gojo's grieving wife

You knew the streets of Fontaine before ever stepping foot into the nation.

You knew exactly how many steps led toward a particular archive inside the Akademiya despite never having visited it before.

You knew the taste of Osmanthus wine despite never drinking it.

You knew the sound the rain in Fontaine made against the windows of the Palais Mermonia.

You knew the exact location of a hidden trail near Dawn Winery.

And perhaps most troubling of all—

you knew creatures that modern records insisted had never existed at all.

It was your work that eventually led you to the Akademiya.

Ironically enough, it was also your work that led you directly toward the beginning of everything.

The book had already become something of a legend among scholars, adventurers, and natural researchers alike. Few texts documented Teyvat's wildlife with such precision and care. Even fewer managed to capture the personality of every creature they encountered rather than merely listing their behaviors and habitats like specimens pinned beneath glass.

The author had written as though every fox, every bird, every Vishap and fungus and tiger possessed a story worth telling.

The author wrote as though understanding something was impossible without first loving it.

The book had become required reading in certain Akademiya courses because of its accuracy alone.

You bought your own copy on the second day, then another for annotation purposes.

Eventually you found yourself reading it late into the night.

Then rereading it.

Then memorizing passages without meaning to.

Because the more you read, the less it felt like studying a stranger’s work and the more it felt like standing too close to something you were never meant to find.

The notes were too intimate for a simple field journal. They lingered on small mercies, on the way a creature’s breathing changed when it was frightened, on the exact moment curiosity outweighed fear, on the quiet sort of patience that turned observation into care. There was warmth in the margins, in the pauses between facts, in the way the author seemed unable to keep themselves from noticing beauty even while trying to remain objective.

And somewhere along the way, that tenderness began to feel unsettling.

Not because it was wrong, but because it felt familiar.

The book ended abruptly in Snezhnaya.

The final pages detailed snow foxes and mountain beasts and birds adapted to survive impossible winters before suddenly stopping altogether.

No final chapter, no farewell, nor an author’s final note. 

Only the publisher's note attached to the very end.

The author's manuscript was discovered abandoned near an old campsite deep within Snezhnaya's wilderness following reports of their death due to illness.

The body itself had never been recovered.

Only the journal remained.

The final page also contained an illustration commissioned by the publisher using older descriptions and surviving sketches found among the author's belongings.

You stared at the image for a very long time.

The face wasn't yours.

And yet—

it wasn't entirely unfamiliar either.

The eyes looked wrong.

The hairstyle was different.

The clothes belonged to another era entirely.

But there was something undeniably familiar about the expression staring back at you from the page.

Enough to make your chest tighten

Enough to make you close the book.

And enough to make you stop sleeping entirely.

The dreams only worsened after that, to the point where instead of dreaming–

You started remembering.

You remembered standing beside the harbor in Liyue while lanterns drifted into the sky.

"I am a patient person."

You woke with tears in your eyes.

The following night brought another.

Books.

Arguments.

Green eyes narrowing at you from across a table.

"I want you to succeed. Just not like this."

Another.

Rain against marble.

Letters folded carefully by hand.

Blue eyes watching you from the audience.

Another.

Firelight.

Warmth.

A quiet voice beside a fireplace.

"Welcome home."

You stopped sleeping after that.

The Traveler found you in Sumeru shortly afterward. 

Though “found” was perhaps too simple a word for it; the two of you first crossed paths during one of your research excursions beyond the city, when a routine investigation into local wildlife and unusual environmental disturbances happened to overlap with whatever errand had brought them to the Akademiya’s outskirts. 

What began as a brief exchange of information quickly turned into a longer conversation than either of you had expected, especially once you realized that the Traveler knew far more about the places in your dreams than any stranger reasonably should. 

By the time you parted ways, you had already agreed to share notes, and from there the acquaintance deepened into something steadier.

Which brings you to the present. 

"You look terrible," Paimon blurted out immediately, floating around you to check up on you. 

You smiled tiredly. "...Thank you."

"I wasn't trying to be mean!"

The Traveler studied you carefully. "You haven't been sleeping."

You hesitated, then sighed. "I know things I shouldn't know."

Paimon tilted her head. "Like what?"

You looked down at your hands.

"I know the exact number of steps leading toward the western archives in the House of Daena."

"...Okay?"

"I know where a hidden cave near Dragonspine is located despite never going there."

The Traveler remained silent.

"And I know someone named Zhongli promised me he'd wait for me."

Neither of them spoke.

Because unlike you—

they knew that name.

Eventually the Traveler asked quietly,

"Have you ever met him before?"

"No."

You paused.

"...At least I don't think I have."

The encounter happened days later.

You saw him before he saw you.

Or perhaps—

before he allowed you to realize he had already seen you.

You almost thought that was the Zhongli in your dreams. 

Before you could approach him, you stopped when a thought occurred to you. 

Snow.

Chains.

Laboratories.

A locked room.

The smell of antiseptic.

The sound of rain against metal.

Your knees buckled.

The Traveler caught you immediately.

"Hey—!"

You stared at the man standing across the street.

No.

Not a man.

Something worse.

Something your body remembered long before your mind did.

Recognition flickered in crimson eyes.

"...What a coincidence." You hear him speak, facing your direction at last.

Your breathing stopped.

You knew that voice.

You knew those eyes.

You knew that smile.

"Dottore."

The name escaped your lips without permission.

For the first time—

he smiled.

The next few moments passed in chaos.

Fatui soldiers appeared seemingly from nowhere.

The Traveler drew their weapon.

Paimon shouted something you didn't hear.

You panicked as chaos ensued, with Dottore coming closer and closer as you’re all surrounded. 

And then—

Nahida appeared.

The rest was nothing but a blur. You remembered running with the Traveler and Paimon after Nahida ordered you to do so, running through the forests to get away from a man who you had never met. 

And yet, your entire consciousness, your entire body are screaming at you to get away from him as far as possible, as if you really knew him. 

When safety finally came, the three of you eventually met Nahida again in a different and safer location. 

But not without discovering important information. 

“I was able to make him go away, but only for a while.” The archon spoke. “I immediately assumed that he came back to Sumeru again for trouble, but… It seems it’s much worse than I thought.” 

She looked at you with something that resembled sorrow, as if she had learned something from her encounter with Dottore. 

"...He changed something he never should have touched."

You looked up, wondering why she had looked at you when she said those words. 

"What do you mean?"

Nahida hesitated, then spoke softly, "There is no easy way to say this, but… Dottore did something to you–to your life.”

Your eyes widen slightly, a pang hitting your heart. 

“...What do you mean?” You asked, dreading to hear her answer. 

 Nahida thought about her answer more, trying to think of a better way to gently reveal it. 

“...He tied your life to Irminsul."

The room fell silent.

The Traveler's expression shifted first, confusion giving way to alarm.

"...Tied their life?"

Nahida nodded once.

"Not in the way most people are born into the world. This was deliberate, one that involves modification. It’s as if he made a wound in the tree's memory and then hidden it so deeply that even the world itself kept trying to correct it."

You stared at her.

Your throat felt too tight to speak.

You briefly recall the traveler telling you about Irminsul when they told you about their adventure back when they first arrived in Sumeru, so you knew that whatever Dottore did to you, it was this serious. 

It was hard to grasp it. 

“...I-I don’t understand.” You stammered. “I haven’t even met Dottore. I don’t recall seeing him except in my dreams–” 

You then paused for a moment. 

Could it be that these dreams are more than just? 

As if reading your mind, Nahida's gaze lowered for a moment before lifting again, gentler now, but no less grave.

"Your dreams may be memories from the past.” Nahida theorized. “But all Dottore told me is this: every time you died, Irminsul simply wrote you back into existence."

The Traveler went still.

"...Reincarnation?"

Nahida shook her head.

"No."

Her expression darkened, and for the first time since you had met her, there was something cold in her voice.

"Repetition."

The word settled over you like a blade.

Not reincarnation.

Not a blessing.

Not fate.

A loop.

A cruel, deliberate loop that had been forced upon you by someone who had decided your life was something to be studied, adjusted, and repeated until it suited him.

Nahida watched you carefully, as though she could see the moment the grief inside you hardened into something sharper.

"After hearing Dottore’s explanation, I decided to look deeper into Irminsul’s records and found traces of the alteration," she admitted quietly. "At first, it seemed like a distortion caused by time, but the pattern was too precise. Too intentional. Dottore had not merely observed your lives, but rather arranged them."

The Traveler's jaw tightened.

“He tampered with the Irminsul to make them not be able to pass on?” 

Nahida gave a small, grim nod.

"Yes. He left marks in places he should never have been able to reach. Of course, it’s not enough to destroy the tree's memory–he made sure to force it into a cycle. It’s enough to make your endings unstable and your beginnings repeat."

Your hands curled into fists.

"So he did this to me."

Nahida's expression softened, but she did not lie.

"Yes."

The word hurt more than you expected.Not because you had not already suspected it.

Because hearing it spoken aloud made it real.

The Traveler stepped closer to you then, voice low and careful.

"Can it be fixed?"

Nahida looked toward the window, toward the distant branches of Irminsul that no ordinary eye could see.

"I believe so," she said. "But if we want to undo what he did, we need to go to the source. Irminsul itself has to be shown the truth of what was changed."

You swallowed.

"Then we go."

Nahida turned back to you.

There was no hesitation in her eyes now, only resolve.

"Yes," she said. "We go together."

The decision came in pieces.

In the Traveler's quiet promise that they would help you reclaim what had been stolen.

In Nahida's determination to face the wound Dottore had left behind, no matter how deep it ran.

In your own voice, shaking only once before steadying, when you said that if your life had been forced into a cage of repetition, then you wanted out.

You wanted your endings back.

You wanted your choices back.

You wanted every life that had been taken from you to finally belong to you again.

And so, when you finally stood before Irminsul itself, the memories of your past lives began to surface at last. 

It wasn’t the usual vague impressions or half-formed dreams you’ve had. 

Instead, it came as everything all at once. 

The life beneath Liyue's lanterns, where amber eyes and quiet promises waited beside the harbor. 

The life in Sumeru, where green eyes argued with you over books and knowledge until the hours slipped away unnoticed. 

The life in Fontaine, where rain tapped against tall windows and carefully folded letters carried words you had once treasured. 

The life at Dawn Winery, where vineyards stretched beneath Mondstadt's skies and firelight warmed a home that had felt like it would last forever. 

And of course, your devastating fate in Snezhnaya, where snow fell endlessly and crimson eyes watched from the white silence with a patience that had always felt too heavy to name. 

You remembered every name you had ever answered to, every face that had once smiled at you across a lifetime, every promise made beneath lantern light or rain or snow, every grief you had buried so deeply that it had become part of your bones. 

You remembered the warmth of hands you had long since lost, the sound of voices calling for you from worlds that no longer existed, the ache of watching centuries pass while carrying the weight of people who had loved you in different ages and different forms. 

You remembered joy so vivid it hurt, sorrow so old it had turned quiet, and the terrible, unbearable truth that you had not simply dreamed these lives—you had lived them, over and over again, until the sum of all those memories became too heavy to bear.  

In that moment, the decision to purge yourself in Irminsul felt less like a choice than a necessity.

"I want it to end."

Nahida looked at you.

"And do you understand what that entails?"

You nodded.

"No more cycles."

No more waking up as someone else.

No more forgetting.

No more unfinished goodbyes.

No more becoming someone Dottore could chase forever.

The Traveler stepped closer.

"...Are you sure?"

You smiled sadly.

"I think I've lived enough lives for one person. It's time for me to purge myself if it means bringing peace."

But Nahida knew there's another choice. 

You did not need to erase your existence nor your memories. 

"I think what you can do is to erase only the experiment." Nahida suggested thoughtfully. 

It was there when she started mentioning the chains Dottore had forced around your soul, explaining everything carefully.

Irminsul remembered everything recorded within the world.

Dottore had taken advantage of that.

Using forbidden research and knowledge he never should have possessed, he had essentially convinced Irminsul that your existence was unfinished.

Incomplete.

Something that needed correcting.

And so every time you died—

the world simply rewrote you back into existence.

Not the same person.

Not the same memories.

But always you.

Always close enough for Dottore to find and to try again.

The solution was simple in theory.

Terrifying in practice.

The connection had to be severed.

Not your existence.

Not your memories.

Only the foreign thread tying your soul back to Irminsul's roots.

Suddenly, Nahida held your hand, her small fingers warm and steady against yours as she looked up at you with a sadness far older than her face should have carried. 

“You should not have to purge yourself from Irminsul to fix everything,” she said softly, her voice gentle but unwavering. 

“It is not worth losing every precious memory people have of you. Your laughter, your kindness, the moments they shared with you—those matter. You matter. We will find another way.” 

For a long moment, you said nothing, the weight of everything you had been ready to sacrifice pressing against your chest until it hurt. 

Then, slowly, the fight drained out of you. If there was another path, one that did not demand your disappearance from the hearts of everyone who loved you, then perhaps you could bear to take it. 

With a shaky breath, you gave in and accepted her alternative at last.

The process took hours, but you trust Nahida to complete it all as you stayed by her side, wanting to end the cycle that you did not ask for. 

Time felt strange near Irminsul.

And when it was over—

the silence felt different.

Lighter.

"...It's complete." She said, looking at you with a smile. "Consider this your final life."

For the first time since Snezhnaya—

your future belonged to you again.

The world itself barely changed.

Mondstadt remained Mondstadt.

Fontaine remained Fontaine.

Liyue remained Liyue.

Sumeru remained Sumeru.

Only one thing changed.

Dottore lost.

“And you don’t have to worry about Dottore anymore,” she had said, her voice gentle but certain. “I have made sure he will never find you again in this life.”

You had stared at her for a long moment before asking, “And after this?”

Her expression had softened when she answered, “There will be no next life of yours for him to hunt down.”

No next reincarnation to chase.

No next opportunity to try again.

The chain had finally broken.

The others never knew.

Alhaitham never learned that the thesis hidden inside his home had once belonged to the person who had loved him enough to keep arguing anyway.

Neuvillette never learned that the singer whose letters he still kept had once walked beneath another nation's skies with memories that did not belong to her.

Diluc never learned that his spouse, buried beneath Mondstadt's soil, had once stood beneath Fontaine's lights or Sumeru's trees.

And Zhongli—

Zhongli never learned that he had haunted another man's obsessions for centuries without ever knowing it.

Life moved forward.

As it always did.

Soon after you departed with Nahida and decided to join Traveler and Paimon with their endeavors for a short while. During such endeavors, you worked on an annotated edition of the adventurer's—or rather, your first life’s—journal. 

By the time you departed with Traveler and Paimon to go back to your home, you decided to publish it. 

It became one of the most celebrated releases in modern academic history.

