good luck, babe!

“Hm, I think this one looks good, don’t you think?” You say as you fall into deep thought, holding the fabrics in your hand. You stand in front of the blond-haired man who just watches you the whole time with a relaxed look on his face—his soft gaze follows your every movement and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “No, wait, but this one looks nice too. Why is it so hard to decide?”

You fall into silence, into deep thought, and Aventurine simply waits for your next move. He’s like a living mannequin but he doesn’t complain, afraid that he’ll break your focus if he speaks at this moment.

“What do you think?” Finally, you looked at him. He doesn’t answer immediately, but instead, he smiles and tucks a few strands of hair behind your ear.

“Have you eaten already?” He’ll ask, caressing the of your cheek so sweetly, so gently. A lull of a touch and you can’t help but to lean against his hand to seek more of his kindness. You’ll answer him with a hesitant tone, “I wasn’t asking that though…” He could immediately tell the answer with just the tone of your voice and the way you avert your gaze away from him.

“How about we go out and eat first? I have a reservation for the both of us at the restaurant down the street. They serve your favorites.”

He just likes watching you as you work; eyebrows scrunched, eyes focused, and gaze unwavering as you concentrate on what you’re doing. Occasionally, he’ll watch over your shoulder as you sketch a new design. If you have long hair, he’ll tie it back for you so that you won’t be bothered by your strands obstructing your sight. Sometimes, he’ll massage your shoulders as he kisses the crown of your head. However, when it’s already late at night, he’ll ask you to go to bed with him already while peppering your face with kisses until you’ll let go of your pencil and give in to his words.

Aw, you can’t afford to buy the fabric? You don’t have enough money to buy the pattern that you like? Everything is too expensive? Fortunately for you, this man is willing to spend millions—or even trillions—of credits just to get you what you want and need. You just have to ask and he’ll provide without hesitation. You’re worried about how you’ll repay him? Just a kiss will do.  A fair and perfect price for it all, right?

While Aventurine brings you to casinos with him, you also bring him to watch fashion shows with you—majority of the whole show, however, he would just be watching you and adoring the way your eyes sparkle and your expression brightens. You’ll ask him how the show was and which one he likes best and he doesn’t know how to answer your question, only thinking of how you looked so lovely at the moment.

PHOTOS OF HIS OUTFITS OF THE DAY!! He’ll randomly send you pictures of him standing in front of a mirror in just a simple pose as he shows you what he’s wearing to work. He likes it whenever you compliment him—tell him he looks good, that he looks amazing in the suit you’ve made, that he looks so handsome and you wish to kiss him. (i’m an avid believer of aventurine having words of affirmation as one of his love languages)

It’s undeniable that he looks good in everything that he wears, much more if it's made by your hands. He wears the clothes you tailored for him or the outfits you have planned for him, seemingly showing them off in a rather subtle yet loud way. He’ll occasionally adjust the cuffs of his wrist, fix his tie even though it’s not even messy, or anything that would grab the attention of the person he’s talking to so that they’ll bring it up in a conversation; “Stop adjusting your coat, Aventurine. I know (Name) designed it for you.” A certain silver-haired girl would say and the man adorned with your work would only answer with: “Aren’t they so talented?”

MATCHING CLOTHING (hello?! i know i already mentioned the matching things in my previous work BUT MATCHING CLOTHING WITH HIM!!), especially ones that you’ve designed and tailored for the both of you. Whenever the both of you are going out for a date, he’ll ask what color you’re going for today or what you’re wearing so that he can match you. Be surprised or not, but the bouquet of flowers he bought for you would also match the palette of your clothes.

The first time you proposed the idea of him wearing a dress, he was baffled and somewhat confused. One minute, you were talking about the design of a suit and asking for his opinion on the matter and the next, you’re asking him what he thinks of dresses. Before he knew it, he was with you, choosing among the many collections of dresses that you have garnered in either your closet or boutique. How could he say ‘no’ to you, eyes wide with expectation and gleaming like the surface of a jewel, how could he ever say ‘no’?

Everything was just so simple with you—a form of escape, a way of running away from the thoughts that binds him. Every moment that he spends with you eases him of the worries, of the stress, of the chains that holds him as if he was a flightless bird born in a cage (you were simply his solace). In your presence, he’ll find tranquility inked into the softness of your skin and he’ll murmur his wishes along the lines of your soul; he wishes everything was this warm and easy.

“this is where we go our own way, kakavasha…”

“...this is a gift from gaiathra, and you are kakavasha, whose good fortune will bless your sister with success.”

“as long as you are alive, the blood of the avgin will never run dry. so run, kakavasha, do not be afraid, and do not look back…”

he could feel the rain starting to pour down on his form but he doesn’t run, he doesn’t move, he doesn’t seek for something that will shelter him from the cold. instead, he stands under the pouring rain with heavy shoulders and thoughts that seem to claw and scratch at him. no matter how much he tries to cover up and escape from his past, to run and run until his feet hurt, until he falls and crumbles to nothing, it will still haunt him. it chases after him; it hides in the corners of his room, behind the wallpapers, and amidst the settling dust and cobwebs, and it creeps up on tuesday mornings as he tries to revere the sun that once never shined on him. he’s always painfully reminded of the things that he has to carry—the weight of his sister who carries her parents, and who carries their parents.

“...the rain will accompany you, and the rain will bless you.”

the distant cries, screams, and roars all ring inside his ears but the sound of the rain breaking into smaller pieces as it falls to the ground that he walks on masks it all.

he feels so pathetic. the hatred that he has for himself continues to gather and manifest into his likeness to sing choruses of condemnation in the guise of shattered and broken praises that are shaped like knives, stabbing his guts and making blood spill from his lips (he doesn’t know what his mother looked like anymore yet he could remember the distinct smell and taste of iron as blood stains his skin).

“why are you all doing this…” he remembers what he answers to her sister before she walks off to her death. he remembers asking her as he covers his ears with his small hands—too weak and frail to even carry stones, much less move boulders. he remembers the pain, the confusion, the guilt of it all. he was just a small child who had too much to hold.

what even is the worth of his life? it was just merely 60 tanbas. even if he dresses himself in luxurious and expensive clothing his past self could never dream of having, it doesn’t rid of the grasp the ipc has over him; his shackles. the cold and harsh metal is not there anymore but he could still feel it tugging on his neck, he could still feel the letters burn as it engraves itself—death would have been a more merciful fate for him than being held by such cruel and dirty hands.

“kakavasha.”

aventurine opens his eyes to the sight of his ceiling. there was no empty land that is of semblance of his planet before him but instead there were the patterns, the walls, and the chandelier that hangs in the middle of it. he was in his room; the silence accompanied with the ticking sound of the clock strikes a balance between quietude and noise.

1:56, he looks at the time. it was still deep into the night—the stars cast its light into his room as it poured itself on the cold floor. there was a rustle by his side and he turned his head to look at you, peacefully sleeping in the comfort of his blankets and you mumbled something underneath your breath though he couldn’t hear it. your face scrunches for a moment before it relaxes into a soft one and he watches all of it happen; he wonders what you’re dreaming of.

unable to sleep—a heavy feeling resides in his chest ever since he woke up—, he slides himself out of the bed. slowly and silently, dare he might disturb your sleep. he slips into his slippers before walking off to the direction of his kitchen. he doesn’t even know what he’s going to do there; he’s not even thirsty nor hungry, he just follows where his feet brings him (that’s how it usually was for him, often aimless and wandering with no direction in mind, he just doesn’t where to go, where he belongs).

he’s not an alcoholic but sometimes he just seeks for the bitterness of the liquid—to replace the taste of blood on his tongue and momentarily feel what it’s like to have nothing on your shoulders; his hands are empty yet it holds so much. he pours himself a small glass, honey-coloured liquid spills into it and a few drops gets into the surface counter. he picks the glass up, swirls the liquid for a few moments and watches its motion, before he brings it to his lips and drinks it all.

the scent is harsh against his nose and the liquid burns at his throat. the taste was too bitter and he felt like spitting it all out but he didn't, he continued to swallow it until there was nothing left in his fill. he tried to think of something else, to avoid those thoughts from entering his mind: the plant there needs to be watered, that reminds me of the light bulb has to be changed, do i even have a future ahead of me?, the painting there is slightly out of place, am i even supposed to survive?, are you still in his room?

he wonders if you’re still tucked in his sheets, if you’re still sleeping in his bed, he wonders what you were dreaming of that got you mumbling and knitting your eyebrows, he wonders when you’ll walk away from him after you realize how ugly and utterly worthless he actually is.

“‘rine?” a voice calls out to him along with the light sound of approaching footsteps. as soon as you enter the kitchen, you are greeted by the sight of him: an empty glass in his hand with a newly-opened bottle of alcohol in front of him. it was currently 2 in the morning, your lover was missing from your side when you woke up but you found him drinking alone in the kitchen.

“what’s wrong, my love? are you okay?” you ask, worry following your tone as you spoke. but aventurine remains silent. he can’t tell you his thoughts, of the overwhelming despair that drags him back down to his misery, and it’s not because he doesn't want to but he can’t—it would break your heart.

(and you know his silence too well. you didn’t carve yourself inside his heart just for nothing, you didn’t consume his flesh to not know the humming of his thoughts inside his chest.)

“you know you can tell me anything, right?” you didn’t care that he’ll break your heart. you wanted all of him and that includes his hatred and anger. if it makes him feel better, break it, shatter it into pieces and you’ll keep on picking yourself up for him. even if you don’t have the ability to stop the downpour, you’ll walk with him through the rain.

after what seems to be moments of hesitation coming from him, he shuffles from his seat and approaches where you stood. and he lets himself fall and crumble for you to catch him in your embrace—he feels safe, he feels okay but the grief, misery, and guilt still tugs at his heart ever so often as it beats.

(“where do i put all of this grief?” he asked you once while you admired the stars with him. “you hold them until it turns to love.”)

you caress his back softly, a small act of comfort as you cradled him in your arms. he doesn’t put all of his weight on you but he pulls you close and buries his face on the crook of your neck, heaving out a sigh as he did; you let him, let him whisper his worries and write his thoughts on your skin.

“did you have a nightmare again?”

“…not really.” the faint smell of alcohol wafts to your nose as he speaks. “i just…”

“it’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“i’m sorry.” he says and you didn’t fail to notice the crack in his voice and the feeling of something warm and wet on your skin. you hold him closer, tighter, and you brush your hand against his hair, tangling your fingers in his soft locks.

“you have nothing to apologize for. it’s not your fault, kakavasha. nothing is ever going to be your fault.”

“it feels like it does.”

“no, no, my love… you were just a child. you did all that you can to survive and fulfill your promise.”

you start to gently sway him into the melody of your hum and he follows your form like the wind would on your hair. this continues for long until he’ll let go—you’ll hold him for as long as he wants to if it would lessen his burdens.

“i wouldn’t love you any less nor will i think of you as worthless.”

he has days likes this, days where he contemplates and thinks of everything, days where he doesn’t know what to do or what to say, days where he feels like he never changed and he’s still the same weak child who walked away from his sister instead of begging and asking her to go with him (the survivor’s guilt goes hard), days where it feels like everything is falling apart and he’s left on his own again, days where all he wants to do is to just cry in your shoulder—

“are you feeling better?” you ask him as he lifts his head from your shoulder; dry tears are left like trails of stars on his features. you cup both of his cheeks and wipe away the remnants of his misery and ache.

“mhm, a little bit.” he nods and you beckon him closer to your lips just so you could kiss his forehead before peppering his whole face.

—but there are days of warmth and sunlight. days where it all feels a little bit bearable and he can breath, days where every step he takes isn’t heavy, days where he could taste the kindness of the sun on his lips, days where he wakes up with you by his side and thinks he could have this forever, days where he could hear his mother’s lullaby that would comfort him, days where he could hear his sister’s voice telling him that she’s proud of how far he have come, days where everything feels okay and worth it.

years of these little bits of happiness—in silence, in chaos, in tranquility, in destruction—he wants a lifetime of it with you. and though kakavasha was never a greedy man, the ache, the yearning, and craving for those moments with you fills the empty spaces of his thoughts; you looked like what peaceful dreams are made of.

“i love you.” he knows that you know that already, he just thought he’d say it again.

