₊˚⊹ ₍ᐢᐢ₎ USAGI. 18+. she/her. part time student, full time yearner.
REMINDER: pls be nice!! pomme means apple. header credit!
⊹ ˖ Ი𐑼 i'd be there in a hurry...
₊˚⊹ currently: crashing out over frieren ノ in: @d1strict99 's garden
last seen:
↳ the d in divorce stands for 'despite everything, it's still you.'
𐔌 — byf/dni + abt me ノ archive — 𐦯
Synopsis: Every January since you were little, you would dream about a field of snow, waking up cold. That was happening until you went back home one January – when that same dream would end differently, in which the snow melted and you would hear a voice. That same voice was the one you would hear from a fellow figure skater that you met in your home town; his name was Khaslana. Now you can't seem to avoid this man, whether you're online or outside and fans can't get enough of you two together.
Notes
𖤓 Modern!Au, social media!au, fem!reader, slow burn, cursing, potential injury descriptions, suggestive, a touch more supernatural/hints of fantasy if you squint, inaccurate depiction of professional figure skating, phai-triplets au,
𖤓 Same AU as my Phainon SMAU "Unemployment Hotline" and "I'll Shoot You to the Moon"
𖤓 Comment on the masterlist (this post) to be added to the taglist
Millennia have gone by, and yet not a single creature has found a cure for lovesickness. Xiao is no exception– and worse, difficult as his feelings are already, they are compounded still by jealousy. Xiao knows it– fortunately, you seem blissfully unaware.
Unfortunately for him, Barbatos knows it too, and decides to free his lips with some fine wine. When Xiao’s words tumble loose, you decide it would be alright to be more courageous than him, for once–
–and ask him to stay.
(A kiss, Xiao thinks, is a fine gift to receive on a birthday.)
Xiao x gn!Reader, 10.5k
— ☘ — ☘ xiao x mortal reader, jealous and lovesick xiao, mutual pining, v slightly suggestive at a part, xiao is v smitten, reader lives in the harbour, reader is not lumine, slowburn (mostly implied bc this is a oneshot and you’ve been friends for years), drunken confession, cuddling, boob jokes, some hcs (menogias made his outfit, xiao has claws like xianyun), alcohol consumption, reader swears a teeny bit, reader has a vision, it’s all just meandering fluff I’m sorry 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 ♡
Xiao hears all that happens in Liyue.
Most prominent are the desperate cries for help– forever at the forefront of his mind, these take priority.
Then come the prayers, although there are not many ordinarily; the majority fall into the lot of the adepti of Jueyun Karst. Even so, there are those that pray to him. They naively murmur their wishes to the wind in the hopes of him receiving them.
I pray my sister has a safe pregnancy, says one. I hope my child has a good day, says another.
(That is not my domain, Xiao thinks every time. But even so, I hope it for you. And if a gust of wind keeps the woman from falling to the ground when she stumbles, and if a qingxin flower mysteriously descends from the heavens to land atop the child’s head, making them the envy of all their little friends– well.)
Then come the mentions of his name– this he needs to keep an ear out for. Although, not every murmured Xiao is a summons– intent matters, after all. Such passing mentions are commonplace. Although they are littered all over his subconscious like scattered leaves in the wake of a storm, Xiao pays them little heed.
Lastly, Xiao hears all else– if he so wishes. A conversation between two drunk men at Chihu Rock, the furious hisses of a mother-cat unwilling to let anyone near the minuscule flakes of lint she calls her kittens, the soft cheeps of the finches as they return home to roost after a long, dry day of foraging. (They have his sympathy– the fourth month is upon them, and the sun beams smugly upon all the world beneath.)
Then– if he strains his ears enough– your laughter. And, for the past couple weeks, someone else laughs alongside you, when you ought be heading home quite alone.
And it would mean nothing, nothing at all. If. If.
(He imagines what it would be like, to walk you home, shoulder to shoulder. He dismisses the vision.)
It means nothing even now, he reminds himself, not knowing why he needs reminding. What conceivable reason could there be?
Xiao has known you for a long time. Years of unlikely friendship. Perhaps, he allows, it is precisely because he has few friends that he feels… protective. Yes, that is all. You are deserving of only the best– you are a treasure, after all. Even Rex Lapis said so once, unprompted, fondly casting a glance at your lively eyes, the warm smiles you’d give them as you made your way over. Genial, he had said, when he’d visited the Inn last and found the two of you taking a stroll in the marsh.
Comforting, Xiao had thought. Strange, then, that your smiles have brought him little solace as of late.
Xiao sighs.
It would be a bit naive, he quietly concedes, to pretend he didn’t know why. He is too old, has seen too much– felt too much– to not know what chord his heart strums now.
He gives it no name. He does not need to, and he’d rather not besides. After all, it is an ugly little thing, and acknowledgement does nothing to loosen its toils from his mind.
Last week, you’d paid him a visit. Your regular comings and goings have been more sporadic as of late, with Cloud Retainer’s recently roused temper sending flurries of icy rain to soak all the harbour, forcing everyone and everything with good sense indoors. It caused no real harm, but did serve to be a wretched nuisance, and no amount of prayers and offerings had done anything to make even the slightest change to the weather. You’d asked Xiao why, and he’d bitten back a smile. Something about her mountain still being “positively bedaubed in mint,” he’d said, privately relishing the fact that you knew precisely what he spoke of. He’d told you what had happened this Lantern Rite, after all, tiptoeing around this detail and that. You hadn’t asked any questions, but he’d seen your focused expression and known you’d guessed the rest on your own.
You’d laughed and laughed when he’d told you about Mountain Shaper seeding all of Mt. Aocang with mint, he fondly recalls. (So these laughs bring him solace– he sees, although he does not wish to.) Your mirth perhaps spelled trouble for you, though, because you’d gone on to tut and call Cloud Retainer a ‘sensitive granny,’ and Miss Xianyun, standing a mere half dozen steps away, had not been amused.
Why punish us for it, you’d groaned, when the skies had torn open to shower some more over the inn, just as you’d gotten up to leave. Xiao had been unsurprised– that much was plain to see– but if a part of him was really quite pleased, he hid it well, even from himself.
No matter was all he had said, stoic as ever, and had held your hand to bring you home. It took scarcely a breath, but the warmth of your fingers had lingered on the leather of his gloves for several moments after.
(And of course– although contact was admittedly a little unnecessary, holding your hand would surely have made you a little more comfortable with something as foreign as teleportation, yes?)
The evening breeze brings him out of his thoughts by delivering yet another peal of distant laughter to his ears, and he dissipates it with a sullen wave of his hand. The air goes still for a moment, as though insulted. Then it picks up again, reminding Xiao strongly of a rebuked child pretending to not care. It ruffles the leaves of the giant tree, and plays and fools about the Inn’s loose eaves-and-shingles with breezy little whistles. The very vision of liveliness.
It prances about him, too, and playfully tousles his hair into his face before darting off to bother someone else. Xiao doesn’t look up. Part of him is grateful to be broken out of his reverie, but part of him finds it to be of little use. He is suddenly hyperaware of his muscles– of the arch of his tired shoulders and the ache in his feet. Something heavy sinks to the bottom of his stomach, and twists up coils tightly round his chest. He imagines what it would be like, to have you laugh at something he’d said, instead of your newest coworker, who is all that is charming and vivacious and mortal.
He got cake for everyone yesterday, you’d cheerily said last week, bringing a spoonful up to Xiao’s lips. He had felt both thrilled and dismayed. In the end he’d schooled his face into neutrality and commanded himself to feel the same, as you obliviously continued– It was to thank everyone for being so welcoming or something. It’s really good– try it.
It’s alright, Xiao had wanted to tell you. In the end, though, all he could force out of was a nod of half dismissal and half (questionable) agreement. Perhaps it was puerile, but he finds he doesn’t regret it.
Xiao stands and shakes his head, thumping his spear into existence. He ought to clear his mind.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Tomorrow comes, as tomorrow always does.
The passage of time means little to Xiao– the hours run by in mere moments and it is morning before he knows it. One instance the night sky blinks meekly at him. When he shuts his eyes, he feels the stars gaze upon his skin; when he opens them, he meets the sun’s glare and scrunches them shut.
How long did he sleep? There’s a dull ache in his arm from the awkward angle– he’d draped it carelessly over the rocky ground and learnt his lesson for the nth time. He cares not– his body aches always regardless, and another dull throb means nothing. Mere tears to the sea.
Xiao blinks at his palm, at the blood encrusted on his glove, and blinks. He’s angry today, he realises– full of vitriol, the whispers in his mind more poisonous– although the reason dodges him.
(Or perhaps, he dodges it.)
Xiao looks blearily around.
The sun is out today. It is low in the sky– dawn. He frowns, registering his surroundings. No, sunset. You must be setting off for home, chattily bidding your friends goodbye. Or perhaps you’ve already reached.
He starts to strain his ears to see if you laugh today too, but stops. He does not wish to make himself angrier.
It is unfortunate, then, that the weather is just as he likes it. Tiny clouds bumble through the skies like soft lambs. (He is reminded of Ganyu when she was little, and his temper cools slightly.) Moreover, there is a breeze buffeting eagerly at his back, ruffling his hair with its soft, eager fingers and begging him to spread his wings. He’ll hardly have to flap them, he knows, for them to carry him all over Liyue. He pulls off his muck-encrusted gloves, clenches and unclenches his fingers. It isn’t even humid today– the breeze seems to have lifted all the moisture off.
He sees a fox lapping at a puddle as he hikes down the hill, having pettily decided to walk. How vexing, for Cloud Retainer to have ruined his week to suddenly find herself pleased with all the world. Perhaps he should find the Traveler and ask for every little mint seed found on their travels to scatter all over her mountain. She is not there nowadays; she would never know until the rains arrive once more and there is suddenly nothing but cool green all around.
He sighs.
He sighs as he plods along, sighs as the finches cheep eagerly at him, and sighs as he hurls his spear into a lawachurl’s back. He sighs again as he bends down to pick it up, then again when he glances over the expanse the dusk-painted marsh, only to see just how far the inn is.
He reluctantly teleports.
Landing on his balcony soothes him slightly. He shakily exhales when he hears familiar laughter arise from the kitchen, along with the smell of oil and scallions. The breeze also carries a certain fragrance up to his nostrils, and he tips his head to smell it better. Some flower he forgets the name of. Or is it a resin? A new varnish to some piece of furniture? No matter. He’s about to make his way to his room when his ears prick up, and his footsteps come to a halt.
“When… think he’ll return?”
“You can… to him, he’d never… you.”
“...bad for calling…”
“How foolish!” (Verr’s voice is loud here, and incredulous. The last remnants of Xiao’s ire are fast replaced by curiosity when you retort–)
“Not even! I can’t bother him on his special day.”
“Do you even love him?” Huai’an teases, and Xiao’s anger sharply returns and twists itself into something larger and still more bitter. He walks quietly into his room and tosses his gloves into a corner, vowing to set off again as soon as he's changed into fresh clothes. Something tugs at him even as he fumes– and Xiao is no good at understanding his feelings, but this one he knows. It is a mixture of fear and sadness. A certain sort of anxiety, the herald of impending loss. He suddenly remembers you telling him something once– the difference between jealousy and envy.
It had come about in an uneventful way– you’d cast dirty looks at him all afternoon, once. It had been the sunniest day, and you’d been dappled like a fawn in the leaf-filtered light. Something inside of Xiao had been desperate to enjoy today, to remember it well– and so he’d finally asked what made you so furious. You’d laughed then, frown dissolving into playfulness, and told him you were jealous.
No, sorry, you’d said momentarily, looking thoughtful. He’d pulled the leaves off a strawberry and handed it absently to you. You’d held it up for him, and he’d declined, even as his lips brushed against it. You didn’t seem to notice– if you did, you didn’t seem to care. Somehow it had brought him both a sting of pain and immense relief when you’d tossed it carelessly into your own mouth and winced, then shrugged at the sourness, at the accidental kiss shared. I meant envious.
What is the difference? He’d asked, and sighed. What could possibly be the difference? Mortals and their million distinctions.
You’d smiled at him, knowing why he’d huffed. Jealousy is like, when you don’t want someone taking what’s yours, you’d explained. The way you don’t want me taking your food, so you jealously guard it. Envy is what I feel right now, which is wanting something someone else has. And what I want is your clear skin, because I’m breaking out and it looks kinda bad.
It looks fine, he’d said, handing you another fruit off the platter. The same occurred then– you held it up for him to eat, he shook his head, and you’d popped it into your mouth. A second kiss. You look the same, he’d insisted. Besides, you can have my food if you like.
I always look ugly?
You never look ugly.
Xiao yanks harshly on his sleeve. He first regrets lacing it with care, because all that happens is that he ends up roughly jostling his arm, then regrets it still more sorely a second time, when he recalls who made it.
What happens, he wonders, when you are afraid of someone taking what you do not have?
He’s hardly begun scolding himself for resenting some poor mortal sod before there is a knock on his door.
It is familiar– so familiar, that the moment he hears it, his shoulders soften and he calls out a gentle “enter!” before he knows it. He curses himself, then– his body responded sooner than his brain, when the embers of his temper still glow. (Not that it matters– they would never flare, not at you.)
Whatever twisted worm seethes in his rotten apple heart, though, stops thrashing as soon as you peek in through the door. You do nothing for a moment– just stare at him with narrowed eyes, and he wonders if you are as angry as he was, before he remembers you cannot see in the dark at all. A slim ray of amusement creeps into his heart, and makes itself known on his lips. You’re probably futilely searching for him still.
He draws his curtains open with a sharp flick of his wrist to let in the rapidly dimming light. You blink rapidly, then smile. So relieved and bright, eyes crinkling sweetly at the edges, that he feels something in his throat and turns away, pretending to fix the perfect laces of his sleeve.
He is determined to be angry, but nothing ever goes his way. And so he is unsurprised when his voice is soft as ever when he asks– “did you need something?”
“Woah,” you say, and he drops his sleeve and looks up, nonplussed. What sort of response is woah?
“Hm?”
Then you snort a little half-laugh, and it is like ice to a bruise. “You’re so cold today. Are you mad about something? Is this a bad time?”
Yes, he thinks, and shakes his head. (Then he remembers something you’d said to him once– you lie often– and puts it out of mind. After all, he tells himself, that is neither here nor there.)
“No,” he says, then reconsiders. “Perhaps. I fell asleep in the marsh for too long, and it did not rain again– and so I did not wake up.”
“Ah,” you say, and the familiar lilt in your voice whispers– how silly. He doesn’t mind– he knows it is an unconvincing lie, but you’re either too civil or too tactful to question it.
There is a lull in the conversation, then, and he feels something bitter creep onto the edges of his mind once more. This is not the first time he has killed an exchange.
He is about to apologise and turn you away when you start another.
“I bought some nice wines yesterday,” you say, snapping your fingers. He turns around. “That’s why I’m here, actually. Would you like to taste them with me?”
Xiao’s lashes flutter. Yes. No. “When?”
You grin. “Today! But dinner first, I think. I don’t think I should drink on an empty stomach– is it the same for the adepti?”
“A little,” he admits. Then– “When today?”
You tilt your head. “Now today, if you don’t mind. It’s dark out already.” You smile. “Shall we go?”
His heart lurches. He hums, and holds out a bare, clawed hand for you. You stare at it for a long moment before pressing your palm trustingly against his, and he jolts at the warmth– he’d forgotten he’d taken his gloves off.
His nails brush against your wrist as you pull quickly away. “Sorry,” you blurt, eyebrows furrowing in concern. He feels a flush creep up his neck and is suddenly glad for the dark. “Did I do something?”