This time, instead of a rushed end, your annotated edition included a complete account of Snezhnaya and Sumeru’s Aranara, pieced together with the Traveler’s own accounts and observations, so that no region or creature was left unfinished.

The journal itself was already widely known by then, and thanks to the traveler’s part in the book, it became even more famous. 

Sometimes journalists asked what inspired you to revisit it at all.

You never knew how to answer.

How could you explain that it felt less like republishing a famous work, and more like finally giving its author a voice that had been waiting to be heard?

Soon after, work brought you to Liyue Harbor.

The city was beautiful.

Not in the overwhelming way Fontaine often was with its grand performances and polished marble, nor in the scholarly way Sumeru carried itself beneath towering trees and endless knowledge.

Liyue felt different.

Warm.

Familiar.

Comforting in a way you couldn't explain.

You found yourself wandering through the harbor longer than necessary, listening absentmindedly to merchants advertising their wares, children laughing as they chased one another through the streets, and the distant creak of ships resting peacefully against the docks.

The scent of tea drifted from nearby stalls.

Lanterns swayed gently overhead.

And for some reason, your chest hurts, remembering your first life. 

…Is he still here? 

It was enough to make you slow your steps, to make you feel as though things are not quite done. 

Until you heard it. 

"...You seem lost."

The voice came from beside you.

Calm.

Steady.

Familiar.

You turned.

And the world stopped.

Amber eyes met yours.

Golden.

Ancient.

Patient.

And suddenly—

you remembered.

Lantern Rite.

Osmanthus wine.

Long conversations that stretched late into the evening.

Promises exchanged beneath golden skies.

The harbor.

The sea.

The quiet certainty that no matter how far your travels took you, there would always be someone waiting for your return.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The man standing before you simply looked at you quietly.

Not surprised.

Not confused.

Not questioning why tears had suddenly gathered in the eyes of a stranger he had supposedly never met.

Instead, he looked at you as though he had been expecting this moment for a very, very long time.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The noise of the harbor faded into the background.

Everything disappeared until it felt as though the entire world had narrowed down to the space between the two of you.

Your expression softened immediately.

Because somehow—

despite everything—

you knew.

And somehow, he did too.

The corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly.

Not quite a smile.

Not yet.

But close.

The quiet sort of expression worn by someone finally setting down a burden they had carried for far longer than they should have.

"...I suppose," he said after a while, his voice softer than you remembered and yet exactly the same all at once, "that my memory has not betrayed me after all."

You stared at him.

Your heart hurt.

Not with grief.

Not anymore.

With something gentler.

Something warmer.

Something that had waited patiently beneath countless lives and countless names and countless endings.

He glanced toward the harbor then.

Toward the sea stretching beyond Liyue's shores.

Toward the horizon where an adventurer had once promised she would return after seeing the world.

Toward the place where he had watched countless ships come and go while waiting for one person who never came home.

When he looked back at you, there was warmth in his eyes.

Recognition.

Relief.

Patience.

The kind of patience only someone who had spent centuries learning how to wait could possess.

"My name is Zhongli."

The words were simple.

An introduction.

A beginning.

And yet somehow—

it felt like a homecoming.

Your eyes stung immediately.

Because once upon a time, long before journals and libraries and operas and vineyards and snow-covered laboratories—

you had known that name better than your own.

You accepted the hand he offered you.

Warm.

Steady.

Real.

"It is nice to meet you, Mister Zhongli."

The now retired Archon smiled then.

Not politely.

Not formally.

But with the same quiet smile he had worn centuries ago when a young adventurer with ink-stained fingers and impossible dreams had promised they would return once they had finished seeing the world.

This time—

there were no experiments waiting in the snow.

No stolen endings.

No lives cut short before their time.

No unfinished promises left lingering between one lifetime and the next.

Only choices.

Only tomorrow.

Only a future that finally belonged to you.

And perhaps—

if both of you wished it—

a beginning.

Not another long time of waiting.

Not another reincarnation.

Not fate correcting itself.

Simply—

the first chapter of a story that was finally allowed to reach its ending.

PREVIOUS LIFE

AUTHOR'S NOTE. thank you so much for reading and showing your support for this series! if i have to be honest, this part is truly the most difficult to write about. this is namely because of how i was trying to think of a good way to solve the reader's cycle without a major battle (when version vii was released, i was very tempted to change the ending–but then again, i don't have time to actually go through the entire nod-krai archon quests without going insane)–so this part is quite anticlimatic, if not rushed (?)

however, i also intended for the reader to not actually face dottore in a battle/confrontation, simply because i think it'd also be a slap to dottore's face that despite all he did to make sure reader's life goes back to square one again to get them, there was not one single life where he finally had the reader, even their last where they then spend the rest of their life with zhongli.

anyway! thank you again for the love and support. i really enjoyed writing this series and i hoped you guys enjoyed reading it too! i especially loved reading each of your comments (which i'll reply soon).

“Yeah,” you admit. More words form and die on your tongue. You don’t even know where to begin - to spill your arguments now that you have the chance, or apologize? Part of you just wants to scream and cry. 

Alhaitham gives you space. You can hear him in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water, while you sit down in the armchair and stare at the ring still in your palm. You forgot what it looks like removed from your finger. It looks so foreign, and not in a good way. You slowly slip it back on your finger. There’s guilt gnawing at your conscience. You shouldn’t have done that.

And so you stand up and join him in the kitchen. Before you can speak, he slides a glass of water towards you. Maybe the fight was pointless. Just a little bit. You drink the whole thing.

“Better now?” he asks, voice still careful. You nod. The lump in your throat only dissolves when you see the ring securely on his finger. It seems he looks for yours too. “Do you want to continue discussing that?”

You need to remind yourself that this is Alhaitham. He’s only asking. He’s not mocking you, not blaming you.

“No,” you shake your head. You put the glass back on the table, rounding it to stand closer to him. 

“I explained my side,” he says, but he doesn’t push, “It’s more productive if you tell me what you think now.” 

You suppose it would be. You know it would be. He’s right like he always is.

“Can we revisit it later?” you suggest, “It… I feel tired.”

It’s almost hesitant, the way he nods and opens his arms for you to walk into. Still you do, without question. The longer he holds you, the more you think about whether the fight was worth it. Was this really that important to you? Was he so mean that you had to do that?

Your thoughts are brought to a standstill by a hand prying yours away from his chest. Unsurprisingly, it’s just him. Just Alhaitham taking your hand, intertwining your fingers and resting your hands above his beating heart. Your rings press against each other. It’s not much of a difference, but you feel him relax. His eyes reflect on the shiny surface of the rings. You’ve never seen him look so relieved, and you don’t think it’s the metal distorting the image.

After a brief hesitation, you look up. Nothing changes, Alhaitham looks exactly like his reflection on the silver mirror. His thumb strokes the side of your hand. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say quietly.

“I’m not letting you,” he smiles, careful. But the smile can’t hide how serious he is - not that you’d want it any other way.

Ayato

How can he just stand there? Calm, impassive, as if this was just another diplomatic negotiation. Perhaps it is, perhaps you should think about it that way too but-

“I’d think about that some more,” Ayato’s voice raises, “If I were you.”

You should. You definitely should. But him pointing it out makes you not want to, gets on your last nerve and so your fingers wrap around the band on your finger and tug- Try to.

There’s a patient hand, though really not so patient now, preventing you from moving. His touch isn’t rough, but it certainly isn’t the gentle, reverent touch you’re used to. How did he get to you so fast, you have no idea, or why it feels like there’s nothing you can do to break free from his touch. The candlelight paints shadows that make it feel like he’s towering over you.

“I know you’re upset, my love,” he speaks slowly, not much of a difference from how he’s been talking the whole night but there is a barely noticeable strain to his voice that makes you reel in any attempts at pulling your hand away from him, “But what you’re about to do is playing dirty. And you know I’m more than capable of stooping to that level too.”

You swallow. Of course he is. And he’s not threatening you, you know, not yet. He only reminds you, you think, of the previous times where he didn’t play fair in way less serious situations, where even playful teasing ended up hurting you. Though naturally, it wounds him too to cause you pain. You don’t want to force his hand.

“I’m sorry,” you say, then quickly add - albeit softer: “For this, I mean.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I wouldn’t get the wrong idea,” he chuckles. Before he frees your hand, he brings it to his lips to kiss just above the ring.

Yet he doesn’t let you go. Instead of your hand, he now holds your waist. It’s grounding, both his embrace and his proximity. Maybe this whole argument getting so severe could be avoided if you talked like this. You can dream.

“It seems to me we won’t reach an agreement,” Ayato sighs.

“No,” you admit as much as you don’t wish to. Unresolved conflict only means repetition later on, in some form. “Not with the way things are.”

You let him wind his arm around your waist and bring you closer. You, too, embrace him, resting your head on his shoulder. The argument exhausted you.

“Then we both need to put in more work,” he hums, “And continue at a later time.”

Maybe. It’s the only thing you can do, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it. Perhaps you should go pray, there must be someone who could grant you both what you want without the other losing their chance. He’d laugh if you suggested it, though.

“I hate how efficient you are,” you let go of your final grievance for the night, making him chuckle.

“Years of experience, darling,” he reminds you, “With higher stakes - which of course doesn’t mean I’m calling our marriage insignificant.”

You only roll your eyes but nod. You know that’s not his intention. He’s right anyway, and to some extent you’re glad he can remain stable and unshakeable like this. Being able to always depend on him, that’s one of the reasons you married him in the first place, after all.

“But I must say,” he murmurs into your hair, “I’ve never been threatened so violently before.”

You laugh and shake your head.

“No sword, no polearm or a bow is as scary as seeing you without your ring, my dear,” he whispers, “Believe it or not.”

Baizhu

“What are you doing?” his voice cuts through the air. Amber eyes staring at you, wide and afraid, eyebrows furrowed and his lips twisted downwards.

You hold the ring in your palm, your gaze dropping to the band like you need to make sure you really did that. But you did and now Baizhu is crossing the room to cradle your hands in his. 

“What do you mean by this?” his chest is still heaving but at least his voice drops into something softer again. 

“We should stop,” you lick your lips, your attention is split between the warm ring and his cold hands, “We’re just talking in circles.”

He takes a deep breath, lets it go again. His touch is so careful, even though he keeps distance between you. His gaze slowly seems to be warming up too the longer you silently stare at each other.

“Life’s too fragile to keep fighting,” Baizhu murmurs. Tension still holds his body in its grip. At the same time he looks like he really wants to let go. 

“But this is really important to both of us,” you remind him, “Or we’d be better at making a compromise.”

He seems torn. Stuck between wanting to argue his point and dismissing the argument. It’d be easier to pretend nothing happened, but the core of the issue would just loom over your heads. He doesn’t come closer but his thumbs stroke the sides of your hands. 

“We shouldn’t be together right now,” he sighs eventually. You nod. The pain in his eyes reflects your own. 

“Stay here,” he suggests, cautiously, “I’ll go - but I’ll come back, okay?”

And so it’s agreed. You sit by the open window for the most part, taking deep breaths of the cool air in hopes it’ll clear your mind - it does. What it doesn’t do is magically give you a revelation as to what would be the perfect solution in this situation. Your anger ebbs and flows, even though it’s no longer directed primarily at your husband, more so at the circumstances.

And by the looks of it, Baizhu fares no better than you. He looks disheveled, as if he ran his hand through his hair the whole time he was out. Even his braid looks horrible, clearly having taken the most abuse. 

Baizhu kneels next to your chair, easily intertwining your hands once more when you offer. With his other hand he reaches up to cup your face. You’re tired, you’re angry and you’re sad. You let him touch you, leaning into the familiar comfort.

“I’m gonna take the couch today,” you inform him. There’s no malice in your voice, only the silent understanding passes between you - you both still need time.

“I should be the one-”

“Let me,” you shake your head. You push some of his hair away from his face. “You take the bed and I’ll put the ring back on.”

He huffs, incredulous, before his lips settle on a softer smile.

“That’s a strong bargaining chip, are you sure you want to use it this way?” his thumb strokes your cheek.

“Mhm,” you give him a weak smile too, “You already know I’m yours.”

He nods. His eyes fall to your lips before he, sadly, looks away. Now it’s your turn to make him face you with a gentle touch to his jaw. Your lips meet slowly, first a hesitant brush, then they melt together like it’s the first time. Baizhu soaks up the contact, drinking the reassurance from your lips. You think you could be convinced to forget everything, if only for the night.

“We’ll figure this out,” he promises, then he adds after some hesitation: “Together.”

And really, that’s all you’re asking. So you let him take your hand and guide you to the bedroom. Then you let him slide the ring back onto your finger.

Dottore

The ring slips off your finger to the very last digit, as if giving you time to reconsider. Dottore watches the action intently. Nonetheless, his words only stop once he’s finished his sentence - that, too, as if it was your chance at redemption. Despite the mask shielding his eyes, you can feel his gaze on you and swallow heavily. As passionate as he was about presenting his arguments, the energy is gone now, turned into cold tension. 

You hesitate, the ring still gingerly held between the fingers of your other hand. Dottore doesn’t move, tense and silent, observing your next step. He doesn’t say a word. And in the wordless face off, you understand - he would let you make this choice. He won’t say he wants you to stay and put the ring back on. Sometimes you have to do the work for both of you. Your ego is not more important than him. 

It takes effort to make a step forward. The fists at his side clench but he makes no move to stop you, his silence remains deafeningly loud. You walk on until you stand before him and offer him your hand, ring dangling on the tip of your finger. The mask allows him a lot of anonymity. He tilts his head, the lower half of his face offers no hints as to what’s going on inside his head. 

“That was very irrational,” you admit quietly, “A lapse of judgement.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” he scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. You don’t pull your hand back. “I have no use for an unwilling partner. I believe I made myself clear about only giving one chance.”

He waves you off, disinterested. Even so, he purposefully moves in a way that won’t remove the ring barely balanced at the tip of your finger. 

“Did I catch you off guard, doctor?” you ask, “Do we have no further use for each other? Is that what this is about?”

Dottore bristles. Perhaps it’s pointless, as he warned you it is, to attempt to persuade him that a relationship can work even if the parties have no vital need for each other.

“I need you,” you whisper, little more than a breath, “Why stall? If you had no need for me at all, you would take the ring back already.”

It might be a trick of the light, the moment it seems like he wants to say something. He doesn’t. Instead, he grabs your hand rather roughly and shoves the ring back down your finger. He doesn’t let go.

“So stubborn,” he growls, “Inefficient. If you just-” 

“You don’t need me for the experiment to progress,” you sigh, “Why get upset with me beyond the way in which I wronged you?”

His grip tightens. His jaw is set, which is about all you can read in his face. From the tilt of his mask and his fingers lingering by the band now securely around your finger, however, you can guess where he’s looking. 

“Have you never doubted your decision? I should be allowed to make the same mistake,” you reason. He scoffs.

