakes his head slightly like he‘s clearing it. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“How you keep surprising me.”

The admission catches you off-guard. “Do I?”

“Constantly.” He moves slightly closer, still keeping distance but less. “Every time I think I’ve figured you out, you do something different.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Not sure yet.”

You smile. “Well. Let me know when you decide.”

“I will.”

Eventually the cold gets to be too much. You head for shore. He follows. You dry off with the towel you brought. He does the same. As you’re gathering your things, you catch him watching you again.

Then you smile. “This was nice,” you say. “Running into you.”

“Yeah.” He sounds slightly dazed. “It was.”

“See you around, Varka.”

You leave before the moment can get heavier. But you can feel his eyes on you the whole way back.

Three days after the lake, you’re training with him again. You can’t stop thinking about that moment. The way he looked at you in the water.

Today the tension is unbearable. Every correction feels deliberate. Every touch lingers a fraction too long. Every time he adjusts your stance, his hands burn through fabric. You’re hyper-aware of him. The heat of him when he moves close. The sound of his breathing. The way his eyes track your movements with an intensity that has nothing to do with technique.

“Again,” he says after you complete a sequence. You’re both breathing hard, standing too close. His hand is still on your waist from the last correction. Large, warm, fingers spread wide against your side. Neither of you moves. You just stare at each other.

Then you just kiss him. For a heartbeat, he freezes. Completely still. Then he leans in. His mouth moves against yours. Hungry, desperate, like he’s been holding back for too long and something just snapped. His hand on your waist tightens, pulls you closer, eliminating the space between you. His other hand comes up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair.

You make a sound, and he swallows it, deepening the kiss with a fervor that makes your knees weak. He tastes like mint and something uniquely him. His lips are firm but not harsh, moving with confidence. Your hands find his shoulders, gripping hard, trying to anchor yourself because your head is spinning and your heart is hammering and every nerve ending is on fire.

He makes a sound low in his throat, and the hand in your hair tightens just slightly, just enough to send heat flooding through your entire body. His chest is pressed against yours. You can feel his heart pounding, matching your rhythm, both of you breathing hard through your noses because neither of you wants to break apart long enough for air.

Your fingers slide from his shoulders to his neck, to his jaw, feeling the slight scratch of stubble, the way his muscles are tense with restraint even as he kisses you like you’re oxygen and he’s drowning. He pulls you impossibly closer, angles your head for better access, and the kiss turns almost overwhelming in its intensity.

Then he jerks back. Hands on your shoulders, pushing you away, holding you at arm’s length while he stares at you with wide eyes and ragged breathing. “No.” His voice is wrecked. Raw. “We can’t.”

You’re gasping for air. Your heart is hammering. You lips are tingling. “Why not?”

“Because—” He drops his hands like you’ve burned him. Steps back. Runs both hands over his face. “Because this isn’t right.”

“It felt right.”

“It felt—” He stops. His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

You can see the war happening behind his eyes. The struggle between what he clearly wants and what he thinks he should do. His hands are shaking slightly. Still clenched at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from reaching for you again.

“You’re dealing with a breakup,” Varka says finally, and his voice is carefully controlled now, forcibly steady. “And I’m not going to be—” He gestures vaguely. “—a distraction while you work through that.”

The words sting. “That’s not what this is—”

“Isn’t it?” His eyes are sharp now. “Three months ago you were camping in the woods. You’ve been focused on your heirlooms, your training, building a new life. And I pay attention to you and—” He cuts himself off.

“And what?”

“And this.” He gestures between you. “Whatever this is.”

“You think I’m confused,” you say flatly. Varka is an honest man, but this is the first time you’ve seen him deflect.

“I think you’re still figuring things out.” His voice softens slightly. “And that’s fine. That’s good. But I won’t be part of that process. Not like this.”

Your chest is tight. “So you felt something but you’re choosing to ignore it?”

“I’m choosing to do what’s right.” His eyes are pained but determined. “For both of us.”

“You don’t get to decide what’s right for me.”

“No. But I get to decide what’s right for me.” He’s not backing down. “And this—taking advantage of someone who’s vulnerable, who’s rebuilding their life, who might be confusing attention with actual feeling—” He shakes his head. “That’s not who I want to be.”

“I’m not confused—”

“Even if you’re not,” Varka continues, voice faltering slightly, “even if this is real for you right now—I have responsibilities. Duties to Mondstadt. To the knights. The people. I can’t afford to be distracted by personal complications when people depend on me.”

“So that’s it?” Your voice is sharper than intended. “Duty over everything else?”

“Yes.” Simple. Direct. “That’s who I am.”

The rejection stings worse because you felt him kiss you back. Felt the desperation in it. Felt how much he wanted it too. “Fine,” you say quietly.

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t.” You step back, creating distance. “You made your choice. I get it.”

You leave without looking back. Don’t let him see how much it hurts.

The next day you’re avoiding the training grounds, walking through the city instead, taking the long route back from Wagner’s forge because you don’t want to risk running into him.

“Hey.” You freeze. Turn slowly. Varka is standing a few feet away, fidgeting with his hands, looking uncomfortable in a way you’ve never seen him before.

“Hey,” you manage.

He approaches carefully. Like you might bolt. “Can we talk?”

“About what?”

“Yesterday. The—” He stops. “I wanted to say—I might’ve been too harsh.”

You laugh, no humor in it whatsoever. “Were you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He looks genuinely uncomfortable. Confused. “I just didn’t want things to be… awkward between us.”

“Well mission accomplished,” you say brightly. “Super not awkward right now.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m trying to—”

“I’m all grown up, big guy.” You force a cocky smile, the kind you used to give him during early training sessions when you were trying to prove you didn’t need anyone. “I can handle rejection. It’s not my first and probably won’t be my last.”

His expression shifts. Frustration flickering across his features. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like it doesn’t matter.” His eyes are too sharp, too observant. “You don’t really mean it.”

“Oh, but maybe I do.” You even manage a wink, channeling every ounce of confidence you can muster. “Maybe I’ve already moved on. Maybe I’m already eyeing that cute adventurer who comes by the forge sometimes.”

His hands clench at his sides. Just for a second. Then relax. “Right,” he says, voice carefully neutral. “We can still be friends,” he adds after a pause, and the word sounds forced coming from him. “You know that, right? I don’t want to lose—” He stops. “I still want you in my life.”

The word hits like a physical blow. Friends. You’re so attracted to him it makes your teeth hurt. And he wants to be friends. “Yeah,” you say, voice bright and sharp as broken glass. “Of course. Friends. Totally.” Then you step forward and hug him. His entire body goes rigid with surprise.

“That’s what friends do, right?” you say against his shoulder, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. For a long moment he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stands there frozen while you press against him, arms wrapped around his waist, face tucked against his shoulder in a parody of casual friendship that feels anything but casual.

You can feel his heart hammering against your chest. Can feel the way his breathing has gone uneven. His arms come around you. One hand settles between your shoulder blades, the other at your waist. And for just a moment he holds you like he doesn’t want to let go. Then you pull back before it can get more complicated. “See you around, friend,” you say, and somehow your smile doesn’t waver.

You turn and walk away. Don’t look back. Don’t let him see that your hands are shaking. You keep walking. And pretend your chest isn’t aching.

— ✦ —

The first week after the kiss is the hardest. You throw yourself into work at the forge—taking extra commissions, staying late, keeping your hands busy so your mind doesn’t wander to things like the way he kissed you back or the way his hands shook when he pulled away or the way “friends” sounded like the worst word in the world coming from his mouth.

Wagner notices. Doesn’t comment. Just gives you the complex projects, the ones that require focus and precision and leave no room for distraction. It helps.

What also helps: the sword. You’ve been following leads for months, but now you attack it with renewed purpose. You track down the collector’s current location through a series of letters and careful inquiries. They’ve moved to Fontaine, but they kept records. Records that mention selling the blade to a traveling merchant. Who passed through Mondstadt twelve months ago.

You’re making progress on multiple fronts now. A confirmed sighting of the hammer in Sumeru. The sword lead. The engraving tools potentially in Fontaine. It gives you something to focus on besides the ache in your chest every time you see blond hair across the plaza.

The second week, you start building a life. Ming, a merchant from Liyue, starts bringing you tea in the mornings. You trade stories about your respective homes, about the differences and similarities.

An adventurer named Elias becomes a regular customer. Brings his sword for sharpening, stays to chat about guild commissions and interesting monsters he’s encountered. He’s friendly, easy to talk to, uncomplicated. One day, you’re eating lunch on a bench near the plaza together. Making easy conversations.

“So,” Elias says after a while. “There’s this new place in Springvale. Supposed to have great steak. Want to check it out with me? Tomorrow night?”

You should say yes. He’s nice. Interested. There are no complications, no duty conflicts, no rejections wrapped in regret. But he’s not… “I can’t,” you say.

He studies you for a moment. Then he smiles. “There’s someone else.” It’s not a question.

“It’s complicated,” you manage.

“It always is.” He stands, stretches. “Well. If it ever gets uncomplicated, let me know.”

After he leaves, you sit there thinking about how nothing feels uncomplicated anymore. Across the plaza, Varka is heading toward the Knights of Favonius headquarters. He saw the whole exchange. Saw you laugh at something Elias said. Saw Elias sit close. Saw the easy rapport between you. His jaw is tight as he walks past without stopping.

The third week, things shift. You’re more settled now. Confident in the forge, building genuine friendships, making progress on the heirloom hunt. You’re not the person who was camping in the woods anymore, or even the person who kissed Varka three weeks ago in a moment of desperate impulse.

You’re better. Stronger. More yourself. Varka notices. He sees you around the city, always seeming to be wherever you are, though you’re not sure if that’s coincidence or something else. At the gate. Near the fountain. Outside Good Hunter. Each time, there’s a moment where your eyes meet. Each time, he looks away first.

One afternoon, you’re crossing the plaza when you spot them: Varka and Elias talking near the Adventurer’s Guild. Elias mentions something and gestures in your direction, and you see Varka’s expression shift, something sharp and uncomfortable crossing his features before he schools it back to neutral.

Elias says something else, and Varka’s response is clipped, professional, shorter than his usual interactions. Then he’s walking away, faster than necessary. You stand there wondering what that was about.

Later you’re working on a particularly complex commission when Varka shows up at the forge. Alone. After hours.

“You’re jealous,” you say without preamble when he walks in.

He stops. “What?”

“Of Elias. I saw you talking to him.” You set down your hammer, turn to face him. “You looked like you wanted to hit something.”

His jaw tightens. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.” You cross your arms. “And I don’t understand why. You rejected me. You said we should be friends. So why does it matter if I talk to other people?”

Varka’s quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he says finally, and he sounds genuinely confused. “I don’t know why it bothers me. It shouldn’t. You’re right—I made my choice.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I think I made a mistake.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“Three weeks ago. When I pulled away.” He’s struggling with the words. “I thought I was being responsible. But watching you these past weeks—” He stops. “I don’t think I was protecting you. I think I was protecting myself.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then: “You only started reconsidering after you saw me with Elias.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You saw me laughing with someone else. And suddenly you’re here telling me you made a mistake.” You hold his gaze. “That’s you being jealous.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “You’re right. Seeing you with him made me realize I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t matter. That I can ignore it or just focus on duty until it goes away.”

“But?”

“But that doesn’t mean I know what to do about it.” He stops. “I’ve spent my entire life knowing exactly what my priorities are. Duty. The knights. Mondstadt. It’s always been clear.” He looks at you. “And now you’re here and suddenly nothing feels simple anymore.”

You’re quiet. Listening.

“I’m drawn to you,” he says finally. “That much I know. But I don’t know how to balance that with what I’m responsible for.” He stops. “I don’t know how to navigate this.”

You consider this for a moment. “Maybe we’re doing this wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m suggesting—” You hesitate. “That we do it differently.” You gesture vaguely. “Because right now I don’t know if this is real or if it’s just tension and attraction and us being stubborn.” Your voice is honest. “And I think you don’t know either. So maybe we should find out.”

“How?”

“Spend time together. Outside of sparring. Outside of random encounters in the city. Like in Angel‘s Share.” You shrug. “See if we actually work when we’re not fighting.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he says: “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay. We’ll do it differently.” He looks at you directly. “Actually get to know each other. See if this is—” He stops. “See if it’s real.” There’s a pause. “So what does that look like?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” You almost smile. “Neither of us knows what we’re doing, remember?”

His mouth quirks. “Fair point.”

“Maybe start with something simple,” you suggest. “Just talking. Doing normal things.”

“I can do that.”

Despite everything, you smile.

— ✦ —

Four days later, Varka shows up at the forge again. Evening. After Wagner’s left. Like before. Except this time he’s carrying books.

“What are those?” you ask.

“Research.” He sets them on the counter. “About Liyue trade routes. Weapon sales. Collector networks.” He meets your eyes. “For your sword. I thought—if you’re still looking—maybe these would help.”

You stare at the books. At him. “You researched my heirloom hunt?”

“I asked Lisa about archived trade records. Looked through old commission logs. Cross-referenced with merchants documentation.” He shrugs, but there’s uncertainty in his expression.

Your throat is tight. “Why?”

“Because it’s important to you.” Simple. “And that makes it important to me.”

You don’t know what to say. Don’t trust yourself to speak. So instead you gesture to the stool. “Sit. Tell me what you found.”

He does. And for the next hour, you go through the records together, tracing trade routes, identifying potential leads, marking locations on your map with annotations about probability and accessibility. It’s easy. Natural. Like the early days of training before everything got complicated. Except better.

“This one,” he says, pointing to a notation about a weapons dealer in Stone Gate. “They specialize in antique blades. If your sword passed through Mondstadt, they might have records.”

“I didn’t think to check Stone Gate.”

“Most people don’t. But it’s where a lot of merchants stop on their way. Less crowded. Easier to do business.” He makes a note. “Want me to come with you? When you go to check?”

You study him, looking for the angle, the complication, the thing that will make this hurt. You find only sincerity. “Okay,” you say finally. “Tomorrow afternoon. After work.”

“I’ll be here.” He starts to leave, then pauses. “Can I watch you work? For a bit?”

The question catches you off-guard. “Why?”

“Because I’ve seen you fight. Seen you argue. But I’ve never really watched you do this.” He gestures at the forge. “What you’re good at.”

“Fine. But don’t distract me.”

“I won’t.”

He settles on the stool. And you work. It’s different from last time. You’re aware of him watching, but it doesn’t make you nervous. Just seen. “You’re good at this,” he says after a while.

“I know.”

“Confident.”

“Accurate.” You test the blade edge. “Unlike fighting, I actually know what I’m doing here.”

His mouth quirks. “You’re getting better at fighting.”

“Because you’re a good teacher.” You glance at him. “Doesn’t mean I enjoy it as much as this.”

“No?”

“This is mine.” You gesture at the forge. “Fighting is survival. Necessity. But this?” You run your hand along the blade. “This is creation. Something from nothing. Taking raw metal and making it into something useful, something beautiful.”

He’s quiet. Watching you with that intense focus. “Master Ren would be proud,” he says finally. “Of how far you’ve come. Of what you’re building here.”

Your hands still on the blade. “Thank you,” you manage.

“I mean it.” His voice is soft. “You’ve changed since I found you camping in the woods. Grown. And I don’t mean in the ways I taught you. I mean in the ways you taught yourself.”

As he’s leaving later, you call after him: “Varka.” He turns. “Tomorrow. After Stone Gate. Maybe we could do something.”

His expression shifts. “Like what?”

“Could always go for another swim.” You pause, noting the way his expression flickers—surprise, something heated, quickly controlled. You can’t help the small smile. “Or you could show me those secret spots in Mondstadt you mentioned. You grew up here. You’re basically the perfect guide.”

“You want a tour?” His voice is carefully neutral but his eyes are warm.

“I want to see Mondstadt through your eyes.” You shrug, trying for casual. “If we’re going to figure out if we actually work, might as well start somewhere.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I know a place. Most people don’t know about it. Good view of the city.”

“Tomorrow then. After Stone Gate.”

“Tomorrow,” he agrees.

The next afternoon, he meets you after work. Exactly on time. Slightly stiff in his armor like he’s not sure what to do with his hands when they’re not holding a weapon. “Ready?” he asks.

“For Stone Gate?”

“And after. If you still want—” He stops. “The tour.”

“I do.”

The walk to Stone Gate is comfortable. Easier than you expected. You talk about nothing important—the weather, a customer at the forge who insisted their sword was haunted (it was just poorly maintained), a meeting he had that went sideways. It feels natural.

The weapons dealer in Stone Gate is exactly who Varka said. An older woman named Helena who specializes in antique blades and has records going back decades.

“Looking for something specific?” she asks.

You describe the sword. The crest. The craftsmanship details Master Ren told you about. She listens carefully. Then disappears into her back room. Comes back with a ledger.

“Liyue blade. Family crest. Exceptional balance.” She traces a finger down entries. “I remember this one. Traveling merchant brought it through six months ago. I wanted to buy it but they wouldn’t sell. Said they had a buyer in Fontaine already lined up.”

Your heart sinks. “Fontaine?”

“Don’t look so defeated.” She makes a note and hands you a slip of paper. “That’s the merchant’s name. They come through here quarterly. Due back in—” She checks her schedule. “—three weeks. You can ask them directly about the buyer.”

You stare at the paper. It’s the best lead you’ve had in months. “Thank you,” you manage.

“Thank your friend.” She nods at Varka. “He’s the one who set this up. Sent word ahead that you’d be coming.”

He shrugs. “Wanted to make sure it was worth the trip.”

After you leave, you’re quiet. Processing.

“You okay?” he asks.

“You contacted her ahead of time.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to help.” He’s watching you carefully. “Was that wrong?”

“No. Just—” You stop. “No one’s ever done something like that for me before.”

“Really?”

“Really.” You look at him. “Thank you.”

His expression softens. “You’re welcome.”

The walk back to Mondstadt is slower. He takes you a different route, offering views you’ve never seen. Then you notice it. “You brought another sword,” you observe.

Varka glances down. “Hm? Oh. Yeah.”

“Why?”

“We’re going on an adventure.” He says it casually. Matter-of-fact. “Seemed fitting.”

You stop walking and stare at him.

He stops too. “What?”

“That’s—” You gesture at the sword. “Is that the sword you told me about?”

“Yeah.” He looks genuinely confused about why this is significant. “It’s my adventure sword. Used to use it for expeditions before I became Grand Master. Hasn’t seen action in years but it’s still good. Well-maintained. Balanced.” He pats the hilt. “Seemed appropriate for the occasion.”

Your throat is tight. “That’s—” You don’t know how to articulate what you’re feeling. “That’s really sweet.”

“Sweet?” He looks baffled. “It’s practical. We might encounter treasure hoarders. I wanted another blade I could rely on.”

“Varka.”

“What?”

“You brought your old sword to help me find my mentor’s sword. The one that means something to me.”

He considers this. “Well. Yes. I suppose I did.” His mouth is quirking. “Now come on. We have an overlook to visit.”

You follow him, smiling so hard your face hurts.

“This is one of the spots I mentioned,” he says eventually, stopping at an overlook.

The city spreads below. Golden in the afternoon light. Beautiful. “I used to come here as a kid,” he continues. “When things got overwhelming. The city felt so big then. Like it could swallow you whole.”

“And now?”

“Now it feels small.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Like the responsibilities are bigger than the place itself.”

You understand that feeling. “Do you ever regret it?” you ask. “Taking on the Grand Master position?”

“No, nothing like that.” He pauses. “I believe in protecting Mondstadt. But the weight of it—” He stops. “It’s lonely. Making decisions that affect people’s lives. Knowing that every choice has consequences you can’t always predict.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” He glances at you. “But lately it’s been—” He stops.

“What?”

“Less lonely.” He’s looking at you directly now. Your chest tightens. The moment stretches. Then he clears his throat. “Come on. One more spot before we head back.” He takes you to a small alcove near the cathedral. Easy to miss if you don’t know it’s there. Inside it’s peaceful. Quiet.

“This is where I come when I need to think,” he says. “You asked to see Mondstadt through my eyes.” He settles on the stone bench. “This is part of it. The quiet spaces. The places where I can just exist without the weight of everything.”

You sit beside him. Not too close. But closer than friends would sit. “Thank you,” you say. “For sharing this.”

“Thank you for wanting to see it.”

“This is nice,” you admit. “Different from training.”

“Better or worse?”

“Just different.” You glance at him. “I like both.”

He chuckles. “The arguing and the peace?”

“The challenge and the calm.” You correct. “Both feel like you.”

“I like this too. With you.”

The words settle warm in your chest. You sit together in the alcove as the afternoon fades, talking and existing in the same space.

“I was wrong about you,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“When I first found you. At that camp.” He’s looking into the distance, voice different. Lower. More honest. “I thought you were just stubborn. Impractical. Running from something without thinking it through.”

“I was all of those things.”

“You were.” He glances at you. “But you were also more. And I didn’t see it at first.”

Your heart beats faster. “And now?”

“Now I see someone strong. Capable.” His voice is quiet but certain. “Someone who doesn’t need me but chooses to spend time with me anyway. Someone who calls me out when I’m being absurd. Who makes me laugh. Who—”

He stops.

“Who what?” you prompt.

“Who I can’t seem to stop thinking about.” The admission comes out rough. “No matter how hard I try.”

The tension between you is almost unbearable. You want to close the distance. Want to kiss him. Want to—

“It’s late,” he says, but he doesn’t move. “We should—”

“Yeah.”

The days start to blur together in the best way. There’s a rhythm to them that feels natural, inevitable, like something that’s been waiting to happen for a long time.

Walks become a habit. Sometimes through the city, wandering streets with no destination. Sometimes outside the walls, following paths that lead nowhere in particular.

You talk about everything and nothing. Encounters he’s had, techniques you’re developing at the forge, stories that you haven’t told anyone. He listens like he’s genuinely interested. Asks questions that show he’s paying attention. Remembers details you mentioned weeks ago and brings them up casually, making connections you didn’t see.

One evening you end up at Angel’s Share again. Just the two of you, tucked in a corner booth, sharing a bottle of wine that turns into two.

“You’re a terrible influence,” you tell him when you realize how late it’s gotten.

“Me?” He’s grinning, relaxed in a way you rarely see during daylight hours. “You’re the one who ordered the second bottle.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

“Why would I? I’m enjoying myself.”

The admission is casual but it lands differently than it should. Makes something in your chest warm.

You stay until Charles starts giving you pointed looks about closing time. Walk back through empty streets, shoulders occasionally brushing, neither of you in a hurry to get anywhere.

He takes you to places he’s not supposed to be.

“The Grand Master breaking curfew,” you tease when he leads you up to a roof well past midnight. “What would the knights say?”

“They’d say I’m conducting a security inspection.”

“At 1 in the morning?”

“Vigilance knows no schedule.” But he’s grinning, helping you up the last section of roof.

The view is breathtaking. Mondstadt spread below, stars overhead, wind carrying the scent of flowers.

You sit beside him on the tiles, legs dangling over the edge, and just talking. Suddenly it‘s 4 AM and you both remember you have work in the morning.

Swimming becomes dangerous. The first time you suggest going back to Cider Lake, he hesitates.

“What?” you challenge. “Afraid of a little water?”

“No. Just—” He stops. “Nothing. Let’s go.”

You dive under, surface near him, shake water from your hair. Catch him staring. “What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” But his voice is rougher than usual. You swim closer, testing. “We should—” he starts.

“Should what?”

“Get out. Soon. Before—”

“Before what?”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. You don’t get out for another hour. The tension follows you all the way back to the city.

He takes you to see combat. Real combat this time. Not demonstrations. A treasure hoarder camp that’s been causing problems for travelers. He brings a small team of knights, positions you safely back, and you watch him work.

Afterward, when the camp is cleared and the knights are securing supplies, he finds you. “Well?” he asks.

“That was—” You search for words. “Impressive.”

“Just impressive?”

“Terrifying. Effective. Slightly agitating.” You pause. “Did I say that last part out loud?”

His laugh is warm. “You did.”

“Ignore that.”

“Too late.”

Later, after the knights head back, he takes you off the main path. Shows you a clearing he used to train in as a boy. A stream where he’d cool off after sparring. A tree with initials carved so long ago they’re barely visible.

“Why are you showing me this?” you ask.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Because you told me about your heirlooms. Your history. Seemed fair to show you mine.”

It’s not the same thing, but the gesture lands anyway.

One evening you end up in a meadow outside the city. Just lying in the grass, passing a bag of almonds back and forth, watching clouds drift by.

He tells a joke. A terrible joke about weapons maintenance that makes you groan. “That was awful,” you say.

“But you laughed.”

“I laughed at you. Not with you.”

“Same effect.” He’s pleased with himself.

You realize he does this constantly. The jokes. The puns. Little moments of lightness that catch you off-guard. “You’re ridiculous,” you tell him.

“You like it.” Not a question.

“I—” You stop. Because he’s right. You do like it. “Maybe.”

He turns to face you. You’re suddenly very aware of how close you are. How easy it would be to just—

Then a bird calls overhead and the spell breaks. You both sit up, creating distance, and pretend your heart isn’t racing.

You still fight sometimes. Verbally. He’ll say something that hits wrong, you’ll snap back, and suddenly you’re arguing about something that matters or doesn’t matter, voices rising, both refusing to back down.

You catch yourself thinking about him at odd moments. Smiling when you remember something he said. Looking forward to seeing him with an intensity that should concern you. But it doesn’t. Never. Because those moments with him now feel more natural to you than anything else. More natural than your work. And you can tell he’s the same.

You’re working late at the forge when he shows up. Again. This is becoming a pattern.

“You’re still here,” he observes, leaning against the doorframe.

“I’m working.” You don’t look up from the blade you’re sharpening.

“So I see.” He moves inside. “Mind if I look around?”

You glance at him. He’s watching you with that intense focus that makes your stomach flip. “Look around,” you say. “Just don’t touch anything that’s cooling.”

“I know how forges work.”

“Do you?”

“I’ve been in a few.” He moves to the workbench. Picks up a dagger you finished earlier. “This is new.”

“Custom commission.”

He examines it carefully. Tests the balance. Runs his thumb along the edge carefully. “Throwing dagger?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Center of gravity is perfect. Right at the junction.” He looks at you. “How many tries?”

“Three.”

“Worth it.” He sets it down. Moves to the next blade. A sword. “And this?”

“Standard commission.”

“Nothing about this is standard.” He’s examining the fuller. “You reduced weight without compromising strength. Why?”

“Client needed something faster. Less arm strength.”

“Smart.” He sets it down and picks up another.

And so it continues. He moves through your workspace with genuine interest. Picking up each piece. Asking questions. Making observations that are detailed, specific, showing real understanding of the craft.

He picks up a small knife. “Practice piece?” he asks.

“Old project. From when I was learning.”

“May I?” At your nod, he examines it closely. “You can see the progression. The edge here—” He indicates. “—is less refined than your current work. But the intent is clear. You knew what you wanted even if you didn’t quite have the skill yet.”

“That’s… actually a pretty good observation.”

“I’m observant.” He sets down the knife. Holds your gaze. “Especially about things I find interesting.”

Your mouth goes dry. He moves to the next bench. There’s a playful edge to his movements now. Like he’s deliberately taking his time. Drawing this out. “This tempering is excellent,” he says, examining yet another blade. “Even heat distribution. No stress fractures.”

“Thank you.”

“You should be proud of this work.” He looks at you over the blade.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being true.” His voice is warm. Lower than usual. “Though I’m starting to think you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you.”

“Do you?” He sets down the blade and moves closer. “Because you deflect every compliment. Change the subject. Act like exceptional craftsmanship is just—” He gestures. “—normal.”

“It is normal. For me.”

“That’s my point.” He’s very close now. “You’re so good at this that you think it’s ordinary. But it’s not. This—” He gestures at your workspace. “—is remarkable. And you should accept that.”

You’re barely breathing. He’s standing right in front of you now. Close enough that you can see the way his eyes are darker than usual. The way he’s looking at you like he’s been wanting to do this for a while.

“There’s one more piece,” you hear yourself say. “That I want to show you.”

His expression sharpens. Interested. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You move to the locked cabinet. Your hands are shaking slightly as you unlock it. You pull out a blade. A claymore with intricate guard work and a subtle curve to the blade that speaks to both form and function.

His eyes widen. “You made this?”

“Weeks of work. On and off between commissions.”

He takes it reverently and tests the balance. The edge. The weight distribution. “This is—” He’s speechless. “This is masterwork.”

“It’s just a sword,” you manage.

“It’s not.” He’s moving back toward you, still holding the blade. Eyes bright with something that looks like awe. “This is art. Function and form in perfect balance. This is—” He stops in front of you. Close. “—exceptional. You’re exceptional.”

Your heart is hammering. He’s looking at you like you’ve just shown him something precious. Something rare. And you’re looking at him holding your sword and thinking how right it looks in his hands, how perfect. “I should—” He swallows hard. “I should give this back.”

“Keep it.” You step closer, eliminating more of the distance between you. “It suits you. And I—” You meet his eyes. “I made it thinking about you.”

His breathing stops entirely. “What?”

“Every angle. Every curve. Every design choice.” Your voice is steady even though your heart is racing. “I was thinking about your fighting style. Your strength. The way you move.” Your voice is steady even though your heart is racing. “I was thinking about you.”

“You can’t just—” His voice is wrecked. “You can’t say things like that and expect me to—”

“To what?”

He’s staring at you, chest heaving. His hands are clenched at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself. “Thank you,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “For this. For—” He gestures helplessly. “—everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

The moment stretches. Neither of you moving. Both of you barely breathing. Then he’s leaving. Fast. You stand there in the forge, heart pounding, realizing: This slow approach is torture. You can’t keep restraining yourself. And from the way he just fled, neither can he.

— ✦ —

The training grounds are empty at this hour. But you know he sometimes comes here after hours. To train alone. To think.

Sure enough, as you approach, you see him. And your brain stutters to a complete halt. He’s not wearing armor. He’s wearing a shirt. A black shirt. Thin, soft-looking fabric that clings to broad shoulders and a strong back. The collar is open in a deep V that exposes his collarbone, the hollow of his throat, a frankly absurd amount of chest.

He’s stretching. Arms overhead. Then he lowers his arms. Rolls his shoulders. The movement makes the fabric shift—

He turns. Sees you. For a moment, something flashes in his eyes. Heat. Want. No attempt to hide it this time. “Hey.” His voice is rougher than usual.

“I can’t do this anymore.” The words come out before you can stop them. “This slow, careful, let’s-figure-it-out-gradually thing. I can’t.”

His expression shifts. “What?”

You move closer. “Every time we’re together it’s—” You gesture helplessly. “It’s torture. Being close to you. Talking to you. And then having to just… restrain myself. Pretend I’m fine with slow.”

He laughs. No humor in it. “I’ve been slowly going insane. Thinking about you constantly. Finding excuses to see you. Trying to act normal when every cell in my body wants—” He stops.

“Wants what?”

“You,” he says. “Have wanted you for so long I can’t remember when it started. And pretending I’m fine with friendly is killing me.”

Your heart is hammering. “Then stop pretending.”

“I’m trying to be good here.” His voice is strained. “Trying to be patient. To respect the boundaries we set. To—”

“I don’t want you to be good.” You’re close enough now to see his pupils blown wide. “I want you to be honest.”

“Honest?” His breathing has changed. Faster. Uneven. “Honestly, I think about you when I should be focused on work. I think about kissing you again. About what would have happened if I hadn’t pulled away. About how you looked at me when you gave me that sword like—” He stops. “Like it meant something.”

“It did mean something.”

“What?”

“That I—” You struggle, then decide to just say it. “That I love you.”

He freezes completely. “What?”

“I love you.” The words come easier the second time. “Not just attracted to you. Not just interested. I love you. The way you challenge me. The way you see through my defenses. The way you care about my heirlooms even though they’re not your responsibility. The way you make me laugh and get me and make me think and look at me like I’m—” You stop. “Like I matter.”

“You do matter.” His voice is rough. “You matter more than—” He’s moving closer without seeming to realize it. “And I love you too.” The confession comes out raw. “Have been falling for you since you—” He’s right in front of you now. “Since you stopped being the stubborn person in the woods and became the person I can’t imagine my life without.”

Then he kisses you. His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back, and his mouth is hot and hungry against yours. You make a sound against his mouth, surprise and relief and want all tangled together.

He groans in response. The sound vibrates through you. His other hand finds your waist, pulls you flush against him, and he’s warm and right there. You kiss him back just as desperately, hands fisting in that damned shirt, pulling him closer, trying to convey everything you’ve been feeling through touch alone.

When you finally break apart, his forehead drops to yours. His hands haven’t left your waist. He looks as if he wants to say something. Instead, he’s smiling at you, crooked and a little dazed. You kiss him again. He makes that sound again—half groan, half surrender—and gives up on talking.

This kiss is slower. Deeper. His tongue slides against yours and your knees actually go weak. He must feel it because his arm bands around your back, holding you steady. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“I know.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, hair mussed where your fingers ran through it. You kiss him again because you can. He responds immediately, deepens the kiss, walks you backward until your back hits a wall.

“This okay?” he asks against your mouth.

“Yes.”

His hands slide down your sides, grip your hips, and lift. You gasp. He settles you on top of the wall, just high enough that you’re at eye level with him now.

“Better,” he murmurs. Then he’s between your legs and kissing you like he’s been starving for it. Your hands find his shoulders, slide down his chest, and he’s as solid as you imagined and this is so much better than any fantasy. His mouth moves to your jaw, your neck, the sensitive spot just below your ear that makes you gasp.

You pull him into another kiss. He groans, hands tightening on your waist. When you pull back this time, you’re both wrecked.

“Come on,” he says, voice rough.

“Where?”

“Somewhere more private.” His eyes are intense. “Before I completely lose what’s left of my self-control.”

You nod. He helps you down from the wall, keeps his hand on your lower back as you walk. You end up at his place. The door closes behind you. For a moment, you just stand there, looking at each other. Then he crosses the distance in two strides and kisses you breathless.

This time there’s no holding back. His mouth traces down your neck, your collarbone, making you gasp and arch against him. “Bed,” you manage.

“Yeah.” He sounds as wrecked as you feel. “Good idea.”

Somehow you make it there, falling together in a tangle of limbs and heat and desperation. He hovers over you for a moment. Hair falling forward. Eyes dark and wanting. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

“So are you.”

He huffs a laugh. “I’m not—”

“You are.” You pull him down into another kiss. “Especially in that shirt.”

“This shirt?” He glances down at himself. At the ridiculous neckline that’s somehow even more pronounced at this angle. “This is what did it?”

“Among other things.” You tug at the fabric. “But the shirt didn’t hurt.”

He’s grinning now. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Then he’s kissing you again and coherent thought becomes difficult. His hands are everywhere. Careful but sure, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you arch into his touch. You explore him in return, finally allowed to touch all that strength, to feel the muscle and warmth you’ve been hyperaware of for months.

“Tell me if I should stop,” he says at one point.

“Don’t you dare.”

He laughs against your skin. “Noted.”

Later—much later—when you’re both lying tangled together, breathless and sated, you trace idle patterns on his chest.

“I have a lead,” you say.

“Mm?” He sounds half-asleep. Content.

“On the sword. Helena sent word. The merchant’s at Stone Gate for the next few days.”

“When are you going?”

“My next day off. Probably—” You do quick mental math. “—three days from now?”

“Want company?”

You prop yourself up on your elbow and look at him. “Are you offering help?”

“I’m asking if you want company.” His eyes are amused. “There’s a difference.”

“Huh.” You pretend to consider. “That’s new.”

“What is?”

“Me asking. Usually you just offer and I pretend I don’t need help.”

He grins and pulls you closer. “Character growth.”

“Would’ve offered anyway, though,” he adds.

You kiss his shoulder. “Chivalry?”

“Nope.” He’s definitely smirking. “Chivalry’s lost on you.”

“True.” You kiss him properly this time. Slow. Thorough. “Well, it has its perks.”

“Really now?” His hands slide down your waist, grip tightening in a way that’s decidedly suggestive. “Seems like a lot of perks.”

“Mm.” You’re grinning against his mouth.

“The answer’s out of love, though.” He says it so casually, so confidently, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“That’s not—” You stop. “You make it sound so easy.”

He cups your face. “Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Your heart feels very full. You see pictures in your mind and start talking before you realize it: “I was thinking of bringing the music box here,” you say, nuzzling against his neck, the words coming out easier than they should. “Leave it with you.”

Varka chuckles softly. You expect him to tease you, to ask you if you’re planning to stay over more often, but he already pulls you closer, his arms tightening around you. He presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’d like that a lot.”

You kiss him again because you don’t trust yourself to speak. And because sometimes actions work better than words.

“Three days,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Stone Gate.”

“Stone Gate,” you confirm.

“Now stop talking about heirlooms and come here.”

You smile. Tomorrow there will be training. Work. All the normal complications of life. You will continue to look for the sword and the other heirlooms, no matter how look it takes. But you have Varka now.

It won’t be easy. You will still clash. But it’s yours. Built with care. Maintained with honesty. Forged through friction and trust and learning to let someone in.

And that’s more than enough.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :) More Varka to follow soon.

Masterlist.