He’s not exactly a morning person but would always wake up early, occasionally before you do. It’s either because he has to leave for work early or it just so happens that he woke up just as the sun was rising. If he has to get ready soon, he’ll take a few minutes of his time to admire you as you sleep, to trace the bridge of your nose slowly and carefully so as to not wake you, to draw and follow the outlines of your features with his eyes. But if he has no plans for today, he’ll stay in bed with you and eventually, fall asleep once more. He holds you so close and so tight (but not tight enough to suffocate you) that it’s hard to slip away from his grasp.

You feel a pair of soft lips on your forehead, the kiss lingering for a moment until you flutter your eyes open. “Are you awake now, sleepy?” 

“Mmh…” You grumble, your vision adjusts to your surroundings as you blink multiple times. You could see Aventurine getting dressed, putting on his expensive tailored-coat.

“You’re leaving already? Why did you not wake me up?”

“You looked like you were having a nice dream.”

MATCHING PAJAMAS (heck yeah!!). The time when he saw you wearing one of his pajamas, it felt like something had been flipped inside of him and the thought of getting you one for your own that matches his fills each and every corner of his mind. Although all of the matching things you have with him are not just limited to pajamas—it can range from matching jewelry, matching charms, matching clothing, matching glasses, matching everything. God, he goes into a store, sees something that he likes and asks the staff if they have another one but in a different color that you like.

Perhaps you have never noticed (or maybe you have) but he never wears his glasses whenever he’s around you—when there’s only you and him. There was no need to hide anything from you, not when you adore all parts of his being. He melts whenever you compliment him (he’s a sucker for such words of affection) especially when it’s his eyes, loves the way you look at him as if he was everything you wish for.

He’ll often play games with you or initiate a bet but somehow, he has more losses than wins. “You’re cheating!” You’ll say, pointing at him as if you were an attorney from a game that objects to a statement. Aventurine, however, would stare at you in disbelief (though he’s just feigning innocence) and would answer with a raised eyebrow: “How am I the one cheating when you’re winning?” To which you’ll respond with: “That’s because you’re letting me win. You’re not playing fair, Aven.”

SPOILS YOU A LOT and when I say a lot, I mean A LOT. Everything you'll ask for or even just mention in passing, he'll provide. He randomly sends you pockets of money, a notification on your phone lighting up your screen and the text says: You have received 100, 000 credits. You have to get used to it—it’s one of the ways that he shows his affection to you. He wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer whenever he gives you something either, so, you have to take it or else you’ll have to deal with a sulky man the whole day. 

Don’t worry though as he ensures that everything that he buys and gets for you is something you would like—expensive meaningless gifts will always be meaningless, he would rather give you a cheap yet beautiful charm that is of your favorite color or flower than an expensive shiny necklace made out of gold and adorned with diamonds which you’ll never wear because it’s too heavy on your neck or it’s not your preference.

On that note, he also likes seeing you wear the things he bought for you. Maybe it’s obvious, maybe it’s not, but he likes to dress you up, likes to see you put on the clothes he picks for you. Dates where he brings you to a boutique to pick clothes together (for both you and him), dress up, and ask each other if they look good is not so rare between you two. It’s silly but the two of you would end up giggling like children when the other would strike a ridiculous pose to show off what they're wearing (and also, with the intention to make one another laugh); he lives for and craves these moments with you.

Brings you together with him to casinos and lets you watch him while he plays as he regards you as his lucky charm (when he’s actually the one who is lucky here). Whenever he wins a game or a bet, he asks for a kiss from you—he taps on his cheek as an indication of his request but he will not force you if you don’t wish to express such affections in public, rather he’ll ask for something else instead like maybe a smile or ask that you hold his hand. Sometimes, if you’re curious enough, he’ll teach you the fundamentals of the game and what you can do to win. The look of pride on his face says it all as he watches you win and your opponent falls to the floor (you just put someone in debt).

The amount of endearing names that he calls you. If ever you get flustered whenever he calls you with those affectionate endearments, he’ll take the chance to tease you, to repeatedly call you with such names until you throw a pillow or any object at him—he catches it though but will apologize while laughing, saying that he won’t do it again.

You have to be understanding and gentle with him, careful as you tread the light, lest you fall into the dark and see that the tall and strong walls he built around himself is nothing compared to the broken and fragile pieces that are sewn on his skin, and he will leave (out of fear, out of anxiety, out of grief, out of self-hatred). But it’s alright, everything will be, you’ll embrace him even in the abyss and you’ll guide him back to your warmth.

Of course, the city of Mondstadt, having caught the news of his return, have carefully and excitedly planned for a celebration to happen. Thus, the usual silent and peaceful air turned into something electrified with the rustle of banners and bustling chatter of the citizens, whispering and talking among themselves—oftentimes of the grandmaster, of how long he had been away, of what would happen now that he’s here. Before, the only thing Knights of Favonius, stationed at the mainland, have received are reports of his status and the elite knights, while the citizens could only wonder about the whereabouts of the man himself.

It would be no wonder that some would even speculate whether he’s still alive or not, and even then, what use would he have if he were to return now since they already have the acting grandmaster, Jean, already performing his duties. It was an inevitable thing to have such whispers, though it had never fostered into anything, only remaining as fleeting murmurs carried away by the wind.

Every corner of the city was not spared with silence and just as the citizens have been waiting with bated breath for the day, for the culmination of their efforts, you, too, cannot sit still at the simple thought of Varka, finally, coming back.

It’s been a long time since you have last seen your husband. It’s been three years now and the only kind of communication, interaction, or way you feel his presence is through letters with souvenirs, trinkets, or anything that he thinks you will like. Letters that can never be a page or less than two, letters written with that messy script of his with occasional blobs of ink that have dripped on to the paper, letters that will end with those three words of his affection for you and signed with ‘Your Beloved, Varka’.

It is no understatement to say that you lent a great hand in the preparations for the expedition team’s return. From the hanging banners, the decorations all over the place, the cathedral looking for helpers, literally anything you can get your hands on. If you were even given the opportunity, you would have built a statue of his honor. It was no news to everyone that you were ecstatic no matter how much you try to appear calm and composed in front of them. You cannot sit still at all. 

You were simply everywhere and doing everything all at once, and this is evident by that fact Lisa had to come to you and tell you to take some time to rest or else, you wouldn’t even get to see the day that he will be here. You couldn’t even say no to her, knowing how scary she can get—she even threatened to tell Jean to ban you from helping. The thought of it was ridiculous but it was not impossible, so for the last few days leading to the day of celebration, you sat in your home or outside; you played with the children who each, but all the same, told you of how excited they are to see the grandmaster again and have him train them—by which, they mean chasing him with a sword while he pretends to be scared.

You simply love and miss your husband, the love of your life, Varka. It was hard not to—only an insane person wouldn’t, or maybe you just adore him a lot. Either way, this ache was strong and this ache was making you lose your mind at each second he’s not here.

The day comes and as early as dawn, people are already coming out of their homes, looking forward to the day ahead. The streets are alive with a palpable energy, the kind that only surfaces during festivals. Albeit, it was still different—this was no ordinary festival, after all. Children dart between the legs of adults, their laughter as bright as the streamers that now adorn every lamp post and awning. The smell of fresh bread and roasting meat wafts from Good Hunter, where Sara is already working twice as fast to accommodate the influx of orders. Even the cats, those independent creatures of the city, seem to sense the shift in the atmosphere, finding sunny spots along the route where the crowds will gather, as if they too wish to witness the grandmaster's return.

“I’ll give you a discount since I’m in a great mood today!”

“Ah, the pigeons!”

“How long until we see them?!”

Today just feels so right and perfect.

There is a sea of familiar faces and excited chatter as soon as you step outside and walk along the streets. People greet you, pat your shoulder, offer kind words and knowing smiles—some have even teased you, pushing you into a flustered state with their words. They understand, perhaps better than anyone, what this moment means for you. You’ve been a part of their community long enough that your yearning has become woven into the fabric of their own anticipation.

Not far away, the gates of Mondstadt stand open, welcoming, waiting. Beyond them lies the path to the rest of Teyvat, the path Varka took so long ago. And then—

“They’re here! They’re coming!”

Immediately afterwards, the people gathered at the sides so as not to block the pathway, and there, on the horizon, you see them—the expedition party emerges from the distance like a dream given form and cheers soon erupt, yelling, shouting. It drowns out the sound of your own heartbeat, your own breath, and your own thoughts.

The procession slows as it reaches the gates. The crowd takes this moment to press closer, voices calling out greetings and blessings.

“Grandmaster Varka!”

“Barbatos bless you all!”

“Look! Do you think one of them is Captain Kaeya’s horse?”

Though you, too, are glad to see the elite knights return, knowing how much of a strong foundation they are to the city’s military prowess, your eyes only seem to look for one and one person only. You watch him, eyes warm with affection, a smile tainting your lips, and your shoulders relax at the utter sight of him, basking in all this glory and celebration.

(Beneath it all, you are relieved—relieved, not just because he’s returned, but because he’s here and that through all your prayers and desperation, he is unharmed. He is alive. The mere thought of it crashes through you like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, and you realize that you had been holding something beneath your ribs all this time—something cold and sharp and terrible, a fear you never allowed yourself to name, a dread that lived in the space between heartbeats, in the silence between letters, in the hours past midnight when the bed felt too large and the world too quiet. You had carried it so long it had become part of your breathing, part of your waking, part of the way you moved through days without him. You had grown so accustomed to its weight that you forgot it was there at all.)

He's dismounted now, his great horse being led away by a young squire who looks absolutely starstruck. Varka pats the boy's shoulder with a laugh you can hear even from here, that booming, infectious sound that has always made your heart swell. He looks around, taking in the banners, the decorations, the crowd of familiar faces, and you watch as recognition dawns on his features, one by one.

Many have approached him already, though you still remain on the sidelines, not wishing to interrupt this tender moment. You know the extent of his longing for his homeland, having to endure the battlefield every single day; his letters have told you so.

"Grandmaster!" A young knight pushes through the crowd, his face flushed with excitement. "Welcome back, sir! Could I—could I possibly ask for your autograph?"

Varka laughs again, clapping the young man on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "Slow down, soldier! I'm not going anywhere. We'll have plenty of time for autographs and training and everything else. But first—"

Through the chaos of celebration, through the sea of bodies and noise and color, his eyes easily find yours. Albeit he tries to approach you, only to be intercepted by one person to another, and you cannot simply help but laugh at the sight, waving him off and telling him to deal with that first. He could only mutter a silent apology while scratching the back of his head, turning his attention back to entertaining everyone who comes to him.

"Grandmaster! The children have been practicing a song for weeks!"

"Sir Varka! My tavern has saved its best cask for tonight!”

"Welcome back, old friend!"

He’d greet them warmly, genuinely, but his attention would keep on drifting, keep wandering, keep settling on you for a few moments as if he was trying to reassure—or remind—himself that you’re still there waiting.

You don’t know how long you’ve been standing there now, underneath the shade and away from the crowd that have gathered and drowned him with their relentless inquiries and excitement. He was not spared a single moment, perhaps even accumulating all their energy, returning it back to them tenfold. Varka, through all of it, was a man who loved his people with the same ferocity he loved anything—wholly, without reservation, with every piece of himself he had to give.

However, this time, his eyes find you again, and you see the silent question there: Can I come to you now? Please?

You nod, laughing warmly, and he starts toward you, and this time, the crowd lets him. People have stepped aside, making way for him and leaving the man alone, understanding that this moment—this reunion—belongs to the two of you first. His boots strike the cobblestones with familiar rhythm, each step bringing him closer, closer, until he stops before you. 

Up close, you see the changes the years have wrought. New lines etched at the corners of his eyes, evidence of harsh sun and harsher conditions. His hair is longer than you remember, but still styled in the same way that he always does. But more than everything, his eyes. 

Archons above, his eyes.

They are the same eyes that looked at you on your wedding day, full of wonder that someone like you could love someone like him. They are the same eyes that crinkled with laughter when you made silly faces to cheer him up after difficult days. They are the same eyes that, even in his hastily scrawled letters, you could feel looking at you across impossible distances.

And now they are looking at you from only a breath away.

“Hello, my love.” He says, and his voice falters on the last note.