“No,” comes his prompt answer, although he cannot tell if he lies now or speaks the truth. “A mere spasm. Shall we go?”
You nod, and cheerily grab onto his hand again. He draws the door shut behind you and locks it. In the next moment, he is with you on your balcony.
“It’s locked–” you start to say, and he waves his hand. The wind rustles, your door clicks, and Xiao slides it open. He throws you a glance, and you amusedly sigh.
“I had no clue it was that easy for you.”
“It is even easier if I do not care for the state of your carpet.” He nods at his muddy shoes as he slides them off and nudges them into a corner of the balcony with a foot. You carry yours to your perpetually full shoe-rack, eye it critically, then shrug and plop your footwear on the floor.
“You need a bigger rack,” he says. For some reason, you give the most mischievous little snigger, and he tilts his head. “What?”
“Don’t go around telling random women that, now.”
“Pardon?”
“Tsk tsk.”
He huffs, and chuckles despite himself. He cannot help it, not when you look so gleeful.
“What have I done now?” He asks, with the air of someone that knows they’ve lost.
You laugh in response, and he steps inside, stepping carefully around your carpet. Once he reaches you, you flick his forehead, so gently it is barely a tap.
“Rack can sometimes refer to boobs,” you explain, and his face burns at your nonchalance. He’s unsure of what to say in answer– he simply crosses his arms and attempts a look of disappointment. Whether he succeeds or fails is a mystery– what he does know is that you laugh again, and that something pleasant bubbles in his chest when you do.
“Well,” you finally say, saving him the trouble of responding. “You should put the polearm away and freshen up. I bought some new soap yesteday– it smells really nice. Kind of resin-y.” You hold up your arm for him to smell, then withdraw it, embarrassed. “It’s made of pine amber from Nod Krai.”
“That is a resin,” he murmurs. So that was what he smelled at the Inn before– it is indeed quite pleasant. It is unlike most mortal fragrances; he absently leans a little closer to catch more of the gently lingering scent. As he does so, he notices something– a little red mark on the side of your neck– and brushes his clawed fingers gently against it before he can quite register his actions.
“What is this?” he murmurs.
“Huh?” You clamp a hand over your neck but misjudge the motion, and Xiao’s nails catch against your throat for a moment before he draws them away, alarmed.
“Is there a scratch?” A love-bite?
“No, it’s nothing.” You snort, oblivious. “You didn’t scratch me. Sorry.” You exhale, and your breath brushes his cheek.
And you are suddenly too close– he is too close. Vision or no vision, he never ought to cross the distance between you, this thick yet invisible line– and particularly not in this listless way, inching nearer and nearer as roots to water, as devastation to unsuspecting innocents.
He lowers his lashes and parts his lips, an apology on his tongue–
You speak first. (And, he notices, you do not step away.)
“Anyway, the mark on my neck is from some sort of bug bite.” You wince. “I kept scratching it in my sleep the more it itched and it kind of drew blood– don’t be too mad.”
“Alright,” Xiao says, because he helplessly feels both guilt and anger slip from his fingers like sand the longer he speaks with you, and because he cannot remain angry with you for long regardless, and because he is eager to believe you.
He’s ashamed of the relief he feels.
He exhales. His heart aches a little as it beats, and he clenches his fist to feel his pulse jump about in his palm. Unclenches it. Blinks at his still-throbbing fingers. You hum to yourself, a refrain from some mortal song he has not heard in full, and suddenly you feel as though you are so far away.
You sound as though you are very, very near.
Xiao looks up to see you in the kitchen (when did you get there?), lit by a single lamp in the dark as you tip a large pot over a bucket. He wishes to hurry over and do it for you– scalding water is deadly to mortals, isn’t it? – but instead finds himself simply staring at your back as you slide the pot back into its place over the woodstove.
“Go wash up,” you say, cheery and guileless in the face of his bewilderment, and he nods. You do not notice it– do not notice him– and he suddenly feels a pang of the keenest agony. Words race through his throat, to the tip of his tongue– he opens his mouth to tell you, tell you everything, then shuts it. Tell you what? What is there to say? That he is stil possessed by his earlier feelings?
I don’t even know.
But then you speak, and even through the steam from the bucket, the air becomes just a little clearer.
“There’s spare clothes in there already– and a towel, of course.” You turn to him with a smile, and he remembers again that you cannot see him well at all. If you could, you would note his unhappiness– he hopes.
“I’ve lit the lamps in there as well, don’t worry,” you continue, “and I’ll light the rest while you freshen up. Oh–” you snap your fingers– “and heat up dinner. I got us food from Liuli Pavilion, so although it was a bit pricey, it's bound to be good.” You grin.
There is a lull in the conversation, then, because he simply does not know how to respond. It all feels like too much– spare clothes and a towel, and lit lamps that he does not need. Now that he’s singled out the smell of pine resin, it just won’t leave his nostrils. He finds that he likes it, because you smell of it. He decides he dislikes it, because it smothers your scent. In the end he decides he is simply a fool, and turns his back on your mentions of food and fine wine. His chest constricts when he suddenly recalls Huai’an’s teasing–
Do you even love him?
He feels lightheaded, then foolish for feeling so.
In the end, he decides on– “spare clothes?”
“Yes, from last time,” you say, now in the careful fashion of someone attempting to deduce something– someone who will perhaps ask questions later. He pretends not to notice. What use is wanting you to know he’s upset when he runs from your questions anyway?
(You lie often.)
“Are my visits truly that frequent?” He asks instead.
“Not as frequent as I’d like, certainly,” You respond, smiling ruefully, and he wonders if you ever stop. He hopes you do not.
You put the bucket of hot water by his feet then, and pat his shoulder. Then you dart off– presumably to freshen up as well– and he takes the chance to bury his face in his hands and rub it hard.
As he makes his way over to the bathroom, he sees your shoes by the door, and his in the balcony.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
The clothes you’d laid out for him are clean and soft and ironed.
Xiao usually does not bother– adeptal commodities do not need the same care as mortal ones. He is used to carelessly scrubbing his garments and tossing them out in the sun to dry– they do not sustain the same damage, nor do they constrict him in any manner, and that is all that matters. Finding a wrinkle or two does not bother him– nearly all that sees him is fated to die by his hand anyhow.
But you’ve taken the care to iron them carefully. Hang them up prettily. He stands in your humid bathroom, nude as a child, and ruefully thinks– he feels like one, too. This is how it must have been, although he cannot (does not) recall his youth.
He reaches for the towel and pats himself dry. He does not need to– anemo is a most useful element– but there is something grounding in the ritual of doing things the manual way– something tender about walking you home instead of teleporting you, of taking the stairs at the inn instead of the lift, of getting to linger a little longer in the cooling shade of your adoring smiles, of your little laughs and mistakes.
He brings the towel to his hair and rubs. Gathers the longer strands in his cloth covered fingers to squeeze the water out of them. The towel feels heavier and limper than before when he hangs it up to tug his clothes on, and once he’s done he turns to the mirror to see someone he knows all too well.
And yet he looks so… out of place. His downy hair is mussed in the way mortal strands never are. His skin is porcelain, features too perfect. The lamplight catches on his gold eyes.
He looks like no one save for himself.
Xiao blows out the lamps.
Are my visits truly that frequent?
Not as frequent as I’d like.
He wonders if you lie.
(Do you even love him?)
A throb ghosts its ache-filled lips over the base of his skull, and Xiao weakly wills it away. His shoes are still on your balcony.
He presses his face into his palms, and the scent of pine amber fills his nostrils.
There’s spare clothes in there already– and a towel, of course.
He inhales, then softly exhales, suddenly conscious of his breathing.
He is in your house, is he not? He thinks back to your enquiring tone, your gentle expression. Scented steam wafts around the bath area still, and Xiao watches it catch the moonlight that just barely creeps in through the tinted window.
You cannot have lied, he hesitantly decides, and something eases in his chest. You cannot have, if you took the time to care for his clothes, making them look as new as when they first came into his possession. When you lit the lamps despite knowing there is no need– when you come to the inn in person whenever you can, despite not having to.
(Perhaps this is all that love is sometimes– a series of unnecessary actions.)
He thinks about his shoes still on the balcony and feels sick to his stomach. He presumes too much.
Xiao steps quietly outside, towel in hand, and pads soundlessly over to where he can hear you. You’re occupied with laying everything out on the coffee table in your living room. When he makes an enquiring hum, you glance back with a smile.
“The dinner table’s a mess right now– I hope you don’t mind us eating here?”
“No,” he affirms, absently surveying the spread. A few expensive dishes to his taste and a few to yours. In the very center you’ve placed the Tianshu meat, and he truly does not know how you’ll finish it all.
“Can you truly finish all this?” he can’t help but ask, and you whip your head around with an exaggerated frown. And somehow, suddenly, he finds himself biting back an abrupt, tiny smile.
“This is in no way a you situation,” you huff. “This is a we situation. You’re going to finish the things I got for you, alright? Or I’m keeping dessert hostage.”
“Dessert?”
“Your favourite,” you easily supply, taking the towel out of his hands. “What else?” Saying so, you walk over to your balcony to drape the towel over your drying rack.
“I did not think–” he starts to say, then trails off when he notices– his shoes are nowhere to be seen.
“Oh yeah, they don’t have almond tofu,” you say. He barely hears. Where are his shoes?
He turns sharply to the door.
There, wiped clean and nestled against yours–
“–so I made it myself,” you finish, sliding the door shut behind you. The sound of rattling glass panes shakes him out of his reverie, and his lashes flutter rapidly as he looks towards you.
“You did?”
“I did,” you say, looking really quite pleased with yourself. (It is adorable, he thinks, then erases the thought. It’s useless, however– he simply ends up thinking it a second time.)
“I actually…” you sigh, and plop heavily onto the couch. “I tried making the cake too, but I think I’ll have to stick to unbaked cheesecakes. It’s alright, though.” You shrug. “The baker did a much better job than I could have. And oh!” You exclaim, eyes widening a little, and he hopes he does not look as soft as he feels.
“Yes?” he prompts, and blushes at his own voice. He hopes you do not notice in the lamplight.
“Miss Xianyun offered to bake you a cake, too.” You smile warmly at the thought, and unbeknownst to him, he smiles a little too. “I had no clue she knew you, though! How odd. She offered when we both got caught in the rain when I was on my way to the bakery. It stopped raining soon after, so I was able to go ahead and place my order.”
“I see,” he says. How odd indeed, for her to show you such sudden kindness. But ah, it is likely an apology for having caused trouble for you before. He knows you must have your suspicions, but is glad when you don’t probe further.
“Oh, and–” you instead say– “my new coworker– do you remember him? The guy who got everyone cake a couple weeks back. He offered to come along to pick a gift, but I said no. I wanted to pick something myself.”
Xiao wonders when he’d begun smiling, because his lips are suddenly keen on settling themselves into a flat line. He forces them to stay as they are and hopes it does not look too maniacal. “I see,” he mutters, and congratulates himself on not sounding too curt. “For whom?”
There is a long pause, and you blink at him slowly, in the stupidest, sweetest way. He blinks stupidly back into the still air, and an owl screeches outside in the distance somewhere.
You make a sound in the back of your throat then, eyes widening in the loveliest manner. You look so sincerely astonished that he flushes in confusion. Clearly this is a most catastrophic social blunder. There is an obvious answer that he does not yet know.
Is it your birthday? Was this a treat to yourself? For a wretched moment, he racks his mind for an answer, but blanks horrifically.
He is about to resign himself to embarrassment when you laugh, so bright and soft and warm, and say–
“For you, of course!” And it is now Xiao’s turn to be baffled. You giggle helplessly at his expression as you continue. “Huai’an was right, you really– you seriously forgot? Xiao, it’s your birthday tomorrow.” You shake your head, still smiling, eyes aglow with mirth. “Happy birthday eve! Or something like that.”
Not even! rings in his head, louder and louder. I can’t bother him on his special day.
Do you even love him?
Xiao’s face burns.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Dinner is a cheery affair.
After being the fortunate victim of your endless laughter and affectionate teasing, he finds himself seated beside you on your couch. You’re seated knee to knee at first, thighs brushing as you laugh, as you lean over to pile more food onto his plate and as he does the same for you. You seem to eventually get a bit tired of continually glancing to the side, though, and soon you’re shin to shin, facing one another as you eat with the dishes in hand. This way, when you cover your mouth adorably with your fingers and erupt into laughter, he sees your pretty eyes up close as they crinkle at the ends and sparkle with amusement.
When you pretend to make a grab at his food, he simply puts it on your plate. You protest– of course you do– and he finally agrees to take half. The conversation soon resumes its usual chatter, and Xiao is first amused when he sees you prop the couch cushions behind yourself for more comfort, then flustered when you lean over him to do the same for him.
And as frivolous as mortal conversations may get, he cannot chide them– cannot chide you. In the wake of his realisation, there is renewed hope within him that presents itself as curiosity– he asks a dozen little questions about the things you tell him, prods at length about your thoughts on Xianyun (he hopes he is subtle, and suspects he is not) and smiles when you click your tongue as you recall Xingqiu’s newest prank.
“At least he switched up his targets.” You sigh, but there is affection in your voice and your lips curve into the prettiest smile. His heart hurts. “It was Xiangling this time.”
He hums in response, and you continue.
“Although I think he’ll regret that soon enough. I heard she doesn’t want to cook for him for a while. Poor Xingqiu.”
“Shenhe would deem him richly deserving,” Xiao murmurs, and feels his ears turn warm as you laugh.
“She does! She looked so smug when she told me!” You snicker. “She also wanted to wish you an early happy birthday, by the way. And Xiangling wants to know if you mind a little vanilla in your almond tofu.”
“I do,” he answers truthfully. “Almond tofu ought to taste like itself.”
You snort. “I'd say you remind me of a coffee purist, but vanilla can get pretty overpowering at times. Did you know I drank a spoonful once?”
He grimaces, and you laugh again, and although it is dewy moonlight that creeps in through the tall windows to settle on your skin– so subtle in the lamplight that no mortal would ever see– it feels as though through you, it is the sun that has come out. He watches through his lashes– some things cannot be stared straight at, after all.
You soon bring out the liquor.
“This one’s just rice wine,” you say, holding up a bottle. “This–” you say, pulling another out of the cabinet, “is dandelion wine– this is what I bought the other day. And here’s some mead– made from zaytun peaches, I think? It was a gift, so I can’t remember where it was purchased,” you muse. “I also have sparkling wine and… uh, some bard gave me this extra sparkling wine, whatever that means. So I don’t really trust it.”
Xiao tilts his head enquiringly. “Some bard?” He echoes.
You nod innocently. “Yes, from Mondstadt. We met at the wineshop– he saw me looking around and told me this is the best, strongest wine Mondstadt has to offer. The staff escorted him out though.” You snort. “I wonder where he is now. Prison, do you think? For just a little while? Since I doubt he’s licensed.”
“Unlikely,” Xiao says, before he can stop himself. When you blink at him, eyebrows raised in curiosity, he sighs. “I may know this bard,” Xiao admits. “He is a little eccentric at times, but ultimately harmless… although his wines may be entirely too strong for your tastes.”
You look up, startled. “Truly?”
He hums. You regard the bottles before you, and he wonders what you are thinking, in the slow, easy way he always does with you. He knows there is no rush– your thoughts will be laid before him soon enough. You’re not in the habit of making him guess, after all.
“Well,” you muse. “In that case– do you want to give his wine a try?”
Xiao hesitates. Barbatos’ wines are potent– dangerously so. Were he to become intoxicated and lose himself… his stomach roils at the thought. He ought to decline.