[earthtooz]

: SAY YOUR STUPID LINE :*+ﾟ

in which: all the times phainon had to ditch you mid-date, and the one time he didn't.

warnings: 8.2k wc, superhero!au, gn!reader who is not a superhero, the chrysos heirs are the avengers basically, hurt/comfort, fluff, sloppy making out, sfw, happy ending, slight yandere!phainon, both parties are very in love with each other, a lot of food mentions bc i love to eat so, edited but i'm not happy with this.

a/n: finally got this one out of the drafts, it was really fun experimenting with this fic, while i'm not proud of the end result, i can't really say i necessarily dislike it. either way, i hope you'll enjoy!

extra #1, outtake #1

~ ONE:

Dating a superhero is not for the weak.

It's a lifestyle that requires bouts of patience and wrestling with anxiety over whether or not your lover will come home from a mission that's been running too long for your liking. It requires understanding that you may not always be the first choice, not when civilisations will always need him more and lives are what he saves. It requires immense mental capacity and unconditional love, especially when the superhero you're dating is Khaslana.

A widely revered figure and the face of the renowned group: The Chrysos Heirs, he is loved by all. His image iconic, the visage of a heroic entity with two wings sprouting from his back and a ginormous sword that he swings around so easily, moving it like an extension of his arm.

But Phainon, the man behind Khaslana, is loved by you. Snowy hair with blue eyes, his true identity is kept a secret from his public one, and this one is yours.

While fans will cheer and gush over the silhouette of his other persona, the saviour of Amphoreus comes home to you, welcoming him with open arms… and also to tease him with all the Khaslana merch you love buying.

Phainon doesn't really have it in him to feel embarrassed when you wear it so proudly, bouncing around the house in a yellow and purple hoodie that mimicks his superhero form, watching with a proud smile; seizing the heart of the man who holds the weight of the world on his back.

That said… there are also downsides to having a superhero as your significant other.

"I'm so excited to try out this café, I've been seeing them all over my feed," you gush, hand waving around enthusiastically as Phainon tightly holds your other one, watching with a fond smile. "I want to try the pomegranate cream cake, or their dromas-shaped roll!"

The sun was shining gently that day, a nice breeze blowing through the metropolis of Okhema. Ascent Hour had just begun, so the streets were starting to grow busier and busier, but you and Phainon decided to head out early that morning to try a new place that was going semi-viral online.

It was going seamlessly, the store wasn't too busy when you entered, and the weather was perfect for an impromptu picnic.

"Hey! If you like my drink so much, then get your own!" You scold as your boyfriend lifts your cup up to his lips, taking another generous gulp.

"I can't help it," he grins, "you just have better taste."

You glare at him from the corner of your eyes, raising your food to your lips. "It's mine, though."

"I paid for it, don't I deserve a little bit of renumeration?"

"Taking my food is a step over the line."

"Alright, I'm sorry my love," he kisses your cheek as you bite down, his glasses pressing into the side of your face.

When you raise your drink, he latches on to the straw before you could even react, the reaction time and instincts of a superhero being something you could never dream of overpowering. All you can do is let out a cry of defeat as he finishes the last of it without remorse.

"Phai! You meanie."

His smile is anything but apologetic. If anything, seems like the bastard is quite happy with himself.

"I thought your job was to save people, so why are you tormenting me?"

A muscular arm is wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against the white-haired's side, personal space completely eliminated as he rubs his face against yours. "You're the only one I can torment, and I love it."

"Whatever. You owe me."

"I'll make it up to you, sunshine."

You pout but forgive his transgression regardless. Conversation flows, topics jumping around quite a bit, you mentioning something you wanted to read, recommended by your coworkers, Phainon talking about how he's going to meet with Mydei soon to train for an upcoming marathon; all mundane little things.

However, tranquility is a luxury when you're dating a Chrysos Heir, because the morning is cut through with an invasive buzzing on his watch. A sound that indicates he needed to be urgently summoned, despite how inconspicuous it was.

A flash of annoyance crosses his face, eyeing the watch like it was a minor inconvenience.

Well, to him it was. To you, it was a signal of distress.

"You should probably get going," you say, and there's a small pout on his face when he looks up at you.

"I should. I'm sorry for having to leave like this."

"It's fine, just another day being a hero. Text me when you're done, okay?"

He nods, handing you his card from his wallet. "Get yourself another drink before you go."

"Phainon, I can pay for it-"

"I was planning on buying it myself, but I'll probably be busy."

You press a fleeting kiss to his lips as a farewell, one that he burns into memory. "Stay safe, Phai."

"Please," he scoffs, "the bad guys are going to regret it when they see me."

You roll your eyes and swat away the kisses he blows at you.

Keeping his promise, you return to the café to buy the exact same drink he had stolen, browsing the pastry catalogue mundanely while pretending like your larger-than-life boyfriend's presence wasn't dearly missed. Maybe you should buy something sweet for him to enjoy when he comes home.

That afternoon, the news report of another successful Chrysos Heirs mission in the city of Janusopolis. The anxiety you've been nursing all afternoon is only quelled when you receive a text from Phainon, the notification ceasing the uneasiness in your gut.

My Hero <3: I'm okay. I'm on my way home now. My Hero <3: I love you.

~ TWO:

Your eyes scan the passing crowds every so often, keen on the lookout for a certain white-haired and his blond friend, both of whom are quite hard to miss, yet you can't find them, each face as unfamiliar as the last. Until-

"Boo!"

Hands slam down on the back of the wooden bench you were sitting on, and you jolt in surprise, a small yelp slipping from your lips.

"You-" you guffaw, turning around to see the entertained grin of your boyfriend.

He even has the nerve to laugh at you.

"Phainon!"

"I'm sorry, sunshine, I didn't expect you to be so scared!"

You rise from the bench with crossed arms. "Can't blame me to be scared when you slapped my seat so hard, you should hold back your strength sometimes."

"And you can't blame a man who is just excited to see the love of his life." He rounds to embrace you in a tight hug, pressing you right into his warm, sweaty body that had just ran the distance of a marathon. You complain about his grossness into his skin, hitting his shoulder, but he doesn't relent, not even as Mydei approaches him with an unimpressed expression.

"Let me go before Mydei thinks you're a clingy leech."

"He already thinks I am a clingy leech," Phainon murmurs, but lets you go reluctantly, allowing you to take a step back and turn to the tattooed man.

"Hey, Mydei. How was your run?"

"It was good. We both set a new personal best."

"Mine was faster."

"By one second. You just pressed the 'end run' button sooner than I did, you cheat."

Phainon gasps, but you cut the bickering short. For a pair of superheroes who are powerful enough to destroy a city with one punch, their mentality regresses into that of schoolboys when they're around each other.

"Save the accusations for later. Still good to come over for dinner, Mydei?" You ask.

"If the invitations still up for grabs, then I'd love to."

The white-haired hero butts in. "As long as you admit that I was faster than you!"

You gently flick Phainon's forehead and he cowers at the sudden pain, pouting at you like you had done something worse. "Stop instigating fights, Phai, or I'll make you fend for yourself while Mydei and I enjoy some nice warm meals."

"Fine," he wraps a tight- almost possessive, arm around your waist. "I'm starved, lets go home."

An annoying buzz slices through the atmosphere, coming from the wrist of both men.

Another call.

Phainon glances down at you like a kicked puppy, an apology already brewing in his eyes.

"It's fine," you say before either of them could say anything. "I understand completely."

"Sorry, Y/n, this couldn't have come at any worse of a time." The blond mumbles, eyes down at his watch.

You glance up at your lover, your hand coming to hold the one thats around your waist. "I'll still cook. As soon as you're done, come home and eat, okay? You too, Mydei, and if Castorice is available too, invite her as well."

"What if it's really late?" Phainon asks, voice quiet and guilty.

"I don't care what time, just come home," you rise up to place a quick kiss against his lips before gently urging him to leave.

What you expected to be a night filled with company is spent alone, with nothing but the sound of food cooking and music occupying the empty space. You worriedly wait for any sort of message from Phainon, glancing every so often at your phone as you plate, as you eat, as you clean, as you wrap the leftovers.

Nothing ever comes. Not until near midnight, after you have spent the whole night trying not to tug your hair out.

My Hero <3: Coming home now, sunshine. My Hero <3: Are you still awake?

You: yeah, i'll wait up for you guys.

My Hero <3: We'll be there in 20! My Hero <3: Castorice says she'd love to come too.

You: perfect! what about hyacine?

My Hero <3: She needs to go home :(

You: that's fine, i'll see you soon.

My Hero <3: Thank you, my love.

True to their word, twenty minutes later, there are superheroes sitting on your dining table with heated up meals in front of them. Fatigue clings to your eyes, and you're actively battling sleep as you listen to the three chat, but you try to absorb the moment as much as you can, conversing with Mydei about the ingredients you used and the new grocery store that just opened nearby, talking to Castorice about Pollux and everything she might be up to.

They leave a few minutes after their plates are cleared, thanking you sincerely as Phainon walks them down and out of the apartment complex.

"I'll do the dishes," he murmurs softly, engulfing you in a hug from behind when he returns.

"Are you sure?"

"You've had a long day, babe, go sleep."

"Not as long as yours."

He scoffs. "Sunshine, please, I know you're any moment from crashing."

You laugh, deciding to relent. "Alright. Come to bed soon, okay?"

A pair of lips press against your forehead, his arms squeezing you tightly for a moment before letting you slip away.

~ THREE:

There's a low whistle behind you. Phainon's appreciative gaze is what greets you when you turn toward the source of the sound, and like a magnet drawn to metal, his hands snake around your waist. His touch is gentle, reverent, treating you like delicate china and your breath hitches when his fingers graze over a sensitive spot.

His smirk only grows when you shudder against him.

"I almost don't want to leave now," he murmurs before pressing dainty kisses along the shell of your ear. "I mean, it'll be fine if we cancel now, right?"

You stop his hand from going snaking down any lower, giving him a weak glare through the mirror. "You wanna cancel our anniversary dinner because you can't keep it in your pants?"

"My sunshine looks so beautiful, I wanna show you how you make me feel."

"After," you scold, going back to adjusting your hair in the mirror.

"Fine," he doesn't detach from you, glued to your back like a koala, except he towers over you and keeps admiring your reflection with hearts in his eyes. Every so often, he places a kiss somewhere he can reach, and you placate him with a ruffle of his hair before going back to getting ready.

Music plays softly from your phone, and he hums along intermittently, vibrations thrumming along your back.

"You good there, babe?" You ask after a completing your final touchups.

He blinks slowly, "yeah, just admiring the view."

"Ready to go?"

"Ready whenever you are, sunshine."

You shiver at the feather-light kisses he presses along your jaw, giggling at the ticklish sensation while trying to create some distance between you.

"I can't help it, just can't believe you're mine."

He's throwing hearts with his eyes right now, and if you turned your head to the left slightly, you would have seen the tenderness brewing behind those blues.

The walk out is surprisingly peaceful. Phainon keeps his hands to himself like a respectful gentleman, save for the touch on the small of your back, and the way he knelt down to help put your shoes on. You don't comment on the small kiss he places on the side of your knee just before he stands to his full height.

The night is going seamless, but what goes up must come down, because only a few minutes after you place your orders, a buzzing from his wrist interrupts the warm ambience.

Both of you fall silent, and the candle flickers vividly as his face contorts into a series of emotions. It looked like it physically pained him to leave you.

"Go," you urge. "Before it's too late."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

He can't leave you, not when you look so perfect and you've both been looking forward to this night for a long time. That's awful, you don't deserve that at all.

His watch still buzzes frantically as his heart fights with his brain.

"The night was only just beginning-"

"Phainon." You say decisively. "Go."

Reluctantly, he pushes out of his chair with a look that says he clearly does not condone this, even as he places a farewell kiss on the back of your hand, even as he powerwalks out of the restaurant, already unbuttoning his suit. Still, his gaze lingers at you, savouring the sight before he goes and punishes whoever has stolen him away from you.

You lean back into your chair with a disappointed sigh. Once again, Phainon was whisked away away from you, and now it was just you in this vast, bustling restaurant, a candlelit dinner with no one but yourself.

How sad.

When the waiter came to check up on you, pointed look in the direction of Phainon's chair, you told him something important came up. You hated the way humiliation creeped in your ribs as you tried to save face, defending your lover with no hesitation, even if the empty spot on the other side of the table told another tale.

You really did try to insist that it was important, the fate-of-a-city-hangs-in-the-balance kind of importance, but the waiter murmurs a conflicted 'alright' before coming back with your food and an extra glass of refreshments with more side dishes- on the house.

The night ends far earlier than you expected, walking out of the restaurant with his dish packed away securely in your hands.

You wait for him when you get home, methodically getting unready with soft music in the background, fitting the big bouquet he got you that morning into the largest vase you could find, killing time with mundane activities that you were not anticipating for your anniversary.

When sleep tugs at your eyes, and he still hasn't come home, you bite your cheek nervously. Him working so late was not a rare occurrence, but the ache has never been easy to quell, not when the only remedy is blindly trusting that Phainon will come home in one piece and he'll be beside you in the morning when you wake.

You: going to bed now, text me when you see this You: love you, stay safe

It's 3am, nearing 4 when Tribbie's portal sends him back to his living room, Khaslana form cramped in the coziness of your shared space, the outermost feathers of his wings just narrowly missing the delicate decorations you've placed around the space. Weeping golden cracks close, jagged edges soften, halo and weapon disappearing into nothingness, it's Phainon who turns off the nightlight you set for him.

It's Phainon's tired footsteps that trudge against hardwood floors as he makes a beeline for your shared bedroom, kicking his clothes off layer by layer on the way, discarding tailored fabrics in the hallway as his heavy heart aches.

It's Phainon who breathes a sigh of relief when he sees you, lying peacefully asleep on the bed.

Your back is facing him, body snug under the covers as he quietly crawls over to you, hands reaching for whatever he can grab as he lays behind you, wrapping you up in his embrace.

He feels the way your chest slowly expands against his, how warm your hands are from being nestled under the covers, how adoration thrums through his veins, even as he does something as simple as holding you.

Despite his drowsiness and the way his body begs for sleep after such a demanding mission, his heart is restless.

Se sits up and leans over you, admires what he can of your expresion through the little light that filters through the windows.

The love of his life that he has to, devastatingly, let down more often than he'd like.

He lowers his lips to your cheekbones and places a lingering kiss on your skin. He presses more, and more, and more, hoping to engrain his love into you, to let it seep through your pores and into your veins so you know the magnitude of his devotion.

Titans, he adores you, what would he do without you?

It's unfair that life has to take him away from you. Vaguely, his mind rewinds to the night, how quickly you masked your disappointment when he was being summoned, how you tried to reassure him with that unsure smile of yours, how he never wanted to leave you at a table alone again, even if you are the one pushing him away.

You really are just too selfless.

Isn't that what he loves about you, though?

"Phainon?" You rustle, whining softly. He freezes, face hovering mere centimetres from yours as you turn to him, "is that you?"

He gulps, guilt settling in his gut at disturbing you. Yet, he can't bring himself to feel completely bad about it, especially not when its your voice he gets to hear, raspy from sleep or not. "Yeah, sunshine, it's me."

"What time is it?"

"Late. I'm sorry for waking you."

Your hand comes to his face, awkwardly patting around before they find his cheek; the exact spot you love cradling, and he sinks into you like sand. "It's okay," you murmur, "I'm glad you're safe and sound."

"Yeah," he whispers, "I'm glad, too."

"How was the mission?"

"Went off without a hitch. But our date-"

"Right, your food is in the fridge, got takeaway."

"That's not what I was trying to say. I'll plan another one soon to make up for it, I promise. No distractions this time."

"Rest first, Phai," you scrunch your nose, "and wash."

"Do I smell?"

"Like a superhero. Yeah."

He smiles, and he's sure you can hear it in his words. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"No, I don't like it," you murmur bluntly before retreating back under the covers, tucking them up to your chin.

"I'll go clean up then."

"M'kay."

With one last, very long kiss to your temple, he pushes off you.

~ FOUR:

Phainon is already awake when you open your eyes, the vacant bed beside you already made, but the low hum of the coffee machine whirring tempts you away from your cozy spot. Bare feet hitting wooden floors, he greets you with a warm, loving smile, exercise shirt hugging the planes of his chest and arms.

"Good morning!"

You mumble back the pleasantry, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. "Where are you headed?"

"I've been called to HQ, incident reports… something like that. Thought I might as well make a morning run from it."

"What'd you do?"

He makes this guilty looking face. "Might have accidentally destroyed a few top floors."

"Phai!"

"It's fine! No one was hurt because evacuation went smoothly, besides, it was for the bigger picture- don't give me that look! Nevermind, I made you coffee." He sets the steaming cup before you with a kiss to your forehead. "Oh, also, I'll reschedule our anniversary date at another place, maybe a rooftop restuarant this time?"

"Are you sure you'll make it this time?"

The hand that was playing with your hair stills, and you feel the atsmosphere shift. You feign ignorance as you take a sip of your homemade drink that was exactly to your liking, the method perfected years ago by Phainon.

"Sunshine?" He begins, voice abnormally sweet.

"Hm?"

"Is there something you want to say to me?"

"What do you think I have to say?"

His cheek twitches. "If you're upset at me, you can say it outright."

Phainon watches you set down your cup, turn to face him, and throw your arms around his neck, standing up on your toes to reach his height. He looks you right in your tired eyes, momentarily glancing down at your lips that are jutted out in a small pout.

"Do I look mad?" You ask.

"You look like the love of my life," he's about to lean in until you push at his chest, stopping him.

"Don't try appease me by flirting. If you're going to book an anniversary dinner, make sure it will go uninterrupted. I understand emergencies are inevitable, but I just want to have you to myself at least once."

He nods, snowy hair bouncing enthusiastically. Of course, he promises, but you're getting tired of over-exercised promises and redundant oaths.

Still, you love him too much. You'll always love Phainon.

"You're forgiven, you should probably get going now," you straighten his collar and pat down his broad shoulders.

"I should but… can I get a goodbye kiss first?" His blue eyes shine with want and his hands firmly hold your hips, pulling you to his chest. He cranes his head to your height, chasing after your lips for something you won't grant.

"Don't, I've got morning breath," you warn.

"I don't care," he murmurs, mouth slotting against yours, drinking the air from your lungs.

When you try to make space, he simply follows, selfish and heedless when it comes to you. He'll keep taking everything you give until he's satisfied, and even then, Phainon is no better than a bottomless pit of greed, trying to press himself closer to try and mould your atoms together.

When he parts, your heavy breaths circulate between you, head beginning to spin.

He leaves a few minutes later, with a promise of a date and catching up on all the kisses he's missed.

Goodness, was he serious.

The coolness of the sheets beneath you are a stark contrast to the buzzing beneath your skin, the heat above you completely encompassing and wild as Phainon's mouth is everywhere. From your left, you hear the rustle of sheets, his hand bunching the fabric into a tight ball as his other hand runs up your leg, folding your thigh to sit snug against his hip. The delicate fabric of your outfit falls with the action, and when he parts, a string of saliva connects your tongue with his.

When you joked about a second round of dessert, you were not expecting him to drag you out of the restauarant, speed down empty streets so fast that you were holding on to the car door for dear life, and begin slobbering all over you in the elevator. Pressing you up against the mirrors, he began before the doors could even slide shut, hands all over your face, waist, hips, ass- anything he could grab.

Between kisses, hot licks, and bites, are confessions are love being etched into your skin. As you unbutton his suit, hands snaking underneath his lapels, he glues his mouth to your neck, panting.

When you sit up, he follows, obedient when you sit him on the mattress instead. His eyes unsubtly glance down at your half-exposed chest as you crawl over his muscular body, drinking up the view of his sky blue eyes that are now cloudy with desire. Gone was the heated beast who wanted nothing more but to devour your skin, replacing it was a compliant lover who shuddered with every sinful touch.

You lower yourself over his crotch and he rolls his head back, grunting.

"My hero is so handsome," you coo, brushing strands of his hair aside, revealing more of the flush that's crawled to his face.

"Ha- calling me that now ? Does it delight you?" He chuckles, hiding his flusteredness behind light jokes, but a drag of your finger along his sternum and abdominals has his muscles clenching.

You hum. "It does delight me to see you so susceptible, because I'm the only one who can have you like this. Right?"

"Yes, the only one," he whines.

"What about Khaslana?"

"What about him?"

"Is he mine too?"

He moans when you lick a stripe up his neck, helping you take off his shirt as he nods desperately. "Yours, I'm all yours, Khaslana too, all of me has been yours and will always be yours."

You smile. "Good boy-"

His hands tangle into your hair, pulling your mouth right to his. His tongue is quick to dart out and brush against your bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth.

A shrill buzz cuts through the air.

Phainon loudly sighs as he glares at the watch on his wrist. You fix the neckline of your clothes and roll off him, watching him violently tap some buttons on the screen to silence it. Then, he leans over you once again, arms on either side of you as you're lying against the sheets, giggling at the featherlight kisses he places along your mandible.

"Ph-Phai, you should probably leave now."

He grumbles. "One more kiss."

One kiss turns to several more, until you're pushing him by the shoulders, urging him to leave. Which he does so very reluctantly, grumbling under his breath the whole time.

You go to bed alone that night, an unsettling premonition stewing in your gut as you tuck the covers over your chin and try to ignore the heavy void beside you. When you wake, Phainon's side of the bed is completely unblemished, cold to the touch, no indication that he had ever been here. A call of his name is met with silence and any indication of life beside you is nonexistent, not even a message on your phone from him.

Maybe the mission ran longer than expected.

You refresh your messages and news constantly, obsessing over any update or new notification like it'd be the salvation you were hoping for, an indication that you were approaching the light at the end of the tunnel. You pick at your skin and bite at your nails and run your hands through your hair, but nothing gets him home faster, nothing grants you the sight you truly wish to see.

Even as you stare out at the Okheman horizon on the balcony, mentally praying to the stars for him to come home.

Stillness is something that does not exist while living with Phainon, so in his absence, silence beats louder, time moves slower, and stagnation exists in the periphery, slowly closing in.

After two nights of missing his warmth and buzzing around the apartment with anxiety, there's a heavy knock on the front door. Your heart spikes, head spinning to the source of the sound. In the haven of your apartment, living room walls coated by cold sun rays, atmosphere occupied by the thrum of your running dishwasher and the video playing from your laptop, the voice you've been waiting to hear slices through it all.

"Sunshine? It's me."

The journey from the couch to the front door is completed in a blink, finally remembering how to breathe when you see him.

"Phainon," you whisper.

He's completely worn-down, eyebags prominent, shoulders slumped, but affection still gleams on his face and he's not beyond a gentle smile of reassurance.

"You're home."

He slumps into your open arms, finding no issue leaning all his weight against you. His snowy hair brushes against the side of your neck as his arms bring you as close as humanly possible, the fatigue weighing him down like iron.

"Let's get you to bed, superhero."

Unceremoniously, he collapses onto the mattress with a grunt, sprawled over the covers.

"Do you need water? Some snacks, maybe?"

He shakes his head and simply reaches for your waist.

"I just need you," he grumbles, pulling you down to him.

When your body is flush against his, head underneath his chin and legs intertwined, he sighs in relief and a ghost of a smile makes its way to his face. For the first time in two days, the silence is peaceful, and not a stark reminder of who is not here with you, of who cannot stay by your side all the time.

You press your face closer to his neck and listen to his heartbeat

~ FIVE:

It's almost ridiculous how the universe goes out of its way to spite you.

While you sat pretty and patient outside the Okheman Archives Museum, waiting for your artifact-enthusiast of a boyfriend to show up, your excitement for the date was stomped out before it could even begin. Especially after how hard you tried to get tickets to this highly rated 'Amphorean History in Ceramics' exhibition, which you would have never attended if it weren't for him and his passion in appraisal.

You even put more consideration into your work outfit today so it'd be gallery-appropriate, and you had been looking forward to this tradition of sorts for the whole day… only for a call from the man himself to dimish it.

"Don't cook tonight, okay baby?" He yells over the phone, wind whipping through the speakers. "I'll be home before dinner, we can get takeout- your favourite, and watch that movie you've been meaning to see, okay?"

"Okay."

"Sunshine… what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong, Phai, just-" you pinch your nosebridge and swing your bag over your shoulder. "Be safe out there."

"You know I will. I gotta go now, I love you."

"Bye."

"Wait, you can't leave without saying-"

You disconnect the call and shut off your phone… though not without a follow-up message.

You: i love you

Tucking the device into your bag, you begin the trip back home with the setting Okheman sun beaming into your eyes, and the wind blowing hair out of your face quite violently; just what you need after your superhero of a boyfriend cancels on you for the nth time.

When you found out about Phainon and Khaslana being one person, you were understanding and accomodating at first, and obviously freaked out that the nerdy, innocent-looking, puppy of a man you called your boyfriend had the ability to move planets. Despite how surreal it was, you knew what you were staying for. Missing nights, waking up to him not being there in the morning, sudden calls- none of these were foreign nor out of your expectations.

You kick a stray pebble in the road with a little too much force, and wonder if you were being too childish.

Can you even justify being upset with him when lives were at stake?

But how can you be second to the whole world in your own relationship?

Phainon barges through the front door at 8:30pm with bags of takeout, dumped haplessly on the kitchen counter in favour of clinging to you, wailing, acting nothing like his stoic, superhero counterpart.

"Don't ever hang up without saying 'I love you' back!" He whines loudly, rocking you back and forth in his arms while you took the food out from their containers. "A message won't suffice, and I don't care if you're upset at me, you have to say it every time, or I'll call you until you pick up!"

"And if I don't?"

"I'll call you over and over again, until it's your voice I hear and not your voicemail that tricks me every time."

"Won't the other heirs get mad at you if you pull that stunt? Especially Lady Aglaea?" The white-haired falls silent.

A quick raise of your eyebrow declares victory, but he's not satisfied at all, so he tugs you into his chest, keeping you there while demanding him to stop suffocating you in his pecs. It wasn't until he made you promise him that you'd never hang up on him again without an 'I love you' that you were finally set free from his iron grip, gasping for air.

Immediately, he's by your side again, big, blue eyes shining down at you. "Can you say you love me?"

"Right now?"

"Well, in my humble opinion, you should always love me."

Good grief. You roll your eyes and grab a plate. Unfortunately for you, he is the man that has your heart in a merciless headlock.

"I love you, Phainon."

~ SIX:

The Titans were testing the bounds of your strength.

After all this pent-up frustration that had nowhere to go, who knew that disaster striking in your own home city would become the be-all-end-all?

The day began with a long stroll to start the morning when all of a sudden, a bang to your right was heard, followed by the crumbling sound of concrete. Phainon had shielded you immediately, tugging you into the safety of his chest until it all went quiet.

Chaos erupted a split second after.

Cars beeping, people screaming, pushing others on the pavement, all running away from the settling debris and smoke that drifted into the clear Okheman skies. Your own heart began racing, but through it all, you could still make out the sound of Phainon's watch urgently beeping.

With the disaster right before him, you wondered why he wasn't making an immediate break for it.

Until you realised it was you he still tethered to, hands on either side of your shoulders, trying to guide you to safety by urging you to follow him. What on Amphoreus was he doing?

"Phainon! Stop worrying about me!" You exclaim, prying his hands off you. "Go! Go now!"

"But I need to make sure you're safe!" He insists.

"I'm fine, but there are people who aren't. They need you!"

"I also need to be with you!"

"How are we having this conversation right now- go!"

His eyebrows furrow even deeper, "at least let me escort you out of the block. The other Heirs can manage without me, c'mon."

"No, Phainon!" You shriek, heart dropping to your feet when you see a civillian free-falling from the top of the high-rise; mere seconds away from a gruesome end while everyone's beloved superhero was still standing in front of you as stubborn as a mule.

Khaslana wouldn't get to him in time, even with his inhumane abilities, it was a losing fight, and you could possibly be the reason someone's life couldn't get saved in time-

A flash of glowing red catches the victim, snatching him from the air. Following suit, a trio of superheroes on a rocket, soaring through the sky and destroying larger pieces of debris.

You heave a sigh of relief, thanking Mydeimos, Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon mentally.

"Deliverer!" Mydei bellows, his roar echoing through the streets and effortlessly reaching where you and the man he was calling for stood.

Finally, finally, Phainon makes a move in the right direction, turning around with a sour expression on his face.

"Go," you push at his back. "Go!"

When you get home, you slump against the door and sink, exhausted. The security guard downstairs asked about your safety before informing you that the Chrysos Heirs already subdued most of the chaos, now left to chase down the organisation that started this.

'Thanks to them, we sleep better at night' he cheered with a dip of his hat before the elevator doors closed.

Your throat is still sore from how hard you had to yell at Phainon. The itch at the back of your throat persists, forcing you to think back to how unmoving Phainon was. Even while within distance of the incident, it took a fearsome cry from Mydei to finally get Khaslana moving.

Has this… ever happened before? Have you ever been the reason Khaslana was too late to save someone?

All the times his watch buzzed yet he didn't move a muscle, eyes shining so brightly with guilt as they bore into you as if you were the one physically affected, like the time after the café visit, at your anniversary dinners, just then- you slam your empty cup into the sink.

Are you hindering his duties?

Khaslana enters your apartment through Tribbie's Infinity Gate.

The portal whooshing open in the middle of your living room, and out from the frame, steps the magnificent hero; a melting pot of gold, divinity, and terror. To you, he is none of those things; you look at him and see the love of your life who reserves his softest of smiles for you.

He hovers his way over to you.

"You okay? Not hurt anywhere?"

You shake your head. "What about you? How did the mission go?"

"Good. Fast."

"Phai, you know I love you, right?"

"Of course I do, sunshine."

You bite your lower lip and cast your gaze down at your lap, a whirlwind of emotions swirling behind your eyes. His clawed hand gently prompts you to look at him, sharp fingers curled around your cheek, your smooth skin a humane contrast to the ragged edges that make Khaslana Khaslana.

Khaslana isn't exactly human- no, he's half-beast and half-demigod, but still, his heart aches at how sad you seem.

"Baby," he croaks, "what's wrong?"

"Do you think it's better if we parted ways?" You ask meekly.

He freezes, silence stretching tensibly. For one moment.

Two.

Three.

He scrambles to his knees, bones hitting the floor with a dull thud as his hands cling to your thighs. "Y/n, if this is a joke then it's not funny. Is this how you're punishing me? You know I'm-"

"It's not a joke."

He makes a sound akin to a wounded animal, superhero form crowding the space around the coffee table as his wings flutter wildly; a mirror of his frantic emotions, the ones he can't show as the stone-faced Khaslana. The grip he has on your thigh is very telling, the way he digs into your skin like an anchor onto a seabed.

"Why?"

"With the most recent call, the casualties that were just narrowly avoided…" you inhale deeply before exhaling shakily. "It's best that I don't interfere with what you do, maybe… there's just no space where we can work on top of your duties."

"Don't say that," he pleads, "you couldn't be more wrong, don't say things like that."

"It's true though."

"It's not, I need you. I don't care if there's no 'space' for us, I'll carve it out, I'll make it happen, I'll do anything as long as you're here with me."

"It's not just that, though. I-" you falter, tearing your gaze away to look past him. "I overestimated how strong I am, but all the time I've spent worrying over you has worn me down. I don't know how much longer I can go wondering if you're okay or not, this isn't healthy."

"Y/n," he whispers your name like it's sacred, "please tell me you don't mean that, please."

"I do mean it. I love you, but this is killing me slowly."

"Then- then I'll fix it, I'll do anything, just wait a little longer, please. I'll talk to the other heirs, they'll understand! Especially Teacher Tribios and Lady Aglaea, they'll find a solution-"

Your fingers curl around his. "There's no permanent fix, Phai. I'll just always be here, anxiously waiting to find out if you're still breathing or not, but Amphoreus needs you. These two things will never change, you can't fix one to save the other."

"So you're already giving up without giving me a chance?"

"I can't love both Phainon and Khaslana."

You're not happy with him.

He's heaving at this point, hands shaking where they hold onto you so tight, doubling over his own hiccups and sobs as his heart breaks at the idea of you not being in his life. Of not making coffee the exact way you like it. Of not turning off a light that you leave on so he doesn't have to stumble through the darkness when he comes home at awful hours of the night. Of not coming home to you after a successful mission, of never having his safe haven and comfort place again.

Your absence, an emptiness he'd have to shoulder for the rest of his life, grieving over what he could have done to stop you from leaving.

That's not acceptable to him. He doesn't want that reality.

"Please," Khaslana begs into your skin, head pressed into your lap like a beggar. "Stay with me. You're the one that matters to me most. I can't do this if you're not here."

"I'm making it easier for the both of us."

"You're being stubborn. You think losing you makes things easier for me? No way," he shakes his head aggressively, "not in this lifetime, or any other."

"But you're a hero. Everyone loves you."

"I don't care what I am to everyone else, I care about being yourhero."

"You are my hero, Phai, but- but maybe it's better to be one at arms length."

He jolts up, blazing eyes holding your gaze. "No, never at arms length, please. Not with you. I'll do anything."

Suddenly, his weapon manifests from glowing light. A smaller version of the claymore he iconically wields, but it still holds the ability to slice through Amphoreus' crust with little effort… and he holds it dangerously close to his right wing.

"W-What are you doing?" you ask anxiously.

"If it wasn't for Khaslana, would you stay with me?"

"I'm not asking you to choose between Phainon or Khaslana, please, put your sword away!"

"You're asking me to choose between Khaslana or you, and if Khaslana is the problem" his golden eyes darken, "then I'd kill him without hesitation."

Your breath hitches when he raises the weapon above his head. One swing and it'd slice the feathers smooth off.

Frantically, you encase his warm fist with your colder hands, a pathetic attempt at stopping him that he obeys nonetheless, keeping his hand raised and frozen while staring up at you, at your mercy.

As if you had the strength to overpower him.

"Phainon, stop, don't do this."

"I'm going to lose you otherwise," he whispers.

"Don't dismember yourself for me!"

"Then how else will you stay?"

"But Khaslana is your-"

"I don't care," he hisses, his fury beginning to bubble, threatening to spill over. It's not directed at you though, Titans, it could never be because of you. "If Khaslana is the reason you want to leave me, I'll destroy him."

"Don't do that!"

"What other choice do I have?"

You bite your lip. "I won't go. I'll stay."

His wings flutter. "Really?"

"Really."

"But what about your-"

"I'll stay, Phainon."

The sword in his hand disappears and he all but collapses on you, torso thrown over your thighs as he sobs, the ache of almost losing you slowly dissipating as you play with his hair.

Every coax of your hand running along his back has him slowly transforming back into his regular form; wings shrinking back, hair turning back into a brilliant shade of white, the blues returning to his eyes only emphasising his sadness as he looks at you like you're the most precious thing he has.

"Never leave me," he whispers, voice raw while rubbing circles on your calf. "Please, I could never survive that heartbreak."

You don't say anything, just let him cry while slowly watching him turn back into the Phainon you know; the man that is yours and yours alone, but is draining your will to have.

His now-human hands wrap around your wrist tightly, bringing it up to his face as he desperately nuzzles into your palm, clinging onto whatever warmth you will spare. "Tell me you love me."

"I love you."

He chokes over his own sobs, tears falling onto your skin as your thumb collects some of the crystals, but his cries only worsen when you bring your other hand up to his cheek as well, cradling his face as Phainon holds onto your wrists with a vice grip, terrified you might slip away.

You:where are you!! >:( You: don't tell me you got swept away by another mission

You huff at your phone, obviously displeased as you shove the device into your pocket with more aggression than necessary. The nerve of this man! What happened to being punctual?

He has the tickets, after all, if he doesn't show up (again), you wouldn't even be able to get in!

"There you are!" You jump out of your seat and take long strides toward your white-haired boyfriend, arms crossed and eyebrows slightly furrowed, beyond hiding your annoyance. He's breathing heavily, and sweat coagulates at his hairline, covering his forehead in a slight sheen.

"Ow, ow, ow!" He yelps when your fingers pinch his ear. "I got really caught up at the bank, they were being so slow! Mercy on me, sunshine, please!"

You sigh, letting him go. "Alright."

Phainon smiles softly when you let him wrap an arm around your waist, bringing you flush to his side. "I'm sorry, are you mad at me?"

"It's fine. I was just afraid you wouldn't show up… again."

"I wouldn't miss this for the world."

"Don't say that. Remember what I said about false hope?"

"Sunshine," he frowns, that familiar ache in his chest persisting when you refused to even glance up at him. "Y/n, you know that I-"

"It's fine, Phai."

He would honestly rather you just stab him, a wound from Dawnmaker would be easier to mend compared to all the metaphorical ones you've been throwing at his heart recently.

You grab his hand, wrapping your fingers tightly around his. "C'mon, lets not waste any more time standing around."

Inside the museum, you keenly listen to every fact Phainon conjures as he points at random artifacts, humming deep in thought as he reads the engraved plaques near them. Even as you pass by exhibition after exhibition, he keeps spewing facts that even tour guides spontaneously join in and begin discussing with him.

All the while, you hold onto his arm tightly, nodding and humming thoughtfully with not much else to contribute, just thankful to finally spend time with him.

Phainon's just grateful you haven't ran away yet, putting extra effort into making sure you're entertained and not bored by some historic relics that you only came to see because of him. He had to do some of his own research beforehand, scrolling endlessly through wikipages, his poor teleslate beginning to overheat with how many tabs he had open.

But… anything for you, he surmises.

Every so often, his fingers ghost over the pocket of his trench coat, making sure that the ring is still there.

Truthfully, he hadn't gone to the bank, he went to the finest jeweller in town (per Aglaea's recommendation) and spent hours inside, navigating through dozens of rings just to find the one for you, and it had to be no less than perfect.