The sound breaks something in you. You surge forward, closing the remaining distance between you, and his arms—those strong, warm arms you have dreamed about for so many sleepless nights—wrap around you and pull you tight against his chest. You bury your face in his chest, breathing him in, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek.

"I'm home," he whispers into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm home."

You can't speak—despite the amount of times you have practiced in front of the mirror on what to say to him, despite the amount of daydreaming you have of this moment, despite having prepared yourself—silence, brought by so much emotions and feelings, has lodged itself in your throat. Words are inadequate, useless things when faced with the enormity of this moment. So instead you cling to him, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt as if he might disappear if you loosen your hold even slightly. He holds you just as tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped firmly around your waist, anchoring you both to this moment, to each other.

Eventually, reluctantly, you pull back just enough to look at him. Your hands come up to frame his face, your thumbs tracing the new lines, the beloved features that have haunted your dreams. He leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for just a moment, as if he, too, cannot believe this is real.

"I missed you," you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper. "I missed you so much." And the tears you’ve been holding at bay finally spill over, just a little. You don’t wish to embarrass yourself in front of him and already make a mess. You told yourself repeatedly that you wouldn’t cry or do anything stupid, but it seems like that was thrown out of the window.

Varka immediately panics. This legendary warrior, this grand master who has faced down monsters and braved the harshest conditions Teyvat could throw at him, looks utterly and completely terrified by the sight of your tears. His hands, which have held swords and shields and the weight of an entire expedition, flutter helplessly at your sides as if he has no idea what to do with them.

"Don't—please don't cry," he pleads, his voice cracking in a way that would be comical if you weren't so overwhelmed.

He fumbles for something and ends up pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabs at your cheeks with a gentle clumsiness that only he possesses, his brow furrowed with such intense concentration you'd think he was back in the battlefield rather than wiping away tears.

"Please don't cry, my love," he murmurs, his thumb catching a tear at the corner of your eye. "I can't bear it. I could face any enemy and it would be less terrifying than watching you cry."

From his words, a wet laugh escapes you, and his face lights up like sunrise. Before you can say anything else, he leans in and presses his lips to your forehead—soft, reverent, lingering—as if you are something sacred, something worth crossing entire nations to return to. When he pulls back, his eyes are bright with unshed tears of his own, holding only affection, adoration, love for you and you only; and he smiles at you like you are the answer to every prayer he never spoke aloud.

“Welcome home, Varka.”

he better come home at my first 10 pull (i only have that much)

To be seen as nothing but manipulative and cunning with his princely and charming demeanor, to be seen as a blank slate, to be seen only on the surface of his sweet smiles that never seem to reach his eyes. But it’s better to be misunderstood than to have you see the wretched and tangled strands that is sewn to create the fabric of his existence, to be viewed under the same limelight he is being put beneath than to have you notice the bleakness of color in his golden eyes that rivals the sun—except his light never exists, only when he gazes at you does it ever shine.

It’s hard to understand him either—not when he cannot understand himself also. He wishes to take away all of your pain, all of your problems and worries, to have you rely on him and only on him, to view the world in your eyes, to cup your cheeks in his hands and press his lips against yours (he has heard of the act of kissing, a strange way to convey and pour one’s desire, adoration, and love to another). He’ll lie down on the grass with you and watch the stars, he’ll listen to your songs and music, he’ll let you put those red flowers found in the Anakt Garden on his hair.

Maybe he does and say such things in the name of ‘control’, ‘possession’, ‘obsession’, or anything that can be used to label whatever reason he has just so he could see that pretty shade that adorns your cheeks, the smile that etches across your lips, the sound that bubbles out of your throat, the eyes that glimmer when you look at him. Maybe it’s just those feeble things that make him feel humane, that makes him break away from the shackles that binds him to the image of ‘Luka, the star’, that makes him realize that he does adore you.

(Whatever this fragile bond you share with him, built on weak foundations of the love he has known and the love you have shared, fragile and fleeting like glass teetering on the edge, he’ll seize it, he’ll shape it, and he’ll make it unbreakable—he’ll make it real, he’ll make it his.)

He likes to believe that he deserves the kind of love he has yet to know of, out of the clutches of Heperu and into the warmth of your own. To hold it into his hands, tightly, unrelenting, never letting go—contorting into control as long as it is his.

𝐈.

Heart pounding, vision blurring—you stare at the royal decree handed to you by your father's aide. It had ultimately announced your fate—you were to be married to a prince of Snezhnaya. A seemingly civil and honored role, if not for the fact that you were being used as a stepping stone to maintain the relations between Mondstadt and Snezhnaya.

Snezhnaya was cold. It was always cold whenever you had gone to visit. It's court was as frigid as it's lands and it's royal family just as power hungry as winter.

As princess, it was your duty to submit to the royal decree. You were not heir. You would not sit upon the throne of your homeland. You would be made queen, the Tsaritsa of Snezhnaya to it's Tsar… and yet, that was not the fate you asked for. It was not the fate you wanted. You wanted neither throne nor crown to be adorned atop your head.

This marriage was no honor. It was a noose slowly being tightened around your neck. The moment you accepted this, that same noose would dig into your flesh until you could no longer breathe.

“Princess?” your loyal knight spoke, voice muffled by the door.

Quickly composing yourself, you wiped away any stray tears and swallowed thickly. The royal decree was quickly shoved into a drawer, just as you smoothed your dress down and fixed your expression with a soft smile. “You may enter, sir Varka.”

The tall and burly man slipped into your room with… well… much sound as his armor clanked and his boots were heavy against your floors. The easy-going smile on his face you usually saw seemed to waver, just a moment.

Had he noticed your redenned eyes? How your hands trembled the slightest bit? Did he noticed how your complexion had looked sickly? You weren't quite sure. But your heart pounded against your chest—so much that it hurt. Truly, it hurt.

“Your highness, are you well?” His towering figure is an awkward sight as it stayed rooted where he stood, back practically pressing against the wall. “Should I call for your lady in waiting? Or the royal physician—”

The mere thought of inviting someone else into your chambers makes you ill. You need no one but him. You needed no one but the one person in this cursed castle who truly cared for you, saw you as not simply as a princess and a pawn of the kingdom, but as a person. A person who lived and loved and wanted to be as free as the birds—as free as the god of wind from ancient times spoken in those fairytales.

“I don't need anyone but you right now, Varka.” Your body gave out quicker than you thought. As your knees buckled, Varka shot out from his position to immediately steady you. His hands landing on your waist, supporting your weight that pressed against him.

His armor is cold. It's an unpleasant barrier between you.

“Princess, what's wrong?” He whispered softly, adjusting your body until it was completely pressed against his. Your head rested upon his chest, though his armor was indeed an inconvenient thing.

“Nothing…” You insist, basking in his presence. A part of you wished to command him to strip of his armor, but the thought made your cheeks burn. Such indecency… “Nothing, I'm simply overwhelmed by some things. Everything is going so fast, as you may know… and I have not been able to relax for quite some time now.”

Varka hummed, it is a low rumble against his chest that even you can feel through his armor. He swept you up without struggle, carrying you to the bed where he gently had you perch at the edge. As he took a knee, he quietly removed your shoes, humming a tune that you recognized as your kingdoms anthem. He was indeed a chivalrous and loyal knight. To the kingdom… to you.

“Your highness, what troubles you?” He whispered just as your hand landed on his head. Gently did you stroke his blonde hair—watching as he easily began to nuzzled against your palm. “Trust me. Speak to me. Unburden yourself with your worries on to me. I am your loyal knight. Your confidant… trust me, my princess.”

Your breath hitches as he tilted his head just enough, lips pressed against your palm.

Varka’s larger hand eclipsed yours, pressing your palm against his lips as he pressed gentle kisses upon it. Again, he hummed and it sent a vibration up your arm. Today, he looked more wolf than man, but perhaps that was to be expected. The successor to the former knight commander Andrius was supposed to be an impressive and wolfish man.

“Princess.” He urged.

“I'm fine, Varka.”

“You're not,” he frowned. Varka pressed once again, “Please… I beg of you, speak to me, my princess. Have I not earned your trust? Have I not proven myself as a faithful guard whom you may trust with your life, your soul, your very being?”

“It is not a matter that you can sacrifice your life for, my knight.” You smiled softly. Carding your fingers through his hair before your hands settles upon cupping his cheeks. You traced the scar upon his cheek—you’ve always wondered how he'd got it.

“That doesn't matter, my princess. What I mean to say is that you can always—always speak to me,” Varka assured. “Don't bottle it up, princess. That does not good to anyone.”

For a fraction of a second, you feel unburdened by your role as princess. A simple moment where you are able to forget yourself and think you are a normal lady with the man she… perish the thought. It was forbidden. A princess such as yourself mustn't think of such things. It went against your duties, your role.

You simply pressed your forehead against his, humming the tune of your kingdoms song.

“It shall come to pass, Varka… Barbatos will surely guide me to the right path…”

And in that moment, you could only hope and pray that your god does indeed guide you down the right road to walk upon.

𝐈𝐈.

“This betrothal is final. You are the kingdom's property, thus you have no say in the matter.”

This was your fate—to be married of to the crown prince of Snezhnaya who's face you didn't even know of. You had tried your hardest to remain passive, stoic even, but that did not stop your father from noticing your displeasure. Thinking you were rebellious for even expressing your displeasure with a mere twitch of your eye, you were thus confined to your chambers until your father determined you were properly disciplined. It was absurd, ridiculous, no amount of words could describe it.

Even as you stare out your window, watching as the lights of Mondstadt slowly faded as more and more people fell into slumber. You could not fathom marriage. A loveless one, to be quite specific. As a child, you always loved to read fairy tales. Back then, your mother was still kinder and softer; she always read stories about princesses being saved by valiant knights from evil forces.

And yet now, when you were no longer a child but a grown lady, she'd told you—commanded you—to forget all those stories she’d softly told you before you went to bed.

It was difficult to forget the fantasy of being saved.

The silence was immediately interrupted by… well… you.

As you rummaged through your closet, you quickly found a familiar piece of cloth. The cloak was tattered and quite old. It was something you used many years ago—a gift from a certain knight.

The hallways of the palace, were silent. For a moment, you thought of walking past your own doors. This was your palace. You were a princess. Was it not your right to walk in the halls of your home? No. Not when there were guards that patrolled every corridor under your father's orders. Not when there were maids who lurked under your mother's orders. To step our of your room was to invite all servants of the palace to report your actions to the King and Queen, giving them an excuse to restrain you instead of simply confining you to your room.

There is no mercy for a princess. Only luxury that will eventually clasp at your wrists and wrap around your neck until you were reduced to a mere puppet of the crown.

There was no escape.

But you were not one to give up. You must choose yourself. You must grasp at your fate. And thus you clutched the cloak tightly, pulling it out of your closet along with much lighter clothing and a pair of boots.

You have prayed and believed in Barbaros all your life. The god of Freedom will not forsake you.

(In the distance, the wind carried a faint melody into your room, slipping past even the ironclad windows.)

𝐈𝐈𝐈.

“The princess is getting married.”

The first thing that comes out of Frederica’s mouth was the one thing he has been dreading.

The tavern was loud. It's patrons were mostly knights and civilians who basked in the wonders of the night. Behind the bar was none other than Crepus, whom many grew to expect in the auspicious Angel’s Share. Despite the fact the man was quite the wealthy tycoon in the kingdom, he was still off the people. That was something Varka could admire.

“To who?” He could only ask, gripping his tankard tight.

Fredrica didn't meet his eyes. “To the crown prince of Snezhnaya.”

Bang! Varka didn't even think—he slammed his tankard down onto the counter. Everyone around him jolted, staring before quickly averting their gazes. Frederica and Crepus glanced at each other before frowning at Varka.

“They intend to send her to that… that place?” He sucked in a deep breath. “And marry her to their prince? Don't they know just how violent the Crown Prince is?!”

“Keep your voice down, Varka.” Crepus urged.

“I just…” He sucked in a deep breath, “I just can't think of her being married of like that.”

Varka has always heard of how you wished to marry for love. It seems, he has not been listening well enough. You have never stated that you will marry for love. Perhaps you never allowed yourself to think that would be a reality. Merely a dream, a fleating one that you often fantasized about.