A glance at you, however, weakens his resolve ever so slightly. The merest splinter. He realises then that declining a drink would mean explaining why– and piqueing your curiosity in a way that pertains to the incognito archon of Mondstadt of all people would be… undesirable at the very least. His resolve begins to crumble.
Perhaps a cup, then. Surely it cannot be enough to intoxicate him so soon– what could, after all? – and particularly not on a full stomach. Besides, Barbatos would not have given you the wine intending for you to drink it– he is well acquainted with mortals and is familiar with their caution. This is, in all likelihood, a present meant for him. And would it not be rude to decline a favour from an archon?
His resolve dissolves like a block of salt in water.
A cup won’t hurt, he reluctantly decides, and nods.
Mere minutes and just some sips later, Xiao feels himself beginning to sway.
It hits him all at once. Apparently, it can hurt. He has no time to panic, though– one moment he thinks only of how the wine smells a little unusual, and burns his throat with an unexpected ferocity– in the next, his vision narrows, and the inside of the glass is all he sees. The lamplight arcs into it, then through the transparent, wispy wine. The light dashes along the rim and flings itself into his eyes. His lashes are all aflutter, and one falls off. It is suspended in the air one moment– a single dark line against a sparkling background– and suddenly it is inside the glass.
It is overwhelming.
“I do not want it now,” he says automatically, and sets it down harder than he meant to. When he attempts to recline, his neck slams into the backrest sooner than he expects with a thump.
You sit up in alarm. He watches through slow, thick blinks as you hurriedly set your glass of harmless zaytun mead aside.
“Xiao?” Your fingers grasp at his shoulder and he shoves them off, feeling too much and too little. The whispers that had lain subdued all evening come awake, and he clutches his head with a soft groan, attempting to muffle the cacophony within.
“Xiao!” Your eyes widen, and suddenly your palms are on his cheek. One cradles his jaw and brings his head up to rest against your chest– the other brushes his bangs out of his face. He sighs– somehow it is a relief to have you so close. He feels as though he's a little bird that has flown for hours in the heat, and finally found a pond full of the coolest water.
You do not seem to feel the same. “Fuck,” you hiss, and he hears your voice in your throat, your chest. He catches a hint of your heartbeat then, and snuggles curiously closer. There it is. Steady as a drum. Fast as one too. He doesn’t think it normal, then remembers drums can be played slow too, and hums to himself. You’ll be fine, like a drum. Flawless logic. He’s a general, after all. He’s supposed to be clever. Strong too, and skilled. And he… he yawns, and slips lower.
His head flops onto your lap and you cry out again in alarm. Belatedly, he realises you keep telling him to let go. Let go of what? He’s grasping your shirt with one hand and has an arm around your waist. Which is he supposed to let go of?
“Be specific,” he grumbles.
“Huh?!”
He sighs. “Mortals… it is neither here nor here.”
“You–!”
And he’s strong too, he thinks, because he doesn’t like when you are afraid, and right now you sound truly worried. He hates it. Being strong means he can quell your anxiety, yes? Eliminate all that hurts you. He shuts his eyes and presses his nose into your thigh. When he inhales, a pleasant smell fills his nostrils– pine sap, or whatever. He huffs. He’s strong. He’s not good for much else, and he is a receptacle for all that is wrong with this world, but he’s– he’s the one with the Primordial Jade Winged Spear, bequeathed to him by the Geo Archon himself. He is Morax’s general, the Vigilant Yaksha. And sure, he’s not as good as Cake Man. He scoffs derisively.
But he’s– he’s. Surely. No, perhaps– perhaps there is something to him that Cake Man lacks. Yes, he remembers, a little smug now. Yes, there is. He can hear all that happens in Liyue. If you need him, you can always call for him, yes?
He realises you’ve stopped moving, stopped talking. It’s late at night, which is when mortals sleep. Good. You’re resting with a hand on his back and the other in his hair. He hates to confess– but that is also good.
There are several seconds of hushedness, then. He hears raucous laughter in the distance. Perhaps a neighbour’s party, or someone all the way across Liyue. The owls grow shriller outside, and he knows a parent has brought the owlets a meal. His fingers twitch. He finds he cannot move them as finely as he ought.
Into the silence, he whispers– “I may be drunk.” He’s confused, then, because that felt like a thought.
He starts again, louder. “I think–”
“Why does my coworker bother you?” You quietly ask.
Xiao stiffens. Stupidly, he wonders– when did you wake up? Did you read his mind?
“I…” he starts. He cannot think of a lie fast enough, but a million questions occur to him, chief among them being how did you know? And who told you? And weren’t you asleep? Don’t mortals sleep at night?
Soon after, he wonders– did he spew all his thoughts aloud?
Xiao suspects the answer is yes. He swallows, and tries for a lie anyway. His mind grasps desperately for anything within reach, but it is as drunk as its keeper and just as clumsy. And so all he ends up saying is–
“I lie often.”
I, he thinks, as soon as the words leave him, have scarce sounded more foolish before.
You laugh then, and he smiles, and you continue to laugh, even though it is a wobbly sort of laugh. An almond tofu of a laugh. As though it could turn to mush with one squish. And just as sweet. Perhaps sweeter. Surely sweeter.
He realises then that the voices in his head have fallen silent.
“I know,” you whisper. Your fingers tremble slightly as they comb through his hair, nails dragging gently against his scalp. He purrs, in the way some birds do, with a soft chirp at the start and at last a little click.
“I…” you start, then sniffle. He wonders if you’re crying, but cannot find the strength to glance up. “I want to ask you so many questions,” you whisper, in that still-shaking voice. Your chest brushes against his hair as you lean lower, and he exhales softly.
“But you’re drunk,” you say gently, stroking his cheek with a thumb. “You’re buzzed out of your mind.”
“Then now is a good time,” he answers, deciding to be truthful. His heart soars. It just feels so much nicer, to simply be laid bare before you. “Now is when I will be honest. It will be diffi– difficult later.”
“I know,” you murmur, and with some difficulty, he finally manages to look at you. Your eyes are huge, and gold, like his.
No, he realises. Those eyes are mine.
“But,” you murmur, so close to him he can see iridescence on your every eyelash, smell the zaytun mead on your lips. “When you’ll be honest later, you’ll have chosen it.” You press a kiss to your fingertips, and bring them to his forehead. His eyes sting.
“Let’s head to bed for now,” you say, gentler than gentle. In this moment, you are the very vision of softness, of all that is right in this world. He feels terribly selfish, for bringing his wrongs to you, even though your kindness cannot undo the cruelty he inflicted upon others, the cruelty inflicted upon him in the annals of a nearly forgotten time.
You do not know what you are doing, he wants to whisper. You seem to see the desperate warning in his eyes; gently, firmly, you shake your head.
“Drink some water first,” you softly say. Your hands are warm against his cheeks. “We’ll talk tomorrow, alright? Only if you’d like.”
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
When Xiao awakens, it is with your hair in his mouth.
There is a steady ache at the base of his skull. It throbs in beat with his pulse. This is not new; this he barely notices.
What he does notice with the force of a thousand suns however, is that it is early morning and he is in a bed that smells entirely of you– overwhelmingly so. Your scent permeates deep into every fiber of every fabric– the duvet that covers him, the pillow beneath his head.
Your clothes.
And mine, he realises. His racing heart soon outstrips the throb in his head– all else seems to fade in his perception. His senses register only you.
There’s your hair in his mouth, your head directly on his chest. He swallows and hopes you don’t wake up to the beat of his heart against his ribs– not when your legs are wrapped around one of his, and when you have an arm draped comfortably over him. He cannot see it– it is hidden by his duvet– but it is solid against his belly and your fingers nestle by his side. A couple have crept under him. They are warm– as warm as him. You are the same, balmy temperature, twined into one being beneath the blankets.
Worse still– when he attempts to shift away, he realises just where his hands are. One of them is beside his torso, warm and comfortable beneath a mess of pillows and old clothes you forgot to toss into the laundry. The other– the other is wrapped firmly round your waist, keeping you snug against him. You’re warm against him– overwarm– and he threatens to grow still warmer with the unyielding flush that smears carelessly across his features.
He shifts a foot up and tries to move the other to no avail. Your thighs resist– they lock tightly around one of his, and his face now feels as though it is truly alight when you hum in annoyance, breath huffing over his neck and collarbones. Your knees tighten round his leg warningly. Even in your sleep you are as firm as a bull, and he gives a shaky exhale along with a prayer to his lord, to extricate him from this position.
Although… he confesses, if only to himself, that he is extremely comfortable. Your steady breaths and warmth… the soft pillows that cradle him carefully. His lashes flutter. His wakefulness is fading softly alongside his surprise– sleep is beginning to tighten round him the way you have.
He brushes your hair aside with his free hand, and falls asleep.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
When he awakens a second time, it is with his hair in your mouth.
He wonders if it is an incorrigible habit of yours, to creep towards the nearest source of warmth. When he blinks, his long lashes brush your neck. You're braced against him, sprawled on your belly, arms spread wide on either side. One tugs him absently closer and for a moment, his mouth lies flush to your collarbones.
He is forcibly reminded of a cormorant seated spread on a rock, damp wings facing the sun. You look a bit like it right now, he decides– eager for warmth, arms wide enough to embrace all the world.
He's unsure of what to think when he realises that includes him, too.
Your breaths tickle his scalp. Your legs are entangled in his, still, and he grimaces when he realises he fell asleep all over in spite of you being so close. He wriggles away, then, ignoring the crack that widens slowly in his chest. Tugs your arm off of him and slips away, then gently shoves your legs off with his hands.
When he pulls the duvet off himself, though, you sense the sudden movement in your sleep and tug it immediately back up, wrapping an arm tight round his waist. His breath catches in his throat.
He tugs at your elbow. You refuse to let go, and he buries his face in his hands. He can feel his pulse in his head, in the tips of his fingers. If all this were to amount to nothing– as selfish as it would be, he might have to keep his distance from you for a while.
He is not kind, however– not buoyant like you, not firm enough to brace himself sternly against the tides of his nature. Murmurs mount in his mind again, begging him to lend his mouth to them, his throat. His hands.
He clenches his fist– these feelings are too much. An old excuse comes along to shield him, then– you'll hurt them if you stay.
The wind cards your curtains aside, and your vision gleams in the morning light.
His breaths still.
How– how is this little thing meant to protect you? He exhales. Inhales. Exhales again. Your shield, he can't help but think, is softer and feebler than the freshest of leaves.
He's suddenly reminded of Wangshu Inn. Then, as he traces your soft cheek with a single, clawed finger, he remembers– he didn’t even get to try any dessert last night.
And it's because– because. He pauses, then runs his fingers through his hair. His nails dig into his scalp. That wine.
Curse that trickster. Very clever of Barbatos, to give him something that hits all at once. Xiao would never ordinarily drink enough to be even a little tipsy– he must have expected this, wily fiend.
What did he say? What did he reveal? Xiao racks his mind, but most of his recollections are of your soft lap and the too-bright light glinting gaudily off of his glass and– and. He feels his blood turn to ice.
Something about him lying, always. And– he grimaces. Morax. Did he tell you he felt–?
Envious, he tells himself.
You lie often.
You rouse beside him, and he recoils like a flame from water.
Your fingers twitch first– you shuffle a bit beside him and open your bleary eyes. Blink them slowly at his waist. Xiao observes your clumsy motions, your puffy face. He wonders if it is as puffy every day.
Let’s head to bed for now.
We’ll talk tomorrow, alright? Only if you’d like.
He hopes you've forgotten.
“Good morning,” you mumble. Your breath is warm against his hip. “Awake already?”
“It is well into the morning,” he answers quietly. As though you won't remember if he speaks softly and makes no sudden movements. “Around ten.”
“Oh.” You yawn. There's silence as you play a bit with the fabric of his shirt, then–
“Are you hungover?”
“Hm? No.”
“Oh,” you say again, and draw yourself up to sit on your knees. You're just a bit taller than him like this. Seated this way, with the light streaming in from behind, you look more divine than he is.
You tower over him, a bit. He feels himself quail ever so slightly.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” he murmurs. Suddenly, he does not wish to meet your eyes. “And I apologize for the inconvenience. It should never have been your responsibility; I will take my leave now.”
“No! I mean–” You blink, and put the hand you'd brought to his shoulder back down. “Won't you stay for breakfast?”
Xiao's answer is far more curt than he wished for it to be. “I do not need sustenance.”
In the silence that follows, Xiao finds amazement in how well your sheets are made. The careful embroidery and the sturdy cotton– linen? he cannot tell– is superb in a way that would have pleased his brother, were he here.
(He wonders if his siblings would have liked you. The thought is quick to vanish– they are not here, and you will be gone before long, and so ruminating on either is foolish when he knows he ought to think instead of the monsters that must crawl all over Mt. Xuanlian at this very moment– although then again, Mt. Aocang is close by.
Perhaps Chiwang Terrace– unless Lingyuan has taken care of it already.
As distress rises inside of him, clinging desperately to his sternum, he inhales and exhales and shushes it. There will be something to do– there is always something to be done.)
He is thinking of what, precisely, when you speak.
“That's fine,” you say, and his lashes lower further when he notes that your voice has lost its usual inflection. It is flatter, controlled. “That's alright. I need to eat though,” you chirp, and his chest aches at the faux cheer, the performance you put forth. Do you always do this? Put on a smile and coax all those around you into something right? He is ashamed to realise he does not know. After all, in every moment of your sadness to which he has borne witness, you have been honest with him. There was no guesswork, no complicated etiquette– he has held you close, and you have cried.
You jump out of bed. “I'll freshen up. You do so, too. And then could you check what fruit I have in the pantry? Or–” you snap your fingers– “we could have last night's leftovers. And dessert!”
Xiao blinks up at you, nonplussed, as you smile. Privately, he wonders why a smile is always deemed an expression of joy. As it rests on your lips now, it bleeds only rue.
“I–” he begins, then stops when he sees your fingers twitch. He nods. “Very well. But I will leave soon after.”
Your eyes widen for the briefest of moments, and then you are all sad smiles once more. “Sure.”
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Xiao does not know how the minutes pass, but he soon hears your door creak open. Your kitchen window is open, and so Xiao absently predicts what happens next– the way your home is ventilated lets the wind rustle into the hallway and slam your door shut behind you. It gives a soft, dismayed roar, and the house stills once more.
He hears you click your tongue. Some moments pass before you emerge, and he shuffles aside to let you lean against your counter and reach over for whatever it is that you’d like. You brace yourself against it, fingers gripping the granite. As you survey your kitchen, Xiao surveys you.
You freshened up rather quickly today. He can see a damp spot of perfume on your shoulder from your unusually clumsy fingers, and the strands of hair that frame your face are a little damp still. You do not look as composed as before. It is a bit ironic– you’ve had more time to steel yourself, and yet.
“I’m not really hungry right now,” you say, after a pause. “Last night’s dinner was pretty heavy.”
“Mhm.”
A beat again. Then–
“Did you enjoy it?” You ask.
“The dinner?” he returns, and stiffens when your lashes lower. The question has left you with an opening to direct the conversation elsewhere, into territories that worry him more than they should.
It ought to matter little to Xiao– in fact, a mortal's lost company ought not matter at all. But he has softened more than he'd realised– something gentle has worn away at his hardness, and he feels a little ashamed, and then a bit defiant, for wanting something tender to lean against, for once.
His heart speeds in his chest, purrs against his ribs like a cat attempting to soothe itself. It is not your fault that Xiao is quick to cling– quick to latch onto any softness offered, naively press his palms to warmth and let it creep up his arms to his chest. He has done it before– many times, in truth.