To say he got a little caught up was an understatement. By the time the velvet box was in his hands, he realised he only had fifteen minutes to dash halfway across downtown.

Could you really blame a man in love for trying? Especially after a recent scare, and how close he was to losing you, he was not going to repeat that mistake. The world may love Khaslana, but Khaslana loves only you, and Phainon will happily devote the rest of his life proving it to you.

© EARTHTOOZ 2025, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site, do not feed to AI.

[harmonysanreads]

Silly things Phainon does when he's bored/wants your attention.

Places one pancake under your chin, another on top of your head and declares that he's going to “eat this stack of honeycakes in one bite”.

Plops down beside you belly up and keeps on dramatically sighing.

Calls out your name, when you acknowledge him, he goes quiet, when you return to whatever you were doing he calls out your name again with more urgency ; repeat until you stomp towards him.

Picks you up, shakes you like a salt shaker, sets you down somewhere with a cushion, goes away like nothing happened.

Makes you wear all the antique jewelry in his collection and eventually, makes a barricade around you with everything else he owns, too. Then says, “This is the culmination of my whole life's finances and yet, you remain the most invaluable.”

Pokes you.

Plays with your hair. He thinks he can pull off that one over-complicated hairstyle he saw online.

Tells you jokes and puns.

Pretends to be your shadow and follows you around everywhere wordlessly. Whoever laughs first loses.

Rage-baits you with atrocious outfit suggestions so that you'll start debating with him.

Tells you that he knows a magic trick and detaches his ahoge (it was a fake one).

Calls you (you're literally just a wall apart) but, he's stealthily taken your phone with him. When you're close enough in search of it, he pounces.

Starts mentioning random facts about things.

Starts gossiping about the Council of Elders and that one annoying classmate he had.

Asks you questions like, “How do you think the fishes at Styxia taste?”

Tickles you.

Doodles his neck tattoo, little stars, leaves and flowers on your palm.

Talks about all the adventures he wants to do with you in the future.

Gently headbutts your arm, thigh and cheek to suggest that he demands pets.

Aggressively rubs his face on you when you still don't get/ignore the hint.

Can and will bite you.

Pretends to get hurt so that you'll pay attention to him.

Wrestles titankin, stacks them on top of each other and proudly shows off his ‘hunt’ to you. Please praise him.

[harmonysanreads]

The concept of Phainon who just... lets you do whatever you want with him has me in a death grip.

Jumping on him from unspecified heights randomly? He somehow has the strange seventh sense to catch you in time. Doesn't even make a sound of displeasure.

Biting his cheeks instead of whatever food he was holding to your mouth? "You're so cute," is what he says with a chuckle.

When you nibble, bite, knead, squeeze and squish him for no reason? He can't stop smiling. Maybe you bit too hard and his skin is bleeding a little? He finds it hot.

When you start poking him out of boredom, he'll poke you right back. Within a few seconds, it'll escalate into a tickle fight.

Clinging to his arm or hanging to him like a monkey to a branch? He carries you around like you weigh nothing.

When instead of sitting down beside him or getting into bed normally, you jump on him? All he does is giggle.

And when you start aggressively ruffling his hair while asking him out-of-context questions like, "When you de-shell a snail, is it naked or is it homeless?" he genuinely engages in the conversation.

But brace yourself though, for when you finally tire yourself out, it'll be his turn to do whatever he wants with you.

[Phainon version]

[danijaci]

jumpscare aler!!!!!

[danijaci]

Hello! If its okay can I request a drawing with Diluc or Alhaitham who yearn to touch y/n and are looking for excuses to touch, hold them? maybe having y/n long haired too if you cool with that? Thank You ♥

lingering touches w/ diluc

[notesfromthemirror]

Hiii! Love how you write! Noticed Alhaitham on your favorite characters list but haven't seen any recent stories from you so I wanted to try my luck and see if you would be down to write for him.

So I'm thinking slow burn. She's a fellow scholar who works at the Akademiya and who has known Alhaitham for a while. They're friends but they like to banter. She's sassy and likes to flirt with him, not because she truly likes him but more because she finds it fun to bother/annoy him. And then one day, she teases: "I bet I can make you fall for me in 5 kisses." Obviously it's dumb but he accepts the dare out of pride. And obviously she is the one who falls for him in the process.

Thanks in advance! Can't wait to read more of your work hehe.

The Kiss Bet (Alhaitham x Reader)

Synopsis: You bet Alhaitham you could make him fall for you in five kisses. Somewhere between the first and the fifth, the experiment stops being theoretical.

A/N: Hi anon! :) Thank you so much for this request. I need to say this first: it completely took over my brain. What started as “oh this is such a fun idea” turned into me sitting in my writing cave for days, giggling, overthinking Alhaitham’s cadence, and accidentally writing… a lot. :D

It’s just so perfect for Alhaitham (banter, tension, slow burn?? I had no chance), and I genuinely had so much fun writing this, even if I was a little nervous about getting him right. I hope you enjoy. 💙

Tags: Fluff. Slow Burn. Female Reader. Friends to Lovers. Intellectual Equals. Banter. Academic Flirting. Tension. Mutual Pining. Kiss Bet. Intellectual Intimacy. Confession. Getting Together. Alhaitham Being Alhaitham.

Word count: 14320

⋆ ✦ ⋆

You don’t remember when exactly it started.

That’s the part that bothers you, in the quiet moments when you let it. There was no clean beginning. No single conversation you could point to and say there, that’s the one.

It happened in pieces.

In the margins of texts neither of you technically needed to share. In the particular way Alhaitham looked up from a book when you entered a room.

In the comfortable rhythm of arguments you both knew neither of you would concede, because you were always, at bottom, arguing from different premises.

That was the problem, and it had been the problem since the beginning.

The beginning being: a research wall, a primary source in a historical script that your translation references couldn’t fully resolve, and the extremely irritating reality that the person best equipped to help you was a Haravatat scholar who had made it quietly known that he didn’t particularly enjoy being interrupted.

You’d interrupted him anyway.

He’d looked up from his work and said: “The translation is the problem. That edition has been corrupted since the second printing. I’d have thought a Vahumana researcher would verify her sources before building an argument on them.”

You’d stared at him. “And I’d have thought a Haravatat scholar might manage a sentence without condescension, but here we are.”

Something had shifted in his expression then. Barely perceptible, the way a window changes when light hits it from a slightly different angle. Not quite surprise. Something more like: interest.

He’d helped you anyway. Correctly, thoroughly, and with a running commentary on the methodological differences between approaching history as causation versus approaching it as text that you’d argued with for the entire hour and only conceded three days later, privately, because he’d been mostly right.

Which was how it started.

Which was, if you were honest, how it kept going.

How it’s still going.

Your banter with Alhaitham keeps your mind sharp. You enjoy how talking to him stirs you intellectually, and he, as it seems, finds you worth engaging with.

At least, he keeps engaging with questions you throw at him, both rapid-fire ones and the ones you find philosophically interesting. But you also fight. A lot.

The worst argument you’d ever had with him—and you’d had several worth ranking—had been in your first year, in the House of Daena, when he’d said with complete calm that knowledge was not the goal of humankind, and you’d put down your book and stared at him and asked: “then what exactly are we doing here?”

He’d looked at you with that expression that meant he was deciding whether you were worth the explanation.

Apparently you were.

He’d said that truth exists regardless of whether anyone finds it. It isn’t waiting to be claimed. Pursuing it as though it’s a destination, as though acquiring enough of it makes you something. That many researchers were using knowledge as a mirror to admire themselves in.

You’d argued with him for an hour.

And then, three days later, admitted that he was right about most of it—with the amendment that you weren’t accumulating knowledge to possess it. You were asking questions about things that had been smoothed over and taken for granted. You were pulling at threads that other people had decided were settled. That was different.

He’d been quiet for a moment.

Then he’d said: “Yes. It is.”

It was, you think now, probably when he started paying attention.

He comments on your work, sometimes. Not just the snide commentary he would give anyone else, although he does that too, but also remarks that make you think.

Your research sits, officially, in the intersection of Vahumana’s historical sociology and the question of knowledge transmission. How it moves, how it changes, how it survives or doesn’t across centuries and collapses and silences.

Unofficially, it has a more specific center of gravity: the desert, and its long memory, and the particular question of what Nabu Malikata knew that no one thought to write down.

Your uncle, who had lived his whole life among the Eremites and died knowing more about the old tribes than any Akademiya researcher, would have found that funny.

You find it clarifying.

It also means you keep needing Haravatat scholars for their language skills. Specifically, you keep consulting this one. Which is either a feature of your research interests or a convenient excuse, and you have never looked closely enough at the distinction to find out.

Three years later, and you still come to the same table in the House of Daena.

You tell yourself it’s because the light in this section is good for reading.

That it has nothing to do with the fact that Alhaitham’s usually here, in the same chair, with the same quality of focused stillness that you have spent… not a lot of time thinking about.

A normal amount of time. The amount of time anyone would spend thinking about a colleague who is occasionally useful and consistently irritating.

You settle into a chair and open your book.

Alhaitham doesn’t look up.

You read two pages. Then, because the afternoon is slow and it is quiet and you are, at your core, constitutionally incapable of leaving a wall un-pressed—

“You’ve had that same page open for eleven minutes.”

He turns it without looking at you. “I was thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing that requires your input.”

“Ouch.” You rest your chin in your hand, watching him with the particular attention you’ve always given him. The kind you tell yourself is just habit, just the natural result of having argued with someone long enough that reading them becomes automatic.

“You know, most people consider it polite to at least acknowledge when someone sits down.”

“Most people sit down somewhere else.”

“Most people aren’t me.”

“I’m aware.” He still hasn’t looked up. “That’s not the compliment you seem to think it is.”

You smile. You can’t quite help it.

“Tell me something,” you say, leaning forward slightly, dropping your voice to the register you’ve found, through trial and error, tends to produce the most interesting reactions in him. Warm, a little conspiratorial, the verbal equivalent of standing slightly too close.

“Do you actually enjoy being difficult, or does it just come naturally?”

Alhaitham looks up then.

His gaze moves to you with the unhurried quality it always has and then stays. The lamplight falls across his features and you think, briefly and without doing anything about it: he really is—

You don’t finish the thought. You never do.

“Both,” he says. “Equally load-bearing.”

And then he goes back to his book.

You sit back.

There is a warmth in your chest that you file, without examining it, under the satisfaction of a good volley. That’s all it is. You’ve always liked the back-and-forth with him, the specific intellectual friction of someone who won’t let anything through unchallenged.

It’s stimulating.

It’s interesting.

It doesn’t mean anything.

(It means something.)

You open your book.

You read another page, but your gaze keeps drifting to him.

“You’re staring again,” Alhaitham says, without looking up.

“I’m thinking.”

“That would be a first.”

“I liked you better when you didn’t talk.”

“You didn’t like me then either.”

You finally look up fully—and find him already watching you, which means he was watching you before he said it, which means the you’re staring again was, in its own way, something else. You file this without examining it too closely.

He’s seated across from you, posture unhurried in that particular way of his. One arm resting along the back of the chair, the other holding a book open in his lap.

His eyes are already on you, steady and completely unbothered.

He is, objectively, difficult to look at for too long.

Not because it’s unpleasant. The opposite problem, if anything.

You’ve trained yourself not to think about that.

“You’re not even reading,” you say.

“I finished three pages ago.”

“And now?”

“I’m watching you struggle with a paragraph you’ve reread six times.”

You close your book with a quiet snap. Then, because you’ve been meaning to say it and this seems as good a moment as any: “You know, I’ve been thinking about something.”

“A departure from your usual process.”

“About you and books specifically.”

Alhaitham tilts his head.

“You always have one,” you say. “I’ve rarely seen you without one. Even when you’re not reading it, it’s there.” You gesture at the one in his lap. “I used to think it was affectation. Scholarly costuming. You know how the older researchers do it—the book as prop.”

“I know,” Alhaitham says. “It isn’t.”

“I know it isn’t. That's what I’ve been thinking about.” You lean forward slightly. “You actually read them. Properly. The old-fashioned way, with your eyes and time and—”

“That is how reading works.”

“You know what I mean.” You look at him. “Most researchers grew up on the Akasha system. They didn’t really need books, so they didn’t use them. And now they are getting accustomed to them. They see them as an instrument. It’s different. With you it's different.”

He looks at the book in his lap for a moment, then back at you.

“The Akasha provided answers,” he says. “Books provide the conditions under which you learn to question the answers.” His tone is even, but there’s something underneath it that isn’t quite evenness. Something more considered. “Most people find that distinction irritating. They’d prefer the answer.”

“And you prefer the question.”

“I prefer having earned the capacity to recognize when an answer is wrong.” He pauses. “The Akasha couldn’t give you that. It could give you information. What you did with it was always going to depend on what you’d built before you put the headset on.”

You look at him.

You have known, in a general way, that his relationship with books is not the same as other people’s. You hadn't known it was that specific.

“Someone told you that,” you say. Not quite a question.

He glances at you. “My grandmother.”

“Ah.” You’ve heard her mentioned before. Not often, not in detail, but enough to know she’s the one he refers to when he refers to anything from before the Akademiya, which is rarely. “She sounds like she was remarkable.”

“She was practical,” Alhaitham says. “Which, in Sumeru, amounts to the same thing.”

He picks the book back up.

You look at your own, and think about the Nabu Malikata texts, and the way knowledge moves through people before it moves through archives, and say nothing.

But you think: that’s it. That’s the whole difference between him and every other scholar in this building.

You lean back, studying him openly now. Three years and he still does this. Makes you feel like a problem he’s half-solved and finds mildly diverting. You’ve never decided whether it’s irritating or not. You’ve leaned both ways on different days.

Today the light is hitting him a particular way and you’re leaning toward not.

“Do you ever get tired,” you ask, “of being right all the time?”

“No.”

“…that was immediate.”

“There’s no benefit in hesitation when the answer is obvious.” The faintest tilt of his head. “You’re welcome to test the theory.”

Oh, but I have been, you think, and don’t say. And then notice, a beat later, that you thought it, and feel the warmth in your chest again and call it something other than what it is.

You narrow your eyes at him instead.

He meets your gaze without flinching. Something in you rises to meet it. The same thing that always does, the thing you have never looked at directly because it is easier to call it competitive instinct, intellectual friction, the natural response to someone who challenges you.

A slow smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.

Alright, you think. Let’s see.

“I bet,” you say, voice easy, almost offhand, “I can make you fall for me in five kisses.”

Alhaitham closes his book and sets it down. “On what basis?”

You blink. “…what?”

“Your claim. What variables are you accounting for?”

You stare at him for a long moment. Then you laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m asking for clarification.”

“It’s a bet, not a research proposal.”

“All the more reason to define the parameters.” He tilts his head slightly. “You of all people should know that.”

“And there it is.” You point at him. “That. That specific tone. That is why I—” you stop.

He waits.

“—that is why this bet exists,” you finish, smoothly.

Your fingers find the bracelet at your wrist. A thin cord, worn soft with age, threaded with a small copper bead that had belonged to your uncle. A habit you’ve had for so long you stopped noticing it somewhere around your second year at the Akademiya.

Alhaitham’s gaze drops to your hand for a fraction of a second, then back to your face.

Something moves in his expression that you don’t examine.

“Fine,” you say. “Five kisses. No manipulation, no engineered circumstances. If I win, you admit—out loud, in words—that I was right.”

“That’s a low-value prize.”

“For you it’s enormous and we both know it.”

Alhaitham doesn’t deny it. “And if you fail,” he says, “you answer one question. Honestly. Completely. No deflection.”

“Any subject?” you ask.

“Any subject.”

“Fine.” You lean forward. “Accept the bet.”

He watches you. “Very well,” he says.

“That was easy.”

“I’m curious whether your confidence is structural or simply habitual.”

“Both,” you say. “Equally load-bearing.”

His mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. The closest he gets. “We’ll see,” he says.

He picks his book back up.

You smile at the table. I’m going to win this, you think.

— ✦ —

You don’t think about the bet that evening.

You think about it a little.

You think about it the way you think about a move in a game you’re confident you’re winning: with the particular comfortable anticipation of someone who has already calculated the outcome and found it favorable.

Five kisses. A man who runs on logic and routine and the deliberate avoidance of unnecessary complication. How hard could it be.

You fall asleep thinking about how hard it could not be.

You wake up thinking about his expression when you’d said it. That almost-imperceptible recalibration. I’m curious. The way he’d said it like he was noting a change in weather conditions.

He said he was curious. Not uninterested. Curious.

You think about this for approximately three minutes before deciding you’re going to go buy coffee and not think about it anymore.

You prefer going to the Akademiya early, and despite him complaining about morning hours often, you know Alhaitham feels the same. Less people, less conversation that only serves social protocol, according to him.

In passing you wonder why he never stops talking to you in the mornings despite his sharp commentary every single time.

Treasures Street in the morning is different from the surroundings you work in. The stalls are still setting up, their proprietors arranging goods with the unhurried efficiency of people who have done this every day for years.

The air smells like bread and spice and the particular green-damp smell that Sumeru never quite loses.

You have your coffee. You’re not thinking about the bet. You are thinking about the Nabu Malikata source text you want to request from the library today and whether it will be a borrowing queue problem and whether—

“You went to the wrong place.”

You stop walking.

Alhaitham falls into step beside you with the composure of a man who was simply already here and happens to be going the same direction, and not the composure of a man who came looking for you.

You’ve learned to read the difference. You are approximately sixty percent sure there is one.

“Good morning to you too,” you say.

He glances at your cup briefly. “There's a place near the city outskirts that uses beans from other farms. Different cultivation altogether. Better elevation, more consistent roast.”

“I’ve been going to Puspa Café for years. I didn’t know of other places that sell a wider coffee variety.”

“I’m aware.”

“…and you’re telling me this now?”

“You seemed satisfied with it.”

“I was satisfied with it.” You look at your coffee, then at him. “Now I’m going to think about this every time.”

“Better information produces better outcomes.”

“Better information,” you say, “produces the specific irritation of knowing you could have had something better and didn’t. That’s not always an improvement.”

Alhaitham considers this.

“Philosophically,” he says, “that sounds like an argument a Vahumana researcher would make.”

“Well, I am one.”

“I know.”

You huff. But you fall into step beside him anyway, the way you always do on this walk when you happen to be going the same direction, which happens often enough that you’ve stopped considering it coincidence.

The path up toward the Akademiya rises ahead of you, the Divine Tree as the everlasting foundation, the plaza opening out as you climb.

It’s quieter up here at this hour.

The early scholars are already inside, the late ones haven’t arrived yet.

Just the wind through the leaves and the distant sound of the city below and the comfortable rhythm of two people who have walked this way enough times that they don’t need to talk about it.

“The Nabu Malikata sources,” you say, because you were thinking about it and because silence with Alhaitham has always felt like an invitation to think out loud.

“I found a reference in the secondary literature to a collection held in the library. Pre-catalogued, probably under the old classification system. I’m going to spend half the morning arguing with Katayoun about access.”

“Shelf marker seven-thirty-two, subsection four.” He doesn’t look over.

“It was re-catalogued two years ago. The librarians haven’t updated the reference index yet, apparently the Grand Conductor has some restructure plans with new collections coming in, but the materials are accessible under the new system. You won’t need to argue.”

You stop walking.

He takes two more steps before pausing and turning to look at you with the expression of a man who doesn’t understand why you’ve stopped.

“…how do you know that,” you say.

“There have been many new applications for library access. And I processed the re-cataloguing request. You seem to forget that I am the scribe.”

“That was two years ago.”

“I have a good memory.”

“You remembered a specific shelf marker for a source collection in my research area from a cataloguing request you processed two years ago.”

“It’s not a particularly remarkable memory,” Alhaitham says. “I remember most things.”

“Most things,” you repeat.

“Most things worth remembering.”

The sentence does something to the air between you, lands with a weight that neither of you immediately addresses, like a book set down too carefully on a table.

You look at him, standing in the early light on the path up to the Akademiya, his gray hair catching it, his coat the same color as the tree.

You think, not for the first time and with the usual lack of useful conclusions: he really does fit here.

Not in the way most people fit places. Not just because he belongs, but because Sumeru has this quality of ancient unhurried certainty and so does he, and sometimes standing next to him is like standing next to something unshakable.

You say none of this. Instead: “The scribe thing is useful.”

“I’ve been the scribe for years.”

“I’m aware.” You start walking again. “I meant it’s useful to know in terms of future source access problems.”

“Mm.”

“You’re a resource, essentially.”

“I helped you before. And most people would phrase that differently.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” he says, and the word has a quality to it that you clock and don’t examine. “You’re not.”

“You know, I noticed that the researchers—,” you continue to keep your mind from overanalyzing this, “they still don't quite know what to do with the House of Daena. Now that the system’s down."

“They’ll adapt. Or they won’t, and they’ll produce diminishing work, and the Akademiya will notice eventually.”

“That’s a very calm view of a significant institutional disruption.”

“The institution disrupted itself,” he says. “The library was always there. The knowledge was always there. The Akasha was convenient. Convenience isn’t the same as substance.”

You glance at him. “You sound like you’re not sorry it’s gone.”

“I’m not.” Alhaitham says it without apology. “It made people comfortable with receiving.”

“You always say that,” you say. “I keep disagreeing. Those aren’t the same thing. Usually, you don’t bother repeating things at some point.”

The almost-smile again, brief, at the edge of his expression. “That’s because you’re not foolish,” he says. “You adjust your position when presented with new information. Repetition isn’t wasted effort in that case.”

He holds your gaze a moment.

“Most people don’t,” he adds. “They receive information, but they don’t engage with it.”

You study him. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“The thing where you make knowledge sound like a personal failing.”

“I’m making the pursuit of knowledge as self-aggrandizement sound like a personal failing,” he says. “The distinction matters.”

He looks away first.

“There’s a difference between receiving knowledge and building the capacity to use it. To engage with it. The Akasha was very good at the former.”

“And you think the latter matters more.”

“I think without the latter, the former is just storage.” He pauses. “Most scholars in the Akademiya are excellent storage systems. They can retrieve information with impressive speed. They’re considerably less reliable when the information doesn’t exist yet, or when the existing information is wrong.”

“Your grandmother,” you say.

He glances at you.

“She taught you that,” you say. “Didn’t she? Not the Akademiya.”

“She gave me books before I could understand most of them,” he says. “She said a sharp mind would find what it needed and discard the rest.” Something in his voice shifts. “She was right about most things.”

You walk for a moment without talking.

“She sounds like someone who understood that wisdom and knowledge aren’t the same thing,” you say finally.

“She’d have found that distinction obvious,” he says. “She’d have been right to.”

You think about your uncle, who’d never had access to a single Akademiya text in his life and had known more about the old desert peoples than most of the researchers who’d written papers on them.

Who’d carried knowledge in his hands, in his feet, in the way he could read the landscape. Who’d given you a copper bead on a cord and said: don’t forget where you come from when you go somewhere impressive.

“We got to the same place,” you say, “from very different directions.”

He looks at you.

“You and I,” you say. “You came to it because it was always around you. Books, scholars, the Akademiya always visible at the end of the street. And I came to it because—” you touch the bracelet briefly, “—someone who’d never been here made me curious about what it contained.”

“Your uncle,” Alhaitham says.

“My uncle,” you agree.

It’s not a question because he knows this. You’ve told him, in pieces, over three years. He has, in the way he has, put it together.

“He would have been a better scholar than most of the people in that building," Alhaitham says, nodding toward the Akademiya ahead, “by any meaningful definition of the term."

It lands somewhere warm and unexpected.

“…thank you,” you say, quietly.

“I’m being precise,” he says.

“I know.” You look at the path ahead. “That’s why it counts.”

You reach the upper plaza just as the morning opens fully, the light going from gold to white, the city spreading out below the path, the Akademiya rising ahead of you.

Up here, with the wind and the space and the whole of Sumeru laid out below, it has a quality of being slightly outside ordinary time. You’ve always liked this part of the day for that reason.

(You definitely don’t dwell on the fact that on many mornings it’s Alhaitham who accompanies you.)

You stop and look out.

After a moment, Alhaitham stops beside you.

It’s quiet for a while. Not the silence that needs filling, just the particular morning quiet of a city still deciding to begin.

“The bet,” he says.

You keep looking at the city. “What about it?”

“We didn’t establish a timeline.”

“I didn’t think we needed one.”

“Open timelines produce ambiguous results.”

“It’s a bet, not a—” you stop, and turn to look at him. He is looking at Sumeru, profile composed, entirely unbothered. “Did you think about this last night?”

“I considered the parameters.”

“You thought about it.”

“I considered the—”

“You thought about it last night,” you say, and you cannot entirely keep the satisfaction out of your voice.

Alhaitham glances over.

“I find loose variables worth resolving,” he says. “It’s a methodological preference. It has nothing to do with—”

“You thought about the kiss bet.” You let this sit for a moment. “You went home and you thought about it.”

“I went home and I noted that the parameters were insufficiently defined.”

“At length.”

“…for a reasonable amount of time.”

You smile. “Mm.”

“That expression,” he says, “is unwarranted.”

“It’s a proportionate response to available information.”

“The information doesn’t support the—”

“We could settle the timeline now,” you offer, pleasantly. “Since you’ve clearly been thinking about it.”

He is quiet for a moment.

“We could begin today,” he says. “If the conditions are suitable.”

You glance at him, and then, you notice that particular expression he gets when he’s said something deliberately and is waiting to see where it lands.

You look at him properly, the way you do when you want to see something.

He is, objectively, ridiculous.

The coat, the gold detailing, the gray hair in the morning light, the Divine Tree spreading behind him like he was placed there for compositional reasons.

Like Sumeru simply arranged itself around him and he noticed and found it neither surprising nor particularly interesting.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head, “you do fit the scenery. Has anyone told you that?”

Alhaitham blinks. The disruption to his composure is slight, but you catch it. You file it, because it is the closest thing to being caught off guard that he ever produces, and you have always found it disproportionately satisfying.

“That’s not relevant to—”

“Akademiya scholar, the Divine Tree, morning light.” You gesture at the general arrangement of him. “It’s almost annoyingly aesthetic. Someone should write a paper.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m observing. You’re the one who likes observation.”

“I said we could begin today,” Alhaitham says, with the tone of someone returning a conversation to its correct path. “The conditions are—”

“Not yet,” you say.

He looks at you.

“Not today,” you say. And then, because he’s still looking at you with that careful expression: “It’ll be better when I decide. You know that.”

Something moves at the very edge of his expression. Something that in anyone else you would call the leading edge of being charmed, and in him you have no word for because he would reject all the available ones.

“…then I’ll expect you to follow through,” he says.

“You always do.” You push off the wall and gather your things. “Come on. I need to argue with a librarian.”

“You won’t need to.”

“I’ll probably argue anyway.”

“I know,” Alhaitham says, which means: I’ll come with you.

He falls into step beside you.

You walk into the Akademiya together in the morning light, arguing about whether anticipating conflict constitutes causing it.

You do not think about the look on his face when you called him aesthetic and you do not think about the fact that he went home last night and considered the parameters.

You think about it the whole way there.

— ✦ —

You hadn’t expected him to find you the next afternoon.

That was your first mistake: thinking I’ll decide when meant anything to a man who, having identified a loose variable, would simply wait in the place you were most likely to appear and present his findings.

He’s leaning against a wall when you arrive. Arms folded. The posture of someone who was simply already here.

You hadn’t expected Alhaitham to take it seriously.

That was your second mistake.

“We should establish consistency,” he says, without preamble.

You slow to a stop. “I’m sorry?”

“Location. Duration. Timing.” He lists them without flourish. “If the conditions vary too much between instances, the results won’t be reliable. We’d be measuring confounding variables rather than the core premise.”

You stare at him. “You’re turning this into an experiment.”

“It already is one. I’m simply suggesting we control for external factors.”

“The external factor is you being insufferable.”

“A common mislabeling. I’m efficient.” He tilts his head slightly. “You initiated this. Do you want results or not?”

You regret everything.

You regret it at moderate intensity. Which is to say, not enough to take it back.

“Fine,” you sigh. “What do you suggest?”

He considers for a moment. You get the feeling he’d already considered it before he found you.

“Now is as good a starting point as any. We’re alone, interference is minimal.” His gaze is steady, watching you. “Unless you’d prefer to reschedule.”

“No,” you say, too quickly. “I don’t.”

Something shifts in his expression. Too subtle to name, there and gone before you can catch it.

“Then proceed.”

You hesitate.

This is the part where, under normal circumstances, you would say something clever. Deploy that particular easy confidence you’ve always had when it comes to him. The casual lean, the too-close step, the remark designed to land somewhere between a compliment and a needle.

You’ve done it before.

It’s always come naturally.

It doesn’t, now.

Because before, there were no stakes. Before, it was just entertainment. You pressing to see if the wall would give, knowing it wouldn’t, not particularly caring either way.

Now there are five. And he’s watching.

“You’re not going to make this easier,” you observe.

“You’re the one attempting to prove a hypothesis. I’m the test environment.”

“Test environments don’t usually watch you like that.”

“I’m simply paying attention.”

“It’s a lot of attention.”

“It’s the appropriate amount.” Alhaitham pauses. “Don’t overthink it.”

“You’re the reason I’m overthinking it.”

“That’s unlikely.”

You exhale, and then, before the second-guessing can solidify any further, you step into his space, reach up, and catch his collar lightly in your fingers.

Up close, the details of him become harder to dismiss: the faint lines of his features, the particular stillness of someone who’s never fidgeted in his life.

He smells like parchment and something green, like rain through woods.

You press your lips to his.

It’s brief, softer than you intended.

You pull back almost immediately.

“There,” you say.

Your voice comes out composed, completely unaffected.

Probably.

Alhaitham doesn’t move. He studies you. Not your lips, which would at least be something, but your face. Your expression. The slight unevenness in your breath that you’re working hard not to let show.

“…that’s it?” he asks.

“What do you mean, that’s it?”

“The duration was shorter than expected.”

You stare at him. “It was a kiss, not a timed trial.”

“It can be both.”

“You—” You stop. Compose yourself. “Well? Any effect?”

Alhaitham tilts his head. “No.”

Something happens in your chest. Something you categorize, immediately and firmly, as annoyance.

“Good,” you say. “That was the point.”

“Mm.”

Alhaitham doesn’t step back. He doesn’t create the distance you expected. He’s still standing close—closer than he usually stands for ordinary conversation—and you’re aware of it in a way that itches at the edges of your attention.

“Your pulse is elevated,” he adds.

You go still. “It is not.”

“It is. Slightly. In the carotid.” His gaze flicks briefly to your throat. “I noticed when you stepped closer.”

“That’s—” You search for the word. “Invasive.”

“Observational.”

“Not the same thing.”

“No,” he agrees mildly. “But both are accurate.”

You cross your arms. “You’re supposed to be the one affected.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t observing.”

“Observing isn’t the same as—”

“No. It isn’t.”

Alhaitham says it like a concession that isn’t one. Like he’s given you something that, on closer inspection, contains nothing at all.

“You hesitated,” he adds, after a moment.

Your stomach does something you ignore. “I didn’t.”

“You did. Approximately two seconds between the decision and the action.” He says it without judgment, which is almost worse. “It indicates uncertainty in your approach.”

“Or it indicates that I was being considerate of—”

“It indicates uncertainty.” He tilts his head slightly. “It won’t skew the results. But I’d expect it to decrease over time.”

“I hate you a little.”

“That’s within the expected range.”

He finally steps back, unhurried, as if nothing happened, as if the air between you is exactly the same temperature it was before.

It isn’t.

You know that. You’re fairly sure he knows it too.

You just don’t know yet what he’s planning to do with that information.

“…it won’t happen next time,” you mutter.

“I would expect improvement,” he says.

He picks his book back up off the shelf beside him. Which means he had it this whole time, which means he was here first, which means he planned this down to the location. He continues walking.

“Four remaining,” Alhaitham adds, without turning back.

You watch him go.

Your pulse is still elevated.

— ✦ —

The noise from inside Lambad’s Tavern is the particular kind of loud that only scholars get up to when they’re far enough from the Akademiya to forget they have reputations. Enthusiastic debates about topics that stopped mattering decades ago.

Someone has produced a blackboard. Another person is winning an argument by volume alone, which is the least scholarly possible method and apparently the most popular.

You last about an hour before you step outside.

The overlook is quiet in comparison. All of it muffled now, replaced by the low warm hum of Sumeru City at night. The air is cooler out here, carrying the green, rain-heavy scent that clings to this place like a second skin.

You lean against the railing and exhale.

“Too much?”

You glance sideways. Alhaitham has followed you out and is standing nearby with the particular quality of stillness that means he’s been here long enough to settle.

“A little.” You gesture vaguely back toward the noise. “Farhan has been wrong about the history of a regional conflict for thirty-five minutes. I was going to correct him and then I thought—why.”

“Because it wouldn’t change anything.”

“Because it never changes anything. He’ll be wrong again tomorrow.” You shake your head. “You didn’t stay.”

“I calculated the point at which the noise-to-information ratio became unfavorable.”

“And when was that?”

“Approximately two minutes after we arrived.”

You look at him. “…then why did you stay as long as you did?”

“You were still inside.”

It’s said without inflection. Without emphasis. Just a fact, offered the same way he offers all facts.

You process it for a moment and decide not to examine it too closely.

“How gracious,” you say. “Sacrificing your comfort for the sake of keeping an eye on me.”

“I wasn’t keeping an eye on you. I was simply not leaving before you did.”

“Those are the same thing.”

“They’re not.” Alhaitham glances over, briefly. “One implies surveillance. The other implies preference.”

“…right,” you say.

“Farhan will be wrong again next week,” Alhaitham says, after a moment. “Different topic, identical methodology. I’ve documented the pattern.”

“…you’ve documented it?”

“Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t bother with something like this, but he is a peculiar case. I’ve grown accustomed to it. Three years of data.”

You stare at him. “You keep a record of how often Farhan is wrong.”

“I keep a record of recurring methodological failures across Akademiya researchers.” A pause, perfectly timed. “Farhan has his own subsection.”

You laugh, and he doesn’t smile, exactly, but there is something in the quality of his attention that shifts, the way it does when he’s said something deliberately and it landed where he intended. Something pleased, tucked just beneath the surface.

You’ve learned to recognize that. It took two years.

You’re not sure what to do with the fact that making him almost-laugh has started to feel like an achievement worth repeating.

The silence between you has always been one of the more comfortable silences you’ve known: the kind shared by two people who’ve spent enough time together that the absence of words doesn’t require explanation.

You’ve known each other long enough that you’ve argued about everything from academic methodologies to whether certain sections of the Grand Bazaar have better acoustics in the morning than the afternoon.

Long enough that he once spent twenty minutes explaining a historical linguistic discrepancy to you in the middle of a corridor and neither of you noticed the time.

Long enough that standing on an overlook in the dark feels remarkably ordinary.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Alhaitham observes.

“I’m enjoying the lack of Farhan.”

“Mm.” A pause. “You’ve been quieter for several days.”

“Have I?”

“A decrease of approximately thirty percent in unnecessary remarks.”

“Those remarks serve important social functions.”

“So you’ve claimed.”

You think about the scholars inside Lambad’s Tavern, about how they always try to outsmart each other, showing off and celebrating themselves publicly.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You can attempt it.”

“Did you always know you’d end up here? The Akademiya.” You gesture vaguely at the general direction of the building. “For some people it’s all they ever wanted. The title, the position, the—”

“No,” Alhaitham says. “Superficially speaking, it was the natural course of action for me. But if we’re talking about personal motivation, it was simply the most logical proximity to what I wanted.”

“Which was?”

“The library.” A pause. “The books were already there.”

You look at him. “That’s it? You joined the most prestigious academic institution in Teyvat because it had a good library?”

“The House of Daena is an exceptional library.”

“Most people join for slightly more—”

“Ambitious reasons?” He looks at you briefly. “Yes. I’ve noticed.”

You laugh softly. “Meanwhile I came from the complete opposite direction. My uncle couldn’t have told you what a Darshan was. I applied because I wanted to understand something he couldn’t tell me. And that this was the only place with the right questions.” You shake your head.

“Mm.” He glances at you. “Your path was longer.” And then, after a beat so brief you almost miss it: “For what it’s worth: your starting conditions produced better instincts than most people who basically grew up inside these walls.”

You look at him.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all evening,” you tell him.

“It was an observation.”

“It keeps counting anyway.”

You glance sideways, smiling despite yourself. He’s looking at the horizon, profile calm in the lamplight. The earpieces catche the gold of the nearest lamp.

You’ve thought about his earpieces more than you’d like to admit.

“That reminds me,” you say. “I’ve been meaning to ask for help with something.”

“Have you?”

“Deshret Script. Or a variant of it. There’s a passage I can’t get to cooperate.” You glance over. “You can read it.”

“I do, yes.”

“Show off.”

“It’s simply accumulated study time.” He tilts his head slightly. “Most people choose not to invest it.”

“Or most people,” you say, stepping slightly closer and tilting your head up at him, “simply haven’t had the right teacher.”

“That,” Alhaitham says, with the mild tone he uses when he’s identified exactly what you’re doing, “is not a subtle approach.”

“I wasn’t being subtle. I was being direct.” You look at him, keeping your expression easy. “Well? You’re clearly better at this than I am. Maybe you should educate me.”

“You have access to the same texts I do.”

“And yet.”

“And yet you choose not to use them.”

“I choose,” you say, “to use better resources when they’re available.”