“They are royalty.” Frederica explained, “None of them truly marry for love. Even the heir is set to marry someone from House Lawrence. Thankfully, I'm already spoken for.”

Right, Frederica could have been crown princess had she not married Seamus.

But that didn't calm him down.

All he could think about was watching you marry some… some cruel bastard. You'd be made queen of Snezhnaya; however, that didn't guarantee your safety. Despite being the nation that followed the goddess of love, Varka couldn't quite trust them. Not after he's fought in a war against them. Not when he's thwarted several assassins coming for your head. Could he even trust the Snezhnayan knights to protect you?

“Why Snezhnaya?” He gritted his teeth, closing his eyes and trying to imagine you draped in Snezhnayan clothing. They always wore thicker cloths from the times he's been there. Winter felt like an eternity, like the cursed Dragonspine. The mere thought of you being trapped in that cold was…

“It's logical, I suppose.” Crepus shrugged, “Snezhnaya and Mondstadt are the furthest away from each other in the continent and we've been at odds for a while now. Marriage between the crown prince and our princess would ensure an alliance for years to come. Especially if the future heir would have our nation's blood.”

“But why my—our princess?” Varka almost bit his tongue trying to stop himself. Alas, neither Frederica nor Crepus were dead. The two quickly looked around, wary and anxious. He knew his words were damning. He knew he'd be thrown into the dungeons for even staking some kind of claim on the princess whilst you were on the way to becoming crown princess of Snezhnaya.

“Watch your mouth!” Frederica hissed, grabbing his tankard and pulling it away. “You are drunk. Say you are drunk and simply misspoke!”

Varka gritted his teeth. He's not drunk. It would take more than one round of drinks to even make him feel tipsy. “I misspoke.” he quickly yielded.

It's only then do they relax.

But Varka doesn't. He doesn't.

He simply slips a few mora over the counter, not even knowing if it was enough for what he'd ordered.

The night was young and that was what bothered him. Rather than returning to his own home, he wandered down the street towards the palace. He wasn't on duty for patrol tonight. He had no excuse to go knocking on your door in the middle of the night. But he wishes he could. He wanted to.

A part of him wanted to take a turn and walk into the church. Or perhaps stand before the grand statue of Barbatos by the Cathedral. Should he pray? Pray that the winds of Fate carry you elsewhere, not to the frigid winds of Snezhnaya. Pray that the King and Queen see sense and cancel the engagement. Pray, plead, and beg to Barbatos to grant you the freedom to live for yourself and only yourself.

Despite his own hesitations, he took that turn. His feet were loud against cobblestones, just restraining himself from outright sprinting to the cathedral. He

Pray. Pray. Pray. Pray. Pray. Pray. Pray.

Was that the only thing he could do now?

Even as he stands before the statue of Barbatos, clasping his hands together, it didn't feel enough. Praying to their god did not feel enough.

He needed to move. Take action. Whisk you away from Mondstadt and free you from the grasp of royalty.

“Barbatos,” he whispered, “Please give me a sign…”

“Varka?”

His entire body went rigid. He snapped his neck to the side, finding you standing just a few feet away, also frozen in place.

Why were you here? Wait… How did you even get out of the palace? As the panic set in, Varka quickly ran towards you, pulling your hood down and quickly ushering you aware from the open area. How foolish of you to even come here!

“Princess, what are you doing here?!” He gripped your shoulders tightly, taking in deep breaths to steady himself.

“I—” You stammer, before shaking your head. “There's no time! Varka, I need to get past the gates before they notice I'm gone.”

“Your highness, what—”

“I don't want to get married!” You finally admit, “I don't… I will never marry for anything but love! And that will never happen whilst I am still locked in that palace as princess! I—”

Varka barely even moves. He just… holds you.

Wraps his arms around you, pulling you close, giving you the warmth you need. The night is cold and the wind is colder. It is as if the winter if distant lands were trying to sink their claws into you.

“Say something!”

He only smiles. Pressing a kiss to your forehead, disregarding any propriety he's had before. He cups your cheeks with his rough and calloused hands, pressing yet another kiss to your forehead. The urge to simply go lower, to press his lips against yours is an undeniable pull that almost tempts him. But as the wind picks up, he is suddenly brought back to reality. Seeing your flushed face, whether from being flustered or from the way your eyes moistened with tears was a sight to behold.

“You've finally decided to trust your knight.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” You huffed. “Varka, this shall be my last request to you as your princess.”

Oh, he did not like the sound of that.

“Please… please, I beg of you—”

“You don't have to beg. Not with me. Not ever with me, my princess.”

Your breath hitches as he inches closer, lips hovering over yours. Just another push, just another—

As the bells echoed loudly, the both of you pulled apart like startled animals.

“They know I escaped.” You gasped, already turning around to run. But Varka’s calloused hand clamps around your wrist, pulling you towards the church—or rather, behind the church. A loth thrum resonates through the air as the bells kept ringing, practically waking the entire kingdom.

“Quickly! We can scale down the wall—”

“Scale down the wall?!”

“I'll catch you!”

Varka didn't hesitate to jump off the edge of the cathedral. You had to slap a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from screaming in fright, but his voice quickly resounded from the very bottom. As you leaned over the edge, you saw that Varka was perfectly fine, merely dusting off his shirt and trousers.

“Princess, hurry! Make haste!” Varka whispered rather loudly. “The knights will have managed to surround the entire kingdom if you keep dallying!”

“What—”

“Just jump!”

As you gripped the ledge, you warily looked behind you—

“Don't look back!” Varka yelled, eyes blazing.

Your breath hitches as you quickly threw a leg over the ledge, swallowing thickly before pushing yourself off. Varka was here. Varka would catch you. You did not doubt your knight.

He is as warm as you remember. He holds you tight and without a second's hesitation, immediately sprints down and alley with you still cradled in his arms. You wrap your arms around his neck, looking behind you to see if anyone had managed to follow. Thankfully, none of the guards had yet to discover your whereabouts.

The bell still rung loudly.

You were running. You were finally. You—

It suddenly hit that Varka was running with you. That Varka was carrying you down the streets like a madman, like some criminal kidnapping the princess. Your heart stuttered, before it was beating rapidly. It felt as though it were trying to jump out of your body and into the pavement. Swallowing thickly, you tightened your arms around him.

As if sending something was wrong, Varka took a sharp turn and into a dark and shadowed alley.

“Princess? What's wrong?”

“I—” You sucked in a deep breath, “Leave me. Return to your home, sir Varka.” You gently pressed a hand against his chest, pushing him away.

Varka's brow furrowed, frowning. “What? Princess, do not say such things. There is no time.”

But you shook your head, “You will be branded as a traitor. They will send you to the gallows if we are ever caught—if you are caught trying to help me escape. I implore you—beseech you—my knight… to return home. Pretend as if nothing has happened. I shall find my way out of the kingdom walls and—”

“And then what?!” Varka snapped, gripping your shoulders tightly. He quickly loosened them, realising just how rough he was. “You’ll run to where? Live to where? Princess, I do not doubt your ability to survive, but they will catch up eventually. Who will protect you?!”

“I can protect myself!”

“Then what was my oath for? Why did I pledge my life to you just so you won't let me protect you?” Varka gritted his teeth, pressing his forehead against your shoulder. “My princess. My queen—please… please, I have begged you time and time again to trust me. To put faith in me. I beg of you, do not discard this lowly knight. My life is yours. I live for you. My life will have no meaning without you!”

“Then find another reason!”

“I don't want another one, I want you!”

Varka’s gaze is as fierce as the wolves he introduced to you many years ago. He held you tight in his embrace, face mere inches away from yours. Your breaths mingled together.

No words could describe the profound awe you felt. For this man who devoted himself to you and only to you. Not the crown. Not just the kingdom—but to you. It was never ending and almost baffling.

You wrapped your arms around his neck once more, forcefully pulling him down with all your might. As you smashed your lips together, you couldn't help but feel… at ease. Not with the situation, but with your life. With your freedom. It felt as if you could do anything now after Varka has confessed his heart to you.

The wind was cold just as you pulled away, the both of you panting.

“Varka—”

“No time. Let’s talk about this after we're out of the walls.” Varka grinned, pulling down your hood once more before taking your hand. His hand is warm, bigger and scarred. You gripped it tight just as you ran through the streets again.

Your heart pounded against your chest. Freedom was so close!

𝐈𝐕.

Guards surrounded the gates, a few dozens already marching. It was obvious that all four gates were closed and guarded. To choose those four would be to call for the knights to seize you.

“Princess… Do you remember when I taught you how to climb a wall?” Varka watched as more and more knights patrolled the streets, vigilant and on the look out for the princess.

“Yes. I simply cannot forget how I fell on my bum, dear Varka.” You snapped, grinding your teeth as you pressed yourself against him.

“We are in dire need of those skills, your highness.” Varka smirked, before craning his neck to find a better opening for the two of you. “I know an area of the wall that isn't protected much, but we need to climb over it… unless you have improved in hour climbing skills—”

“Don't joke about that now!”

“It is an actual concern, my princess! If you can't climb im simply going to have to throw you over the wall!”

“Throw me over the wall?!”

“It'll be the only way if you don't climb!” Varka huffed, peaking his head out of the alley. “Look! There are a few crates there. You might be able to use them as stairs!”

He quickly pulled you towards several crates, lifting you up on a few of the stacked ones. Suddenly, he sniffed the air and— “Oh these are Crepus’s! I can smell the wine!”

“Stop thinking about wine!”

Varka chewed at his lip, trying not to burst out laughing. What was wrong with them? Why weren't they so worried? Has Varka gone mad? Maybe. Maybe not. He's not sure and in his heart, he doesn't care. He would be free with his princess.

“Princess, just keep climbing up those crates.” Varka hurried of to the side, scaling the wall with all his might. He's done this since he was a child. He's at the top in no time, while you remained standing on a few crates. They wobbled every time you moved, earning Varka a venomous glare from his dear princess.

“If I fall—”

“I would never let you fall.” Varka assured. “Take my hand.”

“You—”

“I won't struggle to lift you, my princess. Just… take my hand.” He murmured, loud enough for you to hear. Thankfully, you didn't hesitate to grab his hand with both of yours. To him, you've always been so light. As he pulled you up, his other hand moved to take hold of you. Even with his impressive strength, he was surprised by how easy it was to pull you up.

“It's cold.” He grunted, steadying you as the wind kept blowing.

“Now what?”

“Now… now, we do what we did back at the church.” Varka squeezed your hand. “We jump.”

“ARE YOU MAD?!” You sputtered, “The difference between the kingdom walls and the one at the church is vast! I'd break my bones from the fall!”

“How many times—”

“I know you'll catch me, damnit!” You huffed, “But what about you?!”

“I’m used to breaking my bones here! I did it when I was a child!”

“I beg your pardon?”

As if to prove a point, Varka pushed himself off the wall. You let out a strangled noise before it quickly died down—he assumed you'd stopped yourself before attracting any attention from the other guards.

His feet hit the ground. He tried not to wince from the impact, showing you that he was perfectly fine. As he swallowed the pain, he turned to look up at you. Once again, you were trembling in anxiety. He only answered by opening his arms, waiting for you to jump into them.

There is more courage in you compared to the first time. Once his arms were open and waiting, you pushed yourself off and closed your eyes.

Varka braced himself for the impact of your fall. He nk and grunted once your weight settled in his arms, around huffing softly.

“You… are lighter than usual, my princess.” Varka grinned, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Now all we need to find is a horse.”

“I barely see horses these days.” You patted at your clothes, taking care balance yourself. The horizon was filled with nothing but the vastness of land you could barely see and forests you've barely entered. “Have the Cavalry been occupied?”

“Not that I know of, my princess.” Varka surveyed the area. There was nothing but trees, dandelions, and the lake that quite literature surrounded the kingdom.

“Where to now?”

You paused, pulling your cloak tight against your body. Varka wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close to feel his warmth. You're much smaller than him, though it is mainly because of just how big he was compared to everyone else.

“Fontaine?” You question to no one in particularly. Perhaps the wind, perhaps Barbatos. The air seemed to grow wetter in response. “Or Liyue!”

“Liyue is too close, your highness.” Varka chuckled, ushering you to the docks where a boat was waiting. Strange, how utterly strange. Why was there a boat waiting?