And, he reassures himself, those losses shall prove to be far heftier in time.
Something quiet and reasonable asks– what is there to lose today? It is squashed by his fear that says– something, something. Something.
He watches through unwittingly narrowed eyes as you part your lips, then lick them. You do not meet his gaze. Yours strays lower instead, to his waist.
My hands, he registers, when you sidle closer to take one of them into both yours, your callouses brushing against his. You squeeze. Gentle at first, then tighter.
“If you teleport away,” you whisper, “I'll scream. Really loud, okay?”
He's not sure what to do with that. When he tells you this, you meet his eyes and smile, and his heart slows ever so slightly, more drum than cat.
Yours, he remembers, had sounded a little like that too.
“Last night,” you say, looking earnestly at his face, “you said some things. You don't have to tell me about them again if you want, but if you would, it would– it would be nice.”
“Nice?” Xiao echoes. You nod.
“You said something about hating my coworker. And you mumbled a bit when I took you to my bedroom.” His face ears turn pink, but you plow on.
“And– and. I'm starting to realise I'll have to do this myself.” Your lips part round a nervous little laugh, and your breath fans against his cheek. Your eyes glimmer in a way that suggests they wish to sorely turn away– to look anywhere but at him– and for the first time, Xiao feels a sense of camaraderie with you. “And… it should be fine as long as you don't run off. We'll be fine. Yes? Yes.” You let out a shaky exhale.
His voice splinters when he starts to speak, burdened by the hope it bears. It would embarrass him, but only if anything could draw attention away from your anxious, eager expression. Your eyes crinkle in worry but a small smile plays shyly on your lips, and Xiao suddenly wishes words did not exist, so he could simply kiss you and be done with it.
“What?” He breathes, and you huff and dig your nails into his gloves, fingers trembling.
Something seems to thrum inside of him and inside you, and resonate impatiently into the room. The kitchen seems a little brighter when you shake your head and steel yourself.
“Okay,” you say, breathless. “At least I'll be the first to go. I'm going to tell everyone you're a coward, mind you.”
“You won't,” he replies. “You don’t.” You never do, and you never leave him hanging, or make him guess, and he frees his fingers then to wrap his hands round yours instead.
His heart soars. This is assurance– this is a guarantee. And if you intend to bear him, to let him be your ruin–
Xiao does not know whether to first apologise or confess. It matters not, though, because you resolve even this trouble.
“Yes,” you say, and he swears he feels his chest giddily expand like a balloon. When a gust of wind billows round him, he lets his buoyant heart be pushed closer to yours. When your smile turns bolder, warmer, he knows he's lost whatever game he didn't know he was playing. And– it's alright if you win always, so long as he gets to see your smiles.
“Yes,” you say, and he brings his fingers up to your cheek, because you are real, and you are here. His breath hitches. “Because I love you. And I said it first.”
There is no stopping his smiles now. He huffs a laugh, first relieved, then joyous (perhaps a bit triumphant, too) and stops suddenly, when he sees you've drawn even closer. His palm fits snugly against your cheek as his claws settle in your hair.
Would that he could halt this moment, to look at you carefully. Engrave this instant into his lungs so he can feel it with every breath. For the first time in a long time, things have gone his way without the slightest price to pay– without even the slightest fear of all going to ruin. Things are just easier with you, he realises.
Time is her own master, though, and does not deign to even slow for him (and he is half amused and half irked by the fact that he can find something to rue even now). Perhaps, he muses, this is the small price she demands in exchange for the years of comfort to come. She makes no compromises– she is difficult that way– and disagreeable often.
What is most agreeable, though, is the first brush of your lips against his.
"Is this okay?" You whisper, right against his mouth. And oh, now time slows, somewhere deep in your eyes. It is no wonder that it stops for you and not him– you are so lovely that the morning sun itself seems to bend its rays as it casts them, so they twist and squirm to engulf you. You are so bright, and so warm against his hand, and your body is flush against his.
"Yes," he breathes. There was nothing else to say. And because he is impatient, and a little afraid of waking up– and because, he reasons, you have asked him in the past to let himself be selfish– he kisses you.
(And if he smiles when he does so, you do not point it out. When his eyes are slow to open once it is over– once you have drawn away from his insistent lips and turned warm at the brushes of his fingers against your hips– a look at him is all it takes to reassure you. He is going to stay.)
hello hello!! thank you to everyone who read this + has reached this far!! here is a smooch for your troubles (˵˘ ³˘˵) <33 !!
happy xiao day everyone!!
reblogs are vv appreciated !! they help a lot w circulating a fic you see (ㅅ´ ˘ `)♡♡
from jade: baby's first leon kennedy fic! 🥹 no beta, we all just die. wrote this with re4!leon, death island leon, and re9!leon in mind heh
dso’s golden boy, legendary agent leon scott kennedy is reduced to nothing but a human pillow. don’t fret, though. he’s exactly where he wants to be in life.
it’s no secret to anyone that leon kennedy has a physique that most women and men simp for. they can gawk however they like but touching him? that right is reserved for you and you only.
leon knows you’re a touchy person by default. first time he met you, he was immediately engulfed in the warmest hug known to mankind—his knees buckled just a little but that’s a secret he’ll take with him to the grave. when he drove you home after the first date? another hug and a kiss to the cheek that he felt even after days passed. he almost didn’t want to wash his face but thought about your preference for hygienic men.
after four years of dating and three months being engaged, your physical love meter has amped up intensely. before, the most he’ll get is a kiss to the corner of his mouth. now? leon’s lucky if he can even get up after getting mauled into the bed due to your sudden urge to “kiss him all over and eat him up and chew him all up.”
this leads us to now, early morning with the sun peeking through the blinds. leon insisted on a blackout curtain but your argument of “you can’t live in darkness forever” resulted in soft baby pink sheer flower patterned curtains.
it was one of those rare times where you awake earlier than him. to be fair, he just came back from a month-long mission in europe.
you’ve always known leon kennedy was pretty but in these instances of serenity and peace, he’s looking extra gorgeous under the warm sunlight. you lay on your front, head slumped over his stretched out bicep. your cheek is skin-to-skin with the muscle, firm yet comfortable. leon’s on his back, chest rising periodically in deep breaths.
glancing at the clock on the nightstand, you decide it’s time to wake him up. you turn your head, open your mouth, and then—bite. hard enough to jolt him awake but not so much that it bleeds out.
you grin as you watch him rub the sleep away from his eyes. “hi, baby. good morning.”
leon squints at you for a moment, still caught up somewhere between dreaming about flowers with faces chasing him and actually facing the prettiest flower ever (you), before he pinches your cheek.
then he registers the dull ache in his arm.
he stills, contemplating on whether to ask you about it or not. instead he settles for, "...mornin'.”
his voice comes out rough, just the right about of deepness and softness that makes your heart flutter. you lean forward to kiss his stubbled jaw.
the arm you were laying on slips under your shirt, calloused fingers caressing the smooth skin.
usually, leon’s internal clock is impossible to shut off, especially after a mission. years of training have hardwired him into waking up the second he’s conscious. most mornings, he’d already be halfway to the coffee machine by now.
instead, he lets his arm flop back onto the mattress, right in front of you. then stares blankly at the ceiling.
you blink. once. twice. "breakfast?”
a beat passes.
"later.”
the answer comes immediately, accompanied by a sleepy exhale.
leon scott kennedy, the man who survived thousands of bioweapons, government conspiracies, parasitic cults, and whatever the hell europe decided to throw at him this time, was choosing to stay in bed. voluntarily.
"i’m tired." his eyes remained at the ceiling.
there’s no complaint in his voice. just a simple statement of fact.
"you should rest, then.” you hummed. he curls his arm loosely around your shoulders in response. for a second there, leon thought he heard purrs of content from you. huh, he must still be dreaming.
you settle comfortably on your stomach again, phone balanced in front of you. your legs swing back and forth behind you as you load up your game, leon snickers at the sight.
a few seconds later, you lean down to take another bite of his bicep. not enough to hurt. never to hurt him.
leon sighs. “i feel like a chew toy.”
“you are. my chew toy.”
“is that all i am to you?”
“most times, yeah.” and another bite. it doesn’t even faze him anymore.
“love you too, i guess.”
“aw, thank you, lord kennedy.”
you grin triumphantly before returning your attention to your phone. one hand taps away at the screen while your cheek remains pressed against his arm like it’s the world’s most comfortable pillow. the 4000 dollars pillow currently on the floor glares at you with scorn and betrayal.
every now and then, you absentmindedly nibble at him. to which, he retorts with faux annoyance.
the room falls quiet after that.
only the sounds of your game, the rustle of sheets, and the occasional bite to his arm interrupt the silence.
leon keeps staring at the ceiling.
not because he's thinking about work. not because he's replaying mission reports. not because he's wondering when headquarters will drag him into another disaster.
for once, he's letting himself do absolutely nothing.
he can feel you beside him. your legs kicking lazily in the air. your weight against his arm. your teeth occasionally finding his bicep because apparently that's become a normal thing in this relationship.
and when you shift closer and practically drape yourself over him, leon doesn’t complain. he never does. you’ve got a soft spot in his heart, after all.
he just lets out another slow breath and settles deeper into the mattress. he reminds himself that he’s home. to you.
and if that means another hour of being a chew toy and a human pillow, leon figures he can deal with that. after all, he’s been through worst situations than this.
SYNOPSIS: For years, you lived in the shadow of one name: Alhaitham. No matter how hard you studied or how close you came, he always remained just out of reach. But as the Akademiya's examinations draw near and the pressure begins to mount, something starts to change. Will you finally surpass the rival you have chased for so long? Or will you discover that there is more waiting for you beyond first place?
TAGS: ALHAITHAM X READER...ish?, ONESHOT, comfort, FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF, burn out reader, written in reader's POV, second POV, use of Y/N twice, one-sided rivalry, inaccurate system of the Akademiya?
WC: 14.5k
A/N: there's no outright romance between reader and alhaitham in this fic, but their interactions are admittedly very cute, and there are several moments where your heart is hammering and your face is suspiciously warm.... feel free to interpret their relationship however you'd like—platonic, romantic or somewhere in between! i personally wrote it with romantic lens :)
thank you @ikeepforgettingmyacc for beta reading,
this has been in my drafts for over a year and only found the time to finish it now huhu, so please enjoy ♡
There had been a time when failure was a concept reserved for others—a distant storm seen on the horizon, but never one that drenched your own skin.
Intelligence and success was as natural as the comforting swish of the rivers that cradled your village, tucked far from Sumeru City. Your home was a place of endless green fields and golden afternoons, a sanctuary where life moved at the pace of a slow drifting cloud.
In a village where news traveled faster than the merchants' caravans, your mind became the local legend.
By the age of eight, the local instructors had run out of wisdom to offer you. You had swallowed their lessons whole, leaving them with nothing but your questions.
By ten, the passing travelers with dust on their boots and ink on their fingers would pause in their journeys just to witness the child who spoke in the cadence of a sage.
By twelve, you were the child the villagers pointed to with a mixture of pride and reverence.
"This is the one" they would whisper, their voices thick with a communal hope. "The future of the Akademiya. The brightest spark our soil has ever produced."
At first, the attention felt like a heavy cloak, too warm for a child to wear. You would duck your head, your gaze falling to the grass, wishing to be just another child in the fields. But as the years bled into one another, the cloak became your skin. The expectation of greatness ceased to be a burden and became your baseline.
You still remembered the evening the old researcher visited.
The air had been thick with the scent of jasmine and the low hum of summer insects. Over a modest dinner, the man had leaned forward, his eyes bright with the fervor of a man who had seen the world's wonders.
"You must send them to the Akademiya," he had urged, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone.
Your mother’s laugh had been soft, tinged with the bittersweet reality of the village. "As if we could afford to pluck such a rare flower from its roots."
The researcher had shook his head, undeterred. "If they continue to study with such ferocity, the Akademiya will find its own way to pluck them."
You had sat there, feigning interest in your meal, but your heart had been racing. The moment the guest departed, the dam broke. A hundred questions spilled from you, frantic and hungry: What are the libraries like? Is the air truly thick with the scent of old parchment? How many minds gather under the Great Tree? Is it true that the very foundations of Teyvat’s wisdom are laid there?
Your father had eventually laughed, a warm, grounding sound, and sent you outside to let the fever of your curiosity cool.
That night, you sat beneath a canopy of stars that felt close enough to touch. You watched the constellations and saw patterns—equations, and possibilities. You imagined yourself walking through halls of marble and vine, your footsteps echoing against the weight of centuries of thought.
For years, that dream was your North Star.
Every book devoured, every sleepless night spent under the dim glow of a candle, every ounce of your fragile energy poured into study. It was all a pilgrimage toward a single destination.
The Akademiya.
When you finally arrived, the sheer scale of Sumeru City felt like a physical blow to the chest. The architecture was a breathtaking. A marriage of nature and intellect—massive, ancient trees intertwined with soaring stone structures, creating a labyrinth of shade and light. Scholars hurried through the streets, their debates flowing as naturally as the wind through the leaves.
It was a symphony of thought, and you were ready to join the orchestra.
You entered the examination halls, not with the trembling hands of a student, but with the quiet certainty of a scholar. You weren't arrogant—arrogance required a sense of superiority. You were simply certain.
Hours later, you emerged into the sunlight, your mind buzzing with the satisfaction of a task completed perfectly. You had performed well. No... you had performed flawlessly.
Three days later, the rankings were posted.
A sea of students surged toward the board, a cacophony of nervous whispers and frantic shuffling. You moved through the crowd with a calm grace, your eyes searching the parchment for your name.
You found it.
Second.
The world seemed to tilt. The warmth of the sun felt suddenly cold against your skin. You blinked, certain the ink had betrayed you, and looked again.
Second.
The name etched above yours was a stranger's name. Alhaitham.
The margin between your brilliance and his was a mere ghost of a margin less than a single percentage point.
It was absurd.
For a long moment, you simply stared at the ink, the silence in your mind deafening. Then, a small, breathless laugh escaped your lips. It wasn't a laugh of joy, but one of sheer, bewildered irony.
Second place? you thought, a spark of quiet defiance lighting in your chest. Fine. Let him have this one. I will take the first during the next assessment. It is a simple matter of effort.
You walked away from the board, already calculating your next move, already planning your ascent. It was a simple plan.
Except, the next assessment came and the world refused to bend to your will.
And Alhaitham remained first.
Then another.
Then another.
The cycle became a rhythmic, cruel heartbeat that pulsed through the halls of the Akademiya. Weeks bled into months; months stretched into years, and the seasons of Sumeru the heavy rains and the stifling humidity seemed to pass in a blur of ink and parchment.
Every single ranking ended with the same devastating cadence.
Alhaitham.
Then you.
The gap between your scores was never a chasm rather it was a thin, razor sharp line that sliced through your confidence.
It never widened, and it never vanished.
It served as a silent, mocking reminder that no matter how much of your soul you poured into your studies, someone else was always standing exactly one step ahead.
But the sting of the rank wasn't what truly wounded you. It was his indifference.
Most scholars at the Akademiya wore their intellect like a mantle of gold. They craved the prestige; they hungered for the validation of their peers and the nods of their professors. They lived for the competition. But Alhaitham? Alhaitham treated brilliance as if it were a mere chore, a mundane necessity of life.
He attended lectures with a detached, surgical precision. He completed assignments with a terrifying efficiency. He read, he learned, and then as if he were simply finished with the world for the day he would vanish. He would slip away before the accolades could be handed out, leaving the air empty where his presence had been.