“Mistake?” he mocks, then he huffs, “Perhaps.”

He swipes his thumb over the ring. His own rest hidden inside his breastpocket for safety. Not that it matters - it’s more important that his claim on you is clear for all to see. Above all - for him, Dottore himself, to see. As if the intricacies binding you together were not enough.

“I should find a more permanent way of branding you,” he mutters. No attempt to hide it. No need for the mask either - now you know well that’s looking at you, studying you.

You just smile.

Kaveh

You can barely see what you’re doing but you feel the empty space immediately, and perhaps more so the painful void inside your chest than the cold air on your finger.

The room goes deadly silent. Kaveh stares at you, speechless. His mouth opens and closes like fish out of water. A thousand different emotions flash across his face before they settle on anger. 

“Fine,” he scoffs, “Fine, go on then!”

He’s supposed to be furious. Why does he look like a cornered dog? Too scared to see through his fears. You blink and the anger turns into hurt, as if he wore nothing else on his face before. It breaks something inside of you. He’s not fully sober, he’s not thinking rationally, the whole fight got blown out of proportion-

You jump when something lands somewhere in front of you and rolls away. His own ring.

“I won’t hold you back!” he keeps screaming even as he falls to his knees. He looks like he can’t believe what he’s done, what he said. Your heart breaks but… this is just too much. And you’re in the wrong too, you have no right to be upset with him - you took off your ring first. But it’s too much. 

So you ignore him when he starts crawling forward to look for his ring. And because you’re hurting and emotions are high, you drop your ring too. The search should entertain him for long enough that you both cool down, you could take a walk- 

You don’t get the chance. And maybe you should’ve expected it. 

“Kaveh…” you sigh. 

Looking down, you see exactly what you thought you would. It doesn’t matter, your heart still clenches painfully. His eyes glisten with unshed moisture, his cheeks burn red. His face is twisted in agony, suffering which only you may free him from. He’s holding onto your leg like a lifeline, clawing at your clothes to make you stay. 

With another long exhale, your frustration dissipates into nothingness. Your hand falls to the top of his head, pushing his hair away from his face. He leans into your touch like a cat.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, looking much more sober now, “I’m so sorry. Please don’t go.”

Words would be pointless. They’re cheap and without substance Kaveh could latch onto. He rests his head against your thigh while you slowly keep combing your fingers through his hair.

“Let’s look for them together, hm?” you suggest eventually as you get down on the floor with him. He furiously nods his head.

It’s easier than you thought it’d be, with the light catching on the metal and guiding you to the discarded bands like the stars guide ships at the sea. Even so, Kaveh keeps looking your way as if still scared you’ll leave. The fear remains despite both rings resting in his palm, it lingers after you put them back on with shaky hands. Not long after you find yourself looking up at the ceiling.

“Please don’t leave,” Kaveh mumbles into the crook of your neck, lying on top of you after tackling you to the ground, “I’m sorry, I’m-”

“I’m sorry too,” you stop him from the inevitable self-depreciating rant. You hold him closer. “Let’s talk about it again after we get some sleep.”

It’s so easy to get him to agree. He always insisted that the bed you share is his only safe space, a sacred space he never brings work to. He sinks into the mattress with you, more like a snake than you ever imagined was possible for a human being. Sleep evades you. Kaveh holds you so tight it’s hard to breathe. You can’t say you mind, though.

Pantalone

The world narrows down to this moment - his office, his biting remarks, your voice hoarse after hours of this. Nothing else exists. Nothing beyond this room. And then Pantalone says another hurtful thing and you’ve just about had it. The ring tries to stick to your finger, truly it does. But you’re stubborn.

And then the click of safety being dislodged, the pull of a trigger - not enough to make the gun aimed in your direction shoot but close - rings through the room in the sudden deep silence.

You freeze, staring at him not quite in disbelief, but in cold clarity of what happened, the whole sequence of events. His usual mask is already back in place.

“Now now, be careful with that ring,” he says smiling. That calm, deceptive smile that fools nobody that ever made the mistake at displeasing him. Your palms start to sweat, goosebumps rise over your body. You think your body starts trembling. “It might be your only chance at survival should you leave, to sell it.”

Pantalone comes closer, quiet, slow strides. His hand cups your jaw to tilt your face towards him, holding you in place. Apparently, he needs to work on his temper and you need to work on your survival instinct.

“No pawnshop will buy it,” you argue. Because what else are you supposed to do than submit to him fully, to admit his full control over your life. You messed up, and Feofan is not a man easily placated. “And anyone foolish enough to want to buy it won’t have enough mora to do so.”

He smiles, looking almost proud as he leans closer to you. “And why is that?”

“Because only the smart survive, get rich and stay in business,” you answer, “And because they’re smart, they’ll recognize the ring. And they’ll know that you’d come for it. And that you’d make sure the word doesn’t get out and that there’s no witness.”

Pantalone looks most pleased, closing the distance between you to rub your noses together.

“Very good,” he murmurs, “So how about you make sure the ring is safe on your finger, hm?”

You don’t acknowledge the threat to you. That was only to be expected. You wounded him, or at least upset him, destabilized a favourable situation that is your relationship; naturally he’d lash out. You know better than most. The ring feels heavy on your finger. Less like a ball and chain locked around your ankle, more like a heavy winter coat around your shoulder.

Feofan can be incredibly sweet and attentive to those he cares for. He is. Unless given a reason not to be.

“There we go,” he whispers. Some of his smile is genuine, which is a relief.

He’s about to pull away but you’re quicker. It doesn’t matter much, whether he stays or not is entirely up to him. For a moment you don’t think he will, considering how coldly he regards your hand tugging on his sleeve. Then he indulges you, allowing you to even put his hands on your waist.

“I hurt you with my words,” he states, licking his lips. The haze of the argument must’ve left his mind. “I apologize.”

“I also apologize,” you sigh, “I shouldn’t have done that. You know how to be incredibly infuriating and I never know how to stop you and then act out of line.”

He chuckles, kissing the top of your head. “Yet you’re forgiven. A benevolent lover, am I not?”

You agree, with reluctance that remains privy only to you. Feofan knows how to be very benevolent, yet unapologetically cruel at the same time. You, at least, are protected by his fondness for you. Still you think you’d rather pamper him for a while, to make him forget your mistake.

Zhongli

You’d maybe prefer if Zhongli showed his emotions more. You’d perhaps appreciate more if he looked as worked up as you. This is going nowhere and it’s frustrating, he’s frustrating-

“Do it and you’ll have to face punishment,” he says, sternly, impatiently. Exactly the way you hoped he’d talk ever since your blood started boiling. Yet now you completely disregard his tone for sake of what he’s saying, or rather - those words with that tone make you forget what you were doing in the first place. 

He closes the distance between you swiftly and you all but shiver when he takes your hand into his. However, his mood changes rapidly the moment his fingers brush the ring halfway down your finger. Zhongli’s very good at hiding his emotions, but when he lets them show, they’re painfully clear. And now the remorse consumes him completely.

“I didn’t mean to upset you so,” he murmurs, stroking over the ring now safely in its usual place, “I apologize.”

You take a deep breath, exhale slowly. He means it, of course he does, sometimes your tempers just don’t match well. 

“I’m sorry too,” you mumble, then you swallow, “What did you mean earlier though, by the punishment…?”

You know better than to genuinely think Zhongli was suggesting what your body clearly seems to think, or maybe even hope for. 

“We signed the certificates,” he says, slowly, almost carefully, the tone you know well because that’s how he always says what he’s half-certain might be upsetting to you without fully comprehending why, “Marriage is basically a contr-”

“Zhongli, I swear, if you call our marriage a contract I am resigning from it,” you sigh. Exhausted by the revelation so much that you can’t even get mad, let alone think about what you were fighting about in the first place, you let your forehead fall against his shoulder. He freezes for a moment in a silent contemplation. 

“I don’t think of our relationship as a contractual obligation-”

“Zhongli, I know you think that’s comforting but please be quiet,” you stop him before he can get the rest of the explanation out.

“I love you,” he chuckles, settling for the safe option.

“I love you too,” you accept, a small smile blooming on your lips, “But don’t ever call our marriage that.”

He nods against your head, his arms wrapping around your waist. He holds you closer, rubbing circles into the small of your back. How easily does he undo you with his words - how easily you undo a god. With nothing but a simple mistake in the heights of emotion.

“I wasn’t planning to leave,” you mumble into his shoulder, “I was just so frustrated.”

He makes a small noise of acknowledgement. The longer he holds you, the more you feel like you’ve both calmed down. The golden light of the late afternoon casts a warm glow around the room.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he says, slowly, as if each word was hard to spell out, “I don’t like the idea of you leaving… our home, and me.”

His hand finds yours, squeezing, tracing the ring again. You have to appreciate he made the effort to not say breaking the contract. You reward him with a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“I don’t plan to,” you pull away enough to meet his eyes, “We swore until death do us apart, didn’t we? I’m keeping that promise.”

Dottore • He’s annoyed. There’s surely less dangerous ways of defending yourself, he could talk for hours about injuries and lasting effects that you can suffer from a physical altercation. He’s even more annoyed that you took off your ring. If you have to pummel someone, let them at least wear the signature of your ring. Both as a lasting memory and as a deterrent for anyone else who might think to goad you into a fight. Though Dottore might be disapproving, his eyes follow you. He won’t interfere, after all if you agree to partake, you can bear the consequences. Whether you win or lose, he wins - he gets to watch your violence with hungry eyes, humming in approval upon learning something new about you, and in the end, he gets the privilege to get under your skin. He keeps it clinical, however, he examines and treats you, saying little outside of what needs to be said. You have to ask to have the ring back - perhaps a punishment for taking it off in the first place.

Kaeya • Doomed if he does something, doomed if he doesn’t. He might tease you, warning that if you’re free to take off your ring, so is he - with all the freedom that comes with it. Whether it’s a joke or his best attempt at stopping you, that’s a mystery he himself has no clue about. It’s hot when you’re angry, it’s hotter when you take on someone with that fire in your eyes and that determination and drive. Yet there’s that little part of him that gnaws on the edge of his consciousness, the little part that’s asking what if he loses you. Sometimes tragedies happen, tragedies he might be helpless against - although whoever you’re fighting could hardly stand a chance against you, and subsequently him. Kaeya’s fist tightens around the ring. Of course, he doesn’t share his thoughts with you. No, he’ll wink at you and kiss you deeply, and he’ll hope some of his concern will make it through to you that way, hidden among lust and pride.

Kaveh • He chases after you with the ring in his hand, his feet faster than his head. You’ll win - and even if you don't, he won’t be ashamed of you! You don’t need to give the ring to him! Actually you should have the ring, it might help you knock the guy’s teeth out. Well, maybe not but he can dream. It’s what they deserve for making your temper flare up. He supports you loudly, embarrassingly loudly, and winces even louder whenever you get hit. He has to be held back from running to your rescue, which you absolutely don’t need. Kaveh insists he should carry you home afterwards, fussing over you with exaggerated worry. Refuses to give your ring back until he has you checked by a doctor. He’ll cling to you the whole time while chiding you for being irresponsible - only slipping up once or twice to compliment your technique.

Pantalone • He’d be offended if you didn’t take off your ring. It’s too valuable to get dirtied by the filthy blood of some nobody who managed to piss you off. He even pulls you in for a sweet kiss while you hand him the ring, and then he steps back and observes. Naturally you have to win. His presence, and your marriage, doesn’t allow the other guy any choice. If they lose, they lose. If they win, they die. (Pantalone of course wouldn’t allow your loss, he watches the fight unfold with a hand on his gun.) Your violence is most arousing to him; if there wasn’t a risk to your wellbeing, he could watch you like this all day. Controlled as always, he doesn’t let it show. Not until you’re alone again, if you’ve suffered no serious injuries, and only then does he ravish you. You don’t notice when he slips the ring back on your finger, but he runs his own fingers over it with extraordinary fondness later.

As for Lohen he was no better. He was more than aware that she got on your nerves and that’s what he enjoyed seeing—you writhing in jealousy as she was batting her lashes at him and asking for her to teach her. He wouldn’t necessarily initiate contact with her, but the fact that he kept in touch with her annoyed you.

Sure, it might be his dutiful task, but he clearly savored your moments of jealousy whenever he saw you rolling his eyes at her. Every single day, without a doubt, you’d complain to Lohen about her behavior towards him. The way she tugged at his sleeve whenever she needed help, whining that she’s only able to learn when he’s around or how she always tried to get as close as physically possible to him.

But he’d always tell you that there was no other girl in his life, other than you, and there’ll never be. Whenever you voiced your thoughts about his relationship with the rookie knight, he cooed sweet words of affirmation into your ears, telling you not to worry about such trivial matters.

It was hard to believe him at first. Granted, the more you came to know Lohen, the more mistrustful you were towards him, always needing him to prove his love for you. However, it wasn’t like Lohen despised it. In fact he was very willing to listen to everything you had to say and would make sure to fulfill your requests. Moreover, his jealousy even exceeded yours. He was aware about your whereabouts, your relationships, your belongings—everything—there wasn’t a single part in your life in which Lohen didn’t have control over.

Ironically, whenever you were approached by another person, Lohen would practically beg you to tell him that you still love him or give you the cold shoulder, displaying a distant resentment towards you, because you’ve “betrayed” him—there was no inbetween. 

When he did it was alright—justfied, as he’d say. He’s never gone this far to seek out the people that approached you to tell them to stay away from you (as far as you know of), however he made sure, you’d never see them again. So would it be wrong of you to do the same, and go a bit further?

Your last thread of patience snapped when she asked Lohen to meet him outside of the official training times to meet with her, so she could “learn” more from him, smiling all sly. 

All while you were standing next to him, making it apparent that you wanted to leave as you impatiently tugged at his sleeve. Truly, you expected him to decline, but he must’ve seen the grossed out expression you wore, which made him agree to it right away, and probably reveled in joy as you walked away in a fit of anger.

Her face flashes in your mind and you wince as you think back of her scared expression.Your body stiffens as you recall the way her body squirmed against your chest as you held her with a dagger to her throat.

If it weren’t for the way she clung to your arms, scratching against your skin as she was trying to resist your attempts to knock her out, you would’ve finished the job much sooner. Her screams for help still ring in your ears supported by the marks her nails left on your forearm. 

At that very moment, all moral sense left your body. She continued to scream and cry for help, like a cub left behind and howling after its mother. Before you knew it you flipped her around, pressing her back against your chest, and from your peripheral vision you could see the fear glimmering in her eyes. However, that didn't stop you from putting your gloved hands around her throat and pushing her down onto the muddied earth floor.

You pressed down her neck even harder and before you knew it she started uncontrollably coughing, choking on her breath as she stammered incoherent words. She did all of that while tears pricked at her eyes. You’ll give her credit where credit is due–she was difficult to deal with especially with how she fought you off but that only made you more insistent on continuing to put an end to her.