“Enough with the princess, Varka. I'm running away. I don't think I'll stay princess after this.” You huffed, clamoring on to the little boat.

Varka can only smile softly.

“No matter what, you shall always be her highness to me. You will always be my princess, my queen.”

“How did you know?”

“You said you forgot your wallet.” Phainon cannot contain the quirk of his lips at the witness of your joy and excitement over a small drink.

“Huh, how does that connect?”

A laugh falls out of his lips and he scratches the back of his neck, looking like a shy puppy in your eyes; “I noticed you always buy that drink during break, but since you left your wallet, you can’t get it…” Flashing an embarrassed grin, he continues. “I figured you’d be craving for it.” and it feels like an arrow is shot straight to your heart. Oh my god, how could someone like him exist???

“But what if I wasn’t?” You jest, raising an eyebrow at him. I mean, you’d still take it and drink it—aside from it being your favorite and it coming from your beloved friend, you can’t exactly say no, especially to him. He just has this face that makes you feel bad if you turn him down (or maybe it’s just you and your stupid crush on him). Cue the boba eyes and sad noises.

“Then I’ll just take it.”

“And give it to someone else?” You clutch your heart, acting hurt, and even add some pizzazz of staggering on your knees. However, Phainon only flicks your forehead, causing you to wince and compose yourself.

“If you’ve got time to joke around, you should head back inside and drink that already before it gets warm.” He flashes you a grin, the one that blinds you more than the sun, sparkles and all.

“Yessir!” Bringing out the soldier within you that you have nurtured after watching all those shows, you straighten your form and salute the man before you. Victory is within your grasp when he laughs and ruffles your hair, all the while ignoring your complaints and swatting of hands.

“See you later.” Is the only thing he says before he’s turning around and leaving, You’ve stayed there on your spot a little longer, the box in your hand that is slowly warming up from the rising heat of your skin.

You’ve known Phainon ever since you learned how to count your numbers in your hand.

For all you’ve known, there has always—and always has been—the two of you in your world. You and Phainon, just that, seemingly etched into the stone of your life and miserably tangled in your thread of fate. There was no moment in your life that you didn’t get to spend with him: you grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same school, had the same classes, graduated middle school together, and everything that is part of growing up. 

You’re 18 now, and yet, the both of you are still inseparable. He has seen you in misery and in joy—or with a broken bone after falling off a tree trying to save a kitten. Albeit, you have seen him with dirt on his skin as he tries to catch you whenever you trip. 

Admittedly, he has seen every phase of yours: through the awkward ones which heavily revolves around your fucked-up haircut, the embarrassing moments that haunts you and he teases you with, and even the tragic times that you have cried whether about a show that you forced him to watch with you or about someone, or something, who broke your heart. It has always been you and him in this tiny world.

And, too, if there was an award for the bestest bestfriend and childhood friend ever, it will go to Phainon. He knows you better than anyone else, even better than you. But perhaps, not better enough to realize the feelings you hold for him. Sigh, what a joke.

Once you’ve returned to your seat, you are reduced to silence as if you weren’t just laughing so loudly and heartedly earlier with your friends. You quietly sip on the drink, the clean tang of your favorite fruit (or flavor) bursting on your tongue—Phainon had always put into mind the things that you like even if you had never told him—, and somehow, the air between your group dances in the same note you play. Quiet, stringing on something tense, before eventually being broken into a violent melody:

“Are the two of you dating?”

The words nearly made you choke, coughing as you clutch on your chest. Stelle stares at you with an expression that only gleams with joy (perhaps at your misery) while March, made out of sweetness and everything nice, looks at you with worry.

“Are you alright?” The pink-haired girl asks, scrambling to look for her handkerchief but you just wave your hand at her, showing your own soon after. You wipe your lips, hoping that the redness of your cheeks had already faded and returned to its original color.

“So…” Stelle’s voice trailed, elongating on the ‘o’, as if waiting for your answer. Dan Heng, silent as ever, doesn’t seem to say anything to prevent her further prodding as if he, too, were curious about your answer.

Stelle didn’t have to say a name for you to know who she was talking about. Who else would she be even talking about aside from the person who had come by to your classroom despite being in another building just to give you the exact box of juice you were drinking from?

“We’re not.” You answer straight, trying to contain the falter of disappointment in your tone. You’re fine with what you have, in fact, this is better. The certainty of your great friendship with him being maintained and never crumbling down was better than the incredulity of confession and not knowing if he feels the same, which will eventually lead to shit still going south.

“How?” It’s Dan Heng that speaks this time.

“What do you mean how?”

“Why?” Then, March’s turn.

“What are you going to ask next? Who?”

“Where?” And the final hit of it all: Stelle.

You groan, pinching the sides of the poor gray-haired victim beside you who roars in pain and hunches over the desk, glaring at you with the look that asks ‘why me?’. You roll your eyes, sipping the last of the juice in your hand, “Stop that, we’re just friends.”

RESEARCH QUESTIONS:

What are the perceived effects of confessing romantic feelings on an existing friendship between childhood friends?

What emotional or behavioral changes occur in the friendship after one party confesses their feelings?

Does the confession of feelings lead to relationship deterioration or romantic development between close friends?

How do individuals interpret the outcomes of their confession: as a loss, a gain, or a neutral event in the friendship?

The following hypothesis was formulated based on the research questions:

(H₀₁) Confessing romantic feelings does not negatively affect the friendship between childhood friends; rather, it either maintains the current relationship or deepens it.

In contrast, an alternative hypothesis was formulated: (Hₐ₁) Confessing romantic feelings leads to the deterioration of the friendship between childhood friends.

LITERATURE REVIEW

Phainon has watched hundreds of shows—comedy, drama, horror, and most especially, romance.

So of course, this scene of rain-soaked longing feels all too familiar. The moment the clouds darken and the drizzle turns into a downpour, as you and him stand by the sheltered entrance sharing a moment of silence and contemplation on what to do in this situation, his brain immediately queues the mental footage as if an entire movie is playing inside his head where the both of you are the main characters. Two people caught in the rain, huddling under a shared umbrella, shoulders brushing, hearts louder than the thunders above. Perhaps, there is even some mutual laughter as you talk about how your day went and complain about some things here and there.

He has seen this, and has already predicted the outcome. From Korean dramas like Twenty-Five Twenty-One, where the umbrella wasn’t simply just a shelter, to animes that portray the scene of a shared umbrella as the very first inch of closeness, and even in Western media. Film and TV have conditioned people to believe that if you stand close enough under one umbrella, the air between you will spark. It’s simply textbook romantic tension, one that he is very familiar with. A carefully constructed coincidence with just enough heartache to make the payoff worth it.

So Phainon, standing here at the school gates with you beside him, watching the heavy downpour blur the concrete steps — yeah, he knows what this looks like. He had seen this exact scene a thousand times through the screen. And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to lean into it. It wouldn’t hurt to have his own moment. Right?

He gives it a second before he spits the words out.

“Oh, I forgot my umbrella.”

“I don’t have an umbrella.”

(Ya, shibal this life.)

The both of you spoke in unison, albeit saying different words but fall under the same note, nonetheless. Silence wraps around you like the rain wraps the city, constant and suffocating, and he doesn't exactly know what to say nor do aside from laughing a little too nervously. He sees you scratch your cheek with forced awkwardness, but neither of you makes a move. Although his hand twitches close to his bag, where his umbrella is very much present and intact, while yours debate on rummaging through your own to see where actually yours is. Yes, your very umbrellas (plural) that you swore you haven't brought or forgotten are actually hidden inside your respective bags.

And maybe it’s just his mind but did it just rain harder? He swears he hears the faint sound of thunder rumbling too. Well now, you and him were fucked ten times over from the front and back, and the both of you don’t know whether to escape from the fabricated lie or continue on with this situation you got yourself into. It feels like the whispers of his umbrella that is deeply buried alongside the mess of his bag is ringing inside of his ears in a form of mockery.

This was supposed to be the moment, Phainon protests in his mind, imagining himself crouching in the timeout corner and counting the dust. The literature, the drama, the script he had seen play out a million times… and now you and him are the main characters who don't know whether to run, confess, or stand still in the rain and pretend you're dry.

The umbrella trope has long existed in fictional storytelling as a metaphor for emotional intimacy. From classic East Asian dramas to local teleseryes, it has evolved into a symbolic act of offering comfort, protection, or affection. And at this moment—whether you admit it or not—you're both banking on it. You're both playing your roles, silently hoping the other slips, confesses, shares a laugh, or simply shares space under the lie.

The problem is, you both want the same thing. And neither of you has the guts to say it.

“What terrible luck.” He says, shattering the glass of silence.

“Right,” You let the vowel trail, as if finding the way to the words you’re supposed to say. “How could you even forget your umbrella? So unreliable, Class President Phainon.” A click on your tongue and a shake of your head completes your sentence. It’s a feeble attempt to lighten the atmosphere, through the darkness of the skies, the roar of thunder, and the absolute joke of a situation this is. You’ve committed to the bit; you’re deep in this dilemma already. Perhaps it was better to have not said anything at all.

“Why are you blaming me!?”

“Between us, you’re the one who’s supposed to be reliable,” you argue, dramatically pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Your duties include protecting your classmates from bad weather!”

“We’re not even classmates!”

“Right, right, I forgot about that. But still!”

“Oh please,” he snorts, pushing your hand away with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times before. “I’m not your personal weather forecast. Besides, didn’t I send you a message this morning to bring your umbrella because it might rain? So, where is it now?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”

“You…!” He wraps his arm around your shoulder, bringing you to him, close to his chest, so he can ruffle your head with so much force that you’re thrashing in his grasp like a fish who accidentally ended up on land.

“I surrender, I surrender!” You flail wildly, laughter spilling out of you in between squawks of protest, and Phainon’s grip loosens just enough for you to escape—though not without your hair looking like it lost a battle with a typhoon.

“Man, didn’t your parents teach you to respect your elders?” You huff, smoothing your hair down with zero success.

“You’re older than me by a month…?”

“A month and 21 days. Get it right, you brat.”

“Okay, granny,” he says, reverting your progress of hair-fixing back to zero when he ruffles it again. You just give up at this point, giving him an exasperated look to which he only replies with a smile before continuing: “Seriously, what kind of person shows up unprepared and then blames me for their terrible planning? A lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine.”

“Oh, fuck off, I know you read that from a comment section and decided to run with it.”

“So, what if I did?” He raises an eyebrow at you, crossing his arms, standing in this rather sassy pose that has you questioning him: “What the hell?”

“What? It’s Regina George.”

“You’re just George.”

Before Phainon could even clap back to your response, the thunder does him first. And suddenly, you’re brought back to your quandary.

“I don’t think the rain’s going to stop.” He says, gaze to the angry sky.

“I think so too.”

For a moment, there was silence, then suddenly movement from him as he worked on taking his jacket off, revealing his pristine uniform underneath. You’ve asked yourself many times how the uniform looks so good on him, but when you look at others who're wearing the same thing as him, they look so plain and boring. You’ve never found the answer—or perhaps, you already did, you just didn’t want to admit it (you just like him, that’s that).

“What are you doing?”

He tosses you the clothing and you catch it effortlessly, before he answers, “Use that. We’re charging forward in the rain.”

“That’s your plan?! What if you get sick?!”

“Unless, you have anything better, genius.” You don’t, that’s why you fall silent. He takes the jacket from your hand, wrapping it around you, and pulling the head up so it covers your head. “Don’t worry about me, I don’t get sick easily.”

Ah, who cares about the embarrassment of the lie now? You’ve decided on laying out the truth to him instead of settling on this stupid solution. “Wait, actually—” But before you could even finish, he’s already running forward and straight to the rain, using his bag as a shield. THIS IDIOT!!!!

“Let’s go!”

(In the end, neither of you pulled out your umbrellas.)

Resigning to your fate, you sigh and follow after him, his jacket on you, his scent filling your senses as if he was right there instead of steps away from you.

“Wait for me!”