You would see him in the periphery of your vision: a quiet figure tucked beneath the shade of a tree between classes, or a silhouette buried deep within the shelves of the House of Daena. When a professor offered him praise, he didn't beam or bow; he merely looked vaguely inconvenienced, as if the compliment were a gust of wind that had slightly disturbed his reading.
You hated that.
You hated the effortless grace of his intellect. You hated the way he seemed to inhabit a world where the struggle for excellence didn't even exist. Most of all, you hated the way you had become a satellite orbiting his sun, your entire sense of self defined by the distance between your name and his.
The rivalry was a ghost—a phantom battle fought entirely within the quiet chambers of your own mind. To the rest of the world, you were a brilliant scholar; to yourself, you were a perpetual runner up.
By the time the next major examination approached, the obsession had grown teeth. It had become something jagged and ugly.
Your dormitory had become a sanctuary of madness.
Every inch of desk and wall was smothered in notes, diagrams, and scribbled theories. You studied through the haze of your meals; you studied the rhythmic sway of the trees as you walked; you studied in the liminal spaces between waking and sleep.
Friends’ invitations grew infrequent, their voices fading into the background as you declined one gathering after another. Professors began to look at you with growing concern, their voices softening as they asked if you were sleeping enough, if your health was holding.
You would offer them a calm, practiced smile. "Yes, of course. I am resting well"
The truth was far more exhausting.
The truth was that you were tired of the silver medal. You were tired of being the shadow. And this time, you were prepared to burn yourself to ash if it meant finally eclipsing him.
That desperate determination was what led you to the House of Daena long after the sun had dipped below the horizon and the bustling crowds had retreated to their homes.
The Great Library was a cathedral of silence, lit only by the soft, amber glow of lamps that cast long, dancing shadows against the endless rows of books.
The air was thick with the scent of old paper and dried ink.
You sat hunched over a heavy tome, your eyes stinging, your fingers trembling slightly from fatigue. The world outside Sumeru City had drifted into a peaceful slumber, but your mind was a storm of equations and logic.
Hours bled into one another, marked only by the turning of pages and the scratch of your quill. You were so deeply submerged in the sea of knowledge that you almost didn't hear the shift in the air the subtle change in the library's quiet rhythm.
Then, a soft, deliberate tap landed against your shoulder.
Your heart gave a sudden, violent leap. You turned, your breath catching in your throat, expecting a librarian or a weary fellow student.
Instead, you found yourself staring into the calm, unreadable eyes of Alhaitham.
He was standing there, looking as though he had simply stepped out of a dream, his presence as cool and steady as the moonlight filtering through the high windows.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you wasn't the heavy, awkward kind one might expect from two rivals, nor was it the comfortable quiet of friends. It was something sharper.
His gaze didn't land on your face first; it traveled.
It swept over the dark, bruised crescents beneath your eyes, the untouched tray of food sitting cold beside your notes, and the frantic, cluttered mountain of texts that seemed to be slowly swallowing you whole. His eyes lingered on your hand the way your fingers trembled ever so slightly as they gripped your quill, stained with ink and fatigue. Slowly, his eyes narrowed. It was the look of a scholar identifying a variable that had gone rogue.
"You haven't gone back to your dormitory," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with that infuriatingly calm cadence of his.
You were the first to break the contact, looking away toward the endless shelves of the House of Daena. "I'm fine."
"You said that the last time."
"There wasn't a last time."
"There were three."
Your shoulders stiffened, a small, defensive jerk of your spine. Alhaitham sighed a soft, exhaled sound that was nearly lost beneath the distant, rhythmic rustle of the rainforest leaves outside the high windows. Without asking permission, he pulled out the chair opposite yours and sat down.
The movement was startling.
In the hierarchy of the Akademiya, Alhaitham was an island. He didn't seek company—he didn't even seem to tolerate it. Yet here he was, settling into the seat as though he had every intention of staying until the candles burned to nothing.
Under the warm, flickering light of the desk lamp, the sharp edges of his rivalry seemed to soften. Without the frantic energy of the student body around him, he looked... human. Just another scholar, weary and caught in the gravity of the night. The realization irritated you. It was much easier to hate him when he felt like an unreachable monument of intellect.
"Why are you here?" you asked, your voice sounding thinner than you intended.
"I came to return a book." His gaze flickered toward the chaotic sea of parchment surrounding you. "Then I discovered a more immediate problem."
You rolled your eyes, a weary gesture of defiance. "I'm not a problem."
"At the moment, you are."
"How flattering."
"You mistake observation for insult."
"Because your observations usually sound like insults."
"They only sound that way because you dislike the conclusions."
You opened your mouth to retort, to tell him that his conclusions were nothing but arrogance wrapped in logic, but the words died in your throat.
He was right.
That was the most maddening part of Alhaitham: he was almost always right.
He leaned back, the chair creaking softly under his weight. "You've been avoiding meals."
You blinked, the fog in your brain momentarily clearing. "What?"
"Your lunch yesterday remained untouched."
Your stomach gave a traitorous, hollow ache. "You noticed that?"
"You sit three rows away from me."
"That doesn't answer the question," you muttered, feeling a flush of heat rise to your pale cheeks.
"It answers it sufficiently."
You stared at him, searching for a hint of mockery, a sign that he was teasing you. But there was none. Alhaitham simply accepted facts as they existed, as if observing your deteriorating health was no different than noting the humidity in the air.
"You also left a lecture early this morning," he continued, relentless.
Your frown deepened. "I had studying to do."
"You nearly walked into a pillar."
"..."
"And your handwriting has noticeably deteriorated."
"..."
"Your notes from two weeks ago were significantly more legible."
You felt a sudden, frantic prickle of vulnerability. "Have you been... analyzing my notes?"
"I've debated with you enough times to recognize your handwriting."
A groan escaped you, and you let your forehead drop onto the cool surface of the desk, the wood smelling of cedar and old ink. "Please," you whispered into the paper, "just stop noticing things."
"No."
The answer was instantaneous. No hesitation, no softening of the blow. You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "Why?"
For the first time, Alhaitham looked genuinely puzzled. He tilted his head slightly, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world. "Because they're there."
It was such a quintessentially Alhaitham response that you almost laughed a dry, tired sound. The exhaustion was winning; the room felt heavy, the air thick and warm, and your eyes burned with every blink. You hated that he could see the cracks in your porcelain composure. You hated that he was right.
His gaze softened, a change so subtle it was almost a trick of the light. "Rest," he said. His voice had dropped an octave, losing its analytical edge and becoming something firm, grounded, and strangely certain. "It's the only logical thing to do."
"I don't have time," you countered, though your eyelids felt like lead.
"You do."
"I really don't."
"You do."
"The examinations are next week!" you hissed, a final, desperate attempt to reclaim your dignity.
"Precisely."
You blinked at him, bewildered. "That doesn't even make sense."
"It does." Alhaitham folded his arms, his expression turning clinical once more. "Your current condition is reducing both retention and comprehension. Continuing to study while exhausted produces diminishing returns."
You closed your eyes, realizing you had walked straight into his trap. "You're treating yourself like a machine," he continued.
"A machine?" you repeated, your voice dripping with sarcasm.
"An inefficient one."
"Oh, thank you."
"Not a compliment."
You buried your face in your hands, the weight of the world feeling as heavy as the books on your desk. Somewhere above the sound of your own frustrated breathing, Alhaitham let out a long, weary sigh. When he spoke again, his voice was unexpectedly gentle, carrying a hint of something that sounded almost like... exasperation.
"Archons."
You glanced up, startled. The word sounded so foreign, so uncharacteristic of the man who usually spoke in perfect, measured sentences. It was the first time he had sounded like a person instead of a scholar.
"What?" you whispered.
"You are a most difficult variable to solve," he murmured, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter.
"Mental health should always be prioritized," he said, his voice a low, steady anchor in the vast silence of the library. "Regardless of circumstance."
The sheer sincerity of the statement struck you like a physical force. The towering shelves of books faded into the periphery, the shadows in the corners of the room deepened into velvet, and the vast, hollow space of the library vanished, leaving only the narrow, electric distance between the two of you.
"You've pushed yourself well beyond your limits." His eyes drifted, a fleeting moment of observation as they swept over the scattered parchments and the ink stained edges of your sleeves, before snapping back to your face. "Take a break."
A sudden, sharp tightness bloomed in your chest, making it difficult to draw a full breath. You searched his face for the tell tale signs of a victor, the subtle curl of a lip, the glint of superiority, the quiet satisfaction of seeing a rival falter. But there was nothing.
A part of you wanted to snap at him, to wrap yourself in your pride and push him away. But another part the part that was tired of fighting the world alone ached to ask the question that had been festering in your mind for years.
"Why does it matter to you?"
The question hung in the air, fragile and trembling.
For the first time that evening, the man of endless logic fell silent.
The only sound was the distant, rhythmic sigh of the wind brushing against the high glass windows and the soft, ghostly flicker of the lamp. Alhaitham’s gaze shifted, his eyes clouding with a rare, contemplative depth, as if he were weighing the exact value of the truth before deciding whether to bestow it upon you.
Moonlight spilled across the mahogany table in long, silver ribbons, illuminating the dust motes dancing between you. After a silence so long it felt eternal, he finally spoke.
"Because despite what you seem to believe, I've never considered you an obstacle."
Your breath hitched, snagging in your throat. Before you could find the strength to protest, he continued, his voice cutting through the stillness. "You're one of the few people in this Darshan capable of challenging my conclusions."
His expression remained as composed as a statue’s, yet there was an undeniable, raw honesty beneath the surface, a vulnerability in his steadiness that made it nearly impossible to look away.
"Our debates are interesting," he added.
You blinked, stunned. Interesting? Was that all? After years of rivalry, after the sleepless nights and the crushing weight of second place, he chose the word interesting? It felt almost insulting in its understatement, yet as you looked at him, you saw he was entirely, devastatingly serious.
"Most discussions become predictable after a few minutes," he said, a pause stretching between his words like a taut wire. "Yours don't."
"You assume I've enjoyed outperforming you." His gaze lowered, drifting to the mountains of books and the evidence of your relentless, desperate struggle to catch him. "That assumption is incorrect."
The lamp flickered, a dying pulse of amber light, and for a heartbeat, the world felt suspended in time. Then, almost as if the words cost him something to say, Alhaitham added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "If anything, I've been waiting for the day you finally surpass me."
The words landed with more impact than any grand proclamation, more weight than any official ranking ever could. In the quiet sanctity of the library, the truth finally dawned on you. You had spent years treating Alhaitham as the finish line, a distant, cold destination to be conquered. You never realized that he hadn't been standing in your way; he had been standing there, quietly watching, waiting for you to finally catch up.
"You're a fool," you whispered, though the sting was gone from your voice. It was a soft, breathless thing, almost a laugh. "To wait for someone to surpass you... it goes against every instinct of a scholar."
"Logic is rarely driven by instinct," Alhaitham replied, his gaze returning to yours. The intensity hadn't faded, but the tension in his shoulders had eased. "It is driven by the pursuit of excellence. And a pursuit is only meaningful when the opposition is worthy."
You looked down at your hands. They were still trembling. The frantic, desperate energy that had driven you for months, the need to prove, the need to win seemed to dissolve, leaving behind a quiet, hollowed out peace.
He reached out, his hand hovering over the table for a fraction of a second before he pulled a small, wrapped parcel from the pocket of his robe. He set it beside your inkwell. "Eat. Then go back to your dormitory. If you collapse during the examination, the lack of a proper challenger will be a significant inconvenience to the Akademiya."
You looked down at the parcel warmth still seemed to radiate from it and then back at him. The fierce, burning rivalry that had defined your existence was still there, but the edges had softened.
As he walked away, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor, you didn't immediately reach for your quill. Instead, you unwrapped the parcel, the scent of warm bread and honey filling your senses, and for the first time in months, you allowed yourself to simply be.
Yet, the week leading up to the examinations was a quiet and difficult revolution
The first battle was against ghosts.
It was not a war fought against the looming expectations, nor against the theories of the Akademiya, nor the impossible, logic defying questions that awaited you.
It was a war fought against yourself.
The old habit was a frantic living thing—a phantom limb. It lurked in the hollows of your thoughts, a restless specter waiting for the slightest lull in your focus to strike. Years of relentless conditioning did not dissolve overnight simply because one infuriatingly perceptive scholar had commanded you to.
Your body was a vessel of exhaustion—heavy and aching—but your mind was a caged bird, beating its wings against the bar.
You sat along at your desk long after the sun had dipped below the rainforest canopy, leaving you room bathed in the bruised purples and deep indigos of twilight. The familiar collection of books was stacked in a neat, imposing tower within arm’s reach. The mere sight of them made your chest tighten, the air in the room suddenly feeling too thin to breathe.
They were both your sanctuary and your cage.
You stared at the spines of the books. They seemed to stare back, judging your stillness.
A minute passed, heavy and thick as honey.
Then another.
Your fingers began to twitch, a rhythmic, nervous dance against the wood of the desk. Just one chapter, the thought whispered, sliding into your mind with the seamless ease of a predator. One chapter wouldn't hurt. You have the energy. You have the time.
It was a lie you had told yourself a thousand times before. One chapter would inevitably bleed into three; three would stretch into six; six would dissolve into a sleepless, feverish night of frantic memorization. You knew the descent into madness intimately. The temptation settled into your marrow, a cold, creeping itch. Without a conscious thought, your hand began to drift toward the nearest textbook. The movement was instinctive, as automatic and unthinking as a heartbeat.
Halfway there, you froze.
The silence in your room suddenly expanded, becoming enormous and deafening. The tips of your fingers hovered a mere inch above the worn, pebbled leather of a volume on ancient tomes. A sharp, jagged frustration rose in your throat. You realized, with a jolt of unsettling clarity, that you weren't studying because you possessed a hunger for knowledge; you were studying because the vacuum of not studying felt like a physical wound.
Slowly, with a monumental effort of will, you pulled your hand back.
The guilt arrived instantly, crashing into you with the force of a sudden summer storm. It was a physical weight: a tightening in your throat, a sickening knot in your stomach, a dull, thrumming pressure behind your ribs. You should be doing something. Everyone else is out there, chasing the light. The examinations are a tide coming in, and you are standing still, letting the water rise around your ankles.
The thought of Alhaitham struck like a spark in dry tinder. Suddenly, your mind was a gallery of him: Alhaitham seated beneath the dappled shade of a tree, a book balanced effortlessly against his knee; Alhaitham in the hushed sanctity of the House of Daena, his presence a calm anchor in a sea of frantic scholars; Alhaitham, standing atop the rankings, his name a permanent fixture above yours.
Your jaw clenched so hard it ached. You hated this helplessness. You hated the terrifying sensation that to rest was to surrender, and to slow down was to be swallowed by the shadows of those who refused to stop.
Your fingers curled into the edge of the desk, your nails digging into the wood. But then, amidst the cacophony of your own racing heart, a different memory surface. It was the memory of a pair of steady, turquoise eyes staring directly into your soul across a pool of flickering lamplight.
You could hear his voice with a clarity that was almost maddening. “Rest.”
It had been so simple. So direct. Devoid of the grandiosity most scholars used to mask their intentions. “It’s the only logical thing to do.”
You scowled at the phantom of him. Even in the sanctity of your own mind, Alhaitham was an insufferable presence. Yet, the memory felt more real than the desk beneath your hands. You leaned back, forcing your spine to uncurl, and exhaled a breath you felt you had been holding for years.
The room remained unchanged. The books were still there, silent and demanding. The examinations still loomed like a storm on the horizon. You folded your hands in your lap, forcing them to remain still, a feat that felt as difficult as resisting the pull of gravity.