Caught in a trance, still having your hands wrapped around her throat, you failed to notice that the time had passed until her breath started to hitch and her body eventually fell still. Only then did realisation hit you–what you’ve done–you attempted to murder someone–you did this for Lohen. Hastily, you pressed your gloved fingers against her pulse point, and in the moment without really realising it may have worsened her injuries, still to your delight there was a faint beating and you let out an exasperated sigh.

Exhausted you collapse onto the floor, back now slumping against a tree as you look at the body in front of you. You could practically feel the guilt seeping through your body and altering your system, however beneath that guilt was something else—something quite darker. How you were feeling as of now wasn’t considered normal. Internally you should feel regretful and resentful towards yourself–you should be ridden with guilt and hand yourself in, but no—you felt guilty for not feeling guilty. 

Honestly, you’d wish that you could have an ounce of sympathy with her now as a last act of kindness. But rather it's the opposite—you don’t really feel anything, this feels more accomplished rather than dreadful. After all it was her who kept on provoking you, sneaking around Lohen and you and interrupting your guys’ time—she dug her grave herself—this is what she should’ve expected. 

With the remaining strength you had, you reach up and lean over her almost lifeless body, you discarded the brown wool gloves you found tucked in Lohen's drawer without any ceremony somewhere next to her—at least now she has a token from Lohen—before gently brushing loose strands of her hair out of her face. “Schlaf gut.” you whisper quietly, cradling her face once more before pressing your index- and middle finger to her eyelids and shutting them. 

“Sweet dreams.” 

—

Tired, you drag your feet over the cobblestone floor and force yourself to keep your eyes open so you don’t doze off. You walk home wonkily, clinging onto your forearm that's been scratched open–her nails really sunk into the flesh of your arm leaving nasty marks that you attempt to cover up with your sleeve. 

In the end you didn't manage to kill her—you couldn’t bring yourself to muder her. Why so? You’re not so sure either. It’s not like you had any time to think about it anyway, because before you could even fully comprehend the situation that had just played out in front of you, you had to flee the scene of crime, hearing as there were heavy steps accompanied with neighing, approaching you from a distance. 

When you finally stand in front of your door, you barely manage to keep your eyes open, much less your body that’s leaning with one shoulder against your front door. After all of this you just want to take a warm bath and lay down without any care in the world, what you did just now was a worry for later.

Lost in your thoughts and paying less attention to your surroundings, you continue to rummage through your pockets to search for your keys, not noticing that you leaned more of your body weight against your door and it opened with a loud creak.

Deep down you know better than this—you know you should question why your door was open in the first place. Recently more treasure hunters have taken an interest in Mondstadt hence you made sure that your door was locked every time you went out. Oddly enough, as you step further into the house nothing seems to be out of place. Your shoes were lined up properly, the dishes in the sink from this morning were tucked away neatly—everything was almost too perfect—that is until you noticed the open windows in the living room.

As if on cue the moonlight streams through the curtains and casts a light on the figure who hid themselves in your living room. There on your windowsill sits none other than Lohen with his legs crossed over each other. Knowing Lohen he most likely let himself in, picking at the lock of your door before prying it open and forcing his way inside. He stares out of the window with no care in the world, as he simultaneously plays with his dagger. As you walk closer, you notice that he’s not holding his dagger by the hilt—no, he’s throwing it up and down and catches the side of the blade.

Smoothly he jumps off the windowsill and you can feel your whole body freezing as you stop in your tracks, too shocked to react. A cold gust of wind rushes in the room, Lohen steps closer to you and just smiles, raising his eyebrows before directing his gaze to the clock cabinet. Naturally you follow and that’s when it hits you—the time; it’s already past midnight. All of a sudden Lohen’s dagger flies across the room, you gasp as it misses you only by a hair’s breadth; you feel the sharp edge of the blade grazing your face, before boring into the wall right next to the clock.

“Um diese späte Stunde zurückkommen.” He slowly draws out the words, making sure that each and every of them is etched into your brain. “Sag mal, weißt du nicht, welche Gefahr da draußen rum lauert?" He coos as he moves closer to you, he positions himself behind you and you feel his warm breath fanning over your nape. It’s warm, so warm that it sends shivers down your spine.

His presence makes you uneasy and you gulp as you feel him guiding his fingers up your body. Still, you don't dare to turn back or to meet his eyes, fearing that everything you did would now crumble away. “Ich musste ein paar Sachen erledigen.” You nod, but he notices it too—how you’re trying to convince yourself more than him. 

Lohen’s fingers move up your neck before finding your chin to tilt your head upwards, leaving you no choice but to face him. “Aha.” He hums as he studies your face, eyes drifting from your lips, to your ears before they eventually find your eyes and stay there.

“Coming back at this late hour.” / “Tell me, do you not know the dangers that are lurking outside?” / “I had some errands to run”

“Hm.” He eyes you with a look that tells you he’s up to no good. “What kind of errands?” Getting rid of garbage. The words lie on your tongue but you know better than to confess a murder. “You know, I just helped Barbara at the cathedral today.” 

He tuts in disapproval and shakes his head as he chuckles. “Barbara was helping out Jean today, silly. I saw her.” His laugh suddenly stops and looks up, a dark shadow cast over his eyes. “Lügst du mich gerade an?” Lohen asks and he quickly strips his fingers away from your face. “Lohen.” your eyebrows furrow in confusion and you whisper his name like a foreign concept, unsure if this is another cruel joke of his.

One of the qualities you value about Lohen is patience, he always listens to what you have to say, except when it comes to situations like these. “Verstehe.” He nods slowly and adverts his gaze away from you. “Du gehst mir fremd.” He states coldly as if it’s a fact, a law proven over and over evidenced by peoples effort. 

“Are you lying to me right now?” /  “I understand” / “You’re cheating on me.”

“Entschuldige?” you yell in disbelief, backing away from him. “Warum ist das das erste, wovon du ausgehst.” It’s already past the quiet hours, but you don’t care anymore, whether you scream, yell or shout at Lohen right now, because how could he accuse you of cheating? If someone was cheating it had to be him. “Sonst würdest du mich doch nicht anlügen.” He replies curtly, his ruby irises staring right through you.

“Excuse me?” / “Why’s that the first thing you think of?” / “Otherwise you wouldn’t lie to me.”

Anger drips from your mouth as you continue to scream at him. “You haven’t talked the entire day to me.” You point your index finger at him to make your point. “And now when you do the very first thing you do is declare me as a cheater?” You’re seriously dumbfounded. 

It was you who attempted to murder someone for him just so the two of you could be together all the time. Where your bodies would melt into one soul and are unable to live without one another. Lohen was everything to you—he’s your everything.

“Well, I was working.” He shrugs in simplicity and turns his head away from you. “Told you there's a ton of danger outside.” Suddenly he starts to walk around in the living room, the old floor tiles creaking from his steps. “I had a really stressful day at work today, dove. Not long before you came home the squad on patrol found a fatally wounded woman.” He elaborates as he walks over to the clock cabinet. “You should’ve seen her. It’s a miracle she was still alive.”

Lohen pulls his dagger out of the wall and admires the hole it left behind, as he mumbles about replacing the wall. However that was the least of your concerns right now, it couldn’t be, right? Still if they’d found her body there is absolutely no way it could be traced back to you, you assure yourself.

But no, Lohen had other plans. “At first the knights were unsure if they just misheard, but when the noises suddenly stopped they decided to check up on where they came from.” He begins, tucking the dagger back into his beltholder. “Luckily they came right on time.” 

The end—you thought this was where Lohen would stop. He’d warn you about the dangers outside and tell you that he was worried and that everything’s fine now because you have him. Although what you didn’t expect was for Lohen to pull out a pair of brown gloves and hold them up for you to see, thereby bursting your bubble. “It’s weird, don't you think?” He tilts his head to the side and asks. “These are the gloves given to rookies starting in the knights. The culprit must have been someone from the knights.”

Panic is written all over your face and you feel your head overheating as you try to come up with an excuse. “I mean she’s a rookie knight right, couldn’t those just be hers?” You suggest, hoping it would provide a somewhat reasonable excuse.

A small smile twitches at the corner of Lohen’s lips and the look in his eyes is something you can’t quite pinpoint—contentment wouldn’t describe it right. He hums and takes another look at the gloves. ”We found her gloves in her pockets, so no. And did you know? A while ago the gloves have been changed. They were claiming that they had been too itchy and the material was unsuitable for any activity.” Lohen practically starts to reminisce as he thinks back to his junior years in the knights. “The rookies get other ones now. So it must be someone who has been with us for a long time and had the old gloves.” Lohen crosses his arms and looks back, pretending that he’s thinking very hard.

“Oh and, how’d you know the victim was a rookie knight?” It’s in this exact moment where you realise that Lohen is catching on–if not having it figured it out already. All you could hope for is that your expression didn’t give away your surprise, you gave him a half-hearted smile to mask your turmoil of emotions. “Well, just a hunch and don’t you think it’s so nice that many young women apply to the knights now?” You put your hands behind your back to stop them from trembling before innocently tilting your head to the side and blinking at Lohen. “If you ask me it’s kinda refreshing seeing women in male dominated fields.”

He hums and looks away as he wipes off the dirt on his uniform. “But then again others could also become jealous of these rookie knights.” Lohen gives you a knowing look, one that says more than words ever could. “Are you implying I did it?” Negative thoughts consume you and you can’t help but start rambling. “Ich bitte dich Lohen, du weißt ich würde sowas niemals tun.” He doesn’t answer—you don’t give him any time to.

“I’m begging you Lohen, you know I’d never do something like that.”

“Ich meine, es ist deine Schuld.” You pride yourself in being a composed person, but when it comes to Lohen it’s the complete opposite. “Aber du weißt, dass ich sie nicht einfach so ignorieren kann.” He starts to explain himself but you cut him off. “Warum nicht?” you ask, voice quivering. "Wer ist dir wichtiger, ich oder sie?” 

“I mean it’s your fault” / “But you’re aware that I can’t just ignore her.” / “Why not?” / “Who’s more important to you, me or her?” 

Lohen opens his mouth to respond but you don’t let him. “You don't even love me” your voice breaks and you tear your eyes away from Lohen. “You’ve never loved me. Just admit it.” You murmur but loud enough for him to hear. “All you do is spend time with her and when I ask to get even a sliver of your attention you refuse.” Verbalizing your thoughts into words was worse than what you expected, because you could even finish your sentence tears started blurring your vision.

Lohen is quick to act and cups your face in both of his hands and looks at you with wide eyes. He’s probably disgusted—no, he must be shocked that you guessed his intentions right. “No, no, don't cry please. I was just teasing you.” He hushes you while brushing over your cheeks to wipe away your tears.

He continues to smother your face, even as you try to break away. “You never spend any time with me and when you do you just talk about her.” You sniffle and push him away. “You’re always with her. Always, always, always.” The repeated words linger in the air along with your staggered breath. “I feel like you have become distant. You no longer love me. Did you ever even love me?” You attack him with statements, seeing how far he’s willing to go, but also to finally confess everything you’ve been bottling up.

There’s a silence that stretches across the room. “Why don’t you just admit it.” You whisper quietly. “I’d rather have you tell me the truth than continue to lie to me.” Eventually you’re able to look at him, looking at his eyes and trying to find something—anything that proves that he still loves you.

Drowning in the pools of his eyes, you don’t notice the way Lohen moves forwards, closes his eyes and presses his lips against your forehead. The warmth of his lips is a reminder of his love—no—it’s a sign of his farewell and you freeze. Lohen is already backing away but you stand there glued to the floor, still processing. Everything around you starts turning black, something ugly comes up and crawls its way into your heart. 

Lohen hates you. He doesn’t love you anymore, in fact he’s never loved you. All the sweet things he’s said were lies. You’re nothing special to him, he treats everyone like that. He never planned anything serious with you to begin with. Seeing him with other people makes you realize that he’s not your Lohen, he was never yours. Lohen didn’t see anything in you other than a source of temporary fun—no, not even that, he just searched for someone to emotionally exploit off. 

Exactly, that’s it. Lohen isn’t the good guy you’ve always imagined in your head. No, he’s just a miserable man who tries to manipulate you. How could you have ever fallen for someone like him? What was it that Lohen did to you? Lohen has never loved you. Why did you delude yourself into thinking that he did?

“Let’s break up.” you suddenly say. The tears that were flowing from your eyes just now seem to have stopped as soon as the words left your mouth. “I dare you to repeat that.” Lohen demands of you enraged. “Du hast schon richtig gehört!” You yell back at him and just as the tears have stopped you feel them starting to spill again. “Du hast weder Zeit noch nimmst du dir Zeit für mich.” You start off. “Du hasst mich doch.” Your words are accompanied by a laugh and you continue. “Immer hältst du dich mit irgendwelchen anderen Mädchen auf, und du sagst nie was, wenn sie sich förmlich an dich schmiegen.” 

“You heard right!” / “You don’t have time for me nor do you make time for me” / “You hate me.” / "You're always with other girls  and you never say anything when they practically fawn all over you.” 

Lohen stares at you in disbelief, his once worried expression contorting into one of pure rage. “Don’t come at me with that bullshit.” He spits and moves closer to you that there's barely any space between the two of you, on instinct you step away, but Lohen grabs your wrist to stop you from moving and to keep you on the spot. “Don’t I show you my love enough?” He asks desperately, the corners of his mouth twitching as if to smile, laughing at how ridiculous this situation is.

“No.” You say sternly. “Get out of my sight.” Unfortunately for you, your words only seem to spur on Lohen’s anger. “You hate me and you know what? I hate you too, so just go away.” Frantically, you try to wiggle your arm out of Lohen grasp, however to no avail. “You don’t mean that.” He whispers under his breath, eyes narrowing down at you and inspecting your expression. “Doch.” Strong willed, you attempt to push through, but Lohen doesn’t accept that as an answer. “Nein, tust du nicht.” He’s right you don’t. “Get lost.” 

“Yes” / “No, you don’t” 

This seems to do it for Lohen because he yanks you by your wrist and you’re certain that his touch will leave a mark. “Wen verarscht du hier eigentlich?” All of a sudden, Lohen starts to laugh—hysterically so, as if he’s overwhelmed and this is his last resort. “You’re gonna do what I say, doesn’t matter if you want to or not.” He declares and forces you to abide by it. “But we both know that you don’t want to leave.” Lohen whispers all knowingly before leaning in to kiss you, he lets go of your wrist and presses his hands on your waist.

“Who do you think you’re fooling?”

The kiss is messy and you can feel his tongue nudging at your teeth, asking for permission to enter and you let him. His tongue roams inside the cavern of your mouth and you can’t help but make embarrassing noises against his mouth. Suddenly he leaves your mouth and his tongue swipes across the tear stained marks left on your skin. You squirm to get away from him, but he doesn’t let you. 