He looks at you then. That careful, full attention, the kind that always makes you feel slightly like a problem he’s deciding whether to solve.

“That,” he says after a moment, “is either a very efficient approach to scholarship or a very transparent one.”

“Can’t it be both?”

“Unlikely.” Another pause. “What’s the problem?”

“There’s a term that keeps appearing in different sections and my translation keeps coming out nonsense.”

He is quiet for a moment.

You wait for the dismissal. The mild disinclination. The look it up yourself delivered with complete lack of apology.

“Tell me the subject matter,” Alhaitham says instead, “and I’ll add it to my schedule.”

You blink. “…really.”

“I don’t make offers I don’t intend to follow through on.” He turns slightly toward you. “Wednesday. My office. 4 in the afternoon. Bring the text.”

You raise an eyebrow. It is common knowledge that Alhaitham doesn’t spend much time in his office. “Your office?” you hear yourself asking.

“It exists. I use it when necessary.”

You consider making a comment, pointing out that you, in his office on a Wednesday afternoon, hardly qualify as necessary, but decide against it.

“Well, that was easier than expected,” you say instead.

“You expected resistance.”

“I expected you.”

“Those aren’t the same thing.” Something moves at the edge of his expression. “I find translation problems worth my time. Most scholars get it wrong.”

“…are you saying I got it wrong?”

“I’m saying it’s likely.”

You look at him for a moment. Then you ask: “Has anyone ever told you that your compliments are structurally indistinguishable from insults?”

“Frequently. I find the distinction is usually the listener’s interpretation, not the speaker’s intent.”

“Enlightening.” You take a step closer. “I’m going to hold you to Wednesday.”

“I expect you to.” His eyes drop briefly, then return. “Your approach lacks consistency, by the way.”

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve been circling the second instance for the last ten minutes.” His tone is entirely conversational. “The earpieces, the closer steps, the— “ a pause— “tutorial request.”

Your face feels warm. You refuse to acknowledge it. “Those were all entirely genuine.”

“They were. That’s not what I said.”

“You said they lack consistency.”

“I said you’ve been circling.” Alhaitham tilts his head, a fraction. “If you intend to follow through on the bet, follow through.”

You stare at him.

“You are,” you say, “possibly the most insufferable person I’ve ever met.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I mean it more every time.”

“And yet,” he says, quiet, with that barely-there almost-expression, “you’re still here.”

That landing is unfair.

You look at him for a long, level moment.

Then you step closer, and your hand comes up to his jaw, deliberate now, fingers tracing along the edge of the earpiece before settling. His eyes track the movement, and you feel the slight shift of his attention sharpening.

You kiss him.

Smoother than the first. More intentional.

You let it settle before stepping back.

“Better?” you say.

Your voice comes out steadier than you deserve credit for.

Alhaitham watches you.

“…improved,” he says.

“That’s it?”

“Measurably.”

“Romantic.”

“I wasn’t attempting—”

“I know. You never are.” You laugh, soft, and feel it catch somewhere in your chest before you let it out. You turn back to the railing, looking out at Sumeru rather than at him. “Wednesday,” you say. “The translation.”

“Wednesday,” he agrees.

You can feel, without looking, that he’s moved slightly closer to the railing.

Not beside you. Not that.

Just nearer.

You look at the panorama and say nothing.

And he stays.

— ✦ —

You hadn’t planned this meeting.

That’s the problem.

The House of Daena is quieter at this hour. The crowds have thinned out, the usual hum of scholars and students replaced by a more deliberate stillness.

In this area of the library, where the older collections are shelved, it barely reaches at all.

You’d come looking for a specific text. You’ve found it, and two others you didn’t know you wanted.

You’ve been in this particular alcove for longer than you meant to be because the space in question is a useful one: out of the main reading room’s sightlines, cool, quiet, with a shelf at a convenient height for resting an open book while you compare passages.

You’re comparing passages when you hear footsteps that you recognize without looking.

“You’re not in the main area,” Alhaitham observes, appearing in the alcove.

“Observational.” You don’t look up. “Also correct.”

“The text you requested wasn’t shelved where it was catalogued.” He holds it up. A slim, cloth-bound volume that you’ve been needing for two weeks. “It was misshelved in the adjacent section. I saw your request in the queue.”

You look up then.

He’s standing under the arch, one hand braced lightly against the shelf, holding the book out with the particular ease of someone who went out of his way and sees no reason to make a production of it.

“…thank you,” you say, after a moment.

“The misshelving is a recurring issue.” He steps closer and extends the book to you. “I’ve submitted three formal complaints. The archivists continue to find creative new ways to disregard them.”

“The audacity.”

“Indeed.” He glances at what you’re reading over your shoulder, and you’re aware of how close that puts him. The alcove is narrow. There isn’t very much space. “You’re using an inaccurate translation.”

“It’s the one I had.”

“It’s the one that perpetuates the mistranslation of the specific terminology. The debate we were discussing—” He reaches past you, and his arm grazes yours, an incidental contact, reaching for the shelf and pulling a different volume. “This edition is more accurate. Here.”

“You just had that ready.”

“I know where things are shelved in this section.”

“You’ve built a mental catalog of the entire library.”

“I find it useful.” He opens his edition and finds the relevant passage with the economy of someone who’s been to this page before. “Here. Compare.”

You look at the passage. Then at the one you’d been working from.

“…those are not the same translation.”

“No. Your edition uses ‘observation’ where this one correctly uses ‘witness.’ The distinction is significant.”

“The distinction is substantial. That changes the entire argument.”

“Yes.” Alhaitham says it without I told you so in it, which is somehow more pointed than if he had. “It usually does.”

You close your book with a soft sound. In the quiet of the alcove, it’s loud.

You’re very aware, suddenly, of the particular quality of the light here. You’re aware of how little space there is. You’re aware of him.

You have, over the course of this bet, become extremely aware of him.

Which is… fine. That’s nothing new, you tell yourself, not entirely honestly. He’s always been—you’ve always known he was—

You glance over.

Alhaitham’s reading the passage again, or appearing to, book open in one hand, his expression doing that particular thing where it gives nothing away but suggests an enormous amount is happening behind it.

His profile in the light is… well. It’s not a new observation. The clean line of his jaw, the particular angle of his features, the gray of his hair catching what light there is. The earpieces. The bare line of his arm below the sleeve.

He is extraordinarily good-looking, and you have spent considerable energy not making that a problem.

It is, increasingly, a problem.

“Are you going to continue with the experiment,” Alhaitham says, without looking up, “or were you planning to do that for a while longer?”

Your face heats. “Do what.”

“Look at me like that.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.” He closes the book and turns to look at you. And there it is again: that quality of full attention, the kind that makes you feel found out in ways you haven’t consciously announced. “The third instance. Was that the intention for today?”

“It wasn’t planned.”

“It rarely is, with you.” Alhaitham tilts his head, just slightly. “That’s not a criticism.”

“It sounded like one.”

“It was an observation.” He holds your gaze. He’s very close, in this narrow space, in this amber-going-to-shadow light. “You could simply proceed.”

“You could stop watching me like you’re grading my methodology.”

“I could,” he agrees, “but then I might miss something significant.”

Something does something in your chest that you don’t have a clean name for. A warmth with edges to it.

“You are a lot to deal with,” you tell him.

“You’ve managed so far.”

“Barely.”

“Better than everyone else,” he says, and there’s something in the quietness of it that lands differently than its words. Better than everyone else. Just stated as a fact.

You look at him.

He looks back.

And the particular problem with Alhaitham is that he never reaches first. He doesn’t lean in, doesn’t press, doesn’t give you the easy signal you could meet halfway.

He simply is. Waiting with the patience of someone who has already thought several moves ahead and is content to let the board catch up.

Which means that you are always the one who moves.

Your fingers close around the bracelet first. A reflex, brief, the kind of thing you do when you’re about to do something you’re not certain about and need a second of ground beneath your feet.

His gaze tracks the movement.

He has, you realize, seen you do that before.

You drop your hand and step into his space, your hand going to the shelf behind him as you close the remaining distance.

He doesn’t move back. He never moves back.

You kiss him.

For one second it's what the previous ones were. Controlled, your hand at his collar, a defined beginning and a defined end.

And then his hand closes around your waist and pulls, and the breath goes out of you all at once, and the shelf meets your back, and there is no more geometry to it at all.

You kiss him like you mean it.

Because you do, and his mouth is warm and unhurried and certain in a way that short-circuits something in your chest.

You reach for him properly this time, your hand finding the front of his coat first, then the line of his shoulder, and he is solid in a way you were not prepared for even though you knew, in theory, what you were reaching for.

His other hand comes up to the shelf beside your head.

And the whole careful architecture of this is a game, I started this, I know what I'm doing comes down.

His grip at your waist has spread, warm through the fabric. The faint catch of his breath when you press closer. The particular way he tilts his head, a fraction, an adjustment, and you feel that in your throat, your sternum, lower. A slow heat that moves through you and doesn't stop.

You slide your hand from his shoulder to his jaw.

The line of it under your fingers. The slight shift of muscle when he angles toward you.

The way his mouth moves against yours is not the action of a man running an experiment.

It is the action of a man who has been paying very close attention for a long time and has finally decided to apply everything he noticed. And he noticed a great deal, and he is thorough, and it makes you lose your ability to think.

You make a small sound you will never acknowledge.

His grip tightens.

His other hand leaves the shelf and finds your waist too, and now he is simply holding you, and there is nowhere to put the fact of that except directly in your chest where it lands and stays.

When you finally pull back, you don’t go far.

His forehead drops to yours.

You can feel his heartbeat.

His.

That’s how close you are, your hand still at his jaw, his hands still at your waist, the heat coming off him like something you could lean into and not find the edge of.

His breath is uneven.

The library is very quiet. The amber light has gone to shadow. The world outside this alcove does not currently exist.

You stay there for a moment, the two of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him, close enough that the next move would take almost nothing at all.

His hand is still at your waist.

It has not moved.

“…that was different,” Alhaitham says.

“It was the same.” Your voice doesn’t entirely cooperate.

“No.” His hand is still at your waist. He hasn’t stepped back. “It wasn’t.”

You look at him.

Up close like this, it’s almost unreasonable. The particular clarity of his eyes. The way they hold you in a gaze that is too thorough and too certain and far too close for you to perform indifference into.

“You’re analyzing again,” you say.

“I’m not, actually.” A pause. The quietness of it is different from his usual quiet. “This one was different. That’s not analysis. That’s acknowledgment.”

Your chest is very full.

“…we should continue as planned,” you say quietly.

“Of course.”

Alhaitham steps back, and you let him. His hand leaves your waist.

He retrieves his edition from where it ended up against the shelf and straightens it with the same composure he always has.

You think: he is not actually unaffected right now, and he knows that I know it, and he is choosing not to address it.

Which means he’s thinking about it.

Which means you are both now standing in an alcove thinking about the same thing, and saying nothing.

He leaves with the same unhurried composure he always has.

You stand in the alcove for a moment longer than necessary.

Your hand is still on the shelf.

— ✦ —

Alhaitham awaits you in his office on Wednesday, same as promised.

You’d brought the text. He was already there when you arrived. Which means, you have come to accept, that he was there first, having presumably arranged himself in advance of the agreed time because this is the kind of person he is.

A pot of tea, inexplicably, on the table between you. Two cups.

You sit down. He slides a cup toward you without comment.

“You made tea,” you say.

“The afternoon light is better for close reading, and extended close reading benefits from adequate hydration.”

“Those are all true things that don’t explain why there are two cups.”

“You drink tea in the afternoon. You have for as long as I’ve known you.” He opens the text in front of him. “Show me the passage.”

You show him the passage.

But you’re thinking about the coffee.

Months ago, on a Tuesday, you had arrived at the Akademiya early and found him already there, and without thinking about it particularly, you had detoured and brought back two cups, and set one in front of him, and sat down.

He hadn’t commented. You hadn’t explained.

But you had done it again the following Tuesday. And the one after that.

And at some point, your hands had simply decided that arriving at the Akademiya now involved a brief stop at a café, and you have not interrogated this decision because it doesn’t feel like a decision, it feels like a habit, and habits don’t require examination.

He looks up from the text, finding you looking at him.

“The coffee,” he says.

“…what about it.”

“You’ve done it every Tuesday for months.”

“The café is on the way.”

“It isn’t.”

You open your mouth. Close it. “…it’s close enough.”

He holds your gaze for a moment.

“Why?” he says.

You consider deflecting. You consider several very good deflections, actually, each one technically true.

Instead you lean back in your chair and look at him with the easy confidence you’ve always been better at than honesty and say:

“You almost smile when you drink it.”

A pause.

“And,” you continue, lightly, “I simply prefer looking at you like that.”

It is sixty percent flirtation and forty percent the most honest thing you’ve said to him in three years, and the ratio has been shifting lately in a direction you’re not examining.

He holds your gaze for one moment that is slightly longer than his usual moments.

“The passage,” he says.

“The passage,” you agree.

But he picks up his tea and takes a slow sip before opening the text, and you look down at your own cup and do not think about the fact that you are smiling.

What follows is not what you expected, which is to say: better.

Alhaitham doesn’t simply translate. He explains the underlying structure of the language.

He is, when he’s talking about something that holds his attention, different. More present, somehow. More detailed.

He uses his hands occasionally, tracing the structure of a sentence in the air, and you watch him do it and find yourself thinking that this is what he’s like when he forgets to be contained about something.

“You’re doing it again,” he says, without looking up from the text.

“I’m listening.”

“You’re watching me explain and making an expression that suggests you find it entertaining.”

“I find it interesting. There’s a difference.”

Alhaitham glances up. “What kind of interesting?”

“The kind where I can tell you actually care about this.” You rest your chin in your hand. “You have an expression.”

“I always have an expression.”

“You have a different expression. A—” you think about it, “—animated one. Comparatively.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“It’s the accurate assessment,” you say, deliberately, returning his phrasing back at him.

Something moves in his face. Not quite a smile. Something that would be a smile in a different person, or a smile in him on a different day.

“The grammatical argument in the third section,” he says, returning to the text, “is the important part. The translator was working from a copy that was itself already a second-generation translation, which compounded—”

“Alhaitham.”

“—the interpretive errors in the—”

“Alhaitham.”

He pauses.

“What.”

“Where are we going after this?”

“We’re not going anywhere. This is the arrangement.”

“You made tea for two and you’ve been explaining this for— “ you check the light outside, “—fifty minutes longer than a reasonable tutorial would require.”

“The subject matter warrants thoroughness.”

“You enjoy explaining it. That’s different.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive,” Alhaitham allows. “The argument has specific relevance to your research area, which makes it — “

“My research area,” you repeat, glancing up. “Which you’ve decided is?”

“Knowledge transmission across transitional periods. Specifically the desert region.” He says it the way he says everything. “You’ve been working on it since your second year. The focus sharpened after your trip to Aaru Village.”

You stare at him.

“…you knew about that trip?”

“You came back with a fragment of engraved stone tablet and spent three weeks being insufferable about the epigraphy.” He pauses. “You were right about the dating, incidentally. I checked.”

You stare at him.

He had checked.

Alhaitham had, at some point, taken the time to verify the conclusion you’d drawn from a fragment you’d carried back in your coat pocket from a trip he had apparently known about and remembered in enough detail to bring up now, in a small room, three years later.

“I didn’t know you were paying attention to that,” you say, carefully.

“I pay attention to things that are worth it.”

The sentence falls into the quiet of the room and stays there. He’s said it before which doesn’t make it less meaningful.

You look at him.

He looks back, with that expression that gives nothing away and somehow gives everything.

And you think about your uncle’s stories, the ones that made you want to study in the first place.

The desert peoples and their long memory. The way knowledge travels through generations in fragments, in objects carried across distances, in a copper bead on a worn cord bracelet. The way things persist past the point where anyone expects them to.

He noticed the trip. He checked your work. He remembered.

Three years, you think. What else has he been filing away?

You look at him for a moment. “You’ve been to Aaru Village too, though.”

“Yes.” He says it without particular emphasis. “The terrain is inconvenient. The sand finds its way into everything.” A beat. “I’ve since revised my estimate of it.”

“Revised how?”

“Downward for the sand. Upward for everything else.” He glances at you. “The oral histories the village people carry. Things that never made it into any archive. The kind of knowledge your uncle would have understood better than most of our colleagues.” He pauses. “It’s worth the sand.”

You think about the fragment you’d carried back in your coat pocket. The way the village had felt like a place that remembered things the rest of Sumeru had agreed to forget.

“You should go back,” you say. “Properly. There’s a whole lineage of desert astronomical knowledge that is worth looking at from different angles.”

“Mm.”

“I could send you the references I’ve been compiling. It’s mostly Vahumana territory but the linguistic layer is—”

“I don’t typically take on joint research,” he says.

You know this. Everyone in the Akademiya knows this. One prior collaboration had been eough: he’d closed the door and never mentioned it again.

“I know,” you say. “I wasn’t suggesting—”

“I said typically.” A faint, dismissive sound. “I didn’t say categorically.”

You go still.

He reaches past you, his arm grazing yours, and opens it to the relevant passage with the composure of someone who has not just said something significant.

“The third section,” he says. “You said you wanted to walk through it.”

“…yes,” you say.

“Then pay attention.”

You continue for a while, but your conversation keeps drifting elsewhere. Neither of you acknowledges that the translation is no longer the point.

Alhaitham looks at the text. Then at you.

“There’s a section of Treasures Street that has a good evening stall. The proprietor sources from Aaru Village. The quality is consistent.” He says this in the same tone he uses for grammatical arguments. Entirely matter-of-fact. “The evening timing is better. Fewer people.”

You hold his gaze.

“Are you describing dinner?”

“I’m describing a food stall with reliable quality and favorable crowd conditions.”

“That’s dinner.”

“It’s a practical—”

“That is dinner. You are describing dinner. You can say the word.”

He looks at you.

And then something happens that you have seen approximately two dozen times in three years and still find slightly disorienting: the corner of his mouth moves.

Not a full smile, something more restrained and therefore somehow worse, because it is clearly being contained, which means there is more of it underneath, and you have no idea what to do with that information.

“Dinner,” Alhaitham says.

“Was that so hard?”

“Tedious,” he says. “Not hard.”

You look at him for a moment. The almost-smile that is still there at the edges, the evening light that is catching his features, the complete composure that has a very specific crack in it right now that only you are positioned to see.

Oh, you think, helplessly. I am in so much trouble.

You press your lips together to keep the smile from being too obvious. “Of course it is.”

“If you’d prefer to go somewhere else—”

“I didn’t say that.” You gather the texts, stacking them with more care than necessary. “Let me get my things.”

“The translation—”

“I’ll finish it tonight. You can check it tomorrow.” You glance at him. “If you want.”

“I’ll add it to my schedule,” he says.

You look at him for a moment longer, something warm and complicated doing a slow turn in your chest, and then you go get your things.

Treasures Street is the version of Sumeru City you’ve always liked best: lively and authentic.

The stall Alhaitham knows is tucked between a lamp vendor and a textile merchant who has, apparently, been having a years-long territorial dispute with the lamp vendor over two feet of cobblestone that neither of them technically owns.

Alhaitham explains this with the tone of someone who has observed this conflict on enough separate occasions to have developed a theory about its origins.

“You come here often,” you say.

“The food is good and the vendor doesn’t attempt conversation.”

“High praise.”

“It’s accurate.”

The vendor, it turns out, also doesn’t attempt conversation with you, which earns him a level of regard from Alhaitham that you find quietly charming.

You eat walking, the same as the last time. Through the quieter part of the streets, the city settling into evening around you.

“The linguistic argument,” you say, because you’re thinking about it again. “If the original translation was already corrupted, how much of what we take as settled scholarship in that period is—”

“Contested at the foundations? Most of it.” He says it the way someone says water is wet. “The academic consensus rests on a chain of citations that, if you trace them back, converge on approximately four primary sources. Two of which have translation problems.”

“That should be—that’s alarming.”

“It should prompt a systematic reexamination, yes.” A pause. “I submitted a proposal to the Akademiya to that effect, two years ago.”

“…and?”

“And it was tabled on the grounds that it would require significant revision of existing published work.”

“That’s the point—”

“Yes,” he says. “I’m aware.”

You look at him sideways. “That must have been spectacularly irritating.”

“I documented my objections and moved on.” He hums. “The knowledge is still true regardless of whether the institution acknowledges it.”

“That’s very—” you search for the word, “—you.”

“Is it?”

“Entirely. The I am correct and eventually the world will catch up posture.”

“The evidence is what it is regardless of current academic fashion posture,” he corrects.

“Same thing.”

“They’re not—”

“They’re the same thing,” you say, and laugh, and he glances over, and you are in the middle of thinking that he looks good in the evening light when you realize that you’re standing outside his house.

You got here without noticing.

That happens, sometimes, when you’re talking to him. The time and distance slip.

The street around you is quiet.

“…four,” you say.

The word comes out softer than you intended.

Alhaitham turns to look at you.

His expression has the quality it’s had a few times recently: not different from his usual, but deeper. Like the usual expression is the surface of something, and this is what’s underneath it.

“Yes,” he says.

You move without the staging of before. You simply step close and kiss him, and it is unhurried. The way things are when you’ve stopped pretending there’s no weight to them.

Alhaitham’s hand comes to your jaw, and it is careful in the particular way that careful things are when care means something. His thumb traces once against your cheek and you feel it in the back of your throat. Your hand finds the front of his coat and stays there.

You stay in the kiss, and neither of you does anything to stop it.

When you finally draw back, there’s a silence between you that has warmth in it. You’re close enough to see the slight unevenness in his breathing.

You’re about to say something.

You genuinely don’t know what it would have been.

The door opens. Kaveh appears in the doorway at full conversational velocity, mid-sentence with someone behind him, and stops.

He looks at you. He looks at Alhaitham. He looks at the general situation. The proximity, the lamplight, whatever is currently visible in both your expressions.

His entire face does something complicated and delighted and like a person who has been waiting for exactly this moment for an unspecified number of months.

“I—” he starts.

“Inside,” Alhaitham says.

“I’m just—”

“Kaveh.”

“—I live here—”

“You can continue to live here if you go inside.”

Kaveh goes inside with the specific energy of a man banking an enormous number of things to say for a later date.

You press your fingers to your mouth to keep from laughing and almost succeed.

Alhaitham turns back to you.

His expression is unchanged. Entirely. As if the kiss simply didn’t register as anything remarkable.

“One remaining,” he says.

“One remaining,” you agree.

Your heartbeat is doing several things.

You walk home with it still unsteady, the evening warm around you, thinking about his hand on your jaw and the specific quality of the silence before Kaveh interrupted it.

One left, you think. This is fine.

You think about it the whole way home.

— ✦ —

You shouldn’t be nervous.

You’ve been telling yourself this all day, with decreasing success, in the manner of someone trying to use logic to address something that has become specifically immune to it.

There’s no reason for nerves. You know exactly what’s happening.

You proposed it. You set the terms. You’ve completed four without incident, relatively speaking, and the fifth is the last one and then the bet is over and everything returns to whatever normal was before you started this, which you’re increasingly failing to remember.

That’s fine.

That’s absolutely fine.

“Five,” you say, when you find him in the late afternoon, in the reading room where this all began. “Last one.”

Alhaitham looks up from his book.

You’ve seen this moment many times now. The slight shift of his attention, the way he sets aside whatever he was doing with no visible reluctance.

You’ve catalogued it without intending to. The thing about him is that attention from him is never accidental. He gives it or he doesn’t, and right now he is, entirely, and you are trying very hard not to find that unbearable.

“Then you should proceed,” he says.

Just like always. Composed.

Your chest tightens. You cross the room. Up close, the light falls across him in long gold lines. Across his shoulders, along the gray of his hair, catching the edge of his jaw.

He is exactly what he always is, and you have made the disastrous mistake of paying too much attention.

“Don’t analyze this one,” you say quietly.

Alhaitham studies you.

Your fingers are at the bracelet. You’re not sure when they got there.

Something moves in his expression, too quick to name.

“Very well,” he says.

You breathe. Then you close the distance and kiss him.

It’s softer than the others.

Not tentative—you’re past that now, or past whatever you were pretending was tentativeness— but not playful either. There is no teasing in it, just something honest.

Something that slips out before you can reconsider it, carrying the weight of four kisses and the slowly dawning recognition of what a mistake you made when you thought this would be simple.

Your hand rests against his chest. You feel his heartbeat. Steady. Unchanged.

Of course it is. Because he’s Alhaitham, and he told you from the beginning that the experiment wouldn’t work, and he was right, he’s always right, and you are—

You pull back.

“There,” you say. Your voice is quiet. “Five.”

You don’t look at him.

“Then the bet is concluded,” Alhaitham says.

The words land in exactly as you knew they would.

“Right.”

You find a small smile from somewhere. “Looks like I lost.”

“Apparently,” he says.

“Well.” You exhale softly. “That settles it.” You glance at him, finally, holding your expression in place with the ease of long practice. “Thank you for participating. I’ll try to come up with a better theory next time.”

You turn before he can respond.

You don’t run.

You walk, at a normal pace, with perfect composure, and you do not let yourself think about the fact that somewhere between the first kiss and the fifth, you stopped trying to win a bet and started trying to make something true.

— ✦ —

You avoid him.

At first it’s almost easy. The Akademiya is large, your schedules don’t always align, and you have always been very good at directing your own attention toward things that are useful.

You throw yourself into the Nabu Malikata research. You request three new source texts from the archive borrowing system.

You attend a lecture on archaeological methodology that you would normally have skipped.

You sit in the back, and you take notes, and you think about the argument in the third section of the translation, and then you think about the alcove, and then you put your pen down and stare at the middle distance for long enough that the scholar next to you asks if you’re alright.

“Fine,” you say. “Thinking.”

You are not thinking about anything useful.

It happens on a Thursday when you’re reaching for a text on the upper shelf.

Your hand finds the shelf for balance and you stop.

Because the wood is cool under your palm and the light is doing that amber thing it does in the late afternoon and your body, apparently, has a better memory than your judgment, and for one very specific moment you are completely back in that alcove and there is nothing you can do about it.

You stand there with your hand on the shelf.

You think about his breath against your forehead. The weight of his hand at your waist that had not moved. The way he’d said it wasn’t the same with the particular quietness of someone stating something true that they have no intention of softening.

I knew before the fifth kiss. I probably knew before the first one.

You take the text off the shelf and go back to your table.

You open it, and look at the first line, and read it four times without taking in a single word.

Your fingers find the bracelet.

He checked my work on the Aaru village fragment.

He has a subsection for Farhan.

Every Tuesday he is already there when I arrive and he has never once told me to go somewhere else.

You close the book. You sit with that for a while.

And then, because your mind when left alone tends to keep working whether or not you’ve given it permission, you think about something he said once. Almost two years ago, briefly, the way he mentions things from his past: as facts, without weight attached, as though the weight is self-evident and doesn’t need performing.

His father had been Haravatat. His mother, Vahumana.

He’d said it once, in passing, in the context of something else. He’d moved on from it immediately. You’d filed it and not thought about it again because there had been something else to argue about.

You think about it now.

The argument you’ve been having with him for three years. The one neither of you will concede.

The one that, looked at from a certain angle, is less an argument and more a conversation between two halves of the same question. The question of how you understand anything at all. Whether you start with the text or the context. Whether meaning lives in the word or in the world around it.

He grew up between those two schools.

He is that argument.

You have been standing on one side of it, and he has been standing on the other, and you have both been enjoying it enormously, and he has never once mentioned that he grew up at exactly the intersection you’ve been arguing over.

He noticed, you think. Of course he noticed. The moment you introduced yourself as a Vahumana scholar, the moment you came to him with a translation problem.

He would have noticed immediately, and filed it, and said nothing, and kept arguing with you across the fault line that ran directly through the center of his own history.

Three years.

You put your book down. You stare at the table. Your fingers close around the bracelet.

— ✦ —

You are again thinking about this, alone, when his footsteps announce him.

“Your productivity has decreased,” Alhaitham says.

You don’t turn around. “I’ve been busy.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“No,” he says, moving into the room, unhurried as always. “But only one of them is true.”

You hear him stop behind you. Not too close. Not far.

“I know,” you say, before he can continue. “I owe you a question.”

“Yes.”

“Then ask it.”

A pause, longer than you expected.

“…you’re not going to try to negotiate?”

“I said I’d answer. I’ll answer.” You close the book in front of you and turn around. He’s standing a few feet away, composed, watching you with that particular attention you’ve spent the last week avoiding because it sees too much. “Go ahead.”

He looks at you. Then he says: “No.”

You stare at him. “…no?”

“The terms of the bet are void.”

The silence that follows is very specific. The kind that happens when you expected something and received something else entirely.

“…what.”

“The experimental parameters assumed a neutral starting condition.” He says this with the same tone he would use to explain a translation error. Entirely unruffled, as if this is simply a fact he’s presenting for your consideration. “A baseline of zero. No pre-existing variable on either side.”

You stare at him. “You’re trying to—are you seriously—”

“I’m identifying a structural flaw in the methodology.”

“You’re trying to void the bet on a technicality—”

“I’m pointing out that the results were compromised before the first instance.” He holds your gaze, absolutely steady. “The experiment was designed to test whether a particular outcome could be induced. It cannot accurately test for induction if the condition already existed.”

The room is very quiet.

“…if the condition,” you say slowly, “already existed.”

“Yes.”

“Prior to the bet.”

“Significantly prior,” Alhaitham says. “The variable was already present. The bet didn’t create it. It simply confirmed it.”

You look at him.

He looks back.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he says: “You were doing the bracelet.”

You go still. “…what?”

“During the fifth instance. Before you asked me not to analyze it.” His voice is entirely even.

“You do it when something matters more than you want it to. You’ve done it since the first afternoon you came to find me.” He pauses. “I noticed then.”

The library is very quiet.

“…how long,” you say carefully, “have you been paying attention to that?”

“Since the second month.” He reaches up, his hand settling against your jaw. “I found it— “ the briefest pause, the closest he gets to searching for a word, “—clarifying.”

He is standing in a library in the late afternoon and informing you that he was already in love with you when this started. He is calling it prior data. He is keeping his expression completely level while he does it.

You don’t know whether to laugh or—

“So you’re saying,” you say, carefully, “that you were already—”

“I’m saying the control variable was contaminated,” he says. “The bet cannot be adjudicated cleanly. Therefore, the terms are void.”

“That is the most elaborate way anyone has ever—” you stop. Compose yourself. “You realize I can see exactly what you’re doing.”

“I’m applying logical framework to—”

“You’re deflecting.”

A silence.

“…I’m identifying a methodological flaw.”

“You are deflecting because you lost the bet before it started and you would rather cite experimental contamination than say it plainly.”

The silence that follows is, by Alhaitham’s standards, quite loud.

Then: “Those are not mutually exclusive.”

You laugh.

You laugh and it’s real, startled out of you, warm, the kind that undoes some of the tension that’s been sitting in your chest for a week.

His expression shifts, just barely, in the way that means he’s letting himself register something.

“Fine,” you say, when you can. “Void. The terms are void. We’re even.” You look at him. “But you have to say it.”

“…I just said it.”

“You said prior data. You said contaminated variable. You have to say the actual—”

“The actual conclusion,” Alhaitham says, with the smallest possible increment of expression that constitutes him being moved by something, “is that I’ve found you consistently worth the difficulty.”

You blink.

“Worth the difficulty.”

“You’re argumentative. You annotate books that don’t belong to you. You ask questions you already know the answers to and call it conversation.”

He takes a step toward you. “And you’ve been right, on more occasions than I find convenient, about things I would have preferred to be wrong about.” Another step. He stops close. “I find that singular. You’re singular. That’s the prior data.”

Something in your chest does something you couldn’t describe if you tried.

You look up at him.

“That’s the most backhanded declaration—”

“It isn’t backhanded.”

“—anyone has ever—”

“It’s accurate.” His voice is quiet now. The library is quiet. Everything is quiet in that specific way that happens when something is about to shift irrevocably. “You’ve always been the exception. To most of my preferences regarding people.” He pauses. “I thought you were aware of that.”

“You never said—”

“I added you to my schedule,” he says, with the gravity of a man who has just revealed something significant and knows it. “Repeatedly. Voluntarily.”

You stare at him.

He stares back in the way he is about everything he’s actually decided on.

“…that’s your love language,” you say. “Voluntarily adding people to your schedule.”

“It’s a meaningful allocation of a finite resource.”

“Oh.”

“Time,” Alhaitham continues, as though you haven’t spoken, “is the only thing I don’t have more of than I need. I’ve been— “ he considers the word, “—liberal with mine. Where you’re concerned.”

“Liberal,” you repeat faintly.

“Yes.” He reaches up, then, with that same careful deliberateness from the payoff, his hand settling against your jaw, thumb tracing once across your cheek. “So. We can continue.”

“The translation,” you say.

“Among other things.” His eyes hold yours. “The translation is unfinished. The argument has several more branches worth examining. And I find—” something small and certain moves in his expression, “—that arguments are better when you’re in them.”

Your heart is very full.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” you say softly.

“It’s a factual assessment.”

“Still counts.”

He looks at you for a moment longer.

Then he closes the remaining distance and kisses you.

And it is nothing like the other five.

It is not controlled or structured or framed by anything except his hand at your jaw and the quiet of the library around you and the very simple fact that this is what it feels like when Alhaitham stops observing and just chooses. Without reservation.

He kisses you the way he explained the argument to you that first afternoon. Thoroughly, with full attention, as though there is nothing else currently worth his time and he sees no reason to pretend otherwise.

His thumb traces along your jaw and you feel it everywhere.

You reach for him, fingers curling into the front of his coat, and he makes a small sound that lands in your chest like something settling into place after a very long time out of it.

You press closer.

His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, gentle, certain, and the gentleness of it specifically is what gets you.

Because it is deliberate, because he does nothing without intention, which means this is him choosing to be careful with you and the distinction matters enormously.

And you are thinking about this while he is kissing you which means he is kissing you well enough that your thoughts have given up organizing themselves into anything useful.

You had wondered, somewhere in the back of your mind, over the last five attempts, what it would feel like when it was initiated by him.

It feels like being correct about something you weren’t sure you were allowed to believe.

When he finally draws back it’s only by degrees. Close enough that his forehead rests against yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath, close enough that neither of you is in any particular hurry to change the geometry of this.

His hand stays at the back of your neck.

Yours stays in his coat.

You stay there for a moment. In the quiet of the House of Daena, in the late afternoon light, in the particular stillness of something that has finally stopped pretending to be something else.

“For the record,” you say, against the quiet, “I was also— “ you search for the word— “significantly prior.”

A pause follows.

“I know,” he says.

“You knew?”

“You argued with the third theorem in the margin of my annotated copy eighteen months ago.” His voice is entirely even. “You were right. I noticed then.”

“And you said nothing—”

“You were pretending not to be paying attention,” Alhaitham says. “I was waiting for you to stop.”

You look at him.

He looks back.

“I really do find you insufferable,” you tell him.

“Consistently,” he agrees. “And yet.”

“And yet,” you echo.

He reaches for your hand, with the same absence of ceremony he brings to everything. He just takes it, tucks it into his in a matter-of-fact way that is somehow more quietly devastating than anything else that has happened today.

“The translation,” he says. “Tomorrow. Bring the other edition.”

“Fine.”

“And not yours.”

“I know—”

“You’ve made that mistake before.”

You walk out of the library with your hand in his, arguing about translation methodology.

It feels, extraordinarily, like everything.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I really love Alhaitham, so this was very special to write. I hope you enjoyed it. :)

Masterlist.

[eveningmusings]

Roulette Special

Preview: You're not quite sure why you agreed to a drinking game, of all things, with the man who is most well known for for surviving them.

Word Count: ~7,400 words

A/N: Inspired by the Genshin White Day art and the roulette special in-game scene. I took a few liberties with the game mechanics to speed up the pacing of the story. This was incredibly fun to write — and as always, feedback is appreciated.

Others: Varka, Romance, Reader Insert, Alcohol / Drinking

Sitting inside The Flagship in Nasha Town could make anyone forget that they were in the middle of a lawless land. The tavern was full of life and filled with characters from all walks of life. Locals, off-duty soldiers, treasure hoarders, and all sorts of drifters – all mingling in a giant hall smelling of meat and ale. 

But in the furthest, dimmest corner booth of The Flagship, the atmosphere was entirely different.

Here, the air was crackling with seven months of unresolved military friction and a decade of unspoken history.

Sitting across from each other were the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius and you, his lead local scout for the region of Nod-Krai. Planted squarely between you on the wooden table was a painted wooden board: the Roulette Special. A colorful array of glasses, filled with everything from dark juices and teas to high-proof Snezhnayan liquors, was already arranged in a neat ring around the outer edge of the board.

"I still think this is an absurd abuse of your commanding authority," you muttered, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s a mandatory morale-building exercise,” Varka corrected you cheerfully. His massive frame was taking up his entire side of the booth, and the space felt all the more crowded just from his size. He wasn’t wearing his heavy expedition armor, just a dark, thick sweater that stretched across his chest.

He tapped a finger against the brass spinner on the center of the board. "The rules of The Flagship are sacred, [Y/N]. You spin the inner wheel. You drink whatever glass it points to on the outer ring: juice, tea, or alcohol. Alcohol is scored one to three based on the proof. Zero points for the soft stuff. And whoever holds the higher score gets to ask the loser a question."