For a long time, the restlessness crawled beneath your skin like tiny, invisible insects. \
But then, slowly, the world began to bleed back in.
The frantic noise of your thoughts began to recede, replaced by the delicate, rhythmic symphony of the Sumeru night. You heard the distant, melodic chirping of insects in the canopy; the gentle, rhythmic sigh of the wind moving through the leaves outside your window; the faint, earthy scent of rain that still lingered in the humid air.
A shaft of moonlight, pale and ethereal, stretched across your floorboards like a silver ribbon. In its glow, you saw them: tiny particles of dust drifting lazily through the air. They rose and fell in a slow, hypnotic dance, suspended in the light like miniature stars caught in a celestial current.
You watched them. You didn't analyze the composition of the dust. You didn't calculate the velocity of their drift. You didn't ask how this moment could be used to improve your standing in the Akademiya. You simply watched.
One particle spiraled upward, a tiny speck of silver against the dark. Another spun slowly, caught in a microscopic eddy of air, before vanishing into the velvet shadows. The movement was entirely meaningless. It was profoundly unproductive. It served no purpose in the grand architecture of your future.
How long had it been since you had allowed yourself to simply witness the world without trying to conquer it? How long had you been so busy measuring the usefulness of every moment that you had forgotten how to live within them?
The second day brought the first encounter with the "new" you.
Or perhaps not new.
Perhaps simply the version of yourself that had been buried beneath years of pressure.
The Akademiya grounds were unusually tranquil that afternoon. Most students had retreated to the sanctuaries of the libraries or the shaded halls to escape the rising Sumeru heat. This left the grounds to the birds, the wind, and the occasional scholar drifting across the stone pathways. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy of broad, emerald leaves, casting a shifting mosaic of gold and deep shadow across the grass.
You had chosen a spot beneath the sprawling roots of the Great Tree, a heavy treatise on linguistics resting in your lap. Normally, this would be a moment of intense, almost frantic focus. You would have been dissecting every sentence, cross referencing the symbols and sentence structure, your mind racing to absorb every scrap of data before the sun dipped below the horizon.
But today, the words blurred at the edges. You read a paragraph on ruin devices, then read it again, and a third time, only to realize you hadn't actually processed a single syllable.
A strange, foreign sensation began to settle in your limbs. It wasn't the bone deep, hollow exhaustion that came from pulling all nighters in the House of Daena. It was something much simpler.
You were sleepy.
The realization sent a small jolt of panic through you. For years, sleepiness had been an enemy to be vanquished. It was a weakness to be suppressed with bitter tea, cold water, and sheer, stubborn willpower. The old reflex surged up in your throat: Stand up. Walk to the library. Find a more upright chair. Keep going. Keep going until the world stops spinning.
Your fingers tightened on the parchment, the edges crinkling under your touch. You felt the familiar, gnawing guilt, the sensation that every second spent in repose was a second Alhaitham was gaining on you. You could almost see him in your mind's eye, sitting perfectly poised, his mind a sharp, unclouded blade, absorbing knowledge with effortless grace while you sat here, succumbing to the most basic of biological needs.
“You’re treating yourself like a machine.”
His voice, calm and infuriatingly logical, echoed in your mind. You closed your eyes tight, scowling at the memory. It was an incredibly annoying thought to have when you were trying to be productive. And yet, as you sat there, the debate raged within you. One side of your mind screamed that a midday nap was a luxury for the lazy; the other side, a quieter, more tired voice, pointed out that you had spent years running a marathon with no finish line in sight.
With a heavy, decisive sigh, you closed the book.
The action felt monumental, as if you were signing a treaty with your own body. A small, breathless laugh escaped your lips. Permission to be tired. It felt absurd, yet as you leaned your head back against the rough, cool bark of the tree, a profound sense of relief washed over you.
The world began to soften. The rustle of the leaves became a lullaby; the warmth of the sun on your skin felt like a gentle weight, pressing you down into the earth. You let go.
You were drifting, hovering in that hazy, golden space between wakefulness and dreams, when a shadow fell across your vision, cooling the warmth on your face.
Your eyes fluttered open.
Standing a few paces away was Alhaitham. He was, as usual, a study in composed stillness, a book tucked effortlessly beneath one arm. He didn't call your name or startle you; he simply stood there, observing you with that unreadable, piercing gaze. His eyes drifted from your drowsy expression to the closed book in your lap, and then, quite inexplicably, to the sky.
"The light is changing," he remarked. His voice was steady, cutting through the afternoon haze without breaking the tranquility of the garden.
You blinked, your brain feeling as though it were moving through honey. "What?"
"The light," he repeated, nodding toward the canopy above. "It will become too harsh for reading in approximately twenty minutes. The glare will make the parchment difficult to navigate."
You stared at him, momentarily speechless. Only Alhaitham could turn a moment of quiet vulnerability into a lecture on solar positioning. You waited for the sting, the subtle implication that you were wasting time, or the observation that you looked unkempt in your stupor.
Instead, he simply added, "If you intend to sleep, do it now."
"That's it?" you asked, your voice a bit raspy from sleepiness. "No lecture on the importance of midday alertness? No comment on my lack of discipline?"
One of his eyebrows arched a subtle, elegant movement. "What were you expecting? A dissertation on proper napping techniques?"
A genuine snort escaped you, and you saw the tiniest, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was a victory, however small.
Without another word, he turned and walked toward a stone bench a short distance away. He didn't sit near you instead, he chose a spot in the shade that was close enough to be a presence, yet far enough to grant you privacy. He opened his own book, settled in, and became a silent, steady anchor in the garden.
As you drifted back into sleep, you only felt a strange, burgeoning sense of safety.
The third day was when the clarity began to settle. It wasn’t a miraculous transformation; there was no sudden burst of light, no magical curing of years of chronic exhaustion. The anxiety hadn't vanished; it was still there, a low hum in the background of your mind, whispering the old, frantic litany: Study more. Work harder. Don't stop. If you stop, you disappear.
But for the first time, the voice sounded more like a suggestion you were free to ignore.
On this morning, you sat at your desk with a fresh stack of parchment and a cup of tea that was actually warm—rather than the bitter, forgotten sludge you usually favored. You opened your textbook and began to read. You read a section, made a note, and then unexpectedly you paused.
An observation had occurred to you.
You reached for a fresh sheet of parchment and began to write. One theory bled into another; a conclusion linked unexpectedly to a lecture from months ago; an argument that had once felt like a tangled knot of thorns suddenly smoothed out into a straight, logical line.
You stared at the page, then the textbook, then back at the page. The realization was startling. The information wasn't new. You had read these exact passages a dozen times before. The difference was that now, your brain was actually present enough to process them.
For years, you had mistaken the mechanical act of memorization for the art of understanding. When exhaustion had consumed you, studying had been a desperate survival tactic: words entered your eyes, your hand moved across the paper, and you retained just enough to pass the examination before the knowledge evaporated. But now, your thoughts move with a fluid, quiet grace.
The irony was almost enough to make you laugh. In your frantic pursuit of becoming a better scholar, you had nearly forgotten how scholarship actually worked.
By midday, several pages of notes lay spread across your desk. They were, quite frankly, a revelation. Your previous notes had always been a frantic map of a collapsing margins crowded with panicked scribbles, entire paragraphs crossed out in jagged, angry lines, a visual representation of a natural disaster.
Today’s pages were different.
They were…. clean and organized.
The ideas flowed with a logical progression, the connections highlighted rather than buried under the weight of stress.
A small, triumphant smile tugged at your lips. Perhaps Alhaitham knew exactly how irritating this realization would be, you thought. And perhaps that is all the motivation I need to surpass him.
That thought followed you as you made your way toward the House of Daena later that afternoon. The library was bathed in the golden, heavy light of the descending sun, dust motes dancing in the long shafts of brilliance like tiny, suspended stars. A week ago, your instinct would have been to find the darkest, most isolated corner, a place to hide your exhaustion.
Today, you did something entirely uncharacteristic.
You chose a table near one of the large, towering windows. You sat where the light was warmest, where the hum of other scholars felt like a gentle backdrop rather than a distracting cacophony.
You had returned your attention to your notes when a familiar, low voice drifted through the air. It wasn't directed at you, but at a passing scholar. You glanced up instinctively.
Alhaitham.
He was standing a few rows away, his expression as composed and unreadable as ever. He was engaged in a brief, clipped exchange with a senior researcher, his tone efficient and devoid of unnecessary fluff. As the conversation ended, he turned to leave, his gaze sweeping the room with its usual analytical precision.
Then, his eyes caught yours.
He paused.
His gaze lingering on you for a second longer than was strictly necessary. He took in the open book, the neatness of your desk, and the fact that you were sitting in the light rather than the shadows.
"You're sitting in the sun," he remarked as he began to walk toward your section.
"I am," you replied, feeling a strange, playful spark of energy. "Is there a particular reason that's a problem?"
He reached your table, not stopping, but slowing his pace just enough to acknowledge you. He glanced down at your notes, the clean, organized lines of your recent work. "On the contrary. Based on the clarity of your script, it seems to be aiding your cognitive function rather than hindering it."
You blinked, caught off guard by the subtle compliment hidden within his clinical assessment. "Is that your way of saying my notes look better?"
"It's my way of saying you've stopped performing the academic equivalent of a frantic scramble," he said, his eyes meeting yours. There was a flicker of something there, not quite a smile, but approval. "It's much more efficient this way."
"Efficiency," you repeated, a soft laugh escaping you. "Always back to the logic of it. Do you ever just... enjoy the sunlight, Alhaitham?"
He paused, his hand resting on the edge of the table. For a moment, the busy library seemed to fade into the background. "I find that enjoying the sunlight is much easier when one isn't squinting through a fog of mental fatigue."
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He simply nodded once a silent, dignified farewell and continued on his way toward the deeper stacks. You watched him go, the warmth of the sun on your skin feeling a little more profound, the silence of the library feeling a little more like home. You turned back to your parchment, the ink flowing smoothly, the world feeling, for the first time in a very long time, perfectly in focus.
The fourth day tested your resolve.
The morning had begun with a rare, tranquil grace. You had arrived at the House of Daena shortly after sunrise, when the air still held the silver chill of the night and the grand halls felt less like a labyrinth of expectations and more like a sanctuary. Sunlight poured through the high, arched windows in pale, dusty streams, illuminating the shelves. You had settled into your new seat near a window. Your notes were organized, your tea was warm, and for the first time in years, the act of studying felt more like a genuine conversation with the world.
You were midway through a particularly dense passage on elemental theory when the silence was punctured. A cluster of voices, hushed but vibrating with a frantic, jagged energy.
"...there's no way I'm sleeping this week," a voice whispered, thick with a fatigue that sounded almost permanent.
"I'm serious," another replied, the sound of shuffling parchment punctuating their words. "Have you seen the practice assessments? The complexity has doubled since last year."
"They say the gap between the top ranks is widening," a third student added, their voice dropping to a terrified low. "If you aren't in the top tier by the final exam, you're basically invisible to the Matra."
You watched them from the corner of your eye. They were Spantamad students, their robes slightly rumpled, their eyes rimmed with the tell-tale redness of sleeplessness. One carried a stack of books so precarious it looked like a structural hazard; another looked as though they might collapse into the floorboards at any moment.
"I heard Alhaitham already finished his entire curriculum review," the first one whispered, a note of pure dread in their tone.
A collective groan rippled through the group. "That's not reassuring," one muttered. "When is anything involving Alhaitham actually reassuring?"
"It's just... intimidating," the student with the books sighed.
As they moved past, the air seemed to vibrate with their anxiety, a frantic frequency that usually would have triggered a sympathetic tremor in your own chest. A week ago, hearing the word rankings would have been like a physical blow. You would have felt the familiar, suffocating spiral begin: Am I falling behind? Is my progress too slow?
Instead, you felt a strange, detached sort of pity. You looked down at your own notes… you weren't running a race against them.
"You're staring at the same paragraph for three minutes. Is the text particularly captivating today, or are you merely performing a silent vigil for your lost focus?"
The voice was low, steady, and entirely devoid of the frantic energy that had just passed by. You looked up to find Alhaitham standing beside your table. He held a slim volume in one hand, his expression as unreadable as a closed book, but his eyes were fixed on you with a piercing, observant intensity.
"I was actually thinking about the Spantamad students," you admitted, your voice soft. "They seem... overwhelmed."
Alhaitham’s gaze drifted toward the aisle where the group had disappeared. "They are," he said simply. He pulled out the chair opposite yours an uncharacteristic move, as he usually preferred his own solitude and sat down. "They have mistaken anxiety for productivity. They believe that by increasing the volume of their suffering, they will increase the quality of their intellect. It is a common fallacy."
"It's hard not to feel that way when everyone is talking about it," you said, gesturing vaguely toward the library at large. "It feels like if you aren't panicking, you aren't trying hard enough."
Alhaitham leaned back slightly, his turquoise eyes meeting yours. "And what is your definition of 'trying'?"
The question caught you off guard. "To... to master the material. To be prepared."
"To be prepared is to understand the core principles so deeply that the variables of an exam cannot shake you," he countered, his tone clinical yet strangely grounding. "To panic is merely to admit that you are at the mercy of the unknown. You are currently sitting here, in the light, with organized thoughts and a steady hand. By any logical metric, you are 'trying' far more effectively than the group that just passed by."
You looked down at your hands. They were, indeed, steady. "It feels different this time," you whispered, almost to yourself. "It feels like... the knowledge belongs to me, rather than me chasing after the knowledge."
A small, almost imperceptible shift occurred in his expression. It wasn't a smile, but the tension in his brow eased. "That is because you have stopped treating scholarship as a weapon to prove your worth, and started treating it as a tool to expand your mind. The distinction is subtle, but the results are profound."
He reached out, his fingers tapping the edge of your notebook in a rhythmic, calming cadence. "Do not let their turbulence dictate your tempo. A river that flows too violently often loses its direction. A steady current is much harder to divert."
You felt a warmth bloom in your chest, a quiet sense of triumph that had nothing to do with grades. "Thank you, Alhaitham. For... for the perspective."
"Don't thank me. It is merely a logical observation," he replied, though he didn't immediately get up to leave. Instead, he opened his own book, settling into a comfortable silence beside you
The fifth day was a day of quiet preparation.
Not for the examinations.
Not entirely.
The air was thick with the frantic energy of students who had forgotten how to breathe without calculating their progress. They moved in clusters, their voices a low, jagged hum of anxiety, passing around practice assessments like they were sacred, terrifying relics. For years, you would have been part of that hum. You would have been in the library by dawn, eyes stinging from the dim light, your stomach cramping from a diet of half eaten bread and sheer willpower.
But this morning, you stepped beyond the Akademiya grounds.
The Sumeru sun was generous, spilling gold across the stone pathways and warming the skin of your face. The city was a symphony of sensory details you had long ago dismissed as "distractions." There was the heady, sweet perfume of jasmine spilling from window boxes; the earthy, damp scent of the forest floor clinging to the shade of the Great Tree; the rhythmic clack clack of merchants setting up their stalls; and the sound of laughter not the brittle, forced laughter of a student relieved to have passed a quiz, but the deep, resonant sound of people simply being.
You wandered aimlessly, a ghost in a world of color. You eventually found yourself in a bustling café, a place that, a week ago, would have felt like an assault on your senses. It was loud, the clatter of porcelain and the murmur of a dozen conversations swirling around you. But instead of retreating, you ordered a proper meal warm and watched. You watched the server frantically navigate the rows of tables; an elderly scholar sip tea with a slow, meditative grace; you watched two merchants haggle with a theatrical intensity; you watched a group of students laughing so hard they nearly overturned their table.