If this continues you know you really won’t be able to stop.

Feeling the wet muscle on your face filled you with a mix of shame, disgust but also a certain enjoyment and you know you couldn’t let this go on. Leave—that was your top priority. You can’t give in, Lohen is manipulating you again, don’t fall for the same trick twice. Infuriated, you slap Lohen across the face and the noise echoes throughout the room as you shove him away by the chest.

The shock in Lohen’s eyes is priceless, he’s baffled. You catch your breath, heavily exhaling and so does Lohen before wiping his mouth with the back of his hands. Even without saying a word you know what he’s about to do next, so why is it that you can’t move? This time Lohen grabs both of your wrists and holds them above your head so you won’t be able to wiggle away again. You stare at him through fiery eyes and scratch his hands with your nails, but your plan backfires,because firstly, he doesn’t budge and secondly his desire to ruin you just became stronger. Lohen kisses you—once again, you let him. You can feel his smirk against your lips as he pries his tongue into your mouth and continues to aggressively kiss you. Not allowing him to take the lead, you bite down on his lower lip and the sound Lohen makes is music to your ears, fueling you to keep on biting until you’re hit with the metallic taste of blood.

What are you thinking about? Is this what love is supposed to feel like? Well, how are you supposed to know you’ve never known anything or anyone else other than Lohen. But this isn't normal. Normal people don’t kiss a person who’s manipulated them into loving them.

It’s as if someone rewinded time, because the same scene plays out again.You push Lohen away at his chest once more, shaking your head and he heaves. “We were enjoying ourselves just now.” He speaks, as if trying to convince you. “What happened?” He asks, voice shaking as his fingers press into the flesh of your skin. “Did you not like it?” Lohen’s eyes widened. “I can also start with a different approach, just tell me what you want. I’ll do it” Before you know it, there are tears brimming in his eyes and this time it’s you who’s taken aback. This can’t be real.

“I love you. I really love you. You’re the only girl for me.” There’s tears running down both of your faces now and you’re too shocked to even say anything to him. Something like this has never happened, this shouldn’t be happening you think. Without much thinking you let Lohen take your hand and guide it to his face before he nuzzles his cheek into the palm of your hand. “N..no Lohen.” You stutter, the words stuck in your throat. “I know you’re just coercing me. Stop it.” You scream and pull back your hand. “But it’s working isn’t it?” Lohen smiles before wiping away the tears, although some still cling onto his lashes.

The ticking of the clock makes you feel uneasy—the longer you go on without saying anything the more Lohen will take it as a sign. “No, Lohen, you seriously need to leave. Just go.” You urge him and he just stands there with an expression that's hard to read. 

Of course you don’t want him to go—you want him to stay. Why is it unhealthy to just rely on each other? You’re fine with it. Lohen is your world, but maybe that’s the problem. 

“I know that you don’t want me to leave. I love you therefore I know you.” He tells you and you can’t help but hold back a sniffle. Why does he have to make this harder than it already is? “Lohen, I told you we’d break up. We’re not together anymore so fuck off.” You declare bluntly, but you know that your eyes betray you. “No, I never agreed to breaking up.” Lohen exclaims in disbelief. “Well, too bad because I no longer want to be in a relationship with you, okay?” Whenever you and Lohen fought, you always needed to have the last word and Lohen would let you have it, because he knew that it made you gain a sense of control for a situation you didn’t plan.

But with Lohen you never know what to expect. There’s a pregnant pause and Lohen exhales. “If you leave me I’m going to kill myself.” That did it for you. You gave him so many chances to leave before it got to this point, but Lohen just couldn’t listen, could he? “Do it then. I don’t care. I hate you.” You challenge him, but it’s Lohen and Lohen never backs out from a challenge.

Upon not seeing you hesitating or showing much reaction, you can practically tell how irritated Lohen has become. Even if he doesn’t make it as obvious as you do, there are still signs. One of them is doing something impulsive, if not entirely reckless. The dagger he stored in his belt holder is in his hand again, only this time isn’t he just playing around with it. No, he’s putting it against his throat, the tip of the blade barely touching his skin.

“Tell me you love me. That you don't mean any of this” He starts to push the tip of the dagger into his skin slowly. “Youre just bluffing.” You snort and roll your eyes. “Am I?” Lohen starts to drag the tip over his skin and a streak of red comes to life. It starts off a small slit but the more you look at it the more blood comes out. He positions his dagger at another spot on his throat again and you start panicking. “No, no, Lohen, stop it!” You yell, taking the dagger from his hand and throwing it somewhere down the floor. 

The blood continues to flow and you press your sleeve against it for the material to soak up the blood. “Tell me you love me.” He whispers like a little kid making a wish that’s only for a certain pair of ears to hear. “Ther’s no one else for me.” Lohen starts off as he presses a kiss into the crown of your head. “None of the other girls could ever compare to you, so tell me that you love me too.” You don’t answer and only look up at him with a look that tells him more than enough. “It’s not working out, Lohen, okay? Just leave please and never come back.” You plead, you weren’t able to fulfill one last act of kindness for someone, but you hope that Lohen will for you.

Lohen doesn’t say anything as he removes himself from your embrace nor does he look back once. He doesn’t tell you goodbye. No nothing and maybe that’s the best farewell you could’ve asked for and the one you deserved. 

END NOTE: “I'm scared youre gonna abandon me so ill abandon you first.” Reader and Lohen probably + feli (me) too hahahahahahahah — call it a self insert atp 

Every cry that escaped you would make his jaw clench tighter, his voice remaining firm only because he knew you needed something steady to hold onto.

The moment your struggling suddenly ceased and your body went frighteningly limp against him, his heart would sink. He'd lift your face with bloodstained hands, calling your name more urgently than before, gently patting your cheek whenever your eyes threatened to close.

Your cries gradually dissolved into strained uneven breaths, your trembling fingers weakly clutching at the fabric over Lohen’s chest as though it were the only thing keeping you grounded. The grip lasted only a few moments before your strength slowly gave way, your head beginning to slip.

Lohen immediately tightened the arm supporting your back, drawing you more securely against his chest while his other hand remained firmly pressed over your wound, refusing to ease the pressure for even a moment despite the blood steadily soaking through his glove.

“Hey… hey, look at me.” His voice cracked despite every effort to steady it as he searched your face, desperately willing your eyes to stay on his. “It’ll be okay, everything’s going to be okay. Just𑁋 just stay with me, alright?” He pleaded, “you’re going to yell at me later for worrying this much and you’ll be perfectly fine, so don’t you dare leave before you get the chance.”

“Lohen…” Your breathing quivered as you slowly lifted your eyes to meet his, though they struggled to remain focused. Seeing the light in them slowly begin to fade, Lohen leaned forward until his forehead rested gently against yours, his eyes squeezing shut for the briefest moment as though the closeness alone could somehow keep you from slipping away. “No… no no no.” His breathing became increasingly uneven, his composure finally beginning to fracture as panic crept unmistakably into his voice. “No, please…” His hold around you tightened ever so slightly, “...don’t make this the last time I get to hold you.”

── ( 𝒌. ) kinich's first instinct would be to stabilize you, his movements swift and deliberate despite the chaos around him. He'd support your back against his chest to keep unnecessary movement to a minimum while applying pressure to the injury with practiced precision. The louder your cries became, the quieter his own voice would grow, speaking in short, steady sentences meant to keep you grounded.

Ajaw hovered anxiously at Kinich’s shoulder. “Hey, human… quit lying there and get up already𑁋!” 

You let out one last strained gasp before the fight slowly left your body, your muscles relaxing heavily against him in a way that made Kinich’s heart sink. “No,” he breathed, the word escaping before he could stop it. One hand immediately rose to steady your face, his thumb brushing across your cheek as he gently turned your gaze toward him, refusing to let your eyes drift. “Stay with me.” His voice remained low, but the urgency beneath it was impossible to miss. “Come on… keep looking at me.” His fingers tightened around your body, just enough for you to feel them, grounding you in the only way he still could while firmly pressing against your wound. 

“That’s it.” He swallowed hard, his breathing growing noticeably uneven as your eyelids continued to drop. “Just… keep breathing. One more breath.” He searched your face desperately, as though willing you to answer him through nothing more than his own determination. For once, Ajaw didn’t have a sarcastic remark to make, his usual complaints swallowed by an uneasy silence as he watched Kinich desperately trying to keep you conscious.

“You once told me I’d always find my way back…” His voice falteredbarely above a whisper. “...Don’t make me learn how to do that without you.”

── ( 𝒍. ) lyney would spend the first several moments convincing both you and himself that everything would be alright, smiling through trembling hands as he desperately tried to comfort you while pressing desperately against the wound. The cheerful performer who always knew exactly what to say would disappear, replaced by someone desperately searching your face for any sign that you were still with him.

The world seemed to shrink until there was nothing left but the two of you. He held you close, one arm wrapped securely around your back as though he could somehow shield you from everything that had already happened, his other hand resurfacing to leave your side despite the frantic tremor running through his fingers. He searched your face and over, desperately looking for reassurance in the smallest movement, as if any of them could convince him this would still end the way he wanted. 

“Hey, stay with me okay?” His voice was quiet at first, almost impossibly gentle. “It’s alright… you’re alright.” He repeated the words almost instinctively, not because he knew they were true, but because saying anything else felt unthinkable. His hand found your cheek, carefully brushing loose strands of hair away before cupping your face with a tenderness that contrasted painfully with the urgency in his eyes. Every few seconds his gaze darted toward the area around him, listening for footsteps that never seemed to come quickly enough before immediately returning to you. “People are coming,” he whispered, forcing a small smile that trembled at its edges. “Lynette will be here any second, we just have to wait a little longer.”

“It hurts…” You murmured, genuine panic flashed across his face. “I know,” he answered immediately, his words tumbling over one another. “I know, I know… just breathe for me, okay? That’s all you have to do.”

He leaned forward until his forehead rested lightly against yours, closing his eyes only long enough to steady the sharp, uneven rhythm of his own breathing. 

“It’s okay… It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay…” The phrase became less of a reassurance and more of desperation, something he clung to as though it alone could hold the moment together. Between repetition, he swallowed hard, trying to force the rising panic back down before it reached his voice.

Then he felt your weight change.

His eyes opened immediately, you had gone frighteningly still. “No…” The word escaped him, he searched your face in growing disbelief, gently brushing his thumb across your cheek as though you might respond to the familiar touch. “No… no, look at me.”

His breathing lost all rhythm, “please… don’t do this.” For a heartbreak he simply stared, unable to accept the silence that had settled between his words. Then his head snapped toward the area.

“Help!” The cry echoed far louder than he’d intended, “Someone, please𑁋!” His voice broke completely, cracking beneath the weight of terror. His voice barely resembled his own anymore.

When no immediate answer came, he looked back at you, pulling you closer until there was scarcely any distance left between you. His forehead rested against yours again, his shoulders trembling as he struggled to breathe through the panic threatening to overwhelm him. “I’m sorry…” His shoulders shook. “I’m so, so sorry…” The apology came out in little more than a whisper, a sob caught in his throat. “I was supposed to protect you.” His arms tightened around you, holding you as though refusing to let the world take you away.

Now, his words are so absurd that you can’t help but laugh through the swirling frustration. The ring stays on your finger because you don’t even have the strength to remove it.

Cyno chuckles too, carefully putting his hand on the small of your back to guide you out of the house. You can’t protest, still laughing, as if that was the outlet for your emotions that you needed - too proud and fired up to cry instead. Or maybe it was the cool night air, quenching the fire in your lungs and chilling your heated skin.

“Better?” he asks. You realize he’s patting your back. 

“Yeah,” you clear your throat, “Better.”

“Now, wanna tell me what that was about?” he asks, and honestly he’d be right to sound more irritated than he does. Because he just sounds confused and concerned instead of angry. 

“I was pissed off,” you admit, “And then you came and started talking about everything that already set me off earlier - and I still haven’t figured anything out. And then you argued back and- yeah.”

“Ah, I see,” he hums as he sits down, patting the space next to him for you to join him. You do. “You know you have a mouth, and you can tell me to shut up instead of starting a fight.”

Some part of you is set ablaze again, but you’ve run out of fuel.

“I know,” you sigh. You sway, drained both physically and emotionally, and lay your head on his shoulder. He just exhales with fond exasperation and leans his head against yours. Your feet dig into the cooling sand. 

“Never take off your ring again,” he tells, orders, you, “Not even when showering. You’ve lost your privileges.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” you chuckle. He nudges your side with his elbow. “And I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven - for now. Just tell me if something’s bothering you next time,” he chides again, “We’ve made a sacred promise to each other. Don’t break it.” 

Your hand settles atop his thigh, soon covered by his palm. The night is slowly growing chilly, but with your body pressed into his side it’s just what you need to let the tension uncoil where it lies waiting inside your body. And slowly you begin to talk as you should’ve done in the first place.

Cyno listens, he asks and leads when you’re getting too worked up and tangled in your own words. Like he promised, you figure it out together. And at the end of the day, when you finally doze off against his shoulder, he picks you up and carries you inside.

Flins

His words die in his throat, he raises his hand as if to stop you, but you’re too far to reach. Physically, at least, he hopes that the feeling of disconnect and distance between your hearts is only an illusion created by the argument that spiraled out of control.

“Please,” he says, voice quiet and calm, “Don’t leave me. Not you.”

You, too, stop. Fingers brush the ring on your finger as you consider what you were about to do. Flins comes closer, slowly, then circles his arms around you, pulling you to his chest. You let him, your resolve to keep arguing your point broken upon hearing his voice.

“That’s not fair,” he murmurs into your hair, “That’s a line that shouldn’t be crossed.”

You nod weakly, finally letting your arms fall and wrap around his shoulders too. He doesn’t seem to want to let go anytime soon, and you’re grateful. It doesn’t fix anything, not the sadness radiating off of him, not the mournful silence that settled over the room. Still, for now, to feel his chest expand and press against yours, your breaths syncing, feels healing.

“I’m sorry, Kyryll,” you whisper, turning your face towards his, “I really shouldn’t have done that.”

“There was a time where I’d assume you are leaving me,” he confesses in a low voice, “Nothing would persuade me that you are not.”

You know it well. You’ve been there, after all, every step of the way - from how wary he was about getting close to you, then to at least being open to the idea but still reluctant, knowing he might not see you for weeks or months, all at the whim of the headquarters. But you never meant to stop him, accepting of the fact that duty comes first. And though you’ve pushed through the obstacles, you know well that arguments still take a toll on him, knowing he could be called to leave for a long time at any moment, even before you can make up.

“Let’s sleep on it, alright? We can talk over breakfast,” you suggest, “Or just shelf the argument. It’s not worth… this.”