The both of you ran through the rain. Maybe not fast enough to stay dry—hell, you both were drenched within seconds despite the bag he uses to shield himself and his jacket that you use to desperately cover yourself—but fast enough to chase the illusion that this wasn’t about the umbrella at all. It wasn’t about the lie, either. It was about the chance to do something together, however stupid and foolish it may be. And perhaps, have something cinematic, akin to a romantic play, like in those rainy scenes that ends with flushed cheeks and unspoken words.

The sky poured its heart out, and so did your laughter and his. It echoed between buildings, between splashes, between your fingers intertwining for balance and maybe something more. Beyond doubt, you were having fun; the rain drops had washed away your worries, allowing you to have this moment of forgetting everything.

It was a blur of puddle jumps and near slips, but he caught you, holding you steady in his arms, and all of it came to a sudden pause when your eyes met. And just like your traditional films, the world, the rain, and even your soaking socks seem to disappear into a void for a second. Yeah, you know it’s corny, but it’s really what it feels like—there’s even the addition of your heart thumping, and wait, is that background music you hear?

Phainon stared at you like he was finally going to say it. Like he was about to ruin everything you feared and make it better all at once, and maybe, you even braced for it, even though you swear to the AEONS that you are not prepared for this moment at all, and never will be. Is this it?

“I—”

Until a car comes passing by, indifferent to romance and its rhythm, floods the gutter water directly onto the both of you. Your disgruntled wail echo into the already loud air, high-pitched and horrified.

“What the—that’s nasty!” You say, spinning away from his hold, away from the street. 

“I think some got into your mouth.” He spoke between wheezes, wiping water from his own face.

A loud ‘EW!’ and you drag your feet towards the only place where you can seek refuge from the rain—the convenience store, very convenient. Phainon follows behind you, still laughing (as if he wasn’t going to shatter your world the moment before the brutal slap of water came). The automatic door slides open with a gentle ding, but neither of you enters immediately. You’re too busy trying to catch your breath, arms wrapped around yourselves, chests heaving from the run.

Your clothes cling to your skin, your shoes squelch with every step, and your pride has long since dissolved in a puddle back at the curb. But… “Suddenly, I’m craving for some noodles.”

“Me too.” He’s digging through his pockets when he says that, and he gestures for you to sit on the small bench outside, protected by the awning instead of enduring the rigid cold inside, while you wait for him. He returns soon after, balancing two cups of instant noodles like they’re holy grail, steam escaping from the lids, curling up into the air. You’ve noticed that there are also newly-bought towels pressed in between his inner arm and sides.

“For you, Your Majesty.” He says, handing you the right one.

“Thank you, peasant.” You sigh contentedly as the warmth seeps into your hands, your chest, and maybe somewhere deeper you can’t name.

Phainon places down his own cup right beside you as he takes out the towels from its packaging; the crunch of plastic drowns out the sound of pitter-patter of the raindrops and you watch him as you slurp on the noodles. You’re interrupted, however, when he suddenly places the towel on top of your head and begins drying your hair off with a gentle motion.

“I’m eating!”

“Just eat, don’t mind me.”

You grumble under your breath, noodles halfway to your mouth, but you don’t protest further. His hands are warm through the towel, careful and steady. He dries you off like you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever held—tender, rhythmic, as if he's done this before in a dream he doesn’t talk about.

Between bites, you glance at him. He's focused, eyes narrowed, lips pursed in concentration. The wet strands of his hair stick to his forehead, and there's something annoyingly boyish about how serious he looks while patting you dry like a soggy dog.

“Here,” you say suddenly, lifting your cup and nudging the utensil toward him. “Eat.”

He blinks, pausing from his movements. “What? I have my own.” And it’s there, right beside you, but you’re sure it will be cold by the time he’s done taking care of you.

“Just eat it.”

Phainon hesitates for a moment, like sharing food might just be the most intimate thing in the world, more than forehead kisses or pinky promises. Then, wordlessly, he leans forward, slurping the noodles off your utensil. You remained composed despite the way your heart nearly somersaults out of your chest with how close the both of you are.

“Taste good?”

“Mm,” he hums and you give him another bite without thinking and he accepts it again, less hesitant this time. You then continue on slurping your own share, as he finishes drying you, acting like this isn’t a soft scene unfolding beneath the dull glow of a convenience store awning — like this isn’t the kind of memory that’ll replay in your mind for weeks.

“You know,” he says after a while, blowing gently into his cup. “The sports festival…”

“What about it?”

“Our team has a good chance of winning.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think?”

“I’ve seen our team’s practices, they’re rather strong. Plus, you’re on the committee, so that’s an automatic buff.”

“Oh, so now I’m a buff?”

“Obviously.”

You snort. “You’re just saying that because you don’t want me to swap your event with a three-legged race.”

“Hey, don’t even joke about that."

You finish your noodles, wiping your mouth with your sleeve while he gathers the empty cups. The rain is still coming down, softer now, like it’s listening in.

The both of you don't say anything at this moment, remaining on your seats and watching as the sky's tears dance with the ground. But you feel it again, the silence, the one that feels like it’s waiting for something to happen. And maybe, maybe something almost did—if not for the fear that erodes beneath your skin.

And perhaps, one day, hopefully, you’ll both stop lying.

But not now, not today for it’s warm enough not to matter.

METHODOLOGY RESEARCH DESIGN This study employed a qualitative observational design to explore the emotional and behavioral outcomes of confessing romantic feelings within long-term friendships. Through observed interactions and reflective moments, the study aimed to capture subtle shifts in relational dynamics, including tension, hesitation, and unspoken affection. Emphasis was placed on analyzing pivotal moments that reflect the internal conflict of withholding or revealing romantic affection. PARTICIPANTS The participants in this study were two high school students, both aged 18, who have maintained a close friendship since early childhood. Their relationship is characterized by emotional familiarity, consistent companionship, and shared developmental milestones, making them ideal subjects for examining the complexities of hidden romantic feelings within established bonds. SAMPLING METHOD A purposive sampling method was employed to identify individuals whose relationship history and current behavior aligned with the study’s objectives. To ensure the data collected is meaningful and relevant, purposive sampling focuses on selecting participants who can provide deep, insightful perspectives on the phenomenon being studied, allowing the sample to accurately represent key characteristics of the target population (Palinkas et al., 2015).

INSTRUMENT USED

DAY 1

The day of the Sports Festival rolls around without a hitch.

Colorful banners, loud drums, and cheers blaring your eardrums welcomed the event. You’ve been busier than ever—chasing down players who are slacking off and not going to their respective sports, and even attending to some errands such as bringing water to the participants, and looking out for the injured ones. Why does it feel like you did a lot of things compared to last year even though you had the same role? Is it because you’re a senior now?

By the time afternoon comes, you’re already heaving and holding on to the railings, catching your breath.

“Maybe the additional credit is not worth it after all…” Wheezing, you opt to sit on the stairs, head propped up by your arms that rests on your thighs.

“What’s not worth it?”

Suddenly, your vision is blocked—white hair that gleams under the light, a pair of blue that stares at you intently, and that same grin that has your heart skipping a beat.

“Oh, Phainon.”

He’s dressed in a jersey that has his name and your favorite number on it.

“That’s me.” Phainon sits down beside you, giving you a cold bottle of water in the process. You mutter a ‘thanks’, hurriedly opening the bottle and drinking from it. You feel clarity flooding you, feeling refreshed already, and he waits for you to finish before he starts talking.

“You’re working hard.”

“I have to, or else, we’re going to lose.”

“So competitive.”

“Whatever,” you wipe the water from your lips with your handkerchief. “Don’t you have a game to attend to?”

“I do.”

You blink at him, eyebrows knitting, “What are you doing here then?”

“I don’t know, maybe I saw a certain someone running around and nearly collapsing on the stairs,” he tilts his head like a curious dog, a finger on his chin, “it’s only the first day and yet you’re already tired.”

“I’m not tired.”

“I beg to differ, Your Honor.”

You reach your hands out to pinch his cheeks, stretching them out as you speak. “Go back to your game or I will have you join the three-legged race.” And he attempts to reply, but all you get are indecipherable words which you assume to be him protesting at your threat. You then let go, watching as he pouts and rubs his face in comfort.

“If you promise to watch, then I’ll go.”

“You know, you didn’t have to tell me.” You’ll go anyway even if he doesn’t ask nor beg for you to, even without these stupid feelings you desperately try to hide. Because truthfully, it’s not about the obligation nor a promise. It’s not just about being a responsible senior, or fulfilling your duties, or checking off some list of expectations. It’s about him—Phainon—whose name has found a permanent residence in the corner of your thoughts, quietly taking up space like a tune you can’t stop humming.

You’ll show up for him, not because he asked, but because some irrational part of you wants to witness his moments too—the way he runs, the way his hair messes up from the wind, the way he grins when he scores a point. It’s embarrassing to admit even to yourself, but watching him feels a lot like rooting for something precious. And maybe, just maybe, you want him to know that you’ll always be there. That he doesn’t have to look too far in the crowd to find someone who’s cheering for him—not just as a friend, not just as a classmate, but as someone whose heart has quietly started tying its rhythm to his.

You don’t say any of that, of course. Instead, you look at him with a small smile, one you hope doesn’t give too much away. “Go win something for once, would you?”

He raises an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. “I always win.”

“You win arguments, Phainon, not games.”

“We’ll see about that.” And with a playful salute, he rises to his feet. “I’ll see you in the court, sunshine.”

As soon as you enter the gymnasion, loud cheers and screams greet you. It was already the final game so there were a lot more people than usual. Among those is the yell of Phainon’s name coming from various sides of the place, even some of the opposing teams are cheering for him—you forgot, that man is well-known among the students. And you forgot, a lot of them admire him and like him (romantically).

I mean, you get it. You understand them. You understand these people crushing on Phainon and declaring their love for him through a romantic scene on the rooftop (apparently, there’s a rumor going around in school that there’s a higher chance of not being rejected when you confess there), because you also like him. Just omit the confession part because aeons know how much you’d rather jump through a blazing hoop while doused in gasoline than tell him about your feelings. 

He’s goodlooking, smart, kind, athletic, talented, and everything that literally screams the main lead of a novel or webtoon—and you’re just there, perhaps the tragic side character who ends up dying. And that’s the problem! He’s goodlooking, smart, kind, athletic, talented, and everything, that was the damn problem. This loud cheering, shrieks of his name echoing inside the gymnasium, as the devil himself runs through the court and dribbles the ball in his hands, then shoots, flawlessly scoring, you understand it all.

“There’s your boyfriend.” March, beside you, says in a singsong voice as she repeatedly nudges your shoulders playfully. There’s a teasing grin on her face as she looks at you with that sparkle in her eyes. Maybe it was a bad idea to force her to come with you.

“I told you, he’s not my boyfriend.” You refute, squeezing through the cheering students, their voices loud in your ears as you repeatedly utter, ‘excuse me’, until you finally found a spot at the front where you can completely see him.

You see Phainon glancing at the crowd, eyes wandering around as if searching for something or someone. What’s he looking for? You question yourself until you meet his gaze and he grins. Oh, he was looking for you. He waves excitedly and you return it with the same note, though, this garnered the attention of the people around you, and somehow, pride wells up in your chest as you feel their eyes stabbing at the back of your head. Of course, it has to be you and they could never be you.

“Wait, Caelus is playing too?” March snaps you out of your daydream-fueled spiral. 

“What, where?” You pull your eyes away from Phainon and follow her gaze. True enough, Caelus is on the opposing team, having just called out of the bench, tying his shoelaces and sipping water like he’s not about to go head-to-head with the boy who just set the gym on fire.

“That idiot didn’t even tell us!”

You laugh, “He said he didn’t want us cheering for him.”

“Scared that he’ll make a fool out of himself, probably.” March shrugs her shoulders, then braces herself to cheer loudly for your gray-haired best friend despite his constant protests about not liking the attention. “Go, Caelus!” And you copy her, yelling louder, “You can do this, Caelus!”

Neither of you didn’t care if he was an opponent, wearing a shirt that is different in color from the both of you. That was your friend right there on the court who explicitly said he doesn’t want any of the group cheering for him (are you truly friends if you didn’t follow his ‘rules’? After all, he had insisted multiple times that these rules are meant to be broken). However, one person seemed to mind though—Phainon, looking at you. You swear, you could see a physical manifestation of puppy ears on top of his head slowly going down as if he was sulking.