“I know, I know…” you interrupted dryly. “A question which the loser is honor-bound to answer with absolute, unfiltered truth. This is a highly convenient game for a Grand Master who has spent the last seven months trying to interrogate me during tactical briefings.”

Varka had a wide and annoyingly handsome grin on his face, and a spark that lit up his bright blue eyes. “I don’t interrogate. I simply have a keen interest in my Knights. And since you've spent the last thirty weeks treating me like a particularly annoying hilichurl rather than your commanding officer... I figured a little Snezhnayan honesty might clear the air.” 

He gestured at the board, the grin never leaving his face. “Ladies first."

A long sigh escaped your lips, not knowing what to make of this and what exactly Varka was plotting. But you figured that you would yield nothing unless you played along. You reached forward and gave the brass dial a sharp flick.

ONE.

The spinner whirred smoothly over the painted wedges before clicking to a halt, the arrow pointing directly at a glass of thick, dark purple liquid on your side of the ring.

“Wolfhook Juice,” you noted while picking up the glass from its spot on the board and taking a curious sip. It was tart, sweet, and entirely non-alcoholic. You looked up at Varka, your stomach sinking as you realized the early disadvantage you had just spun yourself into. 

“Zero points.”

Varka’s already wide grin grew even more into something entirely shameless. He reached out and spun the dial, and it clicked past the heavy liquors and stopped to point at a glass of golden liquid.

“Imported Dandelion Wine,” he announced, plucking the glass from the board. He took a small sip, the familiar taste of Mondstadt washing over his tongue. “Not Mondstadt’s finest, but passable. That makes the score one to zero. I believe I have the floor.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a tavern waiter silently step from the bustling crowd to replace the two spaces on your board from where you and Varka had plucked the juice and the wine. They worked fast, vanishing just as quickly so as not to interrupt the game. You had silently hoped that they had only eyes on your board, and no ears to hear the pending confessions that Varka had no doubt planned to coerce out of you.

Here we go, you thought, bracing yourself for the question. You had spent the better part of a decade building a wall between yourself and this boy that you grew up with, ever since he became the untouchable Grand master of the Knights of Favonius. And you had a feeling that Varka would try to ram down this wall tonight.

Varka leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, instantly making the corner booth feel incredibly intimate.

"When I marched my Knights into your territory seven months ago," Varka began, his voice dropping its boisterous boom for a low, vibrating rumble, "and I pulled rank to commandeer your scouting routes... what was your actual first impression?"

It was the first round and he wasted absolutely no time. The rules of the Roulette Special were absolute, and if you lied, you forfeited not just the game but also your own pride.

“My first impression,” you admitted through gritted teeth, voice dripping with reluctance, “was that you were the exact same arrogant, overly loud brute who used to break our wooden training swords behind the Favonius barracks back home. You just happened to have a fancier title and a louder voice to hide behind."

Varka stared for a second before throwing his head back and letting out a big, real laugh.

“A fancier title,” he chucked, thoroughly delighted by your insult. “Archons, I've missed that sharp tongue. It's refreshing to know the Grand Master armor doesn't work on you."

"Drink your wine, Varka," you muttered, putting up a front of annoyance but unable to completely suppress the faint smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. 

TWO.

You spun with a little bit more force this time. You watched as the dial moved aggressively before slowing to point at a steaming peppered orange glass. Level two, Nod-Krai spiced cider.

Varka took his turn, the dial landing on the exact same spot. Immediately, a waiter arrived to drop another glass of Nod-Krai spiced cider for Varka to match your own.

You did the quick math – Varka had earned two points, bringing him to three. You had also earned two, bringing your score to two. You picked up your mug with a sigh, some irritation settling given that you were still trailing.

“Three to two,” he teased, reading your expression perfectly. He took a long, easy pull of his hot cider, the mix of alcohol and spices warming his chest. He sat the glass down and locked his eyes onto yours, the playful energy sharpening into something much more focused.

“My turn again.”

“Just ask the question, Varka.”

You held the small glass between both hands to let the heat seep into your palms as you listened to the drawl of Varka’s voice. “You are the best pathfinder in this region,” he said, tone shifting to something more observant. “You know the terrain better than the entire scouting division combined. So why do you consistently volunteer for the freezing, isolated, high-altitude scouting nests instead of sleeping down by the main campfires with the rest of the Knights?"

Damn it.

You looked away, staring hard at the grain of the edge of the wooden table as a tavern worker slipped by to clear the empty glasses of the table. This was the friction that had been sparking between you both for seven months now. Varka wanted you in the main camp, but you wanted solo work out in the freezing dark.

“It provides a better tactical vantage point,” you deflected instantly.

“Mm hm,” Varka hummed, a warning edge in his voice, “The Roulette demands the absolute truth, [Y/N]. No deflections. Why are you out there freezing when there's a warm bed waiting for you at the main camp?”

Your eyes were dancing a shade between orange and brown, the lights from the tavern highlighting the subtle shifts in the color of your irises as you tried to find somewhere other than Varka to plant your gaze. You took a big, steady breath before your eyes snapped back up to meet his.

“Because your overbearing command style drives me crazy,” you admitted, the words rushing out with a bite. You leaned forward, matching his intensity. 

"Because when I'm in the main camp, you hover. You question my routes, you double-check my survival gear, and you treat me like a recruit who doesn't know how to start a fire. I volunteer for the isolated nests, Varka, because I am actively trying to get away from you."

The silence that followed was thick and heavy, drowning out the roaring noise of the tavern.

Varka didn't laugh this time. The grin slowly faded from his lips, replaced by a quiet, incredibly intense gaze that made your heart hammer a heavy rhythm against your ribs. He absorbed the hit, fully realizing just how hard you had been pushing him away – and that his attempts to keep you close were only driving you further into the snow.

Varka slowly brought his mug of cider to his lips, never breaking eye contact.

"Point taken, Scout.”

His voice was deep. It carried a dangerous amount of gravity. He reached out and tapped the brass dial on the board. 

"Your spin."

THREE.

You didn’t hesitate. You reached out and flicked the spinner with significantly more force than in the first two turns. The dial whirred, eventually slowing to pass the juices and ciders before halting to point toward a small, heavy glass filled with crystal-clear liquid.

Level three, Moonshine.

The glass looked deceptively like water when held between your fingers. You didn’t sip it – you threw it back in a single motion. The high-proof liquor burned as it flowed down your throat, settling into your stomach with a heavy heat that made your eyes water just a fraction. You slammed the empty glass back down on the table, outside the board.

Varka raised an eyebrow as he watched you speed through your drink before he could even take a spin. On his turn, the dial spun and landed on a ceramic glass with a faint green tinge. “Chenyu green tea. Zero points.”

The liquid flooded not only your stomach but also pumped new courage into your veins. Varka was holding at three, and you had just shot up to five.

“Five to three, Grand Master,” you breathed, the burn of moonshine emboldening you. You placed more weight on your elbows as you further closed the physical distance between you and Varka. “My board.”

A waiter materialized from the crowd to quickly replace the shot glass with a new one. Varka set his tea down, resting his hands flat on the table dangerously close to your own forearms. He didn’t look defensive. If anything, he looked captivated by the sudden confidence you radiated.

“Ask away.”

“I am the best scout of this region... In fact, I would argue that I am the best scout of your entire scouting division,” you began, voice dropping to a lower register. “I know how to navigate Abyssal wastelands, and I know how to survive a whiteout. So why, for the last seven months, have you constantly pulled me off the scouting lines during the day to assign me to your personal detail? I am a seasoned scout, Varka, not your bodyguard.”

Varka leaned back against the heavy wolf pelts that lined the seats of the corner booth. The grin was returning to his face and it looked even cockier than before.

“Maybe I just like the view, sweetheart,” he said with a smile, emphasizing the endearment more than usual to see if it could trigger a flush on your face now that you had some alcohol in you. His eyes seemed to trace the details of your face before meeting your gaze again.

He was shameless.

“Or maybe having the most beautiful woman in Nod-Krai attached to my hip is exactly what I need for my morale.”

The heat rushed to your face both from the alcohol and his boldness, though you hoped desperately that the warm lights were enough to hide the flush in your cheeks. "The game demands the absolute truth, Grand Master. Try again."

Varka’s grin faltered, just a fraction. He shifted his massive frame against the pelts, his hand twitching toward his empty tea cup before he remembered he had already finished it.

“I need my best scout at the center of the formation,” he offered, his tone shifting closer to his actual command voice, though it still lacked its usual boom. “It’s basic strategy. Your expertise is wasted out in the blind spots where I can’t utilize your immediate read on the terrain.”

“I’m a scout,” you countered immediately, “blind spot coverage is the point of my whole job.”

You leaned in even closer. “And we both know that your other captains can coordinate the center just fine. You’re deflecting.”

Varka fell silent. On the surface, he was grinning, but you've known the man for years and could tell that the playful, teasing energy was gone. For the first time all evening, the Grand Master actually looked cornered. He looked up at nothing in particular, a heavy sigh escaping him as he ran a hand through his blonde hair.

“You’re relentless, you know that?”

“You set the rules of the board,” you reminded. Your own defensive edge softened as you watched the Grand Master behave so uncharacteristically, and you realized that he was genuinely struggling to say the words. “Now, play the game.”

Varka brought his eyes back to meet yours. There was something in there that you couldn’t quite describe, akin to the fierce protectiveness that they used to shine with when you fought side by side in your younger days.

“Because ten years ago, I let you walk out of Mondstadt’s gates, and I spent the better part of the last decade wondering if you were coming back or lying dead in a snowbank somewhere.”

His voice was soft. The confession bypassed all your defenses.

He continued, “I force you to my side, [Y/N], because I prefer having you where I can see you, rather than spending every night staring outside wondering if you’re ever coming back.”

The words left you undone. Disarmed. The sharp retort that you had prepared completely dissolved on your tongue. He hadn’t kept you close to micromanage you. He kept you close because he was terrified of losing you.

FOUR.

The confession hung heavy in the air between you both, thick and crackling with a sudden and overwhelming intimacy. The roaring laughter and clinking mugs of the Flagship seemed to fade away entirely.

Wordlessly, Varka reached forward and spun the dial.

It landed on a dark amber wedge on his side of the board. Level two, another round of Nod-Krai spiced cider.

As he picked up the heavy mug, not once did his eyes leave yours. And as you reached out to spin the dial on the roulette, Varka repositioned his free arm to deliberately let his fingers brush yours in passing. You ignored the contact and the tingle that ran down your spin, and watched as the pointer ticked past the liquors to land on a double-walled glass with iced yellow-green liquid. Minty Fruit Tea, zero points.

You picked up your iced tea. Varka held his glass of cider.

His voice was a low murmur, but you were acutely aware of every syllable as it cut through the noise of the tavern. “Five to five. Stalemate.” 

By the rules of Roulette Special, a tie meant no questions could be asked. There was no interrogation, no witty deflections, and no tactical retreats. There was only the drink, and the person sitting across the table.

You drank in complete silence.

The physical proximity between you and Varka had steadily decreased over the last three rounds. You were both leaning forward, forearms resting at different angles on the small table, hands mere inches apart and occasionally, not-so-accidentally, brushing as you each took turns on the roulette board. The heat of the moonshine was singing in your bloodstream, making you hyper aware of the massive man sitting across you.

You noticed the way the dim tavern light caught the scars on his cheek. You noticed the slight tension in his shoulders, a mark of the constrained power of a man who was desperately trying to hold himself back at this moment. You noticed the way his face looked incredibly more mature compared to the image of the young man in your memories, unsure when was the last time you allowed yourself the liberty to observe him in this much detail, in such close proximity.

He noticed you staring.

Varka slowly lowered his mug, his blue eyes dropping briefly to your lips before meeting your gaze once more. He didn’t say a word, but the silence between you was suddenly louder and more dangerous than any argument you had in the last seven months.

FIVE.

The silence of the stalemate lingered just long enough for the gravity of Varka’s confession to fully sink in. Your heart was pounding, and the moonshine made itself known to you.

Before you could say anything, Varka reached out and flicked the brass spinner. It stopped at a glass filled with a clear liquid, strikingly similar to the moonshine you had downed two rounds ago. Level three, Snezhnayan Firewater.

Varka didn’t blink. He picked up the heavy glass and threw it back in a single gulp. You watched as his jaw clenched slightly at the burn.

You were quick to move on your own turn. Unblinking, you watched the dial spin past the high-proof glasses and settle on a pale, familiar, golden liquid. Level one, Dandelion Wine. You sipped it slowly, allowing a minute to pass before setting it down and allowing the waiter to clear the table of the empty glasses. The math was not in your favor.

“Eight to six,” Varka announced, his voice carrying a rough edge from the Firewater. He crossed his arms over his massive chest, leaning back against the backrest of the booth. The playful banter was fone, replaced by the continued uncharacteristic seriousness. “My board again.”

“Go ahead.”

You braced yourself.

“When we were younger, we were inseparable,” Varka began, his blue eyes searching your face with a piercing intensity. “And then ten years ago, you enlisted in the scouting company. At first, it was just patrols around Starfell Valley. Then it was the Dragonspine border. Now, it's Nod-Krai. You've spent a decade requesting assignments further and further away from Mondstadt, and you’ve started finding reasons to be upset with me. You’d only come back for Windblume or Ludi Harpastum, and even then, you looked at me like I was a stranger."

Varka missed her. He didn’t know how to say it, but he undeniably did. He leaned forward, the weight of a whole decade of simply missing her was bleeding into his voice. “Tell me… when did you decide we weren’t friends anymore?”

The question hit you like a physical blow. It was the wedge that had been sitting between you for so many years, finally dragged out into the light of the tavern. And it was the question that you were terrified he would ask.

Your eyes were fixed solely on your hands. Alcohol was humming in your blood, loosening the defences you had spent years building. You didn’t want to answer, but the roulette – and the genuine hurt hiding beneath his question – demanded it.

“I… never decided we weren’t friends, Varka.” It was a quiet answer, and you willed your eyes to look away from your hands and up closer to his face. “But every time I came back, the distance between us was wider. I watched the boy I lov–”

You choked. Your breath hitched as the alcohol absolutely betrayed you. Panic flared hot and bright in your chest as you swallowed hard, eyes darting back down to the grain of the wooden table.

“The boy I grew up with,” you corrected, forcing your voice steady even though the tremble was evident. “I watched him get buried underneath the myth of the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius. I watched you become an icon. A monument. Everyone in Mondstadt worshipped the ground you walked on, waiting for you to save the day. And I... I refused to be just another subordinate standing in your shadow. So I left, before I forgot who you actually were.”

You finished your confession, but the damage was already done.

Varka had gone completely still. He didn’t miss the slip-up. The Grand Master, despite his demeanor, possessed the sharpest tactical mind in Mondstadt. And while watching the sudden, terrified flush spread across your face, he realized exactly what you had almost said. 

The realization hit him with the force of a Ruin Guard’s heavy strike. You hadn’t left because you were annoyed by his title. You left to protect your own heart.

He didn’t call you out on the slip. He just looked at you, his expression softening into something incredibly heavy, carrying sadness and devotion and so many unspoken feelings in one look.

SIX.

Without a word, Varka reached forward and spun the dial.

It was a lazy spin, stopping with a soft tink pointing toward a steaming glass on his side. Zero points, Chenyu green tea.

You spun next, your fingers unsteady and with a desperate need to reclaim the board and regain your footing after the near-disastrous slip. The arrow spun quickly before snapping to a half exactly where you needed it for an advantage. Level three, Snezhnayan Firewater.

You picked up the glass and threw it back. The burn was searing, but it was a welcome and grounding heat. As the burn flowed down your throat and to you stomach, the immediate churn told you that mixing moonshine with Firewater was a horrible idea.

As you placed the glass down, a waiter appeared once again like a phantom to take the empty glass and replace it with a new one filled to the brim.

“Nine to eight,” you breathed, your chest heaving slightly as you leaned across the table. The emotional floodgates were wide open, and you needed to put Varka on the defensive.

Varka was remarkably calm as he held his tea in his hands. His gaze was steady.

“Ask.”

“You conquered the city,” there was an ever so slight drawl in your words, and your voice trembled with the weight of years of unspoken resentment. “You had the title, the power, the entire Knights at your disposal. If we were so inseparable… why did you let me go?”

Varka looked straight at you, his thumbs absentmindedly tracing the rim of his glass.

“Every time I requested a transfer further away from the capital, you approved it without a single word of protest. For ten years… why didn’t you ever ask me to stay?”

It was an unfair question, you knew that. It was unfair that you had tried to run and expected him to be the one to ask you to stay. But the mix of moonshine and firewater and wine in your system hindered your usual logical processing.

The roaring noise of the Flagship was completely deafening around them. But in your small corner booth, you could have heard a pin drop.

“Because I saw how the crowds suffocated you,” Varka confessed. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I saw how you hated the politics, the whispers, the expectations that came with standing next to me. I knew my title was a cage you never asked to be put in.”

He set his now-empty glass now, fingers brushing yours as he did so.

“I approved every single one of those transfers because I thought I was giving you the freedom that you needed.” His eyes burned straight into yours with his admission. “I let you go because I thought that it was what you wanted… even though putting my signature on those papers and putting miles between us was the single hardest part of my job.”

For a few seconds, you forgot how to breathe. Your eyes widened, the brown-orange rings of your eyes no longer dancing in the light, as the sheer weight of his sacrifice washed over you. For years, you believed that his silence meant he didn’t care. Instead, he had been quietly breaking his own heart just to ensure that you had the space to breathe.

The distance you had maintained for years completely evaporated in the dim light of the tavern.

SEVEN.

Thud thud.

You could feel your heart hammering frantically against your chest. 

Varka’s bright blue eyes were locked onto yours. The sadness of his confession was already receding, replaced by a sudden and dangerous spark. He had caught your slip-up. He knew exactly how you felt about him, and now that he had gotten his own confession out of the way, he was wasting absolutely no time in pressing his advantage.

He flicked the brass dial. It whirred and landed on a glass of deep burgundy liquid. Fontainian wine, level two.

You took your turn to spin, fingers slightly numb. The arrow stopped dead on a glass of berry soda. Zero points. As you took a sip of the fizzy liquid, a waiter once again slipped in and out quietly to keep the roulette board ever-ready for the rest of the game. You did the math and your stomach did a flip.

Varka let out a whistle. “Ten to nine.”

The overbearing and teasing Grand Master was gone, and in his place was the man who had been patiently in love with you for over a decade. He leaned forward and flashed a smile that could kill, causing you to once again forget how to breathe. “My board, sweetheart.”

You swallowed hard, forcing your vocal chords to work. “I’m listening.”

“So now I know why you left…” he began, a new edge in his voice that sent a shiver down your spine. “But over the last seven months, you’ve argued with me about every single patrol route I’ve drawn. You've picked fights with me in front of my captains. So tell me.. was all of that actual insubordination, or were you just trying to get my attention?”

You bit your lip as an even deeper flush spread rapidly across your cheeks – one that had absolutely nothing to do with the heat of the tavern. He had you cornered, and the smug look on his face meant he knew it.

“Ugh… a little bit of both,” you groaned. The words were coming out faster than you could think as the alcohol fully settled. But you kept your eyes firmly on him as you responded. “You’re terribly easy to rile up when you’re trying to act professional. And… I missed arguing with you.”

Varka let out a warm chuckle. He was so close that you could almost feel his breath as he laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind for tomorrow’s briefing.”

EIGHT.

The laugh ignited something in you. And now emboldened by both him and the lingering heat of alcohol in your veins, you reached out and spun the dial with a sharp flick of the wrist.

Level two, Nod-Krai Spiced Cider again. You were losing count of what you had consumed.

Varka raised a thick blonde eyebrow and took his turn. The spinner clicked lazily before pointing to a ceramic cup. Fonta, zero points.

A triumphant smile appeared on your lips, “Eleven to ten, Grand Master.” 

You planted your elbows on the table, the physical space between you practically non-existent now. You could smell the the faint perfume from his sweater, mixed with the fruity smell of Fonta and the sharp bite of the Snezhnayan firewater.

“Looks like it’s my board again.”

Varka picked up his drink and smiled, looking not at all concerned about losing the lead. In fact, he looked like he was enjoying seeing yougo on the offensive. “I am completely at your mercy, Scout. What’s the question?”

You tilted your head, searching his face for hints of what he was thinking or feeling at the moment. The alcohol had stripped away your military discipline, leaving only the woman who had spent so many years missing her best friend.

It was a challenge and a tease wrapped in one. “If you hated the space between us so much, and if putting miles between us was truly the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do, why did it take you dragging an entire army to Nod-Krai just to finally buy me a drink?”

Varka paused mid-drink, and he set his glass down before it could even reach his lips. A slow and dangerous smirk tugged at his mouth.

“That’s a rather bold assumption, [Y/N]. Are you accusing the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius of mobilizing an entire expeditionary force just to secure a date with his lead scout?”

“I’m not accusing you for anything,” you shot back, not breaking eye contact and with new energy in your voice. “I’m just asking for the truth, which you are obliged to give me. You could have come up here years ago. You could have visited. Why did you wait until you had a military excuse to do so?”

The playful smirk slowly faded from Varka’s lips. For a man who regularly stared down Abyssal horrors without flinching, he actually looked vulnerable. A long and heavy sigh escaped him before his eyes once again met your own.

"Because I needed to make sure I had an army to back me up if you turned me down," Varka admitted. 

You thought he would tease. But here he was again, finding you with words that you never thought you would ever hear from him.

"If I had marched up here as just Varka from Springvale," he continued, the absolute sincerity in his eyes pinning you to your seat, "and you looked at me with that same cold, professional distance... if you told me to go home... I wouldn't have had the strength to walk back to Mondstadt.”

He paused for a second to take another big breath, as if preparing himself.

“I needed a military mandate to force you into this booth with me for a drink. It was the only way I could guarantee you wouldn't just pack up your camp and run the second you saw me."

The roaring laughter and clinking mugs of The Flagship seemed to vanish entirely. In that moment, it was just you and Varka. Not him as the Grand Master of the Knights, but as the boy you grew up with. The man who teased you endlessly. The one that you grew to love.

“I’m not running, Varka.” Your voice was barely a whisper.

“Good,” he whispered back. You still couldn’t tell what the look in his eyes was, but you told yourself that perhaps it mirrored all the same feelings that you had buried. “Because I’m done letting you go.”

NINE.

Varka’s words played over in your head like a broken record. In the span of an hour, this man had burned the last of your defensive walls to ash, and you were nothing but grateful for it. Your heart continued to hammer in your chest and you tried so very hard to settle it down.

Varka’s hand had been resting on the table near yours, his fingers casually brushing against your knuckles, tracing the line of your wrist, or slightly pushing into the space between yours, but then teasingly pulling away just as you registered the warmth. It was a physical manifestation of his predatory focus, and it was driving you crazy.

Before you could point it out, his hand retreated once again to give the brass dial a flick. The spinner whirred into a blur. It stopped to point at a heavy glass on his side of the outer ring. Level three, Snezhnayan Firewater.

Varka didn’t blink. He picked up the high-proof liquor and once again threw it back in a single motion. His jaw clenched slightly at the burn, but his eyes were immediately back on yours. As he set the empty glass down, you reached for the dial.

Your fingers were actually trembling now. You spun the arrow, silently pleading with the Archons for a heavy liquor to keep you in the game – even though one more heavy round would most certainly not work in your dignity’s favor.

The dial clicked past two heavy liquors, past the ciders, past the wines, and slide to a pathetic halt on a purple wedge. Wolfhook Juice, zero points.

You couldn’t help but let out a frustrated breath. You picked up the glass of juice, and it tasted entirely too innocent for the situation you were currently in.

“Thirteen to Eleven,” said Varka.

He didn’t lean back against the wolf pelts. Instead, he leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table and invading your space entirely. From this proximity, you couldn’t help but think how incredibly hot he looked. Both literally and figuratively.

“My turn again, Scout.” The grin was back. This was dangerous.

As if threatened by his sudden proximity, you likewise leaned forward as you set your empty glass of guice down, the physical distance reduced to mere inches. “You have an unfair tolerance for Snezhnayan liquor, Varka.”

“And you,” he mumbled, his gaze deliberately scanning every portion of your face, “have an absolutely spectacular flush on your cheeks right now. I’d ask if it was the liquor, but we both know the rules about lying at this table.”

“The room is incredibly warm,” you shot back, though your voice was a notch higher in pitch than usual as Varka’s fingers returned, lightly grazing the side of your hand before retreating just out of reach again. “The ventilation here at the Flagship is terrible.”

Varka chuckled, “Is that right? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like Mondstadt’s most elusive scout has finally run out of places to hide. You’re completely cornered, sweetheart.”

“I am sitting exactly where I want to be.” The liquors mixing in your system gave you a different kind of energy despite the heat. You were looking directly into Varka’s eyes when you challenged, “So stop gloating and ask your question.”

Varka matched your gaze with equal intensity. The banter was fun, but he knew that this was his moment to strike for the win. He let the silence stretch for a moment, letting the gravity of the game and the heat of the room settle over you both.

His voice dropped to a register meant only for you. 

You didn’t notice yourself holding your breath.

“The Nod-Krai campaign official concludes in two weeks. The encampments will be backed. The supply lines will be severed. And my military mandate over this region – and over you – will officially expire.”

You were still holding your breath. Your gaze didn’t falter, and you were suddenly hyper-aware for where exactly he was leading you with this question.

“When we cross the border back to Mondstadt,” he continued, “I can’t force you into my personal detail, and I won’t have an army of Knights to keep you from wandering off beyond the city’s gates and back into the snow.”

Varka shifted his hand, finally abandoning the teasing game to let his fingers fully cover yours on the tabletop. His grip was warm, solid, and grounding.

“So…”

His thumb stroked your knuckles gently. The trap was set flawlessly.

“...what exactly are you going to do when I no longer have the military mandate to keep you by my side?”

It was a brilliant checkmate.

Your gaze shifted down to your joined hands. The terrified, guarded scout inside of you was raging to deflect, to make a joke about volunteering for a new assignment in the South or pursuing solo patrols. But as you looked across at the man who had waited so many years for you to stop running, you realized you were finally ready to give it to him.

“You’re assuming that I still need to be kept.” Your voice dropped to the same register that Varka used, and you turned your hand over to lace your fingers securely through his.

Varka’s grip on your hand tightened. He was waiting.

You propped up your free elbow on the table and rested your chin in your hand. Shifting your weight forward, you leaned across the table, ignoring the scattered glasses, and inching forward until you were breathtakingly close to Varka’s face.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t need a mandate or an army to ask me to stay.”

A look of relief washed over Varka’s features. He looked entirely undone by the quiet, vulnerable admission. His shoulders softened, his smile returned, and as he stared at you, the roaring noise of the Flagship once again faded into the background. He had actually, finally, won.

TEN.

He didn't pull back. He didn't retreat into the shadows of the booth. Instead, he dropped his forehead until it was just barely grazing yours. The proximity was dizzying and you could feel the warmth radiating off him as if it was a shared heat. 

“The game requires ten rounds, [Y/N],” Varka reminded, and you could almost feel the rumble of his voice against your lips.

Without moving his body back, Varka shifted his hand from where it was covering yours, and gave the brass dial one final flick. You lowered your gaze, your foreheads fully touching as you both looked down at the roulette board. The spinner once again bypassed the juices and teas, before stopping dead on a small heavy glass. Level three, Moonshine.

You lifted your free hand, fingers brushing over his, to give the dial its final spin. It whirred until it mirrored his fate, landing on the opposite side of the circular board to an equally clear glass. Level three, another glass of Firewater.

Neither of you pulled back from the intimate space you shared over the center of the table. You both picked up your glasses – Varka downed his without so much as a flinch, and you threw yours back and welcomed the searing burn that came with it. You sat your empty glasses back down in unison.

“Sixteen to fourteen,” Varka whispered, his voice incredibly rough from the liquor. You were so close that his breath was warm on your face. “I still hold the board.”

“Then ask your final question.”

A mischievous grin spread back on his face. He had been sitting on his winning hand for exactly five rounds and he fully intended to play it.

“Don’t think I didn’t catch your little slip earlier,” he teased, and your eyes widened. “You corrected yourself quickly, but I heard it. So tell me… when did you realize you were in love with me?”

A bright flush instantly spread across your cheeks. You instinctively tried to turn your head away to hide your face in the darker, shadowy side of the booth. But Varka didn’t let you retreat. He lifted his free hand to keep a firm hold on your chin. He guided your face right back to him, your lips an agonizing distance away from his.

“Ah, ah,” He chided, the grin never leaving his face and his eyes burning with both affection and triumph. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. The game demands the truth.”

You let out a long, defeated sigh, though you didn’t pull away from his touch. The embarrassment you felt was mixed with a nostalgic fondness for the man who sat across you. It was too late to back out of this now anyway.

“We were seventeen,” you confessed. “You decided you were going to climb the highest tree in Windrise to grab me the ‘sweetest, wind-kissed Sunsettia’, simply because I mentioned I was hungry. You completely ignored the lower branches, stepped on a rotten one near the top, fell thirty feet, and landed in a mud puddle.”

Varka let out a chuckle that vibrated right against your skin. “I broke my wrist that day.”

You replied with a smile. “You did. And you were completely covered in dirt. But you still sat up and proudly handed me an entirely squashed piece of fruit. I thought you were the biggest idiot in Mondstadt.” You swallowed hard, unsure whether you should continue. 

“And I loved you.”

“It was a very good Sunsettia,” Varka argued playfully, fingers moving from your chin to sweep across your cheeks.

“It was inedible, Varka.”

“And yet,” Varka continued, his forehead pressing on yours and his nose grazing your own, “you took it anyway.”

With one smooth motion, Varka used his other hand to push the Roulette Special board gently to the side, clearing the center of the table. He didn’t hesitate for another second – he closed the agonizing, millimeter gap between you and finally captured you in a kiss.

It wasn’t a desperate, crushing collision. It was a slow and incredibly deep kiss that tasted of mixed liquor and years of pent-up longing. You left out a soft sigh against his mouth, eyes fluttering shut as the defenses you had maintained for years finally completely dissolved. One hand was laced securely through his, and the other made its way up to the top of his shoulder.

Varka shifted his hold, his palm moving from your cheek to fully cup the side of your neck. He held you securely and kissed you with absolute devotion, while the other hand wrapped in yours kept you both anchored to the physical space of the table in the corner booth.

When you finally broke apart, it was only by a fraction of an inch. You were breathless, and so was he.

“Does this mean that I don’t have to listen to you critique my patrol routes anymore?”

“Absolutely not,” he chucked against your mouth. “But it does mean that I finally have a valid excuse to confine you in my tent during the blizzards instead of letting you freeze in a scouting nest.”

“You are an incredibly stubborn commander,” you couldn’t contain your smile, and your hands stayed firmly on him.

“It took a drinking game and an entire expeditionary force to get you to admit that you missed me,” he countered before leaning in to press a second, hungrier kiss to your lips, drowning out your laugh. The fingers on your neck slid further back, tangling into your hair to tilt your head and deepen the kiss. When he pulled back, he continued, “I think my stubbornness is justified.”

“You could have just asked, you know,” you teased when you finally let you up for air. Your own fingers moving up to graze his neck as you spoke. “We could have skipped ten years of me running, and seven months of me picking fights with you in front of the rest of the Knights.”

“I don’t mind the fights.” 

His cocky grin returned.

“You look spectacular when you’re being insubordinate. Besides, it wouldn’t have had the same thrill. Especially since I have been wanting to do this since you threw your wooden training sword at me behind the barracks after one of the times I broke it.”

You didn’t get the chance to respond as Varka kissed you again. This one was demanding and all-consuming, completely abandoning the teasing for raw heat. Varka’s hold on you was incredibly firm, not allowing you any freedom to move away.

You broke apart after what felt like a lifetime. The ambient roar of the Flagship slowly began to filter back into your awareness. Your forehead remained planted against his, and your chest continued to heave as a warmth settled deep in your bones.

“So,” you whispered, “who officially won the board?”

Varka laughed as he finally released you, but not before planting a quick but firm kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’m leading the scoreboard and you are definitely more intoxicated. I’m also holding exactly what I came here for, so I consider it a resounding victory.”

[lowaharts]

[wrens-versus-the-world]

Cosmic Joke: Phainon of Aedes Elysiae

Main Masterlist HONKAI STAR RAIL Masterlist

Inspired by @gav-san's Cosmic joke for one piece!

Phainon x Reader Length 7.5K Rating: 16+ Warnings (nothing too serious): engineering is mentioned a bit (yes, that is a warning), kinda isekai in a way (bc I can't escape isekais), slight sexual content

Note: When I started this I wasn't too too far into the Amphoreus questline, so keep that in mind as you read. Also, if you notice any grammar errors LMK! I'll be going through this again next week so I may update things/ clear some things up as necessary.

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Bond Awakening

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You were ordinary, you went to class, procrastinated on studying for exams, went to work, and paid your rent.  

You wanted to be an engineer, you liked math, numbers, the tangible. You liked things you could see. And you didn’t have a creative bone in your body. 

You stayed up late, cramming formulas and finishing homework. 

You had an imagination, but it wasn’t anything crazy, or so you thought. 

Mid-freshman year, during a week where you didn’t have any exams, you were able to go to sleep early for once. A treat, you thought to yourself. 

An older version looks back on you, oh you sweet summer child, how wrong you are. 

It was an ordinary day, a Tuesday, you went to class, as you began the trek to your residence you began to feel fatigued. Not the normal, ‘I’m tired after being on campus for so long,’ or the exhaustion from walking, a fatigue that you felt in your bones. 

When you finally crossed the threshold of your abode, kicking your shoes off bag long abandoned with your shoes, you went straight to your couch, crashing the moment your head touched the cushions. 

You had dreams, sure, your typical run of the mill dreams. Magical vending machines, walking on clouds, meeting celebrities, they were normal. So when you found yourself in the seats of an arena watching a man with blue-grey hair train, you were startled. 

He was training, swinging a sword around, shirt and coat set in the corner of the arena. It felt like something you shouldn’t have been seeing, but you were mesmerized. It wasn’t just training, there was something emotional about it, almost like he was fighting some force you couldn’t see in the moment. But somehow it also looked like he was dancing, his blade an extension of his own body, dancing against the invisible force. 

You don’t know how much time passed, it could have been minutes or hours in that arena, but he finally stopped swinging his blade, letting it fall to the ground beside him, saying something to himself that you couldn’t hear. 

And then you woke up, a few hours later, drenched in sweat, feeling like you dreamed something sacred. But you couldn’t seem to fully remember it, only remembering bits and pieces. 

You let out a sigh, deciding to take a shower to clear your thoughts. Even after your shower your thoughts stayed on the dream, it bothered you. Like a word on the tip of your tongue, you knew it and yet you didn't. 

Pulling out your laptop and your notebook you decided to do some extra studying, thinking about this dream wasn’t very productive. 

You didn’t have a creative bone in your body, so when you looked down at your notebook to see a drawing of an oddly familiar man, you were surprised.

It was a decent sized drawing, a bust of a man with shortish hair and bangs, with eyes that reminded you of forget-me-nots, and a sun tattoo on his neck. He took up about a fourth of your paper. 

It–he, the man from your dream–startled you. 

You doodled on your notes in class sure, but this, this wasn’t a doodle. You weren’t capable of such art. You had never seen this man before, you knew you hadn’t, and yet his silhouette looked so familiar to you. You weren’t an artist, you were an engineer. So you decided to do what any engineer would do when they hit a road block: 

Experiment. 

You didn’t think you’d suddenly gain such artistic prowess all of the sudden, especially without practice. And yet, your dream man stared back at you from your notes proving you wrong. 

You pulled up pinterest, and picked a random reference, he looked nothing like the man from your dreams, and yet after a few minutes of trying to replicate the picture, your mystery man was back only in a new pose. 

You recreated this experiment over and over again, ending with the same result. 

You were going mad, that was the only thing that made sense. You heard the stories of what engineering did to people and decided, ‘Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do,’ and of course you go and lose your mind before your first semester is over. 

You looked at the half a dozen sketches on your paper, your eyes drifting back to the one that started it all. You ripped the sheet out of your notebook and put the sheet on your fridge, a magnet holding it there. 

“Who are you?”

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Bond Awakening?

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For him it started a bit differently. He had finished training earlier that evening and left the arena to join Mydie and some of the other Chrysos Heirs for a meeting to discuss the flame chase journey. 

He had felt off all day. He felt like there was something off, he just couldn’t put his finger on what it was. For almost the entirety of his training he felt a presence with him, like there was someone sitting in the seats of the arena, watching him. But when he finally finished training, and looked to the seats of the arena he found no one. 

He muttered something to himself about losing his mind, and went to grab his clothes. 

The feeling came back, seeming to get stronger, as he walked to the meeting. 

He bumped into Mydie as he made his way there from the arena. However, this time he felt too off to banter with Mydie as he usually would. The feeling reached its peak as he and Mydie went through the halls to the Garden of Life. 

He found himself leaning over on a wall, head pounding, ears ringing. Mydie was right beside him, shouting at him, trying to find out what was wrong. But he couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears, he brought a hand to cover his eyes, and then he saw it. 

A silhouette of a woman in front of a metal box, looking at a sheet of paper pinned to it. His attention went to the paper, it was filled with about six or seven sketches of him. Shock, then confusion, went through his mind, he tried to see the face of the woman, but to no avail, for everything went black. And at last he was in silence. One thought stuck with him, as he lost consciousness, who was she?