“Can we do that?” he asks, unsure, “Is that allowed?”

You chuckle, and you think he must smile too, only briefly - the same way he only squeezes you tighter for a moment. 

“We make the rules, don’t we?” you think aloud.

“Then I suggest we make it a rule neither of us tries to take off our ring unless our life depends on it,” he pulls away, looking at you with a strangely serious expression that you didn’t expect, “I declare it a rule. As a compensation for what you’ve done.”

You smile, a little relieved. 

“Of course,” you agree, “So you forgive me? I promise I’ll obey your new rule perfectly.”

He makes a thoughtful sound. 

“Maybe I should confiscate it until I’m sure you’ve learned how to behave,” Flins considers, leaning against you with his full body weight as if lost deep in thought. You struggle to keep both of you upright. 

“People will talk,” you remind him gently, “If you need a public apology, I’m more than willing to give it to you without losing my ring and without being interrogated by every nosy old lady in our vicinity.”

He laughs into your hair but shakes his head. At least he can be reasonable. Finally he pulls away to look at you. The hurt on his face softened but its traces still linger. Somehow it feels reassuring that the centuries of his life have not stripped him of emotion, of care.

“I better hear what a wonderful husband you have next time they see me,” he smiles.

“I always tell them,” you promise, “No husband could compare.”

Illuga

“You don’t hurt people you love just because you get upset,” he whispers, yet somehow his voice sounds louder than it did the whole night. 

You look down, at the back of your hand, at the ring halfway down your finger, and open your mouth before realizing you have no idea what to say. What can you say? When you look up, Illuga looks heartbroken. Angry, too. You see the nervous twitch of his hands, the buzzing, anxious whirlwind of energy inside of him. So it’s not a surprise when he storms out into the night with nothing but his coat and his lantern. 

You sit down, the strength in your knees suddenly gone. Was it really worth it? You frown as you recount the events of the evening. Although you can’t say you’re being very efficient. Your mind stutters whenever you remember how calm he’s been through the whole thing, even though he must’ve been uncomfortable and upset too. You sigh. Hopefully he’ll return soon. As used to it as he is, as strong as he is, nothing is ever certain and the nights are long and dangerous. It hurts to remember how reverent Illuga acts whenever he has to leave on a mission, compared to the cold - although understandable - abandonment just now. 

It’s infuriating that you can’t even follow after him - where would you start your search? No, it’s better to just wait, although you can’t seem to be able to just sit and do nothing. And even walking to the window is better than doing nothing at all. Walking? Running. You see a flash of light. 

The flash is a glow of a lantern, circling, and you pace inside the house, running from window to window, one circle, second one, third - then you crack. 

You barely open the door an inch before Illuga’s there, scowling at you. “What are you doing?”

“Please come inside,” you sigh, “I’m sorry. I was wrong and I shouldn’t have done that.”

He hesitates, but his shoulders drop, the lantern hangs by his side. 

“I didn’t want you to worry,” he says.

“Thank you,” you whisper, taking a gamble and reaching for his hand. He lets you, smiling softly at the spark of light that bounces off the bands on your intertwined fingers. “If you need air, I can handle it if you stay like this. But I’d love it if we could talk inside.”

He follows after you, even if he slowly pulls his hand back as you reach the kitchen. It hurts, but you suppose it’s fair. 

“I always think of you before every fight,” he confesses, nothing new, but it makes your heart ache, “Who would I return to if you left?”

“That’s not what- I’m sorry,” you sigh again. There’s a painful lump in your throat that you try to ignore. 

“Just remember that if you ever feel like doing it again,” Illuga begs, quietly. 

Of course you won’t. Finally he comes closer, if only because he puts some water on the stove to boil and needs to stand beside you to do so. He lingers even after the task is done, however. His fingers slowly intertwine with yours again despite the silence stretching on. 

You don’t know what to say or do next, all you do is look nervously at him, but he doesn’t seem to be in the mood to talk either. So you just help him make the tea and sit down with him to drink it before you retire to bed, together, facing each other, even if no words are exchanged, even if all you do is hold hands. Illuga gives you a small squeeze, a reassurance he’ll be okay, eventually. That’s good enough for you. 

Lohen

Your fingers only graze your ring. The briefest of touch of your fingertips against the band that you never manage to get a grip on. 

Lohen’s already snatched your wrist and is dragging you towards his desk. You’re no match for his strength. He pulls you along like a ragdoll with no regard for your panicked gasp or nails clawing at his glove. In all honesty, you think for a second that it only excites him further. 

He roughly shoves you against the desk, traps you between the surface and his body. His hand shoots out for something while his other holds the hand with your finger steady. Before you can collect yourself and resume protests, you feel the bite of a cold metal close around your skin. Your eyes fly towards what he’s doing. The device is familiar, you’ve seen it used before. You know it can cut through bone like a hot knife through butter.

“You’ve evened the odds,” you say, voice calmer than you feel.

It’s a lie, too. As much as you might value your finger, it’s not comparable to what he’d be losing.

“Do you think that’s what I’m doing?” he growls against your ear. His voice sounds frenzied, smirk loud in his every word. The blade doesn’t cut into your skin. Obviously he’s not being reckless.

“In part,” you hum. As if a bucket of cold water was poured over you, your earlier anger has all but dissipated.

“If I add sliiiightly more pressure you lose the finger-”

“And I’ll never take another husband,” you add with a small smile, “Yes.”

Utterly predictable. You feel him bristle. Naturally he wouldn’t say that, but what is Lohen if not a possessive lover?

“How could I after my first betrayed me in this way?” you continue, “After I was marked irreversibly for my mistake and yet still cast aside?”

Lohen falls silent. Calculating? Surely not. Poison might or might not still be coating his tongue, ready to lash out because after all, he’s been wronged. Perhaps more than you’ve been during your clash, perhaps less than you’re being slighted now. 

“I was about to act on emotions, and it was a disappointing reaction,” you continue, “I apologize. In the heat of the moment I forgot certain rituals are sacred to you as well.”

For a long moment, you’re stuck at an impasse. Eventually, though, he deflates behind you, his arms moving to wrap around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder. 

“You’re no fun,” he grumbles, “And the safety is on.”

Safety? He demonstrates - no matter how strong he pushes, you don’t lose the finger.

“You’re full of surprises,” you sigh, leaning back into him, “I never thought you’d have any use for measures like that.”

He giggles, kissing your cheek. His arms remain tightly wound around you. “I didn’t before. But I have since acquired a liability that needs to be taught a lesson sometimes.”

“Liability? Ouch,” you scoff.

He just shrugs. Though you suppose he’s not exactly wrong - it goes both ways, after all. Liability to each other with your actions, liability to each other due to your position. Even if you doubt anyone would believe they’d get under Lohen’s skin through you or stupid enough to try to threaten his wellbeing to get back at you. 

“Next time, there will be no safety,” he warns suddenly. His voice dropped ten degrees since he last spoke. It sends a shiver down your spine.

“There will be no next time,” you promise, “Regardless of what you just said.”

“Good,” and he’s back to his cheerful self and pecks your cheek, “You learn quickly, that’s why you’re mine.”

You roll your eyes. You did know what you were getting into, though, so you suppose you have no right to complain anyway.

Neuvillette

And suddenly you could hear a pin drop. The world has stopped for a moment in your bedroom, yet it keeps turning without mercy. 

Neuvillette’s eyes are wide, and it’s not just them - his entire body betrays how shaken he feels. His entire line of sight has narrowed to where your ring is held between your fingers instead of being worn on one of them. 

“What does it mean?” he asks, his breathing trembling, voice quiet and unsteady, “What-”

He wants to take a step forward, it almost looks like he’ll fall forward but he doesn’t, instead he forces himself to stay in place. Although trembling, he chooses to stay as if the smallest of his actions might make you leave and leave the ring behind.

Watching him makes you forget your feelings, drained into nothingness. Your own hands start to shake, you, too, start to second guess yourself. More so when you take a step towards him and he draws back, as if he couldn’t fathom anything but a catastrophic scenario. 

“Love, it’s okay,” you whisper, trying to coax him into allowing you to approach him without fear. His eyes finally look up to search your face for something. The second, third, all the following steps are easier. By the time you’re within his reach, the ring is back on your finger, not like it changes anything.

“Why would you do that?” he asks, a pained whisper, “What did you want to say by it?”

You shake your head, slowly erasing the space between you, slotting yourself against his body, embracing him. 

“I’m sorry, mon amour,” you murmur into his shoulder. His hands hover over your body without quite touching you. “I just got so upset I couldn’t think straight.”

Finally - contact. Like you’re the one who needs comfort, and you do - just not as much as the Iudex shivering in your arms. 

“What happened?” he murmurs, “You’ve never done this. I thought we were just discussing an issue.”

You can only sigh fondly.

“This isn’t the court, Neuvillette,” you say, rubbing soothing circles on his back, “I need you to hear me out without evidence and without questioning me.”

“I didn’t realize I was upsetting you,” he admits as he pulls you closer, “Not to this extent.”

You know. The intricacies of intimate relationships are still a little lost on him, and that’s fine. That’s fine as long as you’re the one who goes briefly insane. You have no idea what you’d do to placate a dragon should he get stubborn. 

“Did you want to leave? And,” he hesitates, his voice breaking, “Dissolve our marriage?”

“I didn’t,” you reassure him, but you can’t look into his eyes - not with how stubbornly he refuses to let you put distance between you.

“I can’t lose you,” he confesses quietly, “Scream at me. Be angry with me. Talk to me.”

You chuckle. You can’t help it. To make up for the slight, you hug him tighter.

“How could I leave? I’d get soaked,” you mumble. Biting your tongue before you can laugh again, you listen to the indignant sound he makes.

“How can you joke now?” he grumbles. Still holding you a prisoner in his arms, still squeezing you with every single of your movements.

“It’s alright,” you try to reassure him, “I’m not going anywhere. We’re not arguing anymore.”

He hums while clearly not listening much to your words. Maybe your fears were justified, maybe you did bring out the draconic stubbornness in him. Which is fine. It’s fine as long as he wants you to stay instead of insisting you leave.

Tighnari

“Okay - pause, pause,” Tighnari’s demeanor switches in an instant. The moment you see his ears flatten against his head and his tail frozen stiff behind him, you can’t help but feel guilty. You might’ve overreacted, just a little bit. “I see you, I hear you, let’s take a step back.”

He offers you a careful half-smile as he guides you to sit down. For now, he avoids touching you, even though you see the nervous twitch of his fingers, the urge to do so and reassure himself you’re okay. He kneels on the floor in front of you, offering his hands for you to take. You hesitate for a bit, but eventually sigh and slip your hands into his.

“There we go,” he murmurs, “What was it?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. Because you truly don’t. Maybe it was everything - the late hour, your empty stomach, him making sense, him breathing wrong, just a cocktail for disaster. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think this far ahead.”

He pats your knee.

“I’m sorry too, I pushed too hard,” he sighs, “Still, I’m glad you changed your mind.”

You look down at the ring on your finger and then raise your eyes back to meet his. Giving him a careful smile, you squeeze his hands. You shared the silence, both relieved that your home is back to how it’s supposed to be. Although, some of the tension still remains woven into your shoulders. 

It was so rare, after all. Any kind of an argument with Tighnari, especially a heated one like this. You pull on his arm to make him get up and sit next to you, slipping easily into his hug when he sneaks an arm around your shoulders. He rocks you from side to side, gently, until your heartbeat finally settles. 

“I wasn’t thinking straight,” you finally say, “I don’t think I felt myself taking the ring off at all.”

“I want you to know there’s plenty of sources I could get a really sticky resin from,” he hums, “Don’t make me glue it to your finger.”

You have no idea if his intention was to sound threatening, all you know is that if so, he failed miserably. But that’s also good. Your Tighnari is gentle, after all. Scary only whenever you’re in danger, never towards you.

“Did you mean that?” you ask, “When you said that thing about-”

“No,” he shakes his head, almost as if he doesn’t want to hear his words repeated to him, “I just got a little frustrated too.”

“Hmm, that’s a first,” you joke, “And last, I hope.”

Tighnari laughs too, his ears finally slowly relaxing and unsticking themselves from his skull. His tail lands in your lap like a warm blanket, like yet another appendage that’s supposed to stop you from leaving. 

“But if that was your way of telling me you don’t like the ring-”

“Nari…” you groan, rolling your eyes when he bites his lip to stop himself from laughing again, “But if that’s your way of asking for a vow renewal, I’m not against it.”

“It wasn’t that big of a fight, was it?” he teases, but soon his smile softens, “We can do it - we should do it sometime in the future.”

You nod in agreement. It’s too soon now but just the thought of perhaps exchanging vows again, perhaps even adding another ring to seal those vows, makes butterflies flutter in your stomach. More than that, however, the thought of spending the years leading up to it with Tighnari, and years following after too. 

“I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to place a kiss on his cheek.

“And I love you,” he returns the gesture. 

The look in his eyes betrays him. He was thinking the same.

Wriothesley

“-oh come on, please don’t do that,” he groans, running his hands over his face. Still, he steps back, giving you the space you needed, that you asked for. He backs himself into the wall, sliding against it until he sits on the floor. 

The room falls silent, safe for the sound of your breathing. You worry your lip between your teeth, allowing yourself time to calm down. Deep inhale, hold, deep exhale. A routine until you feel in control enough to not say anything you’d regret later.

“Wriothesley?” you call out to him. He still sits with his back against the wall, his face is still covered by his hands. “Baby? Look at me?” 

“I’m not looking until you put the ring back on,” he says, and he couldn’t sound more like a kicked dog if he was one.

“How about you put it on me, hm?” you try as you sit down in front of him, nudging your knee against his. 

Finally he lifts his head. You’ve never seen him more miserable than right now, looking at the ring in your palm. He takes your hand, brings it to his lips after picking up the ring and kisses your knuckles one by one. You can only sigh affectionately and run your hand through his hair.

It’s a quick, yet gentle affair, him putting the ring back on your finger. He keeps your other hand hostage, cradling it to his cheek.

“Just tell me next time,” he pleads, “Warn a guy. I don’t know, push me away if I don’t listen. Hit me.”

You sigh. You have a half a mind to take him up on that, just to shut him up before he can come up with any more stupid ideas. 

“I’m not gonna hit you, Wriothesley,” you inform him, “But I would like it if you could listen when I tell you I need space.”

“You were about to leave,” he pouts again, “We promised to never walk away when we’re mad.”

“Yeah, that’s on me,” you admit.

“I should’ve listened anyway - we’re even?” he suggests, full of hope. You smile and nod.

“My offense was worse,” you tease, “I’m getting off lightly.”

“You know what, if you’re keeping that ring on your finger I think I can live with not putting you on trial,” Wriothesley leans closer and steals a kiss, “See how nice I am?”

“The nicest,” you roll your eyes. 