None of them knew your name. None of them knew your rank. And for the first time, the realization didn't make you feel small
As the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in bruised purples and molten ambers, you found yourself drawn toward the Grand Bazaar. The fountain was a centerpiece of cool, cascading light, its steady song a balm to the lingering hum of the day. And there, leaning against the polished stone of the fountain with a composure that seemed to defy the bustling crowds, was Alhaitham.
He looked as though he had been carved from the very twilight itself. His gaze fixed on the water as if he were reading the ripples. He didn't look up as you approached, but the slight shift in his posture told you he knew exactly who was walking toward him.
"You left the Akademiya," he said as you came to a halt beside him. His voice was a low baritone, cutting through the evening air with its usual, unshakeable steadiness. It sounded almost like an accusation, though there was no bite in it.
You let a soft, wistful smile touch your lips. "It turns out the world is quite large."
"It is a fact, not a discovery," he remarked, finally turning his head to meet your eyes. His turquoise gaze was piercing, scanning your face with that unnerving, analytical precision. He paused, his eyes lingering on the healthy glow of your cheeks. "Though your heart rate seems significantly more regulated than it was yesterday. Your presence is... less frantic."
"Is that a compliment?" you teased, feeling a playful spark of energy. "Or just an observation?"
"In my case, there is rarely a difference," he replied.
A silence settled between you, but it wasn't the heavy, expectant silence of the library. It was light. Easy. You looked at the fountain, then back at him. "You're staying late. Not much studying left to do?"
"The archives are quietest at this hour," he said, though he made no move to pick up his book. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his robe. When he withdrew his hand, he held something small and vibrant between his fingers. It was a Sumeru Rose, its petals a deep purple, perfectly preserved, as if it had been plucked from a dream. He held it out to you. You blinked, the breath catching in your throat. "What is this?"
"A flower," he said, as if he were presenting a particularly uninteresting piece of logic. You let out a soft, incredulous laugh. "Thank you, Alhaitham. I would never have guessed."
You saw it then the tiniest, most infinitesimal flicker of exasperation in the corner of his eye. You reached out, your fingers brushing his as you took the bloom. The petals felt like silk against your skin. "For your desk," he added, his voice dropping an octave. "To serve as a visual reminder."
"A reminder of what?" you asked softly.
"That even the most complex and rigorous structures require periods of stillness to grow," he said, his gaze drifting toward the darkening horizon. "Constant motion without pause is merely a way to exhaust oneself before the goal is reached."
The words hit you with the force of a physical weight. It was an acknowledgment of the change he had seen in you.
"Thank you," you whispered, and the gratitude felt deep, rooted in something far more profound than academic thanks.
As the evening breeze stirred your hair, a sudden, staggering realization began to dawn on you. You looked at him and really looked at him. You saw the man you had spent years trying to outrun, the rival who had loomed over your every ambition. But as you stared at his composed profile, the memories began to shift. They began to reassemble themselves into a pattern you had been too blinded by competition to see.
You remembered a month ago, sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, staring blankly at a plate of untouched food, your mind spinning with equations until the world felt blurred. You had been so lost in your own exhaustion that you hadn't noticed him approaching. He had simply set a small, wrapped parcel of dried fruit on the edge of your table.
"You are consuming more mental energy than glucose," he had said, his voice cool and matter of fact as he walked past. "It is mathematically unsound to study on an empty stomach."
You remembered the long walks between the Grand Bazaar and the Akademiya, where you used to try and sprint to keep up with his long, purposeful strides, your lungs burning and your heart racing in a desperate attempt to match his pace. You had once stumbled, breathless, and he had stopped not to wait, but to subtly slow his gait, his shoulder brushing yours as if by accident.
"The path is not a race, even if you insist on treating it as one," he had remarked, his eyes fixed ahead, though he had stayed at your side until your breathing leveled out.
You remembered the afternoon you had nearly collapsed in the library, your arms trembling under the weight of three massive, ancient tomes. You had turned your head for a mere second to find a reference, and when you turned back, the heaviest book was gone. You had seen Alhaitham walking away toward the returns shelf, the tome tucked effortlessly under his arm.
"You were carrying more than was necessary for your current research," he had called back without looking. "Efficiency is more important than bravado."
And the small things are the quiet moments in the library where you would find a fresh sheet of high quality parchment or a specific vial of indigo ink waiting on your desk, accompanied by no note, but always appearing exactly when your own supplies had run dry.
Your grip tightened around the Sumeru Rose. For years, you had believed you were the one paying attention. You had been the one tracking scores, measuring distances, and watching his every move with the eyes of a rival. But now, the truth was undeniable. While you had been staring at his back, trying desperately to catch him, he had been glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were still there. He hadn't just been observing your progress; He had been watching you. He hadn't been running the same race; he had been standing at the finish line, waiting for you to realize that you didn't need to run so hard to reach him.
Your heart gave a small, rhythmic thud against your ribs not the panicked thud of a student, but the steady, warm pulse of a person who was finally, truly, seeing the world for the first time.
The present rushed back into focus. Heat crept into your face as you looked at him. "You've been watching me."
For perhaps the first time all evening, the unshakeable composure of Alhaitham faltered. It was a microscopic shift, a momentary stillness in his breathing, a slight tightening of his gaze but to you, it was as loud as a shout. He didn't look away, though.
"‘Watching’ is an imprecise term," he countered, though the clinical edge of his voice lacked its usual bite.
You laughed, a soft, melodic sound that seemed to dance on the evening breeze. "Of course you'd say that."
"Observation is the basis of all knowledge," he replied, leaning back slightly. "If you intend to truly understand a subject, you must first observe it in its natural state, without the interference of your own biases."
The words were characteristically Alhaitham: logical, measured, and draped in a layer of intellectual detachment. Yet, as they hung in the air between you, they felt devastatingly intimate. Beneath the academic jargon was a truth that made your pulse quicken: he had been studying you.
His gaze drifted downward, settling on the dried Sumeru Rose cradled in your palm. For a long moment, the world seemed to recede. The bustling chatter of the Sumeru plaza, the distant calls of merchants, even the rhythmic splashing of the fountain it all faded into a muted hum, leaving only the two of you in a pocket of sudden, heavy stillness.
"You spent years assuming I viewed you as competition," he said quietly.
The words caught in your throat, stealing the breath from your lungs. You felt an instinctive need to defend yourself, to reclaim the pride you had worn like armor for so long. "I never said that," you countered, though the defense felt thin even to your own ears.
"No," Alhaitham agreed, his voice as steady as the stone beneath your feet. "You simply decided it for both of us."
A sharp retort sat on the tip of your tongue— a witty jab about his arrogance but it died there. It was a realization that stung more than an insult because it was undeniably true. You had built a wall of rivalry to protect yourself, and he had simply walked right through it.
He turned his head, his eyes following the shimmering arc of the fountain’s water. "Most discussions within the Akademiya are predictable," he mused, his tone shifting into that familiar, analytical cadence.
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden pivot. "Predictable?"
"Most scholars are interested in being correct," he said, his gaze remaining fixed on the water. "Very few are interested in understanding why they might be wrong." He paused, and the evening breeze stirred the dark strands of his hair, a rare moment of softness in his rigid silhouette. "You were."
The words landed with a quiet, devastating weight. It wasn't a critique of your intellect, but an observation of your soul.
"You challenged arguments that everyone else accepted as gospel," he continued, his voice low and rhythmic. "You questioned conclusions that professors considered settled. Whenever I thought I had reached the end of a subject, you were there, finding the one thread worth pulling." He paused, and for a fleeting second, he sounded almost reluctant, as if he were admitting a secret he hadn't intended to share. "It was... useful."
A startled, breathless laugh escaped you. "There it is."
He turned his gaze back to you, his expression perfectly, maddeningly serious.”There is what?"
"The Alhaitham version of a compliment," you teased, though your heart was racing. "The highest praise a man of logic can bestow."
"It wasn't intended as a compliment," he corrected, though his eyes narrowed slightly, a tell-tale sign that he was aware of the effect he was having on you.
You smiled, leaning into the warmth of the moment. For once, you didn't feel the need to win the argument. You didn't need to be right; you just needed to be heard.
Alhaitham was the first to look away, his gaze drifting back toward the city lights. "When you began treating every conversation as a contest," he continued, his voice dropping an octave, "I assumed it was a temporary phase. A symptom of ambition."
The warmth in your chest faltered, replaced by a sudden, sharp ache. "But it wasn't."
"You stopped arguing because you enjoyed the learning," he said, his words precise, surgical, cutting through your defenses with terrifying ease. "Instead, you started arguing because you were trying to prove something. You were trying to bridge a gap that didn't actually exist."
Silence settled between you, heavy and profound. He was right. Again. It was exhausting, and yet, there was a strange comfort in it: the comfort of being truly known.
"You kept trying to become someone else," he said, his voice barely a whisper now, stripped of its usual academic armor. "And frankly... It was disappointing."
The word hit you like a physical blow. "Disappointing?" you breathed, staring at him in disbelief.
For a heartbeat, the mask slipped. A flash of something raw, something almost vulnerable, crossed his features a shadow of regret, or perhaps a longing he couldn't quite name. It was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual composure, but the impact remained.
"The person you already were," he said, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the world stand still, "was far more interesting."
A profound silence fell over the plaza. You looked down at the flower in your hand. Its petals were fragile, yet it had been preserved with such care that it remained whole. A week ago, you might have seen only a withered plant. Now, you saw the intent behind it.
A small, knowing smile tugged at your lips, born of a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather.
Alhaitham noticed immediately. He always did. "And what conclusion have you arrived at?" he asked, his eyes searching yours with an uncharacteristic hint of curiosity.
You closed your fingers carefully around the rose, shielding the delicate petals. The answer sat warmly in your chest, a realization so new and so personal that to speak it aloud felt like it might break the spell.
"It's a secret," you whispered.
A pause followed. Then, Alhaitham let out a long, slow sigh. It wasn't the sigh of an irritated man, but one of quiet resignation, as if he had predicted this exact moment of sentimental defiance.
"You realize," he said, his tone dry but fond, "that withholding information from a scholar is exceptionally cruel."
You laughed again, the sound light and free. "Consider it repayment."
"For what?"
"For making me figure it out all by myself," you teased, your rose colored eyes bright with a newfound clarity.
The corner of his mouth lifted. It was a tiny movement, a mere ghost of a smile that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, but this time, you didn't let it escape you. You caught it, held it in your memory, and realized that in the quiet language of glances and dried flowers, you had finally learned how to read him.
Alhaitham didn't answer immediately. He pushed himself away from the polished stone, straightening with unhurried ease. "The light will be optimal for reading in the west wing of the Akademiya in about an hour," he said calmly. "If you're still free by then, you may join me."
The final day the eve of the examinations arrived with a strange slice.
It was a quiet that existed only within you, because the Akademiya itself was anything but still. Anxious energy clung to every hallway and lecture chamber like a thick, humid mist. The air was heavy with the scent of old parchment and the frantic, ozone-like tang of desperation. Students rushed between classes, their footsteps a staccato rhythm of panic, clutching stacks of notes to their chests as if the paper itself could shield them from failure. Study groups occupied every available surface; frantic, hushed whispers followed you through the corridors like the buzzing of insects. You passed a student in the hall, eyes bloodshot and trembling, desperately trying to cram three months of botanical theory into a single afternoon. Another sat on a stone bench, staring blankly at the sky, looking moments away from praying directly to the Dendro Archon for a miracle.
The atmosphere was so saturated with tension that it felt tangible, a pressure against your skin. A week ago, you would have been a part of that frantic tide. You would have been the one carrying twice as many books as necessary, your shoulders aching under the weight of unnecessary preparation. You would have skipped lunch to shave ten minutes off a review session; you would have skipped dinner to chase a fleeting thought; you would have sacrificed sleep to the altar of "just one more hour." You would have convinced yourself that a single, extra moment of cramming could be the difference between existence and insignificance.
But now, as you navigated the crowded halls, the desperation felt oddly distant. It was as if you were watching a storm from behind a thick pane of glass. You could see the lightning, you could hear the thunder, but you were no longer being drenched by the rain.
It wasn't that you didn't care.
The examinations still mattered; you had poured your soul into your studies, and you wanted the results to reflect that. But the fear had loosened its grip, transforming from a suffocating shroud into something smaller, something manageable. It was no longer a monster waiting to consume you whole; it was merely a quiet companion, a reminder of the stakes, but one that no longer dictated your every breath.
When night finally settled over Sumeru, you found yourself sitting by the open window of your room. The rainforest stretched endlessly beyond the city walls, a vast, breathing ocean of dark green bathed in the ethereal silver of the moonlight. The sounds of the night drifted inward through the cool air, the rhythmic, distant chirping of insects, the soft rustle of leaves, the gentle murmur of the wind moving through the canopy. You rested your arms on the windowsill, watching the moon climb its slow, celestial arc.
Behind you, your notes remained untouched on your desk. The sight felt almost absurd, a quiet rebellion against years of habit. For so long, the night before an exam had followed a ritual of madness: panic, review, panic, more review. A desperate, cyclical attempt to memorize information you already knew, as though the sheer volume of data could act as a shield against the unknown.
Tonight, the books remained closed because there was nothing left to prove. The work was done.
Your gaze drifted to the desk. The dried Sumeru Rose rested beside your neatly organized notes, its preserved petals glowing softly under the moonlight. You smiled, thinking of how different that desk had looked a week ago. It had been a battlefield of half finished notes, spilled ink, and cold, forgotten tea. Now, it simply looked like a desk.
And as you looked at the flower, your thoughts drifted, as they inevitably did, to him.
Alhaitham.
The name no longer stirred that sharp, jagged tension in your chest. The bitterness was gone, replaced by a warmth that felt like sunlight on skin. You found yourself remembering the small, quiet things: the way he had handed you a parcel of bread and honey when he noticed your hands shaking; the stillness of a bench beneath a tree; the silent, knowing nod in the library; the ghost of a smile by the fountain. These weren't just moments; they were proof. Proof that someone had seen you long before you had learned how to see yourself.
For years, you had treated your rivalry with him as the defining epic of your life—the impossible mountain you had to climb, the finish line you had to cross. You had lived in the shadow of his intellect, constantly measuring your worth by how close you could stand to his light.
And then, the thought arrived the one that had been hovering at the edge of your mind all evening.
What if tomorrow comes, and the rankings are released, and he is first... and I am second?
In the past, that thought would have been a catastrophe. It would have felt like a personal failure, a sign that you were still "lesser," still chasing a shadow you could never catch. You would have felt the sting of being the runner up, the child who was talented but never quite enough.
But as you sat in the moonlight, the thought felt different. If you were second, you would still be you.
You would still be the person who loved the intricacies of ancient philosophy. You would still be the person who found beauty in the way the light hit the rainforest leaves. Being second wouldn't erase the hours of study, the growth of your mind, or the strength of your spirit. The ranking was a number on a parchment; it wasn't the sum of your soul.
For the first time, you realized that the competition had never been about beating him. It had been about finding yourself. And in the process of chasing his excellence, you had discovered your own.
You liked the person you had become in the pursuit. You liked your curiosity, your stubbornness, and your resilience. You liked that you were no longer just a collection of scores and achievements. You were a person of depth, of passion, and of quiet, steady strength.
The examinations would come tomorrow.
The results would be posted.
But as you watched the moon, you knew that no matter what name was written on that list, you had already won. And for the first time, the view was beautiful.