When he finally came to, he was laying down in a bed in the hall of respite. Aglaea and some of the others were there too. 

His mind was racing, but he schooled his expression, he felt like this was something that was very personal to him, something only he should know about. 

“He’s awake.” 

Mydie said, causing the Chrysos Heirs present to turn their attention to him, fretting over his health. 

After a few minutes, convincing them he was okay, putting on a cheery facade, Aglaea finally spoke. 

“The threads seem to see your fate has been weaved to another’s.” 

The room became silent, with Castorice breaking it. 

“What does that mean?” 

“You know of the Flame chase journey, of the prophecies we have, but the titans once graced us with what many no longer remember: Soulmates.” 

The Tribbie trio let out a gasp, Mydie gave him an unreadable look, and Castorice covered her mouth in shock. 

He didn't understand. He had a soulmate? 

Aglaea continued, but he only heard parts of it. 

“When we had better relations with them, the titans graced us by tying our fate to another, our other half.”

If she was truly his soulmate, where was she? 

She clearly knew of him, or saw him through the bond. The tin box and surroundings from the small glimpse he got weren’t enough to make a good determination of where she was, only that she wasn’t in Okhema. 

“But some shunned their bond which angered the titans. This led them to stop giving out as many bonds. Which in turn led to more people either shun or covet such a bond, perpetuating the cycle.”

Would she shun him? 

“Thus, it has become a rare blessing heard of every couple of generations. You should consider yourself quite lucky,”

“Phainon.”

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Insanity: A look into the mind of an engineer going crazy

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Needless to say, you didn’t sleep much for the rest of the week, much too afraid to have another dream. While a small part of yourself craved it, you were startled. You couldn’t confide in anyone. You had friends, yes,  but what were you supposed to say to them without sounding crazy? 

Wednesday came and went, then Thursday, and finally Friday. You acted as you normally would’ve in class, avoided doodling like the plague, and found yourself consuming copious amounts of caffeine to ensure you wouldn't fall asleep.

It scared you, and yet you also wanted to know more. 

By the time you got back to your apartment on friday there was no use in trying to keep yourself awake, and you found yourself back on the couch, not bothering to go to your bed. Once again, passing out the moment your head hit the cushions. 

And similar to Tuesday, you found yourself in the city where the sun never set, dreaming. 

You recognized him from your previous dream, except he wasn’t training this time and was fully clothed. 

He was looking in the distance, leaning on a stone railing, at what appeared to be a massive rendition of Atlas holding up the sky. 

Feeling unsure of what to do, you walked forward, leaning on the railing a few paces from him, staring out at ‘Atlas.’ After a few moments, you turned your attention to the mystery man. You were actually able to see him better now than you had previously. 

You knew you probably shouldn't stare, but you couldn't help it, you felt inexplicably drawn to him. He was beautiful in the truest sense of the word. The sun painted gold on his already pristine features, making him look almost like a greek statue from a museum. 

You looked away, you felt like you’d been staring for too long, like if you stared for longer he’d notice you. 

Somehow you knew the figure in the distance wasn’t Atlas, this wasn't Greek mythology. You didn’t expect it to be confirmed, though. 

Quietly, as though he was talking to himself, he spoke.

“That figure in the distance is the world bearing Titan Kephale,” he paused, letting out a huff, “They’re one of the Three Titans of Creation, Kephale represents omnipotence and omniscience. As the titan of creation, they are a symbol to heroes and saviors alike.”

Then quieter, “I like to look to them when I feel lost.”

By this point, my eyes were fixed on the man before me, he was talking to me. He was, wasn’t he? 

Just as you opened your mouth to ask him if he knew you were there he spoke once more, except he was now looking towards you, away from Kephale. 

“You are there, aren't you, soulmate?”

And then you woke up gasping on your couch. Unlike last time, you remembered more of the dream, and ran to your notebook to draw what you could remember, Kephale. 

Pushing the notion of you being his soulmate to the side, soulmates didn’t exist, or that's what you told yourself as you sketched. 

It became a pattern. Once or twice a week, you'd crash on your couch and see him and more of the city. Then, remembering bits and pieces of the dreams, you’d start doodling it, and somehow as though your hand was possessed, you'd draw it.  

Your fridge had become crowded with pictures of the mystery man, Okhema (he said the name at one point), and notes. After some friends commented on the fact that they "didn't know you were an artist,” you started keeping things in a binder in your room. 

By the the one year mark you had a few things you knew for certain:

1. The mystery man lived in a city called Okhema in the land he called Amphoreus

2. He couldn’t hear you or see you, but could sense your presence near him

3. He was a part of  an organization called the Chrysos Heirs (he didn’t elaborate on what they did, only mentioning it a few times offhandedly) 

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Insanity: A look into the mind of a Chrysos Heir losing his mind

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He could sense her. Or he thought he could, he half thought he was losing his mind.

The next time he felt her was after another Chrysos Heirs meeting. The other Chrysos Heirs treated him a bit differently after finding out he was bound to another, except Mydei, he treated him exactly the same (save the occasional unreadable expression that crosses his features).

It was frustrating to him, they were all here in Okhema for the Flame Chase journey, and had known each other for years now. And now, they were being standoffish towards him. For the entirety of their meeting the others (save Mydei and Aglaea) gave him wary glances and left quickly after the meeting, leaving him alone and dejected. 

After that he quickly excused himself and found a place where he could be alone. As he stared at Kephale in the distance, and then he sensed her. 

He stood there, leaning against that railing, for a while before he said anything. He was pretty sure she wasn't from Amphoreus, so as he figured he’d share who Kephale was, afterall if she was truly there she was seeing Kephale in all their glory, not knowing who they were. 

“That figure in the distance is the world bearing Titan Kephale,” he paused, holding back a laugh, if anyone walked by they’d think he was losing it.

“They’re one of the Three Titans of Creation, Kephale represents omnipotence and omniscience. As the titan of creation, they are a symbol to heroes and saviors alike.” He continued, voice dropping in volume, as he confessed, “I like to look to them when I feel lost.”

As he confessed, he turned to where he sensed his soulmate, only to see the rest of the railing was empty. He pursed his lips, what if she wasn’t there? What if he was going crazy

“You are there, aren't you, soulmate?” He asked, more to himself than anyone else, looking at the empty spot to his side.

He saw her once more much later that day. Once again standing before the tin box, now with more drawings pinned up, him, Kephale, the Okhema sky. 

He still couldn’t see her properly, only catching glimpses of her hair and hands if she was pinning up another sketch.

That didn’t matter to him though, she could see him. She was there, somewhere, he just needed to find her. 

As so Phainon began talking to himself more often, telling the mystery woman of his daylight dreams, of Okhema, the flame chase journey and anything he thought she ought to know. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Bond Awakening 2.0?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

And so the dreams, the drawing, the mystery man who haunted your sleeping world, became routine. They were a normal part of your life now, something you came to expect as a third year in your fall semester of your junior year of college. Usually twice a week, sometimes more, you saw him. 

You still didn’t know his name, and he yours, but you knew he could sense you. Sometimes when he would speak to you he’d look to his left when you were on his right or turn around to talk to you when you were in front of him. 

Somehow, in the two years you’d been having the dreams you found yourself almost infatuated, it wasn't love, it was more akin to a sort of limerence. You knew you’d never meet him, he was in the realest sense of the saying, the man of your dreams, and that’s where he’d remain. 

Or so you thought. 

You must have committed great sins in your past life, or the gods above had some sort of vendetta against you and couldn’t let you live in peace. Regardless of the case, your world changed once more on a Tuesday. 

The gods must’ve loved Tuesdays, and chaos.  

That Tuesday was a rough one. You had an exam that evening, and a long shift at your job. You hadn’t gotten much sleep that day and were barely hanging onto your sanity. By the time you finally got to your exam you could feel the fatigue setting in, different from usual, which you chalked up to your lack of sleep from the night before. Along with the fatigue was another sensation that brewed within you, but like the fatigue you brushed it off as sleep deprivation. 

The exam was an hour in length. Technically, a little longer, with the reading of instructions, but for all intensive purposes, an hour. 

It started small. During the few minutes when they passed out the exams, and read the instructions for the exam you began to hear a faint murmuring and the sensation from earlier returned briefly.  

But, you hadn't slept in 36 hours and figured it was from that, last time you’d pulled an all-nighter it was in your sophomore year, you saw the hat manTM. So this wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary. 

But, as you’d soon find out, that was just the beginning. 

The moment the proctor said “open the test booklets,” you were a madman unleashed, you annotated, underlined, calculated, circled, and truly abused the test booklet. You knew the content well, and finished the 15 multiple choice questions in 20-25 minutes, leaving the remaining 35-40 for the free response questions. 

Around the 40 minute mark the murmurs and sensation came back, faint, but there. 

You looked up from your exam, eyes looking around the room, where was it coming from? No one around you was talking or muttering to themselves, so where was the sound coming from?

It started faint, and would randomly become more coherent before becoming faint once more. It was the 43 minute mark when you felt it, a feeling you would later know as the moment your soul was fully tied to another’s. 

“I hope Mydie doesn't notice it’s missing…”

Were you actually losing it? You felt a tugging sensation in your chest, was it a bad choice to have 8 shots of espresso before an exam? Were you having a heart attack, a hallucination? You didn’t know, the voice was vaguely familiar, but you couldn't dwell on it, the feeling in your chest was bearable and you had an exam to finish. 

And so, ignoring your impending descent into madness, you finished the free response, easing through the calculations spitting out some basic explanations. Without bothering to check your work, you handed the exam to your TA and walked out of the auditorium, head pounding, heart thumping, and a voice that did not belong to you echoing in your mind. 

When you finally got outside, you broke, sinking into the nearest bench, muttering under your breath. 

“Who’s there? Why can I hear your voice? Who are you?”

Then realizing the absurdity of your actions began to laugh out loud, not able to help yourself. 

“I’m losing my mind.”

You said it aloud, not expecting a response. You truly believed in that moment that engineering had won, the calculus, the linear algebra, the one too many all-nighters you’d pulled in the past three years had finally gotten to you. You were insane. 

“Who are you?”

And there he was again, interrupting your descent into madness.  

“I should be asking you that, you're the one who starts muttering to himself while I’m taking an exam! What are you, some sort of phantom who tortures engineering students?”

There was a moment of silence, and you straightened up, you looked crazy. 

“A phantom?” he let out a gasp, as though he had never been called something so preposterous, “No! I’m a Chrysos Heir, I-” 

You started walking, leaving the bench behind, bringing your phone to your ear to make it look like you were on a call as you walked to your apartment deciding you were going to call in sick. A bout of insanity had to count towards a sick day. 

“I don’t know what that is, why can I hear your voice?” You asked, truly wondering for your sanity, “Last time I checked people didn't just hear voices in their head unless they were losing their mind.”

He let out the huff of a laugh at that, “Do you truly not know?”

There was something about his voice that was familiar to you, a nagging sensation in the back of your mind pressed but in your sleep deprived state you weren’t thinking too hard about it. 

“What do you mean? I don’t think I’m just supposed to know who you are, this doesn't happen to sane people.”

He laughed now, truly laughing, “You’re so cute.”

You sputtered at that, “You don’t even know me, how can you-”

“We’ve spent the past two years dancing around one another in the plane of dreams, never truly talking as we do now, though.”

He must’ve sensed your confusion. 

“I never knew what Aglaea meant when she talked about the tether, to be able to feel and see the connections between others.” 

“You aren’t in Amphoreus are you?” 

“What! don't change the subject…” You paused, Amphoreus, did you hear that right? “Just who are you? I’ve never talked about that to anyone.”

“I’m Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, and you’re my soulmate from beyond the skies.”

You stopped walking, you were his what now? 

You stood there, unmoving, the gears of your sleep deprived brain turned slowly, connecting the dots. 

Amphoreus, soulmates, Chrysos Heirs. It was him. 

He didn’t say anything, must’ve sensed you were connecting the dots, patiently waiting as you did so. 

“It’s you.”

And so it began.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Excerpts and Glimpses

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

You and Phainon had an interesting relationship, he was exceedingly charismatic, and enjoyed telling you all about Amphoreus, the titans and the lore of the land. While you told him tidbits of your day, of your world, and of course of the torturous life an engineering student lived. 

The two of you developed an unspoken rule: when you were studying or taking an exam he couldn’t interrupt you, likewise when he was at a Chrysos Heirs meeting you couldn’t interrupt him. 

You enjoyed his presence and learning more about the man from your dreams, which had stopped since you began hearing him that fateful Tuesday. But, a part of you couldn’t understand why he decided to humor you, you were likely a galaxy away if not further, and he still spoke of you as though you were the only one for him. It perplexed you. 

As you grew closer and the tether between you strengthened, your perplexion stayed, what were you two? 

Excerpt 1: the training arc you did not consent to

The tether between you and Phainon strengthened as your mental conversations became commonplace. This meant you two could conjure up mental images to send one another. From him you’d receive a plethora of the food he was eating, strange emojis from his world for when he wanted something and views he thought you'd find pretty.  From you, the memes of the internet, food, sights around campus and if he irritated you, your homework. 

But that didn’t mean you two didn’t get glimpses of one another when you didn’t expect it, the universe had a way of keeping the two of you on your toes. Mostly you. 

It happened mid lecture, you were staring out the window as the professor droned on about semiclassical and quantum aspects of black holes—a tangent from the actual lecture material—when you felt it. It started as a pulsing behind your eyes, like the beginnings of a headache before you were no longer in the lecture hall,  and were instead seeing Phainon. 

It was unfair for him to be so beautiful.

You felt like you were seeing something you shouldn’t. No, you felt like a Victorian man seeing ankles for the first time. You were no doubt blushing, but you couldn't help it. 

He was training, swinging his blade as he had the first time you saw him, except this time you had a closer view than before.

Unlike the first time you saw him training, in your freshman year, you now knew him, yearned for him. The first time you saw him he was just the mystery man of your dreams, now he was Phainon, now he was someone who mattered to you. 

Seeing him now out in the open, such a blatant show of strength and discipline. His muscles contracting as he swung his blade, you slapped yourself mentally. You needed holy water. Here you were thirsting for Phainon while he was trying to get stronger for Okhema. You tried to sever the vision. It didn't work, it seemed to only become more clear. 

You needed to get serious. You shouldn’t be seeing him like that. You conjured cats in pajamas, pencils dancing, calculus, anything to exorcise your thoughts. And finally it worked, you blinked a few times and found yourself back in the dull lighting of the lecture hall, listening to your professor. 

In another universe, in Amphoreus Phainon stumbles midtraining, audibly confused. 

“Was that a cat in pajamas?” 

Mydie gave him a look of disappointment, and said something in Kremnoan. 

Excerpt 2: the incidents, plural  

Your lack of interest in dating surprised a lot of your friends. You were a junior, most of your friends were planning their lives with their partners for after college. And the fact that you were content in your single-hood confused them. 

But, at the end of the day they chalked it up to you focusing on your career and being okay with being single. 

As much as you wanted that to be true, that you were just secure in yourself and didn’t want a relationship at the moment, it wasn’t so simple. Especially when you had someone in your head who couldn’t fathom the act of you being with someone or someone courting you. 

Exhibit A: Chemistry

It was the beginning of the spring semester, and had been snowing off and on for the past few weeks. 

You had just gotten a temporary position as a lab TA for an intro level chemistry class. The pay was decent, and your other parttime job was being remodeled for the first month of the semester, meaning you needed to seek money elsewhere.

 The class was predominately freshmen with a few upperclassmen humanities majors sprinkled in who finally had to take chemistry after avoiding it for their first few years of college. You explained concepts to people when they got confused and were a fairly lenient grader. You understood the struggles of chemistry and chose to be a merciful grader in hopes that students didn’t stress over the class too much. 

You were just a girl, you followed the rules, and were just trying to make some money on the side. 

So imagine your surprise when one of your freshmen babies, a shy chemistry major whose lab partner didn’t show up half the time, asked you out. 

The moment the words left his lips after lab one afternoon the bond jolted. 

He was listening. 

“Who is that?” Phainon asked, emotion lacing his voice. 

“No one, don't worry about it.” you mentally muttered back, effectively silencing Phainon. 

You looked at the freshman before you, preparing yourself to gently let him down. 

“You’re a nice kid, but I’m, in essence, your professor.” You started, trying to maintain a professional tone. “And even if I wasn’t, we don’t know each other.”

The kid in question stared at you for a few seconds, trying to wrap his head around what you were saying. 

“But you’re just a few years older—”

You didn’t hear much after that, as Phainon decided it was the perfect time to interject.

“Don’t worry about it?! Don't worry about it? Who does this guy think he is, he–”

The bond went taut. 

“He looks like a child, who does this punk think–” 

You tried to tune him out, bringing a hand to your temples as Phainon had a mental temper tantrum. 

The freshman paused, “Are you okay?”

You could feel a headache forming.

You stared blankly at him, “Yeah, I’ve been spiraling into madness for a while now, the voices don't bother me much anymore.”

“Wha-t?” 

“I think you should leave.” 

He straightened, nodded and quite literally ran out of the room. 

Leaving you, a headache, and a smug Phainon lingering in the bond. 

When you asked him about it later, he just said you were too good for a child like him. 

Exhibit B: The day Phainon won a battle he didn’t know he was fighting 

It was the week of Valentines day, a holiday you truly didn’t really care about, but tolerated because you liked chocolate.

As your friends gushed about love being in the air, you pulled your coat tighter and shook your head. The only thing that was in the air was the chill that followed a false spring. 

As you went about your week, their words echoed in your mind. 

That week Valentine's Day happened on a Saturday, so by Friday everyone was cramming to get a date.

You’d seen about four people get asked out before lunch that day, maybe love was in the air. Regardless, you didn’t care, you were tired, cold, and most importantly, were getting mentally bombarded with questions about Valentine's day. 

Phainon had gone from the origin of Valentine’s day, to chocolate, to the meaning behind the red-pink-white theme people had going. 

“I don’t know why they chose those colors, maybe they just thought they were pretty” you muttered aloud, too tired to say it mentally. 

As you exited the library, one of your classmates began to approach you. 

You stilled momentarily, before continuing to walk, not noticing them behind you, a laugh bubbling out of you.

“Oh, no no! They don’t give each other real hearts, that would be too gory. They are heart shapes, pink and red.” 

As you continued away from the library you didn’t notice your classmate slowly throwing away the bouquet of roses, a grim look on their face. 

Maybe love was in the air, but not for them.  

Exhibit C: Admiring 

You were in the library, studying there between classes, when you saw him. 

Wow, he’s hot. 

He was pretty, nice jawline, great sense of fashion, luscious hair. 

Just a pretty face that you’d admired across campus a few times. A pretty face that caught your eye as you momentarily broke from your studies. 

Across the bond Phainon is tweaking. You were admiring a man. A man who was not him? 

“Who is that?”

You jolted in your seat, as though caught doing something you shouldn't have.

“No one, ignore that.”

On the other side of the bond Phainon gripped his glass so harshly it cracked.

“You can’t look at someone like that just to say that they’re no one.”

Your eyes dropped from the guy to your desk, “no one, drop it.” you muttered aloud, gaining some wayward glances from the other people surrounding you in the library. 

The bond pulsed, once, twice, as though to say ‘I see through your bullshit,’ before it stopped. 

“Don’t look at other men like that.”

Excerpt 3: pending title, mid-spring semester

The cold of winter came and went. As the weather changed and became warmer you, finally having a break from exams and a small break from work, decided to take some personal time. 

You had been having a long semester, with exams, a new position at your parttime position and just the stress of your junior year, you needed a break to blow off some steam. 

Nothing grand, you were simply taking the night to yourself. A long shower, maybe light a candle or two, some you time. 

But, you should’ve known the bond would never let things be so easy. 

After your shower, you felt more relaxed than you had in a long time. You made your way to bed to fully decompress, a bit of indulgence, if you will. 

It’ll just be a moment, it's harmless, private, normal.  

The thing with soul bonds you’d soon find out, was that in times of intense emotion they became taut, allowing more than small glimpses and thoughts to pass through the tether. Which meant, in this moment Phainon was seeing and hearing everything, not clearly, not fully, but enough to paint the rest of the picture. 

You, in your bed, skin warm with heat, flushed. Chest rising, your head falling back, back arching as you muttered things no one should have heard. 

His name fell from your lips, once quietly then again, and he was certain it was his name. 

A few minutes passed before you became aware of his presence against the tether, feeling the dull ache of embarrassment radiating from the other end. 

Oh my god. Oh my god 

“You, you-”

“No no, it, I,” He tripped, stuttered and verbally somersaulted over his words, half apologies, half exposing himself as having seen your private moment. Finally, he stopped mentally digging himself a hole, and uttered out a small apology, receding into the tether. 

You two didn't speak for a week after that, much too embarrassed to acknowledge it.

Excerpt 4: clarification 

A little over a month after Phainon mentally walked in on you, one of your longtime friends from freshman year had a bad breakup. 

Naturally you helped her out, making sure she was taking care of her, letting her vent to you about how horrible he was, and making sure she didn’t call him or text him until she was in her right mind. 

After a few weeks when she was stable, you gave her some space, making sure she knew she could count on you if she needed someone. As you returned to your apartment you mind wandered back to your friend’s dilemma and then to Phainon. 

You two flirted, sure, and there’s no denying your attraction to him, but you let out a sigh, looking at your ceiling. 

 “It’s not like he really likes me, he’s just being nice, we’re like mental roommates.”

You laughed at your analogy, pouring yourself a glass of water. And you truly believed it, there was no way Phainon liked you like that, he was just being nice. Afterall, he was a galaxy away, probably further, and he was a Chrysos Heir, while you were a college student. There was no way he felt any hint of romance towards you. 

How wrong you were. 

A few seconds after those words escaped your lips you feel it, feel him. 

The first thing you hear is his laughter, light at first as though you said something funny before it began to sound as though he was descending into madness, octaves of his voice coming out that you’d never heard. 

“Don’t like you?” He asks, voice raspy from laughing so hard, letting out a small ‘hah,’ before continuing, “You’ve been haunting my waking hours for over two years, I live and breathe for the day when I get to meet you.”

The tether went taut, forcing you to suck in a breath as he continued. 

“I yearn for you, and you play it off as me being nice? I haven’t been able to think straight since I got a glimpse of you that night.”

You feel your face becoming warmer, knees buckling beneath you, “you’re insane,” you think offhandedly, “You don’t even know me.” 

“Oh but I do, I know that you bite the inside of your cheek when you're nervous. You laugh when you’re embarrassed. You hide behind sarcasm, spunk, and cat memes, but I see right through you.” He let out a sigh, “I could go on, if you’d like,” he paused, “Perhaps it's better if I showed you.” 

His words silenced and for a second you thought you were safe, and then your world shifted and you saw it,  felt it, the world through Phainon’s eyes. 

You’re pushed into the plush of a bed, more expensive than anything you could dream of. 

The air smells of desire, the room is warm, painted in the golden glow of the Amphoreus sun. Your clothes litter the floor, as you stare up at Phainon, hair messy as he tilts your chin towards him as he leans down. 

He doesn’t claim your lips, no, he presses wet kisses to your collar bone, neck, and face, just not your lips, as though he’s saving them for later. 

And then you hear him, not just through the tether but whispering against your ear. 

“Just five minutes, five minutes and I’ll have you forgetting all about your studies, your problems, Titans,” he rasped, “your own name, all to be replaced with thoughts of me.”

Your legs turned to jello beneath you as you sunk to the floor of your kitchen, glass left abandoned on the kitchen counter. 

Your ears burned as he continued. 

“I want to worship you, I’ve been thinking about this for years now, yearning for the day I could have you, my dawnlight, in my arms crying out my name.”

Your vision blurred and you found yourself back in your dim lit kitchen. 

His tone changed, “And you thought I just saw you as my, how did you put it? Mental roommate?” 

He laughed again, “No, you could never be someone so trivial to me.” 

And that's how he left you, flushed, clutching the kitchen counter as though it were a lifeline. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Sweet Dreams? Home invasion? More like your normal Tuesday 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

What is it with higher powers and Tuesdays??

You had goals, aspirations if you will. You wanted to graduate, get a nice job, a house, maybe a cat.

You knew it was pretty stereotypical, but you were a simple woman who wanted the simple luxuries in life. 

And it was midterms season for fucks sake. 

You were minding your own business, walking to a nearby cafe to study, when you tripped and got hit by a truck (kidding, kidding)  and faceplanted right into the concrete sidewalk. 

The bond twitched. 

“You okay, that must’ve hurt.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” You groaned as you slowly got up. 

Only instead of seeing the university sidewalk in front of you, you found yourself in an open space with a cube that floated mere meters before you. 

“Okay, maybe I’m not fine, I think I hit my head too hard.” 

“What do you mean?”

Your eyes wandered from the cube to–

Kephale. 

Your world stopped. What.

I don't think we’re in Kansas anymore, Todo. 

In Okhema Phainon was ecstatic . You were here. You were in Amphoreus. In reach. 

He started walking—no running to Dawncloud, to you. 

In Dawncloud, you were losing it. 

You walked from what you’d learn to be Demigod Council, away from the looming figure in the distance, Kephale. Seeing the titan in the distance left you with a mix of emotions. 

Part of you was happy, you were closer to Phainon now, and yet you were closer to Phainon, which meant you were no longer home. How were you supposed to achieve your dreams of becoming an engineer, getting that cat, a house? It was all gone. 

You came to a flight of stairs when you were stopped. 

“Halt.”

“What?”

A looming figure, probably twice your size, dressed in armor stood to your side. 

“No one is allowed at the Demigod Council without express permission. State your business.”

“Um,” your voice trailed off, what were you supposed to say to that, hell, what was your business? 

The guard took a step towards you. 

“Leave her be, she’s with me.” 

A voice suddenly shouted, causing the guard to halt his movement and presumably return to his post. 

Your eyes followed the voice to a man with red tattoos littering his body. 

“You’re…Mydei”

You said, still shocked, his being there further confirming the fact that you were in Amphoreus. 

Mydei stared at you for a few moments before letting out a scoff. 

“And you’re the Deliverer’s soulmate,” he let out a small ‘tsk’ before continuing, “You ought to change clothes, you gain too much attention dressed like that.” 

“Wha–”

As you began to question Mydie the bond twitched, more violently than it had earlier causing you to jolt. 

And then you heard it. Actually heard it, not through the bond, but with your own ears.

“There you are.”

Breathless, but undoubtedly him. 

“Phainon.” 

Your eyes left Mydei almost immediately upon hearing him. A few paces down the stairs stood Phainon, face flush with exertion, eyes burning with desire. 

You were tackled a few moments later.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Climax: Five minutes

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

About a week after arriving in Amphoreus, you started tweaking, it was almost reminiscent of your first summer break after your first year of college. 

You were stranded in a strange world that abided by different rules than you were used to. You couldn’t get a job (as no one dared hire the soulmate to a Chrysos Heir), and had early on decided you didn’t want to go to the academia at the grove (you met Anaxa once and knew that if you had a class with him you’d strangle him), which left you either wandering Okhema with Phainon or alone in his dwelling when he was on missions. 

As you laid on the couch in his home, you thought back to when you were back home. A sigh left your lips. You missed your phone. You missed your friends. You missed crappy romances. And, you never thought you'd say it, but you missed college. 

Your mind drifted to Phainon, you never thought you'd actually meet him, for a long time you thought you’d gone crazy and that he was a hallucination (not that you’d admit that to him). But moreso, you didn’t think you’d end up falling for him so soon. 

Just five minutes 

His words from months ago floated from the depths of your thoughts, you quickly dismissed pushed them back down, since your arrival he’d been the perfect gentleman, you–

You brought your hands to cover your face. Someone needed to spray you with a squirt bottle, you needed to get a grip, and yet your thoughts kept drifting to his statements from then. 

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

The bond stirred with mischief. On a mission elsewhere, Phainon smirked, smug with himself. 

“Five minutes. When you return from the mission, you get five minutes.”

When he finally returned, he found you lounging on the couch with a book in your lap. 

In three strides he was in front of you, your book was tossed to the side, then your clothes, then his clothes. And soon you, with pure bliss, you forgot what it was even about, the only thing on your mind was Phainon, and his you. 

When you finally came to, you were pleasantly sore, limbs tangled with Phainon’s in his bed. Phainon traced his fingers on your ribcage, lightly as though drawing the sun tattoo on his neck onto your body. 

“That was more than five minutes,” you muttered, voice raspy, although not displeased. 

“Hm, was it?” he uttered in response, as if he didn’t have you crying out to the titans hours prior. 

Cheeky bastard.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Settling  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Even though you came from another world, it was easy to settle into routine with Phainon by your side. He never pushed you one way or another, he was simply there. A constant in your life. While he did leave you for missions pertaining to the Flame Chase and his duty as a Chrysos Heir, his presence lingered with you in the bond, and he always returned with a trinket or a story to tell. 

The other Chrysos Heirs were wary of you at first but soon welcomed you to Okhema in their own ways. Mydei would cook with you on occasion between missions, when he wasn’t busy with his duty as crown prince of Kremnos. And Aglaea would tell you about the history of Amphoreus and the Chrysos Heirs. 

The Tribios triplets would tell you embarrassing stories about Phainon when he wasn’t looking, and Castorice would tell you of Aidonia while the two of you made fresh dried flowers with Hyacine.  

You and Anaxa argued often, as you predicted, but also had many debates on the nature of the world, philosophy and the like. He had you reading books from the libraries of the Grove, as though you were studying engineering again. You didn’t see her much but the demigod of trickery, Cipher, would have you chasing her across Okema for your coin purse. Often having you going on elaborate journeys through the city. 

Your life there was unlike your life back then, but now you felt almost fulfilled in a way. Aglaea said Phainon tended to have that effect on people, and who were you to disagree. 

Fin –

This is about to be me when I go back and reread this (and find some sort of grammar error or something of the sort).

anyways debating if I should do someone else (later on)...

[danijaci]

take that everybody

[kisscenes]

there’s a smear of chocolate on phainon’s cheek.

stupidly, you want to lick it off.

you fight the impulse, just barely. the kitchen is warm, filled with the rich scent of cocoa and cooling pastry. flour dusts nearly every surface, including the tip of phainon’s nose, but it’s the dark smudge of chocolate ganache on his cheekbone that holds your attention.

“you’ve got something,” you say, gesturing vaguely at your own face.

phainon glances up from where he’s carefully piping the last of the ganache onto a tart. his hair is falling into his eyes, despite being pushed back carelessly with whatever he’d found first—one of your headbands, you think, the dark blue one. there’s something about seeing him like this, sleeves rolled up, that does worse things to your composure than any amount of formal attire ever could.

“where?” he sets down the piping bag.

“your cheek.” you watch him lift his hand, chocolate-stained fingers hovering near his face. “don’t—you’ll just make it worse.”

too late. he’s managed to smear it lightly, a dark streak now instead of a simple smudge. he blinks.

“come here,” you say. he crosses to you, leaving the pastries abandoned on the counter. you’re leaning against the island, and he stops just in front of you—close enough that you can see the faint flush across his cheekbones that might be from the warmth of the kitchen, or might not be.

you reach up, catching his jaw to tilt his face towards the light. his skin is warm.

“you’re terrible at baking,” you say, swiping your thumb across the chocolate. it comes away dark and glossy.

“the tarts look perfect.”

“you’ve destroyed the kitchen.”

“that’s what cleaning is for.” his voice has gone quieter, eyes tracking your hand as you bring your thumb to your lips. the chocolate is bittersweet and rich, and you don’t miss the way his gaze darkens as you lick it clean.

“good batch,” you say.

“is it.” not really a question. he hasn’t moved away. neither have you, and now you’re close enough to catch the scent of vanilla and dark chocolate that clings to him, mixing with something warmer beneath.

“might need a second opinion.” you trace your thumb along his cheekbone again, where there’s no chocolate this time, just an excuse to touch him. “you’ve got flour, too.”

“do i?”

“mhm. right here.” you brush at the dusting on his nose, and he makes a soft sound, halfway to a giggle.

phainon’s hands come to rest on the counter on either side of you, bracketing you in. “if you wanted to make a mess of me, there are more efficient methods.”

“i didn’t make a mess,” you protest. “but is that an offer?”

“could be,” phainon says, shrugging. one of his hands lifts, chocolate-stained fingers catching your chin. “a proposition, i suppose. i notice you’ve been staring at my mouth for the past three minutes.”

“have not!”

“you have.” his thumb brushes your lower lip, leaving the faintest trace of ganache there. “were you thinking about me licking this off, too?”

your breath catches. “maybe.”

“maybe,” he repeats, amused, and there’s something unfairly attractive about how composed he sounds despite the faint flush on his cheeks. “you could just kiss me, you know. would be simpler.”

“where’s the fun in that?”

“efficiency isn’t fun?”

“not particularly.” but you’re already closing the distance, and he tastes like chocolate and sugar and cherries. his mouth is soft against yours, insistent. when you pull back, his eyes are half-lidded, pleased.

“better?” he asks.

“getting there.” you catch his wrist, bring those chocolate-stained fingers to your mouth and clean them one by one, slow and deliberate. his breathing goes uneven, and satisfaction sparks bright in your chest.

“the tarts,” phainon says, but it comes out distracted, unfocused.

“can wait.” you pull him closer by his shirt, feel him yield easily. “you started this.”

“did i?” he’s smiling against your mouth now, wicked and warm. “i was just baking.”

“you’re never just doing anything.”

“fair enough,” he laughs, soft and private. then his hands are on your waist, lifting you onto the counter with easy strength, and suddenly you’re eye-level, the flour and mess forgotten as he steps between your knees. his hands slide up your thighs.

the tarts cool on the counter behind him.

a/n another repost because i miss phainon >:) thanks for reading!

[elysiumae]

neroli and nectarines.

⟢ pairing: phainon x f!reader

⟢ word count: 14.2k

⟢ tags: abo dynamics, omegaverse, beta!reader, omega!phainon, mention of discrimination against betas, secondary gender stereotypes/roles, eventual smut (mdni), more fleshed out reader, much much unnecessary yapping about amphorean history

Back in your home village, betas were often regarded as unmateable—half-formed things left out of Cerces and Mnestia's blessings of perfect union. They could not carry on family lineage like alphas, nor were they fertile enough to command a bride price the way omegas did. They could not scent, could not bond, and were therefore regarded as socially worthless. You'd quickly learned not to expect—or desire—otherwise. Or, on the journey to Loukas, an encounter with Phagousa's Soul-Purifying Spring causes everything to go sideways for you and Phainon—the most desirable alpha in the Eternal Holy City.

⟢ chapters: one | two

The road to Loukas exists less often than not.

Progress has been slow-going the past half a week, and it doesn't seem as though today is going to be any different. The sun's already nearing its zenith in the sky and you have yet to make any headway. Not for a lack of effort—the ground before you simply refuses to match the lines on your maps—but the outcome remains the same, regardless. Perhaps you were too generous in calling the loose stone crumbling beneath your feet a 'road' at all.

This relentless heat isn't helping your mood, either.

You finally give up poring over your maps, wincing at the stiffness in your neck as you look up. To your right, the cliffs rise upwards in jagged lines before falling away sharply, giving way to the Aegean sea beyond. Sunlight splinters over its waves like mirror shards scattered across phthalo blue.

Were this any other time, the sight might have captivated you. Instead, you turn your gaze inland, a hand raised against the sun's glare to scan the rocky slope.

It hadn't been your intention to split up earlier, but your companion had noticed your breaths flagging during the uphill climb and insisted you rest—here, beneath the shade of this fig tree—while he went ahead in search of your landmarks. A rocky outcrop in the shape of a clenched fist, the annotations stubbornly insist, in minute script crammed between the weaving ink lines of the coast. With how old these records are, you'll be surprised if he finds it still standing, if he finds it at all.

But Fortune favours the fair—and so, he does.

"I found it!"

You turn just in time to see a familiar white-clad silhouette crest a small rise. Phainon's hair is half-wild and tousled over his forehead—presumably the result of the balmy wind rising from the coast—but he doesn't seem to pay it much mind as he jogs over. The soles of his boots crunch over stone and dry scrub until he comes to a stop in front of you, panting lightly but grinning wide.

"I found it," he repeats, more clearly this time. You raise a brow.

"You found it?"

"I did. Just a short distance north of here, actually." Phainon hunches over as he confirms, both hands bracing on his knees to catch his breath before glancing up at you again. His blue eyes are bright behind his sweat-damp fringe. "It's crumbling somewhat, but definitely recognisable." His grin widens. "See? Told you there was nothing to worry about."

That's easy for him to say, when he isn't in charge of navigation. Still, perspiration beads along the line of his brow, sliding down the curve of his jaw. You retrieve your waterskin. It's heavy in your hand, probably filled about three-quarters or more. You hold it out to him.

"You've been gone less than an hour," you say.

"Hm?" Phainon's smile falters slightly as he takes it from you. "Am I such poor company you were hoping I'd be gone longer?"

You ignore his quip. "We've been scouring this area ever since sunrise."

"I… suppose so?"

"And yet the moment we split up, you find it within three quints?"

"Ah." Phainon pauses mid-swallow at that, his lips curling into a grin around the waterskin. "Well, when you put it that way, it does sound rather impressive."

You give him a decidedly unimpressed look.

He wipes at his dripping mouth with the back of his hand. "You seem as though you suspect foul play."

"Merely considering the statistical improbability."

His eyes brighten.

"Does that mean you're impressed?"