He grins, finally more relaxed. Yet you’re not allowed to pull your hand back, still cupping his cheek. He holds your hand there like his life depends on it, contrary to his carefree smile. So you huff and put your hand on his other cheek too, leaning over him when he parts his knees to make space for you.

Icy blue eyes watch you, tempt you to get closer, flicking down to your lips as if you needed more hints. You kiss him slowly, thumbs stroking his cheeks while his hand cups the back of your neck and holds you close, your foreheads resting against each other.

“I’m already in jail for my crime,” you remind him playfully, “Your domain. They won’t let me go without your permission.”

He chuckles too, capturing your lips one more time. He rubs your noses together.

“Not how this works but I could change that,” another kiss, “I should, maybe.”

“There’s no life without you,” you shrug, but you make sure he knows you mean it, not looking away even when the intensity in his gaze threatens to burn you alive. 

itoshi rin

rin's letters are painfully short because he erases every sentence that feels unnecessary until only the truth remains. no crossed-out words, no decorations, no fluff – only dark green fountain pen on thick cream paper folded into perfect thirds. 

he never hands them to you himself. you'll simply find one resting on your desk, tucked beneath your phone, or waiting on your nightstand after he's already left the room. 

the only thing that gives him away before you even unfold it is the impossibly precise fold and your name written in immaculate handwriting. 

people think i don't notice much. they're wrong. 

i notice when you pretend you're not tired. i notice when you smile differently because it's real. i notice that you always reach for my hand without looking. you've done it so many times that you already know where i'll be. 

i wonder if that's what trust feels like. like when we're apart, i keep reaching anyway. it's embarrassing. i've never told anyone that before. 

i don't pray. i don't make wishes. i don't even believe life gives people what they deserve. but every morning i wake up beside you, it feels like someone made a mistake in my favor. 

if there is another lifetime, find me again. i don't want to learn how to live without you twice. 

itoshi sae

sae writes on expensive cream stationery with this deep teal ink that matches the pools of his irises. his handwriting belongs in a museum – clean, graceful, so impossibly composed. 

no doodles. no unnecessary embellishments. the only indulgence is a small pink-red wax seal pressed onto the envelope because he likes beautiful things, and like so, you have become one of them. 

he never gives the letter to you directly. instead, it waits in your hotel room after one of his matches, tucked beneath your pillow or inside the book you packed for the flight. 

his letters don't feel like confessions. they feel like pieces of himself he'd never let anyone else hold. 

i've stood in cities people spend their entire lives dreaming about. i've watched the sun rise in places so beautiful they don't seem real. i've collected passport stamps. trophies. hotel keys. boarding passes. the list goes on. 

and yet… none of them have stayed with me the way one ordinary afternoon on the sofa with you has. 

isn't that strange? the world keeps offering me extraordinary things. but the memory i return to most is your head on my shoulder while neither of us said anything. 

you changed my definition of enough. i used to think fulfillment was something you earned. now i know sometimes it merely sits beside you, steals your blanket, and falls asleep halfway through a movie. 

if i lose everything one day… i don't think i'll be afraid. i already know what i'd spend the rest of my life trying to find again. 

you. 

nagi seishiro

nagi complains the entire time he's writing because his hand hurts after half a page, yet somehow, he always ends up filling both sides anyway. his handwriting is messy, slanted, abbreviated, and occasionally unreadable, with random doodles of sleepy cats, game controllers, clouds, and tiny versions of the two of you scattered between paragraphs. 

he writes with whatever blue pen happens to be closest and probably steals the paper from reo because buying stationery sounds like too much work. 

you'll find the letter somewhere ridiculous – inside your pocket, tucked into the snack cupboard, or hidden inside the game case you were about to use. 

it reads exactly like talking to him: sleepy, funny, scattered... until one sentence quietly breaks your heart. 

i thought love would've been louder tbh. cuz everyone talks abt fireworks + music + all that dramatic stuff. mine was quieter tho. 

it sounded like ur keys unlocking the front door. it sounded like u asking if i wanted dinner. it sounded like u telling me to move over bc i was taking up the whole couch. 

i don't think u noticed… but i started making room before u even asked. i don't really make room for people. u js... became part of where i wanted to be. 

yk i've won games, slept for 16 hours, finally beaten levels i've been stuck on 4ever. but none of that feels as good as hearing u laugh from another room and realizing ur here. 

if home is supposed to be a place u don't wanna leave… i think mine learned how to smile. it looks a lot like u :x 

mikage reo

reo treats every love letter as though it's a gift you'll treasure forever. lavender stationery edged in gold, matching envelopes sealed with dark wax bearing his initials, deep violet ink, pressed flowers tucked inside, and the faintest trace of his cologne on the paper because he secretly hopes years from now you'll unfold the letter and remember exactly what it felt like to hug him. 

he leaves them where you'll discover them first thing in the morning – on your breakfast tray, beside your coffee, resting against your pillow before he leaves for an away match. 

every letter starts polished and composed before slowly becoming more vulnerable than he ever intended. 

i've been given almost everything i've ever asked for. that's the funny thing. people assume that means i never learned how to want. then i met you. now i want ridiculous things. 

i want ordinary thursdays (where we be chuds in the house all day). 

i want grocery shopping with you arguing over which cereal to buy (because one is always healthier than the other, but doesn’t taste as good). 

i want to hear you complain that i'm humming too loudly while i cook (i sing good, okay?). 

i want wrinkles beside your eyes because i've spent decades making you laugh (dw i’ll buy whatever expensive eye cream you want). 

i want our grandchildren to roll their eyes when i tell them, for the hundredth time, about how beautiful you looked the day i realized i loved you (they’ll be sooo sick of me). 

i used to dream about becoming someone unforgettable. now my greatest dream is much smaller. 

i hope that when you're 80… and someone asks you if you lived a happy life… your first thought is still us. 

if that's selfish… i'll spend the rest of my life being selfish. after all, there has never been a future i want more than the one where i grow old enough to forget everything... except the sound of you saying my name. 

bachira meguru

bachira cannot commit to one ink color to save his life. the first paragraph is orange, the next is green, then purple, then back to yellow because "it felt happier." every margin is covered in doodles – little bees, flowers, smiling clouds, soccer balls with tiny faces, and cartoon versions of the two of you holding hands. 

the envelope has stickers on it before you've even opened it. sometimes there's a smiley face beside your name. sometimes he draws a tiny bee wearing a crown because he thought it looked cute. 

he hides his letters like little treasures – inside your lunchbox, tucked into your shoe, folded into your sketchbook, or slipped into your jacket pocket before you leave. he wants you to discover them when you least expect it. 

they always begin lightheartedly before quietly unraveling into something that makes your chest ache. 

today, i saw a butterfly with one wing that was a little smaller than the other. it still flew. it just looked different doing it. 

i think people are like that, too. everyone thinks love is supposed to fix the broken parts. you never tried to fix mine. you kissed them. you laughed with them. you made space for them. i didn't know someone could look at every strange little piece of me and decide they wanted all of it. 

do you know what my favorite sound is? it's not the crowd after i score. it's not the ball hitting the net. it's you laughing so hard you accidentally lean into me. i wish i could keep that sound in my pocket. then i'd never have to worry about lonely days. 

if there's another universe somewhere… i hope i still find you. even if you're a stranger. no, scratch that, ESPECIALLY if you’re a stranger. i think i'd recognize your smile before i remembered my own name. 

shidou ryusei

the envelope is bright red. or neon pink. or electric orange. there's absolutely nothing subtle about it. you know it's from him before you've even picked it up. he’s the only one that would pick colors so loud. 

his handwriting is all over the place – big, bold, messy, with words underlined 3 times because apparently every sentence is the most important sentence he's ever written lmao. 

there are stars, lightning bolts, badly drawn hearts, and random doodles squeezed between paragraphs because sitting still long enough to write a letter is already asking a lot of him. 

he shoves it into your hands with a grin, immediately tells you not to read it in front of him, then spends the next 10 minutes hovering behind you because he's dying to know your reaction. 

you're gonna laugh at me for writing this. don't. i already know it's embarrassing. 

but what i wanna say is: i've broken bones before. i've split my lip open. i've walked off the field covered in blood. none of that scared me as much as realizing one day… you could leave. 

i think that's when i knew. because all of a sudden, every goodbye felt too long. every hug ended too soon. every time you smiled at someone else, my heart got all stupid and weird. 

i hate that you can do that to me. i hate that i love it, too. 

basically, if the whole world disappeared tomorrow… i wouldn't be thinking about football. i'd be looking for your hand. 

because i've learned something: everything feels alive when you're looking at me. everything else just feels loud. 

karasu tabito

he’s all matte black stationery with silver gel ink because he thinks it looks cooler than regular paper, and annoyingly... he's right. 

his handwriting is clean, slightly slanted, confident. he rarely crosses anything out because he knows what he wants to say before the pen touches the page. 

there are no hearts or flowers, but tiny crows somehow end up doodled in the corners every single time. he claims he doesn't notice he's doing it. 

he slips his letters into your notebook, your tote bag, or under your windshield wiper before driving away. he'd rather let the letter speak than stand there awkwardly while you read it. 

don't start smilin’ just because i wrote ya a letter. actually… never mind. smile. i like when ya do that. 

ya know what's funny? i've spent most of my life thinkin’ love had to be excitin’, loud, and complicated. then ya showed up and somehow made silence feel interestin’. 

i've never been good at sitting still. except beside ya. with ya… i've watched rain hit windows for hours. i've finished cold cups of coffee because i forgot to drink them while listenin’ to ya talk. i've missed green lights because i was lookin’ at ya instead (terrible, i know). 

ya slowed me down. and still… i've never felt more alive. 

if anyone ever asks me what peace looks like… i'm probably just gonna show them a picture of ya <3 

kaiser michael

kaiser adores using heavy cream paper with a navy border, folded with impossible precision and sealed with dark blue wax pressed into the shape of a rose. one dried blue rose petal always slips out when you unfold the letter. 

he writes in elegant cursive with a fountain pen in deep navy ink. not a single correction. if he made a mistake, he rewrote the entire page. he’s a perfectionist like that. 

the paper smells faintly of his cologne because he kept it in the drawer beside his watches for days before deciding it was worthy to meet you. 

he never hands it to you. you'll find it tucked inside the novel you were reading, waiting in your hotel room after one of his matches, or hidden in your coat pocket before winter. 

before you… i measured my life by applause. how loud. how long. how many people stood when i entered a room or a field. it turns out applause echoes. it fills the room. then it leaves. 

you didn't. you stayed after the lights were gone. after the interviews and all the goals that no longer mattered. you loved the version of me that nobody clapped for. the tired one. the frightened one. the little boy who spent years believing affection was something people earned through perfection. 

you looked at every flaw i tried to bury beneath trophies… and loved me there. 

if i spend the rest of my life trying to deserve you… i still don't think i'll succeed. but i hope you'll let me keep trying. 

because every beautiful thing i've ever touched has eventually slipped through my fingers. i don't know what i'd become if you did, too. 

ness alexis

ness’s love letter signatures include magenta stationery with silver stars pressed into the border, tied shut with a pale ribbon because folding it plainly somehow feels too ordinary for something meant for you. 

beautiful looping handwriting that almost looks printed, every sentence perfectly spaced, every letter written slowly as though he's afraid rushing would somehow make the words less sincere. 

tiny sparkles, stars, moons, flowers, and little constellations fill the empty spaces around the page. 

he leaves the letter beneath your pillow before leaving for training or tucked inside your favorite novel because he's far too nervous to watch you read it. 

sometimes i wonder if people know they've changed someone's life while they're doing it. i don't think you knew. you smiled at me the same way you smiled at everyone else. you asked if i was alright like it was the most ordinary question in the world. it became the question that saved me. 

i've spent so much of my life trying to become someone worth choosing. someone useful, impressive, impossible to leave behind. then you loved me on days when i had nothing to offer except my company. 

do you know what that does to a person? it teaches them that maybe they were lovable before they started performing. 

i still have days where i wake up afraid you'll realize you've made a mistake. then you reach for my hand before you're fully awake… and every fear goes quiet. 

if one day i forget every match i've ever played… every trophy… every city… every face… i hope my heart remembers yours. i think it learned your name long before i ever wrote it down. 

yukimiya kenyu

yukimiya's letters are written on soft ivory paper with the faintest embossed border, always in dark brown fountain pen because he thinks black feels too harsh for something as gentle as love. his handwriting is elegant and fashion-magazine perfect, every line evenly spaced as if he spent hours making sure the page looked as beautiful as the words. 

tucked inside the envelope is almost always something tiny – a pressed flower from a walk you took together, a movie ticket he secretly kept, or a polaroid where you're laughing so hard your face is blurry. he treasures ordinary moments more than grand gestures. 

he leaves his letters somewhere they'll find you during a quiet moment – inside your journal, beneath your pillow before an away match, or folded into the sweater he knows you'll steal from him. 

there's always one sentence written smaller than the rest near the bottom, something he almost didn't have the courage to admit. 

people always tell me to keep looking ahead. keep chasing the next goal. the next dream. the next version of myself. i've spent so much of my life afraid that if i stopped moving, i'd lose everything. 

then i met you. and for the first time... i wanted to slow down. 

i wanted mornings that didn't belong to anyone except us. i wanted rainy afternoons where we forgot to check the time. i wanted to memorize the freckles on your body instead of another stadium. 

i've seen sunsets from airplanes, city lights from hotel balconies, fireworks after championships. they were beautiful. but beauty has never looked back at me. beauty has never laughed because i accidentally burned breakfast. beauty has never reached across the bed in its sleep just to make sure i was still there. you have. 

people ask me what i see when i picture the future. i never tell them the truth. it isn't another trophy. it isn't another headline. it's the light spilling through our bedroom curtains while you complain that i woke up too early again. it's growing old enough that the lines on your face become familiar to my fingertips. 

if i lose my sight one day… i don't think the world will become dark. i've spent so long learning the shape of your hands. i could find my way back to you with my eyes closed. 

barou shoei

barou refuses to buy "cute stationery." it's thick black paper with crisp white lettering because it's practical, clean, and gets the job done. his handwriting is sharp, blocky, and ridiculously neat, almost intimidating until you remember whose hands wrote every word. 

there are no decorations. no hearts. no perfume. no ribbons. 

the only thing that makes it unmistakably his is the envelope sealed with a small gold sticker because he doesn't trust the flap to stay shut. 

he'll never hand it to you directly. instead, you'll find it perfectly centered on the kitchen counter after he's already left for training, right beside the breakfast he made. 

every letter begins stiffly... and then somewhere along the way, the king forgets he's supposed to be guarding his heart. 

i've never understood people who say love changes you. it doesn't. it reveals you. 

before i met you, i thought strength meant never depending on anyone. never waiting, never needing, like a true king. 