The examinations came, as they always did, a whirlwind of ink, parchment, and grueling mental exertion. Hundreds of scholars sat hunched over their desks, their shadows stretching long and thin as the sunlight crawled sluggishly across the stone floors. The air was thick with the palpable tension of a thousand minds straining against the limits of their own understanding. Questions demanded more than just rote memorization. They demanded the soul of a scholar: theories, intricate formulas, subtle interpretations, and the courage to build an argument from nothing.
The exams were not easier if anything, the complexity of the final papers had been staggering but you met them as yourself. You studied, yes but you studied with a new kind of clarity. You slept when your body demanded it. You ate when the sun was high. You no longer chased him like a shadow.
The difference was nothing short of miraculous. Problems that once felt like impenetrable thickets of logic began to unravel. Connections that used to require hours of agonizing labor emerged with a natural clarity. You realized, with a profound sense of clarity, that a sharp mind required care just as surely as any fine blade required maintenance.
When the final parchment was collected and the last quill was set aside. You felt content.
The results arrived several days later, and as was the tradition of the Akademiya, the institution descended into a beautiful, chaotic madness. Before the sun had even cleared the canopy, students were swarming the central plaza, their voices rising in a cacophony of excitement and dread. Rumors spread through the hallways like wildfire, faster than any official decree.
You watched the commotion from the periphery, leaning against a cool stone pillar. As you moved toward the center, the sea of students parted, though not entirely. Fragments of frantic conversation drifted past you like autumn leaves.
"Did you see the scores? The linguistics section was brutal!"
"The top rankings are absolutely ridiculous this year... "
"How is that even possible? He didn't even look like he was trying!"
"I swear, Alhaitham isn't even human.."
A small, amused huff escaped you. Some things, it seemed, were as constant as the stars.
Finally, you reached the front. The official parchment hung neatly against the wooden board, a stark list of names and numbers that had once dictated your every waking thought. Your eyes traveled upward, almost by instinct, toward the summit of the list.
First: Alhaitham.
The margin was even smaller than before. A mere whisper of a difference. A smile touched your lips not a bitter one, not a wounded one, but something warm and almost fond.
Of course it was him.
You could almost see the slight, satisfied tilt of his head as he read it. You imagined the insufferable, quiet dignity he would maintain, as if being the best in the Akademiya was as mundane as breathing.
Then, your gaze drifted down.
Second: Y/N L/N
The margin between you was almost laughably small. It was a difference measured in whispers, in the tiniest fractions of a point a gap so narrow it was practically a bridge. In the past, seeing this would have been a catastrophe. You would have dissected every missed nuance, every slightly flawed argument, and spent weeks mourning the "what ifs." But now, all you felt was a surge of genuine, unadulterated pride. You weren't just close to him; you were standing right there with him, not as a shadow, but as a peer.
A quiet, breathless laugh escaped you, surprising even yourself. It was the sound of someone who had finally realized the race was over, and that the prize was much better than a rank.
"It seems the margin is shrinking."
The voice was low, steady, and vibrated with a familiar resonance that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. You didn't need to turn around. Only one person in the entire Akademiya possessed the ability to move through a crowd like a ghost, arriving with such effortless, quiet authority.
Alhaitham stepped up beside you. He didn't look at the board. He didn't look at his own name, which sat at the very top like a crown. His attention was entirely, singularly fixed on you. His gaze was observant, sweeping over your face with that characteristic, analytical intensity, as if he were reading a text more complex than any ancient scroll.
The margin was even smaller than before. A mere whisper of a difference.
As you stepped away from the board, a familiar presence materialized beside you. Alhaitham didn't look at the rankings; he didn't need to. He looked at you, his gaze sweeping over your calm expression and the steady light in your eyes.
"You look well," he noted, his voice as cool and steady as the Sumeru breeze.
The words were simple, stripped of any grandiosity, yet they carried a weight that no "congratulations" ever could. He was seeing the light in your eyes, the lack of tension in your shoulders, the way you finally occupied your own skin without looking for permission. He was saying: You look like you have finally found your way back to yourself.
The smile lingering on your lips widened, bright and teasing. "And you look far too satisfied with yourself," you countered, tilting your head to meet his gaze. "Is the view from the top as lonely as they say, or are you just enjoying the ego boost?"
His eyebrow lifted, a subtle, elegant movement that signaled his amusement. "The view is quite standard," he replied, his voice dropping to that private, intimate register. "But the company... the company has become significantly more interesting."
You stared at him, your breath hitching in the small, charged space between you. Alhaitham met your gaze with an expression as unreadable as a closed tome, yet the corner of his mouth twitched a microscopic movement that wasn't quite a smile, but was far too intentional to be mere muscle fatigue.
Around you, the Akademiya was a cacophony of post examination chaos. Students surged around the notice board like frantic waves crashing against a stubborn rock, their voices rising in a fever pitch of jubilant celebrations, bitter complaints, and the frantic scratching of quills as they compared scores. Yet, despite the roar of the crowd, the space beside Alhaitham felt strangely insulated, as if he carried a silent, invisible perimeter that kept the world at bay. Perhaps he always had. Perhaps you were simply the only one who knew how to step inside it.
For years, you had stood before these rankings feeling a crushing sense of vertigo, as if the distance between first and second place was a vast, unbridgeable canyon. But looking at the parchment now, the gap seemed almost laughably small. A mere fraction of a point. A handful of marks a difference so insignificant that a casual observer would have missed it entirely. Your eyes drifted back to the top of the list, tracing the ink.
First: Alhaitham.
Second: Y/N L/N
The sight should have been a familiar ache, a reminder of the summit you couldn't quite reach. Instead, a warmth bloomed in your chest, steady and bright. "You know," you said, your voice thoughtful and surprisingly light, "I used to think seeing your name above mine was the worst thing imaginable."
Alhaitham folded his arms, his posture relaxed yet commanding. "And now?"
You paused, actually considering the weight of the years behind you, the sleepless nights, the frantic studying, the desperate need to be enough. The answer surprised even you. "Now? Now I think there are probably worse things."
"Such as?" he prompted, his tone dry, inviting the challenge.
"Being Kaveh," you countered without a second of hesitation.
The reaction was instantaneous. Alhaitham looked away, but for one glorious, fleeting second, you saw a genuine flash of amusement dance across his features. "You aren't wrong," he conceded. “You aren't wrong," he conceded, his voice carrying a rare note of agreement.
"You said that remarkably fast," you teased, a playful glint in your eyes. "Usually, you'd at least argue."
"Why argue against empirical evidence?" he replied, turning his gaze back to you. "It would be an inefficient use of energy."
A laugh escaped you, a bright, clear sound that seemed to settle the restless air around you. As the sound faded, you noticed Alhaitham relax almost imperceptibly. Most people would have missed the subtle softening of his shoulders, but you had spent years studying not just his intellect, but his silences. You realized then that the rivalry hadn't been a solo performance. You had assumed the fierce, quiet desperation belonged only to you, but looking at him now, you understood. It had mattered to him, too. Not because he craved the vanity of the ranking, but because you had become a constant in his world, the one voice capable of complicating his logic, the one presence that made the silence of his solitude feel less absolute.
"You know," you said, crossing your arms and tilting your chin up with a newfound, gentle defiance, "one day, I am going to beat you."
"I know."
The sheer, unshakeable certainty in his voice caught you off guard. You frowned, searching his teal eyes for even a hint of doubt, a flicker of competitive heat. "You're supposed to disagree! That's how a rivalry works. You're supposed to defend your position."
Alhaitham looked genuinely puzzled, as if you had just proposed a mathematically impossible theorem. "That seems counterproductive. If you are destined to surpass me, why waste breath pretending otherwise?"
You threw your hands up in exasperation, though the smile on your face betrayed you. "Archons, you are utterly hopeless. There is no winning an argument with you."
"And yet," he countered, his gaze steady and uncomfortably perceptive, "you have spent years competing with me. One has to wonder if you simply enjoy the pursuit."
He had you there again. You hated how he could turn your own history against you, stripping away your defenses with nothing but a few well placed words. But as you stood there in the sun drenched plaza, you realized he was right. You did enjoy it.
The afternoon sun filtered through the grand, arched windows of the Akademiya, casting long, golden honey streaks across the floor. Somewhere in the distance, a group of scholars erupted into a chorus of either triumph or despair, but you didn't care to look. For the first time, you didn't feel trapped by the results.
You glanced one last time at the list. Second place. The position that had haunted your dreams and stolen your sleep, a constant reminder of a summit you could never quite touch. Now, It no longer looked like a mark of inadequacy; it looked like a stepping stone. You were growing, and the distance was shrinking. And certainly, the view was much better when first place was occupied by an insufferable scholar who had recently taken to ensuring you were and subtly reminding you to sleep.
"You're smiling," Alhaitham observed, his voice a low hum, cutting through the ambient nose of the hall.
You immediately scowled, trying to reclaim your dignity with a sharp tilt of your chin. "No, I am not."
"You are."
"I am most certainly not."
"You are."
"Alhaitham"
"Y/N"
The way he mimicked your indignant cadence was so deadpan, so utterly unexpected and devoid of mocking yet brimming with a teasing intent, that you nearly lost your composure again. You narrowed your eyes at him, but he remained entirely unapologetic, looking as though he had just delivered a flawless lecture. Then, his expression shifted, settling into something purposeful.
"Come." he said.
You blinked, caught off guard. "Where?"
"Lunch."
"I am perfectly capable of buying my own lunch," you countered, though your stomach betrayed you with a small, hungry traitorous twitch.
"I am well aware of your capabilities." he replied, his tone implying that your independence was a fact he respected, but one that was currently irrelevant.
"Then why are you inviting me?"
Without waiting for a formal acceptance, Alhaitham began walking down the grand steps, his stride purposeful. You hesitated for a moment, considering the satisfaction of leaving him to his solitude. Before you could decide, he glanced over his shoulder. It was only a single, brief look, but it was enough to pull you in.
"Besides," he added, his voice carrying back to you over the din of the hall, "if you truly intend to surpass me one day, you will need to remain conscious long enough to actually do it."
For years, you had operated under a fundamental misunderstanding. You had believed your story with Alhaitham was a war of attrition— a relentless, exhausting climb toward a peak defined by numbers, rankings, and the cold prestige of the Akademiya. You thought it was about the singular, desperate need to prove your worth by eclipsing his.
But as you fell into step beside him, the rhythm of your footsteps syncing with his steady, unhurried stride, the truth settled in your heart with a quiet, profound clarity.
The rankings were transient.
They would shift like the desert sands next semester, next year, perhaps not for a decade. Yet, for the first time in your life, the uncertainty didn’t feel like a threat as a warm, lingering thought bloomed in your mind: Second place isn't so bad. Not when first place is walking beside you for lunch.
As the two of you merged into the vibrant flow of students spilling through the walkways, your gaze drifted toward him. You watched the way the sunlight caught the sharp lines of his profile, and you felt a pang of retrospective embarrassment.
How wrong you had been.
For years, you had misread his silence as arrogance. You had mistaken his detachment for a lofty sense of superiority, assuming that the reason he remained unruffled by the chaos of academic competition was that he viewed the world and the people in it as beneath his notice.
You thought he was indifferent to the very things that defined your existence: the struggle, the ambition, the desperate need to be seen.
But the illusion had shattered in quiet spaces between your heated debates, in the hushed hours of late night study sessions, and in the simple, unexpected kindness of a parcel of warm bread wrapped carefully in cloth left on your desk.
Alhaitham had never been indifferent. He simply valued a different currency.
While the rest of the Darshan chased the fleeting glitter of prestige, he chased the deep, resonant marrow of understanding. While others clamored for the roar of recognition, he sought the quietude of peace.
You remembered the lectures the way he would receive the rapturous praise of professors with nothing more than a singular, dismissive nod before returning to his book. You remembered how he would slip away from the celebratory banquets before the toasts even began, seemingly irritated by the way people treated his mind as a monument rather than a tool. You had assumed it was because he felt he was above it all. Now, you realized the truth was much more grounded: he already knew exactly who he was. He didn't need a scroll to validate his existence.
He wasn't ahead of everyone else because he was faster or smarter; he was ahead because while the rest of the world was running a frantic, exhausting race, Alhaitham had quietly, calmly, chosen his own destination.
A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, born of a sudden, profound affection for the man beside you.
"You've done that three times now."
The voice was low and deadpan, pulling you back to the present. You blinked, realizing Alhaitham was watching you, his gaze fixed on your face with that unnerving focus.
"Done what?" you asked, trying to reclaim your composure, though your heart was still racing from the weight of your own thoughts’
"Smiled at nothing."
"I wasn't smiling at nothing," you countered, though your cheeks felt a faint, roseate warmth creeping into your cheeks.
"Then what were you smiling at?" he prompted, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he were attempting to solve a particularly complex equation.
You paused, looking at him.
You looked at the man who had been the center of your frustration, the architect your rivalry, and the catalyst of your growth. The scholar who had become the most vital and unshakeable constant in your life. You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping you.
"If I told you,” you said, your voice dropping to a playful whisper, “your ego would become truly unbearable."
"I find that unlikely," he replied, his expression remaining perfectly neutral, thoughthere was a tell-tale glimmer of something bright— something warm lingering in his eyes
As you reached the bustling heartof the Grand Bazaar, the smells of spices and street food wafted around you, pulling you back into the noise of the living world. Alhaitham led you away from the main thoroughfare, navigating the crowds with his usual effortless grace, until you reached a small, quiet cafe, tucked away. As you sat down across from him, you felt a final, lingering tension dissolve. The crushing pressure to be perfect—the need to be the singular, untouchable summit had finally lifted.
"I still plan on beating you," you said, leaning back in your chair and watching him with a newfound, calm determination. Your gaze steady and devoid of the old, frantic desperation
Alhaitham opened the menu, his eyes dancing with a rare, subtle spark of challenge. "I look forward to it,” he replied, his voice smooth and unhurried. “But for now," he gestured towards a passing waiter, "I suggest we start with something light. You look as though you might faint if you try to eat a full meal."
You reached across the table and playfully kicked his boot with your own. "I'm fine."
"Of course," he murmured, his gaze meeting yours, his expression softening just enough to betray his amusement. "And I'm convinced you're not. It seems we have reached a stalemate."
"Fine," you conceded, a genuine, melodic laugh bubbling up from your chest. "A stalemate. For now."
The two of you sat in the warmth of the afternoon sun, two rivals who had finally found something more valuable than a perfect score. As the shadows began to lengthen and the city hummed its evening song around you, a profound sense of peace settled over you. You knew that the rankings would continue to change and the seasons would turn; but the person sitting across from you— the man who watched your struggle and waited for you to catch up was the only constant that truly mattered.
all writing belong to @velverii do not repost— without my explicit permission— translate or plagiarize.
no pressure but what happened to you belong with me mydei fic.. 🥺👉👈
ITS STILL IN THE WORKS kinda iwjdisjsjsj ok so here's the thing, i wrote about it and then one of my swiftie friends told me that they don't really like you belong with me (the song) cuz it sounds so home wrecking in a way and that like kinda did some alchemy to my mind and made me go, oh yea kinda, and now im rewriting a lot of the parts cuz im being mindful of it not sounding like reader is a homewrecker or smth UEJDJSJJA
TIGHTROPE IS ANGST!! this is an immortal x immortal trope, because i wanted someone who could keep up with mydei and its based off of the greatest showman's tightrope ^^
the idea is that mydei probably saw reader dying and then came back to life or somewhere in the sea of souls and then they met in the living world (im not quite sure yet) and reader then sorta tags along or smth and mydei hates that cuz in his mind "you have your whole life to live, why would you spend it with me??" and kinda shuns reader away, he's avoidant ok HAHAHA that's all for now!