You see him mouth something and you immediately understand what he meant. Eyes on me.

“What’s wrong? What’s gotten you so silent?” It’s March, poking your sides.

You shake your head, “Nothing.”

The match is heated now, even the audience’s cheers are fuelled. Both teams are chasing points one after another until it comes down to a score of 87 - 89 with the opposing leading the score. This was the last set and there is less than a minute left. If your team loses this, the title of Champion for Basketball goes to the other, and as much as one side of you is okay with it, your competitive side is not.

Phainon has the ball, and you can sense how everyone is tense. Even you are holding March’s hands tightly, silently praying in your minds that he’ll carry your team onwards to a bright victory.

There are 10 seconds left.

With the ball in his hands, he runs to his team’s court.

5 seconds.

He’s far away from the basket, but he prepares to shoot anyway.

3 seconds.

The ball is in the air.

1 second.

The buzzer rings just as the ball goes through the hoop.

90 - 89.

The number declares.

There are screams echoing throughout the gymnasium as your team celebrates its win. Everyone is hugging each other, even strangers that you don’t know but are united in the same color embrace one another. And you see it, you see him, breaking away from his members that gathered around him as they lift him up over their head. He’s pushing past the crowd—dodging high fives, brushing off shoulder pats, even shrugging off the arm one of his teammates throws over him. And you see him, running straight to you.

And before you can even register what’s happening, he’s in front of you, breathless and grinning like an idiot. “I told you I’ll win!”

Then his arms are around you—tight and warm and all-consuming—and you feel your feet leave the ground. He spins you in a full circle as if the momentum of his joy can’t be contained in anything less. You let out a squeal, half from surprise and half from the giddy disbelief flooding your system like sugar, like sunshine, like all things that make your heart race.

“Phainon!” You laugh, holding onto his shoulders, basking in the glory together with him. And he repeats after you, going along with your cheerful rhythm of: “We won, we won, we won!”

Good things have a way of feeling even better when shared. This act—known as capitalization (Langston, 1994)—is more than just recounting a happy moment; it often enhances the joy itself. In addition, the emotional boost that comes from sharing isn’t solely due to the positive event, but largely depends on how the other person responds (Gable et al., 2004). Unsurprisingly, these moments are typically shared with someone emotionally significant—like a best friend, a parent, or someone who feels like home.

The moment dies down, and suddenly, you feel embarrassed. Phainon, sensing this and perhaps feeling the same as evidenced on the red of his ears, sets you down. You avert your gaze away from him, somewhat flustered, and your eyes land on Caelus who is waving at you and making faces—puckering his lips in a kissing kind of way, even making hand gestures with his hands, and there was also March beside him, giving you the thumbs up. Those idiots are not helping you at all.

“I see you’re paying attention to someone who is not me. Why is that?” Phainon’s voice drags your attention back to him.Before you can respond, a voice calls out his name sharply—likely a teacher or team captain. He groans under his breath.

“Duty calls.” He offers one last smile, eyes lingering as if he doesn’t want to go. Then with a reluctant step backward, he adds, “Don’t go too far. I’ll find you right after.”

You nod, watching as he jogs off toward his team, who are already lined up. The cheers rise again, but this time, you barely hear them and when you turn around, there is March approaching you with the smuggest look known to mankind.

“Don’t start.” You immediately hush her.

“Oh, I’ve already started.” Laughing, she slings an arm over your shoulder.

With that, the first day comes to an end.

DAY 2

It was your turn to play now.

“I'm going to cheer for you.” Phainon says as you perform stretches. He’s found a great spot for himself by the sides, accompanied by your friends. It seems he has gotten chummy and close with them; you just pray they—specifically the gray-haired twins and March—didn’t say anything to him.

“Me too, me too! Would you feel more motivated if I wear cheerleader clothes?” Caelus teases, striking a pose with a mock move he probably got from watching the cheerdance competition earlier.

You roll your eyes, grinning despite yourself, “What the hell, sure.”

Phainon laughs along but keeps his eyes on you. “You’ve got this,” he says more softly now, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ll be watching.”

There’s the sound of the whistle, signalling the start of the game, and cue, The crowd erupts in cheers and claps, the energy immediately shifting. Before you leave, you turn to your personal cheerleading squad and give them a thumbs up with a grin. It earns you a series of whoops and exaggerated gestures, Caelus already pretending to wave pom-poms.

You make your way to the sidelines, where your coach stands with a clipboard in hand. Your teammates fall in line beside you, offering firm pats on the back. You return each one with the same, steadying your nerves as you prepare to play.

The match begins, and almost immediately, you find your rhythm. The opposing team isn’t particularly challenging—some missteps in defense, a few miscommunications, and perhaps hatred for each other as you witness them blame one another—and you capitalize on every single one. Your movements are fluid, instinctive, confident. You spike, you dive, you serve, and everything lands exactly where it’s supposed to.

You hear your name being cheered from the sidelines—loudest among them, of course, is Caelus’ dramatic, theatrical hollering. So much for a guy who doesn’t like attention. March whistles like she’s at a concert, and even Stelle is jumping up and down with little banners she probably made last-minute. But above them all, you hear Phainon’s voice—steadier, but just as enthusiastic. Every time you score, it’s like he forgets how to breathe, mouth falling open before cheering like he just watched a miracle unfold. He’s never seen you like this and it’s doing things to him.

It’s your turn to serve now. You bounce the ball twice, breathe in, then ready your stance, and serve. Your opponents attempt to catch it and bring it back to your court, but fails after your teammates block it. You get high fives from them and a particularly loud yell coming from the opposite bleachers, not coming from your friends.

“LET’S GO, [NAME]!!!!”

Your group turns at once, heads snapping toward the noise.

“Who does he think he is?” March deadpans, blinking in disbelief.

“So loud,” mutters Caelus as if he wasn’t like that too. “Can’t they have some decorum?

“That guy has a crush on [Name].” Dan Heng suddenly says.

“Seriously?” Phainon echoes.

“Yeah, seriously.” Except Dan Heng is actually lying, a rare occurrence that has the two gray-haired and March eyeing him suspiciously. That guy definitely didn’t have a crush on you, but for the sake of the game of feelings, he’s decided to stir the pot. And judging by the way Phainon’s jaw clenches just a little and his cheering volume raises just a notch, it’s working.

His eyes narrow slightly as he stares at the guy across the court who dared yell your name louder than him. He doesn’t know who that is—and frankly, he doesn’t care. What he does care about is the spark of irritation creeping into his chest, igniting something undeniably competitive. A crush? On you?

The thought doesn’t sit right with him. Not when he’s been here—by your side, watching you shine, supporting you, cheering for you with everything he’s got. Not when he knows what your favorite juice is and just how you like your coffee made in the morning (or if you even like coffee at all). Not when he has seen you in everything, have shared laughter together, and not when you have his number printed on your jersey. That unknown guy, completely out of the picture of you and him, has nothing against him.

So, he does what a man should do in this situation, and that is, cheering louder. Cupping his hands around his mouth and throwing his entire weight behind the words, his cheers echoes across the gym, louder than before, louder than anyone else. He’s yelling your name like he's front row at a concert.

Your head turns sharply, eyes wide as they lock with his. You blink once, then twice as if processing what just happened. Then gestured—palm down, brows drawn, pressing a finger to your lips —urging him to please, for the love of all things holy, pipe down. There’s a certain warmth that blossoms in your chest and creeps up to your face.

Mortifyingly, he doesn’t heed to your begs. You didn’t hold hope for your friends around him who appear to be having the time of their lives, and you can only sigh, long and slow, before accepting your fate. There was no stopping a man fuelled with the raging fire of jealousy and competitiveness intertwined into one, and who only wants the best for you (which is him).

You serve again, clean and sharp, and the opposing team fails to return it. The ball hits the floor. Another point.

The match continues and the other team is visibly falling apart—some of them are clearly frustrated, arguing in hushed tones after missed blocks and botched saves. And as your team scores and sets one after another, victory inches closer, and finally it’s in your grasp. Everything ends as quickly as it started, and now, after another win in your hands, you're walking home with Phainon beside you—still buzzing with energy like he didn’t just spend the entire day screaming his lungs out in the gymnasium.

“You did so well today, you were so amazing.” He says, practically beaming as he bounces slightly with each step.

“You’ve said that like ten times already.”

“Well, I mean it ten times,” he nudges your shoulder, looking at you with awe. “Seriously, my best friend is so amazing. The coolest ever.”

“Oh my god, shut up.” You huff, heat rising to your cheeks. Before you can react, he throws his arms around you in a spontaneous hug, pulling you close with zero regard for personal space—or hygiene.

“Don’t hug me, you’re sweaty!” You grumble, pushing at his chest with both hands, but he only relishes in your struggles.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, nuzzling his cheek to your temple. “Now we both smell.”

“That’s disgusting, let go!” You sputter, still trying to peel him off. He finally lets you go after a moment or so, laughter spilling out of him, and flashes you that boyish grin—equal parts mischief and charm, all bright eyes and reckless delight. You smack his arm before you fall back into your earlier rhythm of walking, but you’re ahead of him.

“Let's go to the arcade.” He suggests, chasing after your steps to be beside you.

“Why do you have so much energy? What are you, some kind of dog?”

“Woof.”

“I think you should spend less time with Snowy.”

The sun’s already dipping, the sky streaked in warm hues, but neither of you seem in a hurry to end the day. 

DAY 3

“So full of energy, Phainon.”

You remark, watching as the man ties the ribbon across his forehead, mentally preparing himself for the race that he is participating in. Apparently it’s the one where they have to borrow someone or something among the crowd; seriously, who even put this kind of event?

“This is what, your third game today?”  You stare at him, half in disbelief, half in resignation, eyes raking over his appearance—his hair is only slightly tousled, not a bead of sweat in sight, posture relaxed like he didn’t just hours on the field. He looks fresh. He looks good. Unfairly so. Like every definition of effortless charm wrapped in his entire being. “As expected of the school heartthrob—still looking like you just walked out of a magazine shoot.”

“Cut it out.” Phainon mutters, cheeks tinged pink.

You lean in a little, clasping your hands dramatically near your face. “So handsome, Phainon. Kyaaa, you look so cute even when you’re embarrassed.” Your voice comes out high-pitched, imitating his so-called fangirls and he chokes out a laugh at your poorly-done parody.

“Yeah, don’t fall in love with me now.” He quips, all teasing and smiles.

The speaker blares and calls for the players to come to the starting line for the race. You wave goodbye to your best friend and promise to cheer him on, watching as he jogs backwards with a grin before spinning around and heading off.

“Don’t trip, okay? You’ll scar your handsome face!”

He throws a thumbs-up over his shoulder.

Phainon lines up with the rest of the players at the starting line, bouncing slightly on his feet. The ribbon across his forehead flutters with the wind as he falls into a stance waiting for the blow of the whistle. As soon as he hears it, he surges forward with the others, sprinting across the field toward the singular basket propped on top of a table at the halfway point. His legs move instinctively, hair dancing in the wind, but his thoughts are scattered—half focused on the task, half focused on you.

He was the first one to reach the basket. He grabs one of the folded slips inside, unfolds it, and the words written on it beams at him like a sentence of death.

Seriously, what kind of old geezer even thought of such stupid thing?!

Phainon stares at the paper like it personally offended him. His nose scrunching and his jaw tightening. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters under his breath, fingers crumpling the paper slightly as he glares at it like the words might change if he stared hard enough. Of all the possibilities—hat, shoe, red umbrella, teacher’s slipper, hell, even a stranger with glasses—why this?

The others start reaching the basket, brushing past him as they hurry on. The realization hits—he’s wasting time, and if he keeps standing there like an idiot, he’s going to lose. Panic nudges his chest. He snaps his head around, eyes darting across the crowd—and then they land on you, still unaware of the chaos, laughing with March, your smile bright and carefree.

“Damn it,” he mutters again, dragging a hand down his face. His legs don’t move right away. His heart’s thudding too loudly in his ears. His pride tells him to just grab someone random, laugh it off, save face.

But he doesn’t want anyone else.

So with an exaggerated sigh, like he’s being asked to carry the entire world on his back, he makes his way toward you. His shoulders are tense, brows furrowed, and there’s a distinct redness creeping up his neck and into his cheeks that he’s desperately trying (and failing) to suppress. Frustration is scribbled all over his face, but beneath it, the flustered flush betrays him completely.