then you started leaving your mug beside mine in the sink. your shoes by the front door. your shampoo in the shower. your laugh in every room of the house. 

and one day, the realization finally hit me. none of those things annoyed me. i started expecting them. looking for them. missing them. 

i've built my entire life on discipline. everything has a place. everything has a routine. you ruined all of it. 

now dinner feels wrong if you're working late. the bed feels too big when you're away. i catch myself cooking enough for two even when you're not home. that's your fault. 

don't apologize for it though. keep ruining my routines. keep leaving hair ties on the bathroom counter. keep stealing my clothes. keep reaching for my hand before we cross the street. 

i've conquered a lot of things. you're the only thing i've ever happily surrendered to. 

if being your home is considered weakness, then i'll spend the rest of my life refusing to become strong again. 

chigiri hyoma

chigiri loves to use pale pink stationery with cream envelopes, written in wine-red ink that somehow matches the color of his hair. his handwriting is delicate, flowing, and impossibly graceful, every letter curved so beautifully it almost looks painted instead of written. 

he presses tiny dried cherry blossom petals into the envelope during spring, and in winter, he'll tuck in a ribbon from a gift you once gave him because he's sentimental in ways very few people get to see. 

you'll usually find his letters tucked inside your skincare bag before a trip or resting against the mirror where you'll see them while getting ready in the morning. 

they read like quiet conversations whispered long after midnight. 

there was a time when i thought my life had already become smaller than i wanted it to be. every dream felt fragile. every step felt borrowed. i remember wondering if i'd spend the rest of my life mourning the version of myself i almost became. 

then you smiled at me. that was the day my future stopped feeling frightening. 

isn't that strange? you never promised to fix anything. you never asked me to become someone else. you simply loved the person standing in front of you. the one who was still afraid and healing. 

you made patience feel beautiful. you taught me that slowing down doesn't mean you've stopped living. 

sometimes… i watch you brushing your hair in the morning. or reading beside me while rain taps against the window. and i have to remind myself not to cry. happiness used to feel temporary. now it looks so ordinary. 

it stays in the warmth your side of the bed keeps after you've gotten up. it waits for me in the mug you've already filled because you knew i'd forget. it lives in all the ordinary moments that would've slipped past the version of me who only knew how to keep running away. 

i think that's why i love watching you when you don't know i'm looking. you're never doing anything extraordinary. you're just existing. 

so i hope that years from now, when my hair is even longer, our faces are softer, and the house is filled with little reminders that we've lived a life together... i'll still catch myself looking at you the same way, like i can't quite believe i was lucky enough to find someone who made staying still feel like the greatest adventure i'd ever have. 

iglesias bunny

bunny's letters are effortlessly pretty without trying too hard – soft cream stationery edged with muted gold, written in dark red ink because black "feels too corporate." his handwriting is smooth and stylish, the kind that somehow reflects his confidence, though every now and then one word slants awkwardly where he paused to think too long. 

he always tucks a pressed flower, a concert wristband, or a tiny candid photo inside because he likes the idea of every letter becoming a little time capsule. 

he doesn't hide them. instead, he'll casually leave one inside the tote bag he knows you're taking that day, pretending it wasn't completely intentional. 

his trademark is that he always signs the envelope with a tiny bunny silhouette instead of his name. 

i think people assume loving someone like me must be exciting. that it must be glamorous filled with flights, cameras, late nights, beautiful cities. they're only half right though. the exciting part has never been any of that. 

it's hearing your sleepy voice answer the phone after i've landed. it's watching you steal fries off my plate after insisting you weren't hungry. it's feeling your foot brush against mine beneath the blankets while you're already asleep. those are the moments i replay. not the headlines or the applause. 

i've met people who knew my face before they knew my name. people who thought they loved me without ever speaking to me. then you came along and loved me so quietly that sometimes i forget i was ever lonely. 

you've never asked me to perform for you. you've never needed me to be impressive. you just wanted me. i don't think i'll ever fully understand how lucky that makes me. 

if the whole world stopped recognizing me tomorrow… i'd still know exactly who i am. why? every time you look at me… i feel seen in a way fame could never teach. 

hugo vivian

hugo's stationery is understated, but expensive – thick cream paper with burgundy edging, written in deep charcoal ink. his handwriting is clean and confident, though a little more relaxed than you'd expect, with the occasional ink smudge where he rested his hand for too long while thinking. 

every envelope is tied shut with dark red ribbon instead of sealed because he likes old-fashioned romance more than he'll ever admit. 

he leaves his letters somewhere deeply personal – tucked inside the book on your bedside table, slipped into your suitcase before an away trip, or beneath your pillow before leaving for training. 

every single one ends with his initial instead of his full name because somehow that feels more intimate. 

before you… i thought love was measured by grand gestures. movies always show us the expensive dinners. the vacations. the surprises people post online so strangers can admire them. 

then you thanked me for making your coffee exactly the way you liked it. 

boop. 

just like that, my whole understanding of love changed. 

you smiled because i remembered which side of the bed you preferred. you laughed when i tucked your freezing feet against my legs during a movie. 

ding. 

another moment i accidentally locked away forever. 

i've started collecting those little sounds in my head. the click of the front door when you come home. the shuffle shuffle of your slippers across the floor. the tiny hum you make while you're deciding what snack you want. the soft "hm?" when i say your name and you're distracted. they're my favorite sounds. 

people ask me what success feels like. i don't think i'd describe it with trophies anymore. success is hearing your keys in the door going jingle jingle and catching myself smiling before i even realize i'm doing it. success is your toothbrush next to mine. success is you stealing a bite off my plate and pretending you asked first. 

chomp. 

liar. i let you get away with it every time. 

some nights, you're already asleep before i am. i'll look over, brush your hair away from your face and think… "wow." 

out of the billions of people who exist in this enormous world… i somehow get to love you. 

… ba-dump. 

ah, there it goes again. my heart still hasn't learned how to act normal around you. 

— h. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

itoshi rin

rin has spent so much of his life convincing himself emotions are weaknesses that he honestly forgets what crying even feels like. 

anger? easy. frustration? constant. sadness? buried 6 feet under. 

the first time he cries in front of you is after visiting home. he doesn't tell you what happened or make a scene with a raised voice and slammed doors. he just comes into the apartment, quietly takes off his shoes, walks over to where you're reading on the couch… and sits beside you, not saying a word. that alone is enough to tell you something is terribly wrong. 

he stares at the floor for several minutes. you don't rush him. you simply reach over and intertwine your pinky with his. he squeezes yours almost immediately – the only response you’ve been able to get out of him this entire time. 

"... i'm tired." his voice is barely above a whisper. "... i'm so tired." 

his breathing becomes uneven. his shoulders start trembling almost imperceptibly. he looks furious at himself the second the first tear falls. 

"... dammit." 

he wipes at the first tear immediately. but then another one follows. and another. 

he turns his face away because somewhere deep inside him, there's still that old voice insisting don't let anyone see this. 

you gently cup his cheek. "look at me." 

he refuses. of course, stubborn rin. 

"please." 

he reluctantly does… eventually. and you notice every detail – his eyes are red. he looks almost offended by his own tears. 

"this is pathetic." 

"no. this is trust." 

that sentence absolutely ruins him and reframes his perspective at the same time. 

he leans forward until his forehead rests against your shoulder… and years of loneliness seem to pour out of him without words. 

he doesn't sob loudly. rin cries silently. his tears soak into your shirt while he grips the fabric like it's the only thing keeping him grounded. 

later, once he's finally calmed down, he quietly mutters, "... don't tell anyone." 

you smile. "there's nothing to tell. my boyfriend trusted me." 

he doesn't answer. he only reaches for your hand again. 

itoshi sae

sae doesn't believe crying should be shameful. he simply... doesn't cry. at least, that's what everyone assumes. they mistake emotional control for emotional absence. you know better. 

you've noticed how he quietly checks on injured teammates when nobody's looking. how he remembers tiny details people forget telling him. how he stares out hotel windows after difficult matches. how he feels everything. he's simply learned to carry it gracefully. 

the first time he cries is after an injury scares everyone. the doctors assure him he'll recover, that his career isn't over. everyone celebrates. 

"thank god." 

"you'll be back in no time." 

"what a relief." 

but once the room empties… he finally lets himself process how terrified he'd been. 

you sit beside his hospital bed. he doesn't look at you. 

"... i thought that was it." his voice is strangely hollow. yet he continues. "for a second… i couldn't feel my leg." 

you take his hand. he squeezes yours almost instinctively. then without warning, tears quietly begin rolling down his face. they simply... fall, like rain finally arriving after months of dry skies. 

he doesn't wipe them away or say sorry or even seem embarrassed. he simply lets himself exist inside the feeling. 

you brush one away with your thumb. "i've got you." 

"... i know." 

"you don't have to be strong every second." 

his lips curve into the smallest smile. "being strong is easier when someone reminds you i don't always have to be." 

later, when he's fully recovered, he'll jokingly tell you, "you're the only person who's seen me cry." 

"i feel honored." 

"... don't get cocky about it though." 

"mmm it’s too late to say that." 

he actually laughs out loud. 

nagi seishiro

nagi cries because he's overwhelmed. not with sadness, with love. he's never had someone choose him the way you do. 

before you, people mostly wanted something from him – his talent, his potential, his attention. even when people cared, it often came with expectations. you never asked him to be anything except... himself. 

the tears happen on an incredibly ordinary evening. you're both folding laundry. you're animatedly rambling about something completely random while he's half listening, half watching you with a lazy smile. 

and unprompted, this terrifying thought enters his head: what if one day this disappears? 

the idea hits him so hard his chest hurts. 

"... hey." 

"hm? what is it, sei?" 

"thanks." 

"for helping with laundry?" 

"for staying." 

you blink, confused. “where else would i be?" 

his eyes suddenly fill. he looks genuinely confused himself, too. "why am i..." he touches beneath his eye. "... oh." 

you immediately set the clothes aside. "come here." 

he practically melts into you like a sleepy cat seeking warmth. arms wrap around your waist, his face disappears into your neck. 

"... i'm really lucky." 

"you are." 

"... because i have you." he sniffles. "ugh, that was so cheesy." 

"and? say it again." 

you spend the next 20 minutes sitting on the floor surrounded by unfolded clothes while he quietly cries and listens to you remind him exactly why he's loved. 

the laundry never gets finished. neither of you care. 

mikage reo

reo spends most of his life being the person everyone else leans on. the reliable one. the confident one. the wealthy heir who's always composed. the one who solves problems before they exist. he smiles even when exhausted because people expect him to. 

so when he finally breaks, it's because he's spent months pretending everything is fine. family pressure. business expectations. football. media. injuries. 

everyone keeps asking something from him. nobody asks if he's okay. except you. 

one evening, you notice he's answering emails during dinner. again. his food has gone cold. his shoulders are painfully tense. 

you quietly close his laptop. "... hey." 

he instinctively reaches for it. "i need–” 

"no." 

"..." 

"i need you… reo." 

those were the only words he needed to hear to snap him out of the spiral that was pulling him downward. it was like you knew exactly what to say in the moment. 

you cup his face. "when was the last time someone took care of you?" 

that question completely dismantles every wall he's built. 

his lips press together. his breathing stutters. "... i don't..." 

he genuinely can't remember. inevitably, tears spill before he even realizes he's crying. 

he immediately laughs at himself. "wow." another tear. "this is embarrassing." 

you run a hand through his scalp. "you know what i see?" 

"... what?" 

"someone who's carried too much by himself." 

his smile crumbles. he starts crying properly then, with the kind of relief that comes from finally setting down a weight you've been carrying for years. he buries his face against your shoulder while your fingers continue to slowly comb through his hair. 

"i'm sorry." 

"for what?" 

"... for falling apart." 

you kiss the top of his head. "you're not falling apart. you're finally letting someone help carry you." 

he stays there for a long time, letting himself be held instead of being the one doing the holding. 

afterward, whenever life becomes overwhelming, he doesn't bottle everything up until it breaks him anymore. he now takes a different approach – he'll quietly find you, rest his head in your lap, and admit, "i think i'm reaching my limit." 

and every single time, you answer with the same gentle certainty: "then we'll face it together." 

because loving someone isn't just celebrating their victories – it's making sure they know their tears are welcome, too. 

bachira meguru

bachira cries like someone who's spent his entire life convincing himself he didn't need anybody. 

growing up, he learned how to laugh through loneliness. he'd turn empty afternoons into adventures with his "monster," smiling so brightly that nobody realized how much of that smile was stitched together by imagination instead of companionship. 

so when he meets you – someone who understands every weird little part of him without asking him to tone it down – it changes something fundamental inside him. 

the first time he cries is because you absentmindedly say something while you're both cooking dinner: "i'm really glad i found you." 

you don't even realize what you've said. you're too busy trying to rescue vegetables that are beginning to burn. 

it’s only after 2 minutes that you realize there’s been no response. "... megs?" 

he isn't answering. he's just standing there with a knife still in his hand, staring at the cutting board. 

"hey? you okay?" 

when he finally looks up, tears are already streaming down his face. "... sorry." he laughs through them. "i don't know why i'm crying." 

you immediately take the knife from his hands and guide him toward the couch. he's still smiling, laughing, and apologizing between sniffles. 

"that's the thing." he rubs his eyes. "for a really long time..." another tear slips down. "i thought people only stayed until they got bored of me." 

your heart practically cracks. "oh, meguru..." 

"and then you just..." he laughs again. "you just keep choosing me." 

you pull him into your arms before he can finish. he clings to you without hesitation, burying his face into your shoulder like he's finally allowing himself to believe he doesn't have to entertain someone to deserve being loved. 

after that, whenever life gets heavy, bachira doesn't hide behind jokes nearly as often. he'll flop dramatically into your lap and mumble, "so i think today's a crying day." 

and you'll smile, brushing his bangs away from his forehead. "then let's cry." 

shidou ryusei

shidou is loud. he gets passionate and explosive. he shouts when he's excited. he laughs with his whole chest. he celebrates goals like the stadium belongs to him. people assume that means he's emotionally fearless. it’s not anything new. 

but the truth? he's terrified of letting people see the parts of him that aren't exciting. after all, excitement gets applause. vulnerability gets silence. 

the first time he cries in front of you happens after he's suspended from a match. everyone online calls him a problem, a lost cause, a player with wasted talent. he pretends he doesn't care. he makes jokes and posts something ridiculous while grinning during interviews. 

then he comes home. and slumps while he mutters: "... they're kinda right." 

you've never heard him sound so… small. 

he shrugs. "i guess i always screw stuff up." 

you sit beside him. "look at me." 

"nah. not this time.” 

"ryusei." 

he finally turns. his eyes are glossy. "... i really try, y'know?" 

your chest tightens. "i know." 

"i don't wake up thinking, 'how can i ruin everything today?'" he lets out a bitter laugh. "people