Trust Phainon to spin your words into something flattering. "No, it means I'm questioning whether you found the correct landmark at all."

"Wow. I return bearing triumph and victory only to be received with doubt and suspicion. I thought you'd be more relieved."

You are relieved—more than you appear to be, probably. Back in the days of the Era Bellica, the city-states of Amphoreus had been connected by proper stone-laid roads that had sustained trade in the region for centuries. But after Loukas fell to the Black Tide, the road that once led there had followed: first into neglect, then into ruin—slowly reclaimed by Georios over the years. What remains of it now is little more than fractured stone, its purpose long since crumbled back to dust.

Navigating by these centuries-old maps hasn't been the easiest undertaking, too.

"Alright, fine," you concede as Phainon returns your now empty waterskin. "I suppose I can confirm that we aren't lost, at least." And that you haven't been leading the two of you in circles for the past three days. Forget Phainon; you wouldn't let yourself live it down, if that were the case.

Phainon shrugs easily.

"Getting lost is just another term for scenic detour." His tone is expressedly serious, though the curl of his mouth and the quick flick of his eyes in your direction betrays him. "It's all a matter of perspective. Wouldn't you agree?"

You pinch your nose for good measure. Normally, you wouldn't pay getting lost much mind—you could always wait for night to fall, take your bearings from the stars—but Phainon's time is too valuable to be wasted tramping aimlessly across the Jerichan countryside. There are more important duties than safeguarding you waiting for him back in the Holy City, and the sooner you retrieve the documents Lady Aglaea sent you for, the better.

It's this thought that has you moving quickly to roll up your maps. "When we get back to Okhema, remind me to buy you a dictionary," you say dryly, paying additional care to their fraying edges. Phainon cocks his head, curious.

"What for?"

"So that you can start looking up the definition to words."

His laughter rings out amidst the scorched, dreary landscape. "That was rude." Phainon tries to sound affronted, but it's no use when he's smiling so widely. "Oh—and speaking of detours, I spotted a settlement to the west earlier." He hooks a thumb over his pauldron. "I couldn't make it out clearly, but it looked to be a small town. Not too far from here, I wager."

His offhanded tone tells you this is leading somewhere more. You narrow your eyes at him, feeling like a fish just shy of closing its mouth around a line.

"…And?"

"I was thinking we could stop by and ask the locals for directions." Phainon pauses just long enough for you to consider the suggestion before adding, "Perhaps get a drink to cool down too, while we're at it."

You eye his overly innocent look, his spread hands. "You're remarkably predictable, you know?"

"I'm nothing if not reliable."

"This isn't another one of those occasions where you've already decided and are now generously allowing me to pretend I have a say?"

Phainon puts up both hands as though you've accused him of a grave crime. "Preposterous," he insists, despite the faint smile tugging at his mouth. "I'd never attempt to manipulate you so blatantly. Naturally, we'll go wherever you decide."

"Mm, I'm sure…"

He's playing that little game of his again—mildly exasperating for you, endlessly amusing for him. Once, Phainon's habitual deference to you had kept you perpetually on edge—a trait so distinctly out of place on an alpha it'd bordered on unsettling—but now, it's become little more than a familiar song and dance after so many journeys together. You fight the urge to swat him with your maps—they're far too precious for that—and instead focus on tucking them carefully into your satchel.

When you glace up again, Phainon still has yet to say a word. His eyes seem to be smiling now, too.

You sigh.

"We could," you say at last, in an attempt to frame your words as ambiguously as possible. Phainon's grin widens.

"We could."

You shoot him a sideways look and start down the rocky slope without him. Phainon's laughter trails behind you like a loose ribbon caught in the wind. It takes him all of three strides to catch up, anyway, and you click your tongue as he falls into step beside you—Mnestia and their favourites—and resist the urge to quicken your pace.

The settlement Phainon spotted turns out to be a small town of sorts. A modest scattering of buildings sits tucked into the shelter of a hillside slope, humble homes with whitewashed walls reminiscent of those in Okhema, clustered around a central agora. And fish are everywhere—laid out on wooden boards, strung up to dry beneath shallow eaves. It's an common sight for a seaside community.

Next to you, Phainon wrinkles his nose as he passes by a particularly ripe market stall, before he hastily smoothens his expression back into one of polite interest. You hide your snort behind your hand. One of the few benefits of being a beta, you suppose.

Only a few townspeople are out in the sun at this time of day, and the pair of you draw a handful of watchful looks as they go about their business. It's only to be expected as strangers in a small municipality—it doesn't look as though this town gets much in way of visitors at all. The first establishment you come across is a simple tavern with a low loft built above it, and its door creaks faintly when you push it open.

A girl jolts from one of the tables by the entrance. She's young, by the looks of it—roughly your age if you had to hazard a guess—with a stained apron around her waist. Despite this, she blinks owlishly at you and Phainon as you enter, moss-green eyes flickering over your dust-caked boots and travel worn clothes before darting to the man at your side.

Her posture straightens almost imperceptibly.

You clear your throat. She startles again, cheeks colouring, and hastens behind the counter.

Phainon steers you over towards a vacant table beneath an arched window. Sunlight spills across its wooden surface through the shuttered slats.

"Try not to frighten any of the locals," he teases, the ghost of a grin on his face as he pushes you into a seat. "I'll take a look at what they have."

He's gone before the protest can even find its way to your lips. Left to your own devices, you sigh and lean back in your chair to take stock of the tavern. It's not too crowded—several groups of older men sit scattered about round tables nursing cups over low conversation, while a portly woman in the far corner shells a steadily growing heap of legumes into a wooden bowl. The air smells faintly of brine and watered down wine.

More than that, you feel the weight of curious stares on your back.

When your eyes search instinctively for Phainon once more, you find him leaning over the counter, seemingly engaged in easy conversation. It comes as little surprise—people have a way of warming to him quickly. Lady Aglaea likes that about him. Whatever they're talking about is too muddled to make out amidst the low buzz of the tavern, but you catch the way she stumbles over her words, the faint pink creeping into her cheeks as she speaks.

Omega, your mind supplies unhelpfully before you can stop yourself.

The Grove's research insists that there are no meaningful differences in appearance between alphas and omegas, save for reproductive anatomy. Theory, however, rarely survives contact with reality. You dislike relying on outdated and narrow-minded stereotypes—alphas are territorial and domineering, omegas gentle and naturing—but such ideas rarely arise without some basis. Besides, betas like you are completely pheromone-blind. Navigating society would be impossible, otherwise.

You occupy yourself with staring at the sun-baked streets just beyond the window. A few minutes later, Phainon returns, a large cup in each hand.

"I got us kykeon," he announces. Your fingertips brush when he slides one over to you. "Here. Drink up."

You hum your thanks and take a sip. The taste is both familiar and not at the same time: watered down barley with a hint of local herbs, creamy with goat's cheese but finishing with a briny tang. You take your second mouthful more slowly, parsing the flavours as they settle across your tongue.

"It's… a little salty?"

Your comment comes out more inquisitive than you intend. Phainon smiles as he slides into the seat opposite yours, his coat tails brushing across the wooden floor. He seems amused by your reaction.

"They add seawater to the drink." He lifts his own cup to his lips. "It's a specialty here."

"Oh? According to who?"

"Leona."

Phainon nods over his shoulder at the counter. Leona. You turn her name over in your mind once, then twice. It shouldn't come as a surprise that he's already on a first name basis with her.

"You're making friends quickly."

He doesn't rise to the bait, disappointingly. "She was very friendly. Very helpful, too."

You note the way the serving girl continues to steal glances in Phainon's direction, even as she pretends to busy herself behind the counter. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—the object of her attention seems to remain oblivious.

"I don't doubt it."

The topic ends up drifting, as it often does, back to the road ahead. Between measured sips of kykeon and the low murmur of the tavern, you fall back into the familiar rhythms of conversation—distances to cover, landmarks to confirm, the steady arithmetic of time and terrain. By the time the discussion turns to the restocking of your dwindling supplies, the two of you are bent over the maps spread out across the table, heads lowered in concentration once more.

"Distance wise, continuing down the coastal path would be the quickest route." You tap at a long, thin line that cuts across the land. It chases the curve and bend of the coast, forging upwards. "But Leanor's maps mention a river that swells in summertime when ice from the nearby mountains melts. It might be too wide for us to cross now."

Phainon's eyes track your finger dutifully as it traces across the topography of your maps, thoughtful and alert. Navigation has never been his forte but he's always eager to learn. You're about to point out a possible crossing farther downstream—a bridge you've seen mentioned in several of Kremnos' war annals—when a large hand suddenly plants itself between the two of you, thick fingers splayed across the vellum.

"Excuse me."

The two of you look up simultaneously at the interruption. Towering over your table is a heavyset man, tufts of dark hair bristling at his temples. His gaze sweeps over you and Phainon like a bear sizing up potential prey. For someone who's just asked to be excused, there is little way of apology in his expression.

"It's not often we get new faces around these parts, especially with the Black Tide spreading nearby," the man says, in manner of a greeting. His voice is a low rumble in the back of his throat. "What brings the two of you to this place?"

There's a wary note in his voice that he makes no effort to disguise—confrontational, almost tipping over into hostile. You've heard that tone enough times to become familiar with it. Most often, from the more aggressive alpha members of the Okheman council, when a debate isn't going the way they prefer. Lady Aglaea does a far better job at restraining herself, but sometimes you still catch the instinct beneath that water-tight composure slipping through.

A few patrons at the tables nearby pause mid-drink, heads lifting to catch the cloud of pheromones that must be flooding the air. Your own breathing quickens traitorously in turn.

Phainon, however, doesn't respond outwardly to the challenge. His posture stays relaxed and his expression neutral, though you notice the faint tightening of his hands and feet, like a blade settling into its sheath. Then he smiles, disarmingly polite.

"We're just passing through on our way to Loukas," Phainon replies. His tone skirts the edge of amiability while remaining uncowed. "We're on business for the Flame-Chase."

The mention of the Flame-Chase seems to have snared the man's attention. His eyes flick briefly to you, then back to Phainon. The suspicion in them is tempered by cautious interest.

"Loukas, you say? The Prison City?"

"The very one."

"It's nothing but a ruin now. The place is overrun with the Black Tide." He pauses. "Ain't that dangerous?"

Phainon inclines his head in acknowledgement. "We can handle ourselves," he says simply, without arrogance or boast. It's as though simply stating a fact. The man considers his claim for a long moment, carefully taking in the broad shoulders and untroubled confidence, before he lets out a grunt.

"Sorry about that," he says, and this time the apology sounds more genuine. "Like I said, we don't see many new faces around here, and the ones that we do are usually up to no good. You two are Chrysos Heirs?"

"Only him," you say, and he nods.

"Of course." Before you can ask what exactly that is supposed to mean, the man shifts his attention back to Phainon. "I'm the owner of this tavern here." Your eyes track the movement as he offers Phainon his hand—a brief clasp, palm to palm, the scent glands there brushing in passing. "I overheard you talking about restocking for your journey ahead."

A polite if blunt way of admitting he'd been listening in. Phainon seems to be frowning faintly, though he conceals it well. But he makes no mention of it and so neither do you.

"We were discussing the matter, yes."

The barkeeper seems to hesitate at that. He shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, the fingers of one hand twisting in the ties of apron. He looks as though carefully weighing his next words.

"I'd like to offer to supply you with whatever you might need, Chrysos Heir," he says, eventually. "If you'd assist us—the people of this town—with an issue."

You and Phainon exchange a brief glance. The two of you are in no dire need of coin—the Goldweaver supplies you with more than enough to cover your travel expenses—but it can't hurt to hear out his concerns if it affects the entire town. Phainon seems to reach a similar conclusion, because he leans forward, fingers lacing over his knee.

"What's the problem?"

The barkeeper drags a hand over the back of his neck, then sighs. "There's an old temple down by the coast," he begins. "It used to be dedicated to Phagousa, but it was abandoned ever since the Ocean Titan disappeared. I'd like for you to take a look at it."

Abandoned. Not an uncommon fate for shrines tied to fallen divinity, especially since the Daythunder Knight had first felled Aquila. Phainon's curiosity seems piqued, regardless.

"Is there a reason you're so concerned about this particular temple?"

The barkeeper nods reluctantly after a moment. "It's the source of this town's Soul-Purifying Spring."

Now that makes your eyes go wide. You can count the number you've seen on one hand—the rest are either dried up or long destroyed in wars of centuries past—so you never thought you'd stumble across one by accident. They're nowhere near as powerful as the fragments of Phagousa's chalice, but still, as a relic containing the power of a Titan…

Phainon glances over at you, not quite comprehending.

"This, uh, Soul-Purifying Spring is…?"

You open your mouth to answer, but the barkeeper beats you to it. "It's spirit water," he explains. "Blessed by Phagousa herself—the pride of our town." His chest puffs out a little as he says it, though a mote of worry lingers in his eyes. "The water flows from beneath thetemple grounds and into a fountain in the agora." His jaw tightens. "Or it did, until about a couple of years ago."

"You didn't send someone to investigate earlier?" you mutter, incredulous. The barkeeper's eyes dart to you, almost as though he'd forgotten you were there in the first place. The question seems to catch up a beat later, and he lets out a quiet huff.

"We did. But the younger lads we sent said they saw movement in the inner chambers—creatures resembling Black Tide monsters—and didn't dare venture further." He grimaces. "We're fishermen and salt traders, not fighters."

Phainon nods slowly, contemplative.

"I see."

When you glance over, Phainon's expression has gone thoughtful. The mention of Black Tide creatures has clearly caught his attention—he'll want to investigate, temple obligations or not. The sages at the Grove would value any information you can offer; accurate predictions mean better resource allocation, faster evacuations, more lives saved.

Across from you, the barkeeper straightens, pride and worry warring visibly across his face. The latter wins.

"So," he says, the edge in his voice faltering to a reluctant appeal, "would you be willing to help us, Chrysos Heir?"

He does not look at you as he says it. It has been quite clear, since the beginning, that he's seen only Phainon as someone worth addressing—the leader, the decision-maker, the alpha, the fighter—and you as little more than accompanying afterthought. It doesn't bother you very much. If anything, you might even prefer it this way. You've grown accustomed to standing just outside the centre of such exchanges, and besides, you already know what Phainon's answer will be.

Or, you thought you did. Instead, Phainon tilts his head. His ivory fringe slips into summer blue eyes, unreadable for the space of a breath, before he smiles.

"Oh, I'm not the one you should be asking." He glances at you, a brow raised. "I'm not in charge, here."

The map corner you'd been fidgeting with slips from between your fingers. You look up, bewilderment creeping in. The barkeeper's eyes meet yours, equally perplexed.

"Your companion?" Faint disbelief colours his voice.

You cut a sidelong look at Phainon only to find him already watching you. There's no trace of his usual lightheartedness in his eyes, although he maintains it in expression. You purse your lips, unsure what he's playing at, brows drawing together warily.

Drop it.

He doesn't. "My companion is the one with unparalleled expertise in ancient temples. I'm only here to swing my sword around and look intimidating."

You find yourself wishing that the two of you were in private company—then, at least, you would be able to freely elbow Phainon in the ribs. But if you were, then there would be no need for this entire conversation in the first place. Precisely why you prefer ancient ruins to most people…

After a silence that drags long enough for it to become uncomfortable, the barkeeper finally clears his throat. He turns to you.

"…Then," he starts, clearly deciding that the matters of the temple takes precedence, "will you take a look at our temple? At least find out what's blocking the spring?"

You bite back the sigh that threatens to slip out. You can already feel the shape of the detour settling into your originally intended route, your schedule, as persistent as the unwavering gaze coming from your left.

"…We will."

The discussion that follows finds its way back to Phainon despite his earlier insistence otherwise, but you find yourself unbothered—moreso than usual. Instead, you stare out of the window and sip at the remainder of your drink as they talk logistics and directions, more occupied with the odd discomfort that seems to have lodged itself in the back of your throat.

The barkeeper finally excuses himself to fetch a few things from the storeroom upstairs. The second he disappears out of the back door, Phainon pivots in his seat to face you, half-empty cup of kykeon raised high.

"Well, that was certainly unexpected," he muses. His easy charm has settled back as though it never left. "Here I thought you didn't care much for detours—"

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Hm? I haven't the faintest idea what you could possibly be referring to."

He looks too pleased with himself for your liking. Self-righteous fool. Mindsets like the barkeeper's are hardly uncommon, especially in more rural areas like this one. Perspectives on betas range far and wide depending on region, but they rarely stray far from the same conclusion: that betas exist somewhere outside of the neat social order built around alphas and omegas.

Back in your home village, betas were often regarded as unmateable—half-formed things left out of Cerces and Mnestia's blessings of perfect union. They could not carry on family lineage like alphas, nor were they fertile enough to command a bride price the way omegas did. They could not scent, could not bond, and were therefore regarded as socially worthless. You'd quickly learned not to expect—or desire—otherwise.

Something tells you that trying to explain this to Phainon would only make him double down, though, so you refrain. "It didn't bother me," you clarify, instead. "You didn't need to do anything."

"Oh?" Phainon leans forward, setting his elbows on the table to properly meet your gaze. "It bothered me, though."

You can't help but feel as though you've been here before. It's a conversation you've had one time too many. At least he isn't playing ignorant any longer. It doesn't suit him.

"Betas don't have scents. It's normal to be overlooked."

He arches a brow. "Is that so? I look at you all the time."

That silver tongue of his. He's going to give someone the wrong idea, one day. "You're abnormal. You don't count."

Phainon laughs at that, head tipping back just enough to reveal the dark band of his choker, stark against the pale line of his throat. "People often read too much into secondary gender. They see what they want to see." His chin shifts to prop itself atop his knuckles as he regards you, half-smiling. "It saves them the trouble of having to think any further."

You spend a moment attempting to decipher whatever meaning is veiled behind his words before giving up. It might be easier to reason with a mule, you think. At least it can't talk back.

"Next time, just answer on both our behalfs and spare us the unnecessary exchange."

Phainon shrugs. "If you insist, I'll keep that in mind."

Conversation seemingly over, Phainon leans back to take a longer, more leisurely sip of his kykeon. His chair tilts precariously on its rear legs. You watch him for a whole five seconds, frowning before you speak again.

"You won't, will you?"

His smile sharpens into a grin.

"No, I won't."

The barkeeper returns just as the two of you are finishing your drinks. He hands Phainon two maps—one, a simply guide marking the route down to the temple, the other, a rough charcoal sketch of its interior. The latter is clearly drawn by an untrained hand: its lines are smudged, proportions skewed, and it's not of much use. Fortunately, you've picked up in your time exploring the ruins along Milios' coasts. As long as the structures don't differ too drastically, it shouldn't pose too much of an issue for you.

The two of you are halfway out of the door when a voice calls out from behind.

"W—wait!"

The shy serving girl from earlier—Leona, if you remember correctly—hurries over. Her steps slow as she nears. She fumbers with a tightly wrapped bundle in her hands for a moment, fingers curling bashfully over the knot at the top before she holds it out to him. The faint scent of something warm and freshly baked permeates through the undyed linen.

Phainon looks genuinely startled. It's almost cute, how receiving unsolicited favour still catches him off guard.

"Apologies, this is?"

"S—Some bread," she stutters, ducking her head. It does nothing to hide the blush spreading over her cheeks, the colour of ripe nectarines. You wonder briefly if she smells just as sweet. "For, um, h—helping with the Spring."

Phainon looks at it. You think you catch a glimpse of some indecipherable emotion flickering behind the blue ocean-depths of his eyes, before it's quickly replaced by a courteously apologetic, pinned-together smile.

"That is very kind of you." His hands lift, hovering over her offering but not quite touching, as though he's unsure how to properly respond to her gesture. "But I couldn't possibly…"

"No, no, I insist—"

Titans above. Whether Phainon is simply being polite or deliberately obtuse is anyone's guess, and you're rapidly running out of the patience required to discern which it is. The two of you will be here all until nightfall if he keeps this coyness up, and besides, food is food. There's no reason to hesitate.

Before he can protest again, you step between them and intercept the bread. She startles, hands jerking back to her chest, eyes going as wide as silver coins as she stares at you.

"Thank you for your generosity," you force yourself to say, inclining your head in a courteous, if somewhat brief, bow. "We'll make good use of it."

Her gaze flicks to you, lips pursing. She appears almost indignant for a second before her expression dissipates into one of reluctant resignation.

"…Of course."

You don't wait for the exchange to continue. Turning around, you stride out of the tavern with the hurried sound of Phainon's footsteps quick at your heels, and back into the harsh afternoon light.

The temple of Phagousa is older than you expect.

Built directly into the cliffside, the entire structure is more carved than constructed. The limestone façade is darkened with centuries of exposure to salt and wind. It'd taken you and Phainon about an hour to reach the coast, and then another three quints to spot, its silhouette almost swallowed by the Parting Hour's shadow. By then, the darkening sky had only made your descent more treacherous, and Phainon had insisted on gripping your hand tight as he led you down the flights of crumbling stairs.

Now, what remains of the portico you're standing on juts outward over the sea. When you'd peered over the edge earlier, you could just barely make out great chunks of white marble beneath the foam swirling atop the waves. It's as though the entire structure is slowly crumbling into the ocean that had once defined its worship.

"So," Phainon calls out after several minutes of wordless pacing. "Your professional opinion?"

You glance up from a pair of heavy, rusted hinges. Your travel companion seems to have made himself comfortable atop a fallen column, one leg tucked beneath his thigh while the other kicks idly at the broken ground. He's also tucked the end of his cape into his belt—the wind would have a field day with it, otherwise—though it does little to spare his hair from being blown every which way.

He looks like he's just stepped out of a hurricane, or came out wrestling barehanded with Aquila and lost. Phainon frowns when he notices you glance to the side, his lips moving.

What?

"You look ridiculous."

Phainon's brows pinch together in visible confusion.

"Whaaaaat?"

You cup your hands around your mouth, raising your voice to be heard over the rushing of the wind.

"I said, this entrance is blocked!"

"Ohh!"

He hops off the fallen pillar easily, stepping over the scattered rubble to join you. You gesture towards the massive double doors you'd been examining as he draws nearer—more than twice your height and several wingspans across.

"The hinges are completely rusted through." You brush a hand along the weathered stone, and a thin layer of salt crystals come away on your fingertips. "Even if we did manage to get through the locking mechanism—which doesn't seem to be working either, by the way—the doors themselves wouldn't budge."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," you echo dryly, if only to humour him.

Phainon lifts his head to study the door. His hands are planted squarely on his hips, as though he's sizing himself up against it.

"Even if I put all of my strength into it?"

You open your mouth, a confirmation hovering at the tip of your tongue only to pause. You've witnessed him perform feats that border on absurd—tearing apart several of Strife's corrupted Titankin with his bare hands, and lifting an anvil for the Grand Craftsman that you'd estimated to weigh about the same as a young dromas. Of Phainon's strength, you have no doubt. But even so—

"These doors can weigh up to about eight hundred Attic talents each." You lift a hand to rap your knuckles lightly against them for emphasis. They might be corroded and weakened from the seawater, but they're still made of solid stone. "They're mounted on internal pivot mechanisms that let them swivel open when properly unlocked. Not even ten Mountain Dwellers would be able to force them open otherwise."

Your gaze lifts.

"Besides, even if you succeeded somehow, you'd probably bring the entire temple down on top of us."

Phainon cranes his head back to follow your line of sight. He winces when he sees the crack stonework overhead, the fissures webbing across weathered lintel.

"I'd prefer not to make an acquaintance of Thanatos just yet," he agrees, though his gaze lingers on the doors for a few seconds before he glances at you, sidelong. "I suppose you know another way in?"

"Interesting assumption."

He just shrugs, still looking at you. "You don't seem too bothered by the main entryway being completely blocked off."

You cross your arms across your chest, raising a brow. What an astute observation. You're not entirely certain you appreciate being the subject of it. Turning on your heel, you nod towards the temple's shadowed depths.

"There's most likely a secondary entrance somewhere inside. Come on."

Phainon follows you past the portico and along the corridors of the peristyle. The howling of the wind gradually dwindles behind you until it fades to a distant whistle. Even in a state of abandonment, the temple's once-glory is evident—bronze basins filled with water line the walls, faded murals stretching across the inner corridors. Most of them depict Phagousa's infamous undersea banquets in jewelled shades of ultramarine and turqoise, their scenes brimming over with unrestrained indulgence and revelry. Her chalice gleams gold betwixt her pale fingers.

You gesture idly at one of the panels as you pass. "Mid-Bellican, most probably. It looks like the pigments were mixed with crushed mother-of-pearl. See the way it shimmers? Some scholars think it was meant to mimic the way light refracts beneath the sea."

Phainon listens with rapt attention. His gaze drifts from one mural to the next with open fascination as you speak. Once, you would have grown self-conscious the moment you realised you were rambling—a habit you'd unknowingly developed after wandering ancient ruins alone for years—and promptly cut yourself off mid-explanation. But over time, you'd come to recognise that Phainon's interest in the topic was genuine.

Now, it's often this sort of idle conversation that fills the silence during your long journeys together.

"How can you tell?"

"Tell what?"

"That it's Mid-Bellican." Phainon's brow furrows as he stares down one of Phagousa's many painted forms, as though she might yield the answer under sufficient scrutiny. His eyes are the same shade of blue as the waves glimmering along the murals. "I tried reading that compendium you mentioned, but I don't think there was anything about era-specific pigments."

You're faintly surprised. You'd only referenced it in passing while explaining about a Skyfolk Pavilion—you hadn't expected him to actually seek it out, much less read it.

"Oh. It's more of an inference on my part, actually. Mid-Bellica is the period where large-scale trade roads first began to appear, and Pyria was the only major exporter of maritime goods back then." A wry edge slips into your voice. "Coincidentally, it's also when Kremnos started lauching its first military campaign against the Seaside States."

You'd only added on that last part as a passing remark to yourself, but Phainon's head lifts.

"Castrum Kremnos?"

"Roads built for commerce also make it very convenient to transport siege engines and war supplies. Soldiers, too." After a moment's hesitation, you add, "I'm sure Lord Mydeimos would be more familiar with this topic than I am. You can ask him about it, if you're curious."

It's common knowledge in the Holy City—Phainon's longstanding rivalry with Kremnos' crown prince. You'd heard the stories of how they'd clashed for ten consecutive days and nights the first time they'd met; how an insignificant farm boy from some nameless, remote village had come within a hair's breadth to the heir of a nation forged by war for war. Now, both of them fight shoulder to shoulder for the Flame-Chase. Fate truly works in mysterious ways.

Phainon barks out a laugh at that. The sound travels down the length of the empty corridor, echoes back strange and distorted. "I could ask him, I suppose. Though I'm not certain if he'd entertain me…"

He scratches at the back of his head, a sheepish look spreading across his face. You send a faintly puzzled look his way.

"Aren't the two of you friends?"

He makes an odd expression at that. "We're on friendly terms. Mydei would probably disagree on the word 'friends'…" He trails off, frowning, as though the right description eludes him.

You return your gaze to the walls. You've heard other rumours as well—speculative whispers and tavern gossip about a bond that seems to run deeper than mere camaraderie. They're of no substance, of course, and you briefly consider mentioning them before you think the better of it. A pairing of two alphas is uncommon, but hardly unheard of.

Besides, whoever Phainon may or may not be involved with is none of your concern.

You quicken your pace. Your fingertips graze cool stone as your eyes scan the walls. If you listen closely enough, you can just manage to make out the faint trickle of running water… right about there.

"Allies? No, that's not quite it. Brothers-in-arms? Comrades?" Phainon hums under his breath. "Hmm… I guess comrades would be—"

"Here." You come to a sudden halt, and Phainon very nearly walks straight into your back. Only his quick reflexes save the two of you from colliding at the very last second. "Found it."

The two of you are standing before yet another door, though this one is significantly smaller. Inlaid within its surface is a series of concentric rings crafted from alternating gold and aquamarine, and at the very top, two carved fish. A shallow runnel spills from their mouths, trickles over stone. There's a clear resemblance to the door at the main entrance, though this one is, thankfully, far better preserved.

Phainon takes one look at it and sighs.

"Yet another one of those unsmashable doors?"

"There are only so many of these left across all of Amphoreus," you say, eyeing him as you return your attention to the door. "Please refrain from the urge to destroy every ancient relic you come across."

He sputters behind you.

"I was only asking!"

You turn away to hide the twitch of your lips. "Anyways, the inner sanctum should be behind this door." You drop into a crouch, tracing one finger along the carved grooves in one of the outer rings. It's bone dry, dust gathering along its tracks. When was the last time anyone made use of this entrance? "The grooves need to be aligned so that water can descend to the bottom. This might take a while."

You get to work in silence. The stone is cool beneath your palms, and each movement produces a soft, grinding click as ancient gears stir after years of disuse.

The mechanism quickly proves more intricate and challenging than you'd initially expected—the channels align and subsequently diverge, and one incorrect adjustment causes all the pooled water to drain uselessly into the sides. Things would be much easier if you could feel the flow of water like the priestesses of Phagousa back in your hometown did, you lament to yourself. Still, the lock is engaging enough, and it doesn't take you long to slip into a state of focus.

All the while, you feel a gaze resting intently on your back.

"I had a sudden thought," Phainon says.

"Don't hurt yourself," you reply absently, without looking up.

"Ha ha, very funny." Phainon ignores your jab and presses on. "Where did you learn to do all this?"

"All this?"

"All this… temple-related business." You pause, peeling your eyes from the mechanism. Phainon has positioned himself against the wall to watch you work, arms crossed loosely over his chest while one shoulder rests against stone. "You didn't study at the Grove, right? None of the schools there teach anything remotely similar, anyway."

Caprists, Erythrokeramists, Helkolithists, Lotophagists, Nodists, Venerationists, Nousporists. Phainon comes from the last and newest of them, if you remember correctly. Hyacine and Lady Castorice had, too.

You turn back to slide another ring into alignment. A thin stream of water trickles a little further along one of the grooves.

"Why the sudden curiosity?"

"It's hardly sudden. I've been trying to get to know you better for over a year now, in case you haven't noticed."

You huff out a breath that might pass for a laugh at his admission.

"And how is that going for you?"

"Terribly." You hear the sulk in his voice without seeing it. "Getting you to speak about yourself is harder than squeezing water from a rock."

He's one to talk. Phainon does speak—often, in fact,and to a remarkable degree—yet for all the words he offers, he reveals very little of substance about himself. Not deliberately, you think, because the man standing behind you isn'tone to withhold any part of himself if it would benefit another. And yet, somehow, conversations with him always turn outwards: to his hometown, to other people, anything that isn't quite truly about him. You're not certain if he's even aware of this habit himself, despite his considerable self-awareness.

Most of it is misplaced, anyway.

You decide to humour Phainon for once. "I didn't."

He perks up immediately, like a dog being thrown a bone.

"Didn't?"

"Didn't study at the Grove." Water slips along a newly aligned path, pooling in a crevice. Phainon remains silent but you can feel the curiosity radiating off him in waves. "The village I was born in was located in an area fraught with natural disasters, so they worshipped all three Titans of Foundation. The surrounding cliffs were littered with the ruins of their temples. I used to spend hours as a child playing there and talking to the gods, pretending they could answer me."

"Woah. You started out young."

You smile faintly at the sincere amazement in his tone. "I guess so."

"I remember running around Aedes Elysiae all the time with Cyrene too, when I was younger. We'd stay out past Descent Hour and our parents would find us sleeping in the wheat fields." The timbre of his voice softens. You don't have to turn around to know that there's a wistful, faraway look in his eyes. He always gets nostalgic whenever he talks about his home, and you briefly wonder what it must be like to miss your birthplace so fondly. "I bet you got up to all kinds of mischief too," he adds, the tail-end of a laugh snaking its way in.

"I did. The village elders used to make us kneel on Georios' temple steps as punishment." At the movement of another ring, a thin stream of water slips along the outer circumference. Oh, you're getting somewhere. "I almost missed it, after everyone started presenting."

"Oh. What happened?"

Phainon sounds a little more measured now. You don't spare much thought to it, mind and fingers occupied with the mechanism in front of you.

"My friends started attending courtship dances to find mates, or serving in the temples." Or at least that's what they'd said—but you'd always suspected that the truth was far simpler, and far less kind. "My village was small, so I was the only beta there at the time. They didn't kow what to do with a defect like me." You move another ring, and the water continues its slow descent down the door. "I stuck around for a year or two before I left to explore on my own. That's how I ended up in Okhema."

You keep working the door. When the silence stretches on for longer than you expect, you turn your head again, bemused.

"Phainon?"

Even in the dim light, you can just make out the tight set of his jaw. He's… unhappy, you think. About what, though, you can only guess. Hyacine once mentioned that Phainon's scent reminded her of summer warmth—vanilla and neroli and fresh linen left out to dry, sunlight distilled into something you could put in a bottle. You wonder distantly how that might change when soured by displeasure.

"I wish you wouldn't talk about yourself like that."

You blink, suddenly pulled from your musings. "Like what?"

"Like calling yourself defective." The words leave him in a rush, like he's been holding his breath. "Or anything remotely similar, actually."

"I am, though," you reply, more matter-or-fact than argumentative. "No scent glands or receptors, remember?"

A troubled look flickers across Phainon's face. His gaze darts over you, a migratory bird unable to settle—like he wants to say something more but cannot find the words. Eventually, he settles on, "You should have come to Okhema earlier. If you had, you would definitely have been accepted into the Grove. The sages would have been fighting over you."

You turn back to the door, snorting softly. Almost there.

"That's so silly. I'm just a nobody."

"You're not," Phainon insists. His footsteps draw closer. You can almost imagine the stubborn set of his expression even without looking. "We would have been friends."

The notion is so ridiculous you don't even bother dignifying it with a proper response. Phainon isn't just any alpha—he's highly regarded, well-built, intelligent and good-looking to the point of envy. To make matters worse, he's kind and respectful. Omegas would have flocked to him in droves. And you… you would have remained precisely where you always do—at the periphery, unnoticed and unremarkable.

No, you want to say. We wouldn't have been.

"Professor Anaxagoras would have liked you, I think. He's always taken an interest in other betas," Phainon continues without waiting for your response, unfazed. "He used to ask the strangest questions during lectures, the sort that would send half the class struggling to figure out what he meant. Sometimes he would just up and leave in the middle of them, too."

"Wow."

"His lectures could be rather esoteric, but I think you would have gotten him. You could have woken me up, too! I kept falling asleep during classes, and the professor would call on me at the worst possible moments."

"…Perhaps."

"Though the Nousporists' cohort was rather small at the time, so you might not have been very impressed by it…" Phainon hums, as though genuinely considering the thought. "Which school do you think you would have gone to?"

"The Venerationists, most likely." The answer slips out without your meaning to, and you pause. "…what are you doing, Phainon?"

Phainon holds your gaze. There is nothing overt in his expression—no usual teasing smile, no easy deflection—yet the attention in his eyes feels strangely intent. The sort of look that makes you suddenly aware of yourself, as though he's not merely looking through you but at you. You shift slightly, a strange unease stirring beneath your skin wherever his gaze lands.

Right before you can look away, Phainon drops his gaze first. "Nothing. Just wondering what it would have been like, if the two of us had been students at the Grove together. Oh!" He ducks his head to riffle through the satchel tied to his belt, fumbling for a moment before producing a pastry—some of the flatbread the serving girl had given him earlier. "I just remembered that you like this. Snack?"

Normally, you'd reach for pita without second thought. Now, there's something making you hesitate.

"…My hands are dirty."

Phainon beams. He holds it up to your mouth, excuse rolling off him like water off a duck's back. After a brief moment of reluctance, you lean forward and take a small bite.

It's good. Warm and airy and soft. You don't know why that's annoying you so much.

Between growing bites of flatbread and several more rounds of trial and error, you finally manage to coax the rings into proper alignment. When the last one slides into place, the water at the top finally begins to flow unimpeded, racing along the newly connected grooves to pour into the narrow channel at the base of the door. The mechanism within the stone whirs, so low you can feel it grating in the back of your skull. Faint blue light seeps through.

Soundlessly, the doors part.

You exchange glances, and Phainon reaches up to pluck one of the torches from its sconce. The two of you step through the doorway. The firelight flickers across the walls, revealing rows of pockmarked recesses—probably where jewels or inlays once rested, long since pried free. The work of temple robbers, most likely. Your footsteps echo softly as the passage opens into a small, gilded chamber.

Mounted upon the far wall is a massive fish-shaped gargoyle carved from pale stone. Its lips are parted over a shallow basin that looks bone dry, its surface cracked and dulled with age. It's as though the poor creature has been begging for water for years.

"That's it," you murmur, starting forward.

Phainon's hand closes around your upper arm before you can take more than a few steps. "Wait."

There's a sharp undercurrent in his voice that makes you halt at once, hands instinctively withdrawing to your chest. He's already still, head tilted ever so slightly to listen. You follow his line of sight despite seeing nothing.

And then, you hear it.

It starts off faint—so faint you could almost mistake it for breath, or a trick played on your ears by your hypervigilant mind—almost like what you would imagine whalesong to sound like. But this sounds less of a song and more of a wail. It echoes through the corridor in slow, undulating waves, rising and falling like the tide, gradually getting louder.

Getting closer.

"Abyssal sea sirens," Phainon echoes your thoughts. A pale glow gathers in his left hand, outstretched, his greatsword materialising within his grasp. The flickering flames catch in his eyes as he holds out the torch to you, and he smiles briefly, reassuring. "Stay behind me, alright?"