“Phainon?”

“Come with me,” he says, tone short and flat.

“...What?” There is confusion etched all across your face, but you accept his offered hand anyway.

“Just—just come with me, okay?” He blurts out, voice caught somewhere between urgency and panic. He starts tugging you toward the field and back to the race, his hand firm but trembling slightly. You don’t resist—you never really could when he gets like this—and you follow without further questions, your brows furrowed in concern.

The dirt crunches under your shoes as you both sprint back toward the course. His grip on your hand never falters, but there’s something odd about the way he won’t look at you. He’s avoiding your eyes, jaw tight, face set in determination—or maybe, embarrassment?

You catch up with the rest of the players, breath hitching as the finish line nears. The supervising teacher is already stepping forward with the finish flag in one hand and a clipboard in the other. She takes the slip of paper from Phainon’s hand, eyes flicking over the words. Her lips curve into a knowing smile, gaze lingering on the two of you just a beat longer than necessary.

“Second place,” the teacher declares.

You double over, catching your breath, and glance at Phainon beside you—flushed, panting lightly, visibly trying to hold himself together.

“What was on your paper?” you ask, squinting up at him.

Phainon doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches out, ruffles your hair roughly, and mutters, “Don’t worry about it.” Then he walks away from you, leaving you confused and curious. He’s only thankful that you don’t notice the redness of his ears.

“So, what was in the paper?”

You don’t stop pestering Phainon about it, even as you walk home side by side like you always do—your steps light, his unusually quiet—while you poke him every few seconds, relentlessly, determined to get the truth out of him before the day truly ends.

“You don’t need to know.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be such an ass.” You frown, “Tell me, tell me, just tell me.” You even begin dancing to Wonder Girls’ hit song as you repeat the same two words.

“You’re going to trip, stop that.” He’s frowning now, but there’s no bite behind it—only a hint of worry and something else stirring underneath.

“I won’t, unless you tell me.” It’s a joke said like a threat, but he stops from his tracks and you do, too. The setting sun casts golden slants of light between you, shadows stretching long down the empty sidewalk. You eye him, tilting your head, waiting, waiting, and waiting until he speaks up in a rather hushed tone as if he was ashamed of the words.

“it was… someone you like.”

You pause then laughter bubbles from your throat, spilling past your lips, “Oh! like a friend. Geez, why be embarrassed about that?” You turn to keep walking, brushing off the tension with ease—until his voice, quiet but certain, stops you once more.

“No, it wasn’t.” There’s a shift of something heavier, steadier, and you feel it. The same weight you felt when he held you under that rain, when the moment between you sparks and stills, when he looked at you with that gentle gaze you could never understand beyond friendship, when his hand lingered after a high-five, when his voice softened just for you. It’s that same unsaid thing thrumming beneath every touch, every glance, every almost. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Huh?” You turn back around and he takes a step forward to you. A deep breathe, an affectionate gaze that is only reserved for you, and:

“I like you.”

The wind blows, curling around you like a slow exhale. The world tilts just a little. The chatter of distant students, rumble of cars, and every noise fades into nothing, the rustling leaves go mute, and even your own breath seems to still. Everything sharpens, then softens—all color draining into something dreamlike. It’s just you and him now. The sidewalk may as well have disappeared and the only ground that exists is the one beneath your feet and his. The sky holds its breath. The ground threatens to drop. Time folds in on itself. And all you can do is stare.

"I don’t think liking you quite covers it—I love you.”

DATA COLLECTION AND ANALYSIS

According to Ackerman et al. (2011), the words “I love you” carry a weight far beyond mere emotion. These three small words have, for centuries, sparked hope, fueled devotion, and led to both sacrifice and heartbreak. Even today, saying “I love you” is not just an expression of feeling—it’s a declaration of intent. It marks a shift, signaling the desire to move from a fleeting connection to a more serious, long-term relationship.

“I know I’m such a loser for saying this just now and even at this moment,” Phainon blurts out, the words stumbling over each other in a panicked stream. “I had a whole plan, okay? There was supposed to be a sunset, and music, and a bouquet of flowers—like a really big one, the kind you see in cheesy dramas, and it’s your favorite flowers too—hell, I even practiced a speech in front of my mirror twice. Twice!” His hands flail a little as he talks, voice growing more frantic with each word, and you’re there, stunned, listening to him ramble on and on, pacing everywhere, left and right, front and back.

“But nooo, the universe had other plans and now I’m here, word-vomiting in the middle of a random sidewalk with zero preparation and—oh my god, this is so embarrassing. And you’re just standing there. Being all cool, calm, and radiant like always. And here I am losing every single brain cell just trying to say three simple words. But wait, I already said it!”

You’re already dizzy just watching and hearing him. His fingers rake through his hair, eyes darting everywhere but yours. “I mean, how am I supposed to say it properly when you smile like that? Or when you laugh so freely and cheer for people like it’s the most natural thing in the world? Or when you completely destroy everyone on the court and make my heart do—whatever the hell it’s doing right now!?”

And he starts walking.

“God, and don’t even get me started on that guy—who even was that guy cheering your name like he owned the rights to it? I was so close to throwing my shoe at him but that would've ruined the whole ‘supportive best friend’ thing I had going on.”

Then jogging.

“And I was trying, okay? I was trying to be subtle, to be normal, but no. It just has to be you, all bright eyes and laughter, and then looking at me like that as if I’m someone worth looking at even though I look terribly ridiculous right now. And suddenly I’m spiraling, spiraling, spiraling.”

Then he runs. Like the confession physically launched him into fight-or-flight state and he chooses the second option.

?

???

?????????

“Where are you going?!” You yell, shocked and confused. You receive no answer and as the distance between you grows bigger as his figure becomes smaller, you run after him, chasing him down the streets. The wind kisses your skin, tugging at your clothes as your shoes slap against the pavement. 

“Phainon, you idiot!” you shout, half-laughing, half-panicking, unsure if you want to catch him just to hit him or hug him. Your heart is a wildfire in your chest, burning with questions, with confusion, with something dangerously close to love. The world blurs around you, but your focus stays locked on his retreating back—flushed ears, messy hair, the boy who just broke your world open and ran.

“Stop running!”

“i dont want to!” He yells back. And as much as you were having fun in this stupid game of chase, you were never going to win against someone who has been a repeat-player and winner of the relay competitions and races.

“I’M GOING TO REJECT YOU IF YOU DON’T STOP RUNNING, I SWEAR TO NANOOK!” you yell with all the breath left in your lungs, and that is what finally does it. Phainon stumbles to a stop, shoulders tense, frozen mid-step like someone hit pause on his panic. You catch up moments later, completely winded, clutching your side as you suck in air like your life depends on it, then without hesitation, you grab his shoulder, spin him around, and glare at him with the force of a thousand burning suns. 

“What was that for?! Why did you run away?!”

“‘Cause I was scared and embarrassed.” He says, like a child that is being scolded.

“Are you stupid?!” You snap at him, voice sharp and breathless, chest still heaving from the run. It was your turn to ramble now. “Seriously, you’ve played through entire horror games without even blinking, like some kind of fearless freak—” you jab a finger at his chest, “—I’ve seen you laugh coming out of haunted houses while everyone else was crying!” 

You take a breath, exasperated. “You climbed a tree once—taller than your house, mind you—just to get a balloon for a kid you didn’t even know!” Your voice rises again, frustrated and incredulous.

“I—”

“I like you too! What’s there to be scared about?”

The words slam into the moment like a sudden lightning, and everything around his word stills as Phainon falls into silence. The man who had cheered for you louder than everyone else, the boy who had barked after you asked him if he was a dog, the one you called embarrassing and annoying more times than you could count—the same boy who once hugged you when you and him were sweaty and didn’t care, who ruffled your hair instead of answering questions, who ran from his own confession like it was chasing him—is now standing in front of you, completely speechless. His eyes shine with disbelief, heart worn so plainly on his sleeve that even the setting sun seems to soften for him.

“Wait, really?” He finally breathes out, voice soft, stunned, utterly floored.

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

“You're not lying?”

“I will be if you don’t stop asking.”

And then suddenly, Phainon is pulling you close, hugging you, heartbeats thundering into each other’s chest. He laughs—loud and breathless and disbelieving—as if joy has taken over every nerve in his body, and without thinking, he spins you around like you weigh nothing, the world blurring around you both. He’s beaming, grinning so wide it almost hurts, the kind of smile that makes the stars jealous. 

The sky seems to burst in color, wind sweeping past like applause, and you can feel his happiness radiate like sunlight, warmth infecting you as you grin, gaze on him and only him, laughter tangled together with his. When he finally sets you down, still slightly breathless, he leans in, eyes searching yours, voice soft and awed.

“Can I kiss you?”

“No.”

You should have known Phainon never listens to you.

FINDINGS AND DISCUSSION

Days, weeks, and perhaps months later, after this stupidly abrupt confession that he had never planned, many spontaneous dates, gifts and bouquets that he had promised you, dancing around in each other’s rhythm of affection, shared shirts and items, misunderstandings, your parents teasing the both of you, learning how to hold hands without overthinking it, and exchanging glances that say too much without saying anything at all—one thing has become incredibly, undeniably clear.

The world didn’t end just like you had feared. The friendship didn’t shatter like some fragile thing dropped from a great height. There were awkward moments, yes—nervous laughter, flustered stammering, the occasional “I can’t believe this is real” look tossed between bites of your usual snack spot’s overpriced fries, the whispered confessions when one thinks the other is not listening—but it wasn't a loss. Not even close. If anything, it felt like rediscovery. Like finding something that had always been there, just slightly out of reach, and finally having the courage to reach for it.

To answer the questions: confessing didn’t ruin the friendship. It redefined it. Emotional changes were there, that’s for sure. There was more nervous energy at first, more care in the silences, but over time, those shifted into warmth, trust, and an oddly grounding sense of security. Behavioral changes? Sure—he texted back faster now, you caught him looking at you longer than necessary, and neither of you minded the shift in physical closeness. If anything, it was welcomed.

Did it deteriorate the relationship? No. It bloomed into something new, something romantic—but still rooted in all the years of being childhood friends, still steeped in history, memories, and ridiculous inside jokes that no one else could understand. The confession didn’t take anything away; it just added another layer.

And as for how it was interpreted in hindsight?

Not a loss. Not neutral. But a gain. Absolute gain.

So, with the data now laid bare—smiles exchanged, hands held, memories archived and new ones created—the study concludes:

ALTERNATIVE HYPOTHESIS REJECTED.

THE NULL HYPOTHESIS IS ACCEPTED.

There were no catastrophic shifts, no collapses of trust, no bitter ends. Only laughter, soft beginnings, and the quiet, steady unfolding of love that had been there all along—waiting.

RECOMMENDATIONS 

While the results of this study were favorable, it must be noted—this method is not universally applicable. In simpler terms: just because it worked out here doesn’t mean it won’t end in tears and ghosting for someone else. Proceed with caution (and maybe a backup plan).

REFERENCES

Palinkas, L. A., Horwitz, S. M., Green, C. A., Wisdom, J. P., Duan, N., & Hoagwood, K. (2015). Purposeful Sampling for Qualitative Data Collection and Analysis in Mixed Method Implementation Research. Administration and policy in mental health, 42(5), 533–544. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10488-013-0528-y

Ackerman, J. M., Griskevicius, V., & Li, N. P. (2011). Let's get serious: communicating commitment in romantic relationships. Journal of personality and social psychology, 100(6), 1079–1094. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0022412

Otto, A. K., Laurenceau, J. P., Siegel, S. D., & Belcher, A. J. (2015). Capitalizing on everyday positive events uniquely predicts daily intimacy and well-being in couples coping with breast cancer. Journal of family psychology : JFP : journal of the Division of Family Psychology of the American Psychological Association (Division 43), 29(1), 69–79. https://doi.org/10.1037/fam0000042

Gable, S. L., Reis, H. T., Impett, E. A., & Asher, E. R. (2004). What do you do when things go right? The intrapersonal and interpersonal benefits of sharing positive events. Journal of personality and social psychology, 87(2), 228–245. https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-3514.87.2.228

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