"I don't have a death wish," you mutter, but you take the torch anyway.

The words have barely left your mouth when monsters spill into the inner sanctum—amorphous, ink-dark shapes resembling all manner of marine creatures, illuminated by an eerie, violet glow. Titankin of Phagousa, gone mad in their search for the broken pieces of her chalice. They're nothing more than mindless Black Tide creatures now.

Phainon surges forward to meet them, a dam bracing against a rising swell head-on. Never before did you think that you would describe fighting as beautiful, until you'd watched Phainon fight for the first time. His greatsword cleaves through the tide in brutal, sweeping arcs, silent grunts slipping past his teeth with each strike. You remain pressed against the wall behind him, torch gripped tightly in your useless fingers. The rupturned Titankin crumble into brittle fragments that clatter against the stone ground.

He makes quick work of them. The sirens wail—thin, distorted echoes that ripple through the chamber—but their voices have since lost whatever power they once held. Their warped forms shatter beneath his blade until the ground is littered with lifeless stone husks, their eerie glow fading into nothing.

Only when the last of them breaks apart does the tension in Phainon's stance finally ease. He turns back to you almost immediately, the weapon in his hand dissipating into a scatter of fading light.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

You don't know why he bothered asking. Not a single Titankin made it past his guard. The torch in your hand wavers slightly, its light dancing across the slopes and planes of his face. The corners of your mouth dip into a frown when you catch sight of a thin scratch along his cheek.

"…You're bleeding."

It's minor, more the result of stray fragments than any real injury, but golden ichor still beads along the side of his face, the colour of ripened wheat under sunlight. Phainon lifts a hand; it comes away smeared on his fingertips.

You reach for your satchel. "I have a—"

"No need." He waves it off with a short laugh and, when your frown deepens, quickly continues. "We should hurry. There might be more sea sirens still lurking in the temple."

A protest lingers at the tip of your tongue, but he's not without sense. Yet the irritation remains. Phainon has always been like this since the first day Aglaea introduced you both—so quick to dismiss himself, his own well-being, as though he is the least important thing in any given situation. You're just about to give voice to the thought when your gaze suddenly lands on the fish gargoyle behind him.

A sudden idea sparks in your mind.

"I have an idea," you say, grabbing Phainon by the sleeve of his coat. "Come with me."

Phainon quirks a brow at you, clearly bemused, but he allows himself to be tugged over to the basin without protest. You drop his sleeve and turn your attention to the gargoyle, leaning forward to peer into the pipe hidden within the fish's mouth. The interior is cast into shadow, pale stone worn smooth by centuries of running water. At the moment, it's tragically dry.

You slide your hand into its maw. Your wrist and forearm disappear past its thick lips, shoulder twisting with the awkward angle. After a few seconds of rooting about the back of its throat, your fingers meet something solid.

It's clogged with debris, most likely. You're not certain how it got there, but the more pressing matter still stands: you don't know how to get it out. The channel is too narrow to properly dislodge by hand, andyou have no way of checking how far the blockage extends. If only you could get the water flowing once more, even for just a moment…

You exhale softly, withdrawing your hand to press a palm against the carved gills.

"Are you going to…?"

Phainon leans in almost unconsciously. It's as though the sight never grows mundane to him, no matter the number of times he's witnessed it. You push aside the sudden distraction of his attention, his proximity, focusing instead of recalling the words you've long committed to memory.

"O Oronyx, Lord of Time, Weaver of the Evernight Veil…"

For a brief instant, the air itself seems to still. A second of silence, and then a faint rattling begins to echo from deep within the pipe as the grains of Oronyx's hourglass flow back upwards. It's followed by a sputtering gurgle, the sound of trapped water attempting to force its way through, and Phainon bends over the rim to peer up into the fish's throat just as the final clump of debris collapses into another pocket of time.

Water rushes out in a sudden rush. It bursts from the gargoyle's mouth in a powerful stream, directly into Phainon's face. He sputters.

You drag him out of the way in alarm, but it's too late. Phainon stands before you, mouth slightly agape and completely drenched from head to toe. Water streams from his hair in steady rivulets, darkening the white of his coat to a dull grey, dripping from the tails. He blinks the wetness out of those too blue eyes before they fall on you. Your teeth catch your bottom lip on instinct, bracing yourself for the irritation that is sure to follow.

"I—"

Instead, Phainon just starts laughing.

"Was this the idea you had in mind?" Phainon manages between sputtering giggles as he scrubs a hand over his face. You hastily step forward to help without thinking, and he lowers his head to meet you halfway, eyes slipping shut while you wipe at his forehead and cheeks with your sleeve. A faint pang of guilt rises in your chest all the same.

"Ahh—no. Water blessed by Phagousa is meant to possess restorative properties…" A trace of embarrassment slips into your voice. "Apologies. I wasn't expecting the water to just surge out like that."

"No worries. It was my fault, sticking my head there like I did. Woah." Phainon's eyes flutter open again when you withdraw your hand. He lifts his own to touch the cut along his cheek—or rather, where it'd been. He rubs over the spot a few times, brows raised. "Restorative properties, you said?"

"The ancient texts say its supposed to soothe the soul. It mends minor wounds and cleanses the body, too."

"Well, I've definitely been cleansed." Phainon smiles around a humoured exhale, pushing back the damp hair clinging to his forehead. The two of you watch the gargoyle in silence for a moment. Water gushes now from its mouth in a steady stream, the sound of it echoing gently through the enclosed chamber as it pours into the basin. From there, it must flow down to beneath the temple grounds, and eventually, the Soul-Purifying Spring in the town.

You linger just long enough to ensure the flow remains steady, before turning to the exit.

"Let's get out of here."

That night, the town celebrates.

The people have strung up burning lamps along the perimeter of the square, their flames reflecting in the now rippling waters of the Soul-Purifying Spring. While the air still clings to the heat of the day, the temperature's dropped together with the setting sun, just enough to be pleasant. A pair of brewers had cracked open a cask earlier in the evening, too—vinted with water from the Spring," they'd proudly declared.

Now, that amber liquid swishes in your cup as you idle at the edge of the agora. Water spills endlessly over the lip of the fountain, as though it'd never ceassed flowing in the first place.

"I'm glad to see you stayed," a familiar voice says.

You look up just as Phainon lowers himself onto the diphros next to you. His own cup is grasped loosely between his slender fingers, eyes glimmering like cut sapphires in the firelight. There's already the beginnings of a flush high on his cheeks—the combined result of drink and spending the past hour fending off a crowd of admiring townsfolk. They'd swarmed him when you'd returned from the temple earlier, and it'd been almost amusing to watch his increasingly frazzled—and futile—attempts at redirecting the praise while you observed from a short distance away.

"It's not as though I had much of a choice." You return your gaze to the fountain, lifting your cup to take a measured sip. The honey brew is a tad smokier than what you're used to but goes down remarkably smooth.

If it had been up to you, you would have long retired to the rooms the townspeople had provided for the night. Or at the very least, spent the remainder of the evening sorting through the supplies they'd given you. As it stands, the townspeople had unsurprisingly insisted that Phainon join their celebrations. Phainon had all but begged you to join.

Well, the atmosphere is lively enough, and spirits are high. The drink is good, too.

"It's only right that you're here. You did most of the heavy lifting." Phainon leans over to nudge your shoulder with his. He seems to have shed both his pauldrons and his coat, leaving him only in his lighter underlayers. It makes him look lighter, you think. Less like the Chrysos Heir of Okhema and more like any other young man simply enjoying the evening. He glances sideways at you, a hint of amusement lingering in his eyes. "You vanished rather efficiently earlier, by the way."

"Easy to do when you don't have a scent. Watch."

You thrust out your free hand, wriggling your fingers in his face before you let it fall back into your lap. Phainon stares at you, clearly bemused.

"What was that supposed to do?"

"It's how I disappear. You can't see me any longer."

He stares down at your hand, then back up at you. The corner of his mouth twitches inelegantly.

"Oh, dear. Where did you go?"

"Precisely."

Phainon manages one—no, two sharp exhales through the nose, before his restraint breaks.

The sound of his laughter rings through the air, soon joined by the soft pluck of stringed instruments. A few musicians have brought out what seems to be lyres while someone starts an upbeat rhythm on the castanets. The music falls into a jaunty tune. It doesn't take long for the townsfolk to begin drifting towards the fountain, forming a loose circle around it for a dance.

It doesn't take long for someone to notice Phainon, either. The serving girl from the tavern spots him from across the square. She breaks away from the dance circle to make a beeline straight for him, catching him by the sleeve before he can react.

"Please, join us for a dance, Sir Phainon!" Her smile is still abashed but wide with expentance. Her early shyness has clearly been dispelled by drink and festive atmosphere. "You musn't refuse!"

She doesn't so much as spare you a glance. There are a pair of ribbons braided into her hair now, twin ends trailing down her shoulders. Silk, cornflower blue. Phainon blinks, visibly flustered by the sudden attention.

"Ah, I'm not sure if—"

"Everyone is excited to meet you," she continues brightly, tugging at his arm. "They want to hear more about that massive sword you carry!"

"I'm really quite terrible at dancing, so—"

"That doesn't matter! The fun of it is in the mingling, isn't it?"

She manages to displace him a few inches closer to the fountain, and Phainon glances back at you helplessly from the half-crouch he's risen into, his eyes a silent plea. He is, you've come to realise, remarkably terrible at saying no on his own behalf. Any other time, you would have found it faintly amusing, almost endearing, even. But now…

You banish that thought before you can finish it, tilting your cup at him with a raised brow. Go on.

Phainon hesitates, seemingly torn. Then, abruptly, he changes tactics.

"Come with me," he says. The blue of his eyes softens in the firelight as he looks back at you. He holds out a hand, fingers outstretched in invitation. "Just one dance."

"I don't dance."

"Neither do I. You can learn with me." There's something almost beseeching in Phainon's tone now. The same sort of careful persistence he's been directing at you for weeks, perhaps months now, that you've never allowed yourself to interpret. You drop your eyes back to the cup in your hands. "It'll only be for a little while. Please?"

"Don't worry about her, Sir Phainon," the serving girl interjects, already starting to pull at his sleeve again. "She'll be fine here."

"But—"

"You heard her," you cut in evenly. "I'll be fine here. Don't keep everyone waiting, Phainon."

Phainon's expression falters for just a brief second—something frustrated and unreadable flickering across his face—before it vanishes, like a trick of the firelight. When he turns back to the serving girl, he's traded his disappointed countenance for a polite, gentle smile, and he allows himself to be pulled over to the fountain. The dancers part readily to make room for him.

The music quickens, lapses into a vivacious triple-beat. You watch them circle the fountain without really observing, sipping idly at your honey brew. Phainon's not a practiced dancer—or any sort of dancer, for that matter—his feet shuffle awkwardly, the effortless grace he shows in combat entirely absent here. The serving girl spins him beneath the lamplight anyway, their feet moving in tandem across the painted flagstones. Her intent is unmistakeable in the way she moves—the subtle lean of her shoulder towards him, the light brush of her palm against his as she guides him through a turn. An invitation to scent, to mingle.

You lower your gaze to your cup. The drink is good—strong, heady, the taste of honey lingering uncloyingly on your tongue. And yet, for all its sweetness, it is a poor consolation for the situation you've put yourself in.

Phainon's voice carries easily across the square, and your attention betrays you by honing in on that sound with frustrating precision. It's as though some part of you has become irrevocably attuned to him without your permission, despite your knowledge that such a thing would be biologically impossible. And yet, you seem to notice him all the same.

He laughs again. You don't look up, raising your cup once more to drain it instead.

It's easier than putting a name to the emotion stirring inside your chest.

The two of you set off the next day as planned at the break of dawn, the sun hanging low in a sky the colour of overripe plum. The townsfolk are still fast asleep or only just beginning to stir, worn out from a night of dancing and revelry in Phagousa's honour that had stretched long past Curtain-Fall Hour. The road to Loukas stretches north, further than your eyes can follow, though the map assures you that the terrain should be mostly forgiving—wide paths, gentle inclines, a little more than the occasional ridge to break the monotony. An easy stretch of travel, all things considered.

Despite this, Phainon is drinking more water than usual.

Not excessively enough for you to remark on outright, but enough to noticeable. The two of you stop by streams and rivers more frequently than you're accustomed to, his water skin seemingly always emptying before yous. You also catch him wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand more often than should be necessary. The repetitive motion makes you frown.

At first, you manage to brush it off. Perhaps he simply had one cup too many last nights—he's always been terrible at holding his alcohol, and it wouldn't be the first time he's felt its aftereffects longer than he should have. But when the same behaviour carries into the next day, and then the one after that, that same reasoning begins to wear thin at the edges.

You confront him eventually one afternoon, rounding on him beneath the shade of an olive tree.

"Phainon."

"Yeah?"

"Are you feeling alright?"

"Hm?" He glances over, blinking once, then twice. "I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"You don't look fine."

"That's not a very polite thing to say."

You gesture at the waterskin he's holding to his lips, ignoring his attempt at humour. "That's the third drink you've had in the past quint."

Phainon pauses as if to consider it. "I'm thirsty?"

"You're also sweating more than usual."

"I'd be surprised if I wasn't, with how the weather's cooking us alive."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes to Aquila. You don't know why you even bothered with questions—he'd give you the same answer even if impaled through the gut by a Titankin's arrow. You settle for studying him out of the corner of your eye instead. His complexion is slightly off as he continues to drink from his waterskin, a faint flush high on his cheeks that bleeds down his neck and beneath the collar of his undershirt. Aside from this, he seems lively enough to walk it off, so you decide to let it go—for now.

The road continues to wind steadily north. Along the way, you insist on longer breaks in the shade, inns over roadside camps. But despite your deliberate efforts to slow your pace, Phainon's condition only seems to worsen.

He comments on the heat more frequently. He's also taken to tugging absently at the collar of his shirt, whether he's in the sun or not, fingers dragging roughly over the sun-mark at the side of his neck. And yet, no matter how many times you bring it up, Phainon dismisses your concern with the same, stubborn insistence—I'm fine, just a little under the weather, it's nothing unbearable.

The more you push, the more determinedly Phainon shoves back. That much is predictable. But what really concerns you is the inexplicable shift in his temperament. Usually, Phainon is the one to converse with strangers—the obvious choice between the two of you—with his charisma and genuine warmth. Now, you're not so sure. At times, his replies have come out more clipped than yours—an achievement in itself—and he's even begun interrupting your conversations on occasion, something you have never known him to do.

You give him a pass the first time, then the second. He's unwell, and therefore more irritable. But the third time he does it, cuts short yet another harmless exchange for directions, your patience finally wears thin.

"Phainon!" you hiss, rounding on him once the confused traveler is out of earshot. "What are you doing?"

Phainon blinks before stiffening. His gaze still lingers in the direction the man you'd been speaking to left, eyes faintly narrowed. They drop to you when you plant yourself squarely in his line of sight, though, the sharpened edge of his expression faltering before he manages to paste a half-convincing smile over it.

"What do you mean? I didn't do anything."

You drag a hand through your hair and back, frustrated. You can't believe that you, of all people, are the one telling him this.

"You can't give people death stares for helping us."

His lips press into a thin line. "I was just watching him. He was standing too close to you."

"He was looking at the map I was holding."

A complicated expression mars Phainon's delicate features. His normally pleasant countenance falters, hands working into fists before he tugs at the edge of his coat.

"…He was trying to scent you," he mutters.

Now that takes you slightly aback. Scenting. It's always been a foreign concept to you, part of a world you've never and will never be able to understand. When you think back to the exchange, though, the man had been standing rather close, one hand resting lightly on your elbow as he leaned in to glance at your maps. At the time, you'd simply dismissed it as simple curiosity.

Had he been trying to scent you then? The thought of a stranger doing so without your notice is… uncomfortable at best. But that's not the point right now.

"Even if he was, it shouldn't matter to you." You cross your arms, heels digging in stubbornly. "I'm just a beta. Scenting doesn't mean anything—"

"It does!"

The force with which those words leave his mouth startles you both. Phainon falters almost immediately, brow knitting. A faint tremor runs through his hands before he curls them into tight fists at his sides.

"It meant that he wanted—" Phainon cuts himself off abruptly. His jaw tightens even as the rest of him seems to shrink in on himself. Vanilla and aternoon sunlight and sharp neroli. It's as though he can't decide whether to double down or swallow the thought back into his mouth entirely. "It meant that he was… interested."

In you, goes unsaid.

You stare at him, barely comprehending the words. You're still attempting to wrap your head around the intensity of his previous response. He's never raised his voice—not like that, at least—before.

"Oh. O—Okay…"

Phainon meets your uncertain look for a long, drawn out moment. There's a volatile tempest behind those too blue eyes, a whirlpool of emotion churning until the tension in his expression suddenly gives way.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I just—I don't know why I did that either. I just…"

Phainon trails off, helpless. All his earlier defensiveness seems to have crumbled like poorly constructed stone fortifications, leaving him strangely disoriented. It's a jarring sight. Phainon normally carries himself with the effortless sort of confidence that makes everything seem easy. Seeing that certainty stripped from him is…

He tugs at his collar again, lower lip catching briefly between his teeth—an anxious tick you've come to recognise in him. All in all, Phainon looks downright miserable.

It's impossible to remain upset. You sigh, the last of your irritation dissolving in the face of his distress, and reach out to squeeze his wrist.

"It's okay," you say. You try to be gentle—you don't know if you manage. It's almost akin to soothing a spooked oryx—jittery, skittish, and all too ready to bolt. "But you're starting to worry me. If this, whatever this is, gets worse, we'll go to the healer the first town we come across. Alright?"

Phainon inhales an unsteady breath through his teeth. For a moment, you think he might still protest—the delay in the mission, that he can still go on—but he doesn't. The tension in his shoulders linger for a beat longer before he finally releases it, fingers curling loosely around your own.

"…Alright."

You wake the next morning to the insistent glare of morning sunlight.

You refuse to open them at first. They're unbearably heavy, as they often are after sleeping rough on the road, and you turn on your side with a groan in a futile attempt to hide from daybreak. Alas, sleep refuses to take you back into its embrace, the growing warmth and brightness too persistent to ignore.

You lie where you are for an indefinite span of time, half-awake but unmoving. The camp is oddly silent.

"Phainon?" you mutter, voice still thick with sleep. No response.

A faint crease forms between your brows despite the lingering grogginess. You push yourself up onto one elbow, lips parting midway between a frown and a yawn.

"Phainon?"

Still nothing.

That's strange. The sun is bright enough to pierce through the foliage—it must be well past Entry Hour now. Phainon usually wakes you before then, if not with a warm hand on your shoulder then with the sounds of him tearing down the camp, despite his best attempts to be quiet. You're almost certain he couldn't sleep in even if his life were to depend on it.

So, the only reason you could be waking up to sun instead of his usual, overly cheerful greeting is—

You kick off the threadbare blanket covering your legs and scramble to your feet. Your heart lurches into an uneven pound all the way up in your throat. The worry only eases somewhat when your eyes find his bedroll, with a familiar, Phainon-shaped lump beneath the loose drape of his coat.

You hurry over regardless, too impatient to pull on your boots. Loose sand and grit shifts beneath your feet.

Phainon is seemingly fast asleep, his back turned to you rising and falling steadily with each breath. You crouch next to him and grasp his shoulder, gently rolling him over with the intent to shake him awake.

Instead, you find him shivering.

Phainon's face is tight with discomfort, even in sleep, complexion flushed under the morning light flitering through the trees. Loose tendrils cling damply to his temples and the nape of his neck. Concerned, you press a hand to his forehead at once and a small moan slips past his lips as he leans instinctively into your touch, hands curling against his chest.

He's burning up. Your hand drops to his cheek, then to his neck. He's feverish everywhere, skin clammy with cold sweat.

You reach up to shake him. "Phainon," you repeat, more urgenly this time. "Phainon, wake up—"

His fingers close around your wrist. Before you can react, Phainon tugs, and you pitch forward with a startled gasp. The next thing you know, you're half-sprawled over him, one hand braced beside his head while the other remains caught in his grasp. His fingertips are searing points of heat against the skin of your inner wrist. There is only the distance of a hand's breadth between the two of you, and this close, the fever radiates off him like heat from a charcoal brazier, seeping through the damp material of his undershirt.

Phainon blinks down at you, gaze fevered and heavy-lidded. If he's aware of the compromising position he's put the two of you in, he doesn't show it.

"It's hot…"

You swallow hard at the peculiar quality his voice seems to have taken. Focus. The nearest town is still some distance away, and you don't know if Phainon can even stand, let alone walk there.

"Can you—"

You don't get to finish your sentence. Phainon drags you closer still, his other arm sliding around your waist. You're too disoriented to respond, mind empty of everything except the press of his chest against yours, the heat of his hand spread at your lower back. His face buries itself in the crook of your neck with a quiet noise that sounds almost like a whimper, the tip of his nose pressing against your jaw before tracing down your jugular, breath hot and moist against the sensitive skin there and you—

"Phainon!"

You wrench yourself back on instinct, one hand flying to your neck. Your entire face is hot. It's unmistakeable, what he'd been trying to do. Seeking for a scent gland there—where they would typically be on an alpha or omega—on you.

No one has ever tried to scent you there before. Not your own family when you were still young and unpresented, and not any of the few beta partners you'd taken into your bed since. The strangeness of it all leaves you more rattled than it should.

"You…" If you had any subsequent words, they fail you now.

Phainon clutches at his coat as he sits up fully, fingers digging like claws into the fabric as though it's the only thing anchoring him. It looks as though some awareness is returning to him, but his gaze is still unfocused, pale lashes trembling as he blinks. He shivers as though seized by a sudden chill.

'Sorry—" he starts, one hand coming up to clutch weakly at his collar. He tries to muster a smile but fails. "I—"

"Don't apologise."

"Sorry." He apologises again immediately before he cringes, shoulders curling inward. "I… I didn't mean to do that. I don't know what happened, I just…"

"I said don't."

You're struck with the sudden, almost absurd desire for Phainon to make a joke. Some ridiculous, inane remark that would have you hitting his shoulder and him grinnng playfully at you. It doesn't feel that long ago that the two of you were bickering over landmarks and maps, trading verbal jabs with familiar ease. How did things turn south so quickly, without warning?

If only you could bottle the water from that Soul-Purifying Spring. How inconvenient that it loses its potency once removed from its source. You purse your lips around a frustrated sigh.

"We're heading to town," you announce before Phainon can say any more. You're not in the mood to hear any more undeserved penitence from him. "Sit here. We'll leave once I'll pack up camp."

"But I—"

The look that you throw at Phainon shuts him up. He must really be feeling unwell, because he doesn't even try to insist on helping. Instead, he sits where he is, the lower half of his face pressed into his coat's collar as he watches you stamp out the remains of the fire with hazy, half-lidded eyes.

By some stroke of fortune, a merchant with a mule-drawn cart pass the two of you on the road to town. He takes one look at Phainon and immediately reins in, concern spreading across his face before you even have to ask.

"Thank you for stopping," you say, unable to keep the tight worry from your voice as he clambers down from his cart. He has a round face, soft eyes, a pleasant sort of smile that lingers as he takes in the two of you. His gaze flicks between you and Phainon.

"Your partner?" he asks curiously, as he dusts off the knees of his trousers. It takes you a moment to realise what he's asking.

"Oh—no, no. A friend."

The merchant nods easily and helps you load your things onto the cart. Phainon, however, seems to want nothing to do with him—each time the man comes too close, Phainon lurches away weakly, expression tightening like he's caught whiff of something unpleasant.

"Phainon," you whisper when the man moves to the front to soothe his mule, impatient with the delay. "What is with you?"

You feel more than hear Phainon swallow against your shoulder, fingers tightening in your sleeve. When he answers, his voice is small and muffled.

"…His scent."

"What about it?"

"It's making me nauseous."

Now, the man doesn't smell particularly pleasant—judging by the faint briny scent clinging to him, his line of trade is probably in fish and the like—but nothing that should warrant such a strong reaction. You frown, dismayed at his lack of courtesy and how much his condition seems to have deteriorated.

"You can't just say that he smells bad." It feels almost absurd that you have to say this at all. But Phainon just shakes his head, the movement tight.

"Not—Not his smell." He pauses, grimacing, as though struggling to find the words. "It's his scent." You're only slightly bewildered. What's the difference? "It's not that he smells bad, it's just that I can't—"

"I can ride at the front, if it makes him more comfortable."

Phainon's hold on your arm tightens to almost a vice grip. The way his fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeve is almost… possessive, if you had to put a word to it. You ignore that line of thought to turn to the merchant, a hurried apology already on your lips, but he only waves it off gently.

"Don't worry, I understand." He offers you a reassuring smile. "I'm an omega, after all."

You're not entirely sure what that is supposed to mean, but you don't have the luxury of mind to dwell on it. You help Phainon into the back of the cart as the merchant climbs onto his mule. The moment you settle on the thin straw mat that's been laid out, Phainon slumps heavily against you, the heat of his body seeping through both your clothes and his.

He's far too warm.

You manage to fish your waterskin from your satchel, soaking a handkerchief against your palm before pressing it carefully to his forehead. Phainon exhales softly at the contact. His head lolls whenever the cart rocks and sways along the uneven roads, eventually settling on your shoulder.

You almost think he’s fallen asleep when he suddenly pipes up, voice faint and slurred.

"I'm sorry..."

“I told you, don’t apologise.”

"Sorry..."

You huff out an exhale. "You sound like you're dying," you mutter instead, because it's easier than giving voice to the hundred other emotions you're feeling at the moment.

There’s a brief stretch of silence after that, broken only by the creaking of the cart and the uneven rhythm of Phainon's breathing. The wheels of the cart turn over the dirt road. He speaks again.

"The dancers by the founatin…"

You sigh. "Stop talking and go to—"

"I had fun dancing with them."

Something heavy in your chest sinks, a millstone vanishing beneath the dark water.

"Oh."

A pause. You can feel Phainon swallow where his face is half-hidden against your shoulder.

"…I wanted to dance with you, too."

"…Oh."

Phainon doesn't say anything more after that. He seems to have drifted off, breathing slow and uneven where it brushes the side of your neck. The sensation prickles faintly like warmed needles everywhere his breath touches. You fix your eyes on the road stretching out behind the cart and pointedly refuse to dwell on it.

"Seems to be a pretty bad one," the merchant says. You look up to see him glancing back at the two of you from the front, swaying with each slow plod of his mule. His warm brown eyes are soft with sympathy. "Take good care of him, eh?"

Your gaze drops involuntarily to the man next to you. His pale lashes lie against fever-flush cheeks as he sleeps, lips parting around each exhale.

"I will."

He doesn't have to tell you that.

a/n: this was my first time writing omegaverse and i feel like i may have made phainon a tad ooc with this one... that or his personality keeps oscillating wildly 😩 please forgive me for the awful writing </3 why does putting a strap in phainon come with so much grief 😔

[baeshijima]

— my hero

wherein a boy whose lifelong dream was put to rest for the greater good of the world, yet you remind the man he has become today that dreams never do die, nor are they forgotten, for you will make his dream a reality.

(well, minus the “slaying a dragon” part, that is.)

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 2.2k wc, fluff, emotional hurt/comfort if you squint, childhood friends to implied lovers, references to his animated short, have not read his character story/done his quest yet so inaccuracies for childhood might occur...

A/N : in honour of me getting varka in 70 pulls and his + flins weapon in a double 5* pull at 20 pity this supposed-to-be one para fic blurb that spiralled into an actual fic is forcibly being posted :] HAPPY VARKA RELEASE DAY OURGH MY LOVE MY BELOVED -1HP -1HP -1HP TAT

The boy who is sunshine incarnate and all the warmth and ambition in the world wrapped into a single person continues chattering away. He weaves the stems of the flowers with clumsy hands; a cecilia a little too crooked, a windwheel aster’s petals a little too crumpled, a sweet flower’s stem a little too torn. He still works at it with all the confidence in the world, fingers moving in the way you taught him to albeit a little… differently.

You admire his tenacity, at the very least.

“…and then, I’ll wave my sword all like, “Listen here, O’ Mighty Dragon! Today I have come to slay you!” And then I’ll charge in like ‘whoosh!’ and hit it like ‘ka-pow!’ and it’ll let out this loud ‘ROOAAARRRR!!’ as it falls down like ‘ka-splat!’ and I’ll be standing on top of it with my sword up high and you next to me as my sidekick! Or, uh, right hand, I think they call it?”

You blink, suddenly aware of the one-sided conversation he is having with you. With slightly furrowed brows, you shift your focus onto his beaming expression. “But I don’t want that.”

“Huh? Why not?” he asks, tilting his head with an expression replicating his sheer confusion at the denial.

“Because dragons are boring.”

Varka stares as if you just announced you murdered his entire family without an ounce of guilt.

“…WHAT—?!”

He proceeds to spend the next three hours giving you an entire lecture on how, “Dragons are the coolest, most powerful creatures out there! Don’t you know how strong you have to be to match a dragon? SUPER strong!! And I will become so strong I knock 'em out in one hit— hey, are you listening?”

You are listening. Honestly, you don’t think it was possible to not listen to him with how loud he speaks, practically forcing you to listen to his far-fetched ramblings of how big and strong a dragon is, and how he will be even stronger than that.

Well, not entirely far-fetched. If anyone could achieve the impossible, it would be Varka. You have no doubt about it; even if his big talk of slaying a dragon makes you wonder if he hit his head somewhere amid his training. You’re pretty sure you saw him trip over a rock mid-swing earlier, so maybe that is what made him declare such a thing to you now.

Still, with the lopsided flower crown of cecilia, sweet flowers, and windwheel asters perched atop your head and the boy as free as the dandelion seeds flying in the gentle breeze still continuing his rant about how cool and awesome and powerful dragons are, you think seeing him become a hero would be pretty cool, even if he already is one in your eyes.

And a hero to others he becomes.

You have witnessed his ascension in the knights’ ranks from Knight to Captain to Grand Master, watched as he made a name for himself with his eager attitude and indomitable spirit, spectated the impact he has had on those around him as a mere bystander of the one meant for the spotlight.

He deserves it, you think. He deserves the praise and showers of compliments — deserves the respect and reputation he has spent his life cultivating.

He was born to be a hero, even if he himself no longer thinks of himself as such.

“Y’know, I saw something funny earlier.”

His voice is low; a deeper lull stark to the usual jovial tone he pertains. His expression is set — furrowed brows, lips taut into the a thin line as he mulls over what to say, his typical confident stature reduced to a slump against the tree.

You wondered why he asked to meet you here, in this field you once frequented in your youth. Taking a gander at his sombre expression, however, something prickles at your conscience — like a tucked-away memory being dusted off and brought into the light once more.

Varka still hasn’t looked at you. Instead, he wets his lips as he prepares to speak once again.

“I saw… a vision, so to speak. I brushed shoulders with our god, felled a dragon by my own strength, and returned back home victorious. I was… celebrated. There was a statue in my honour, the people cheered my name and passed down my legacy wherever they went, the knights’ abilities were no longer questioned, and you…”

He pauses, expression shifting imperceptibly.

You aren’t given the chance to ask what that meant — what the you in his so-called vision did to warrant such a complicated expression — before he speaks again, voice strained in a way that betrays the hold he has on his emotions.

“You welcomed me back and called me a hero. You looked at me with such unwavering trust I almost believed it was real— that I was a hero who slayed a dragon. But then I saw another vision, and I realised I could never be one. That I could never live up to your expectations of me.”

Unlike his prior conflict, there is an unmistakable air of acceptance. His posture becomes even more slouched, shoulders hunched in as his lifelong dream remains within reach yet still manages to slip through his fingers.

It’s uncanny, the way this Varka looks. How defeated his mannerism reflects, how withdrawn he appears after having his everything dangled before his very eyes only for it to slip through his grasp… How, behind his down-turned, faraway gaze, there is a quiet grievance for what could have been — for what almost was his future.

You don’t think as such; not when you are the closest person to Varka, having seen him through all his highs and lows and still thinks of him to be such a blindingly beautiful person both inside and out.

The air shifts. a warm breeze flutters between you, dandelion seeds drifting along the sot currents in the distance.

“Did you know, Varka? You’re a hero to many. To all the people you have saved during your expeditions and travels thus far and the many to come in the future. To the citizens of Mond who have received your selfless help where you don’t expect anything in return. To the knights who all look up to and respect you in everything you embody and willingly choose to follow you. To the kids who believe you’re about as cool as anyone or anything can get. And…” A smile appears naturally on your lips before you can even stop it, the next words escaping the part of your lips with ease. “You’re my hero. Ever since you declared I would be your right hand in slaying a dragon, and even since before then, too.”

You were always a rather timid child. Easily startled, barely went out and played with others, opting to stay inside where it was quiet and peaceful. Sometimes you would watch them run around and wonder it would be like to be out there— to have the confidence to step out of your comfort zone and try something new.

Your parents were always of the worried sort. They worried if you were sick. They worried if you felt any discomfort. They worried if you were unhappy. They worried if you felt alone. They worried whether you would get along with the other kids when the time eventually came. They worried—

They worried. A lot. Perhaps more than parents typically would.

And maybe their heartfelt concern is what spurred you to be a little braver that day, to help quell their worries if even by a little. To step out of your comfort zone and feel the grass beneath your feet, the wind in your hair, the sun in your skin.

“Do you remember that time a baby rabbit came from out of nowhere and scared me? You chased it away and I thought you were the coolest boy ever.” Laughter spills from your lips at the thought; fond, undeniably so. “Your confidence was something I'd always admired, and I always knew if anyone were to achieve the impossible, it would be you. I still think so, even if you, yourself, might not right now.”

Looking back, it was a rather silly memory. Silly, yet life-changing. Sometimes it’s the small, seemingly insignificant things in life which have the most impact and inevitably snowball into something much larger than you could begin to imagine.

(And really, if it meant reliving that moment again and again, you would do so in a heartbeat.)

Varka merely stares at you. Not like how he did back then when you decided dragons were boring and acted as if you cursed his entire bloodline without a shred of regret, but in a different way. In a way which beheld trembling glassy eyes, quivering lips attempting to form words bound to remain unsaid, and something entirely incomprehensible flitting through his expression.

Something all too reminiscent of a boy with big dreams and an even bigger heart.

“I'm going on an expedition,” he blurts. It’s out of the blue, yet still tinged with the careful deliberation of a man with too many responsibilities than he knows what to do with. He seems to realise the odd shift, features faltering slightly at the abruptness yet not entirely shocked, as though this topic is something he has rehearsed to himself many a time leading up to this moment.

“That other vision I mentioned… I was shown something else.” His lips press together into a thin line. Varka takes in a breath, and something tells you there won't be much of a breather when he resumes talking. “The Abyss' influence is taking root up north, destroying everything in its path, and it'll eventually spread all the way down here to Mondstadt. Knowing how many innocent people will be harmed, I can't just— sit back and do nothing. How can I be a hero when everyone will eventually be facing a greater danger? What use would momentary glory be if I can’t even protect anyone? If I can't protect the ones I love most? If I can’t protect you?”

His words come out in a rapid fire. His thoughts are consumed wholly by the impending doom; a tragedy he has already vowed and committed to preventing to the best of his abilities despite the limited information he currently has. But something like that has never stopped him. Nothing really can once his mind has been set, his goal all that occupies the forefront of his mind and influencing every lingering thought thereafter.

Varka’s voice continues once more. It comes out rushed, like he’s trying to say everything he can in one go before it is too late. Too late for what? You have no clue. But he speaks as though he is running out of time, and you’re unsure whether that’s for the looming expedition departure or for something else which has been consuming him.

“I can’t say how long it will take. Months— years, maybe. Honestly, with how much is at stake, I'm not even sure if I'll make it back alive, let alone make it there with all this uncertainty, or what might happen in the other nations—”

“Varka—”

When he looks at you, it is almost as if the air was knocked out of your lungs.

“And I know this is selfish of me to ask, but even despite all the uncertainty this expedition entails... Will you wait for me?”

An expression so fragile it threatens to shatter at the slightest hint of rejection, he looks at you as though his heart is in your hands. It’s a rare vulnerability, a concept wholly implausible to many citizens of Mondstadt who know of him as their strong and reliable Grand Master.

Yet your gaze sinks into his, because you know. Because you see the boy who would swing his sword a thousand times even as his muscles would scream for relief. Because you see the lingering uncertainty hidden within the clear sky-blue of his eyes akin to the moments where he would question whether he deserved the title of Grand Master. Because you see that thing he does with his leg, where it bounces slightly without his knowledge when his mood gets a tad too agitated.

Because you know Varka, and so you see his rare displays of anxiousness clear as day. And because you know Varka, you believe in him; in the boy who showed you what it meant to be strong, and in the man who burned brighter than ever yet still made room for you to not get burned.

And so your answer comes easy. It’s obvious from your perspective, but you suppose every now and then he tends to not be the sharpest tool in the shed.

Raising your hand, you reach out and cup his cheek, fingertips brushing gently against his warm skin. “I'll wait for you, regardless of how long it takes.”

The tension in his body melts within an instant. His hand reaches up to cradle your one against his cheek, pushing the contact closer. Ever so slightly does his head turn, until his lips touch the palm of your hand as he litters an endless sea of soft kisses against the skin.

“I'll come back to you,” he whispers amid what you now recognise to be his silent promises.

And you merely smile, because you know Varka. And you know he keeps to his word.

“I'll be waiting for your return.”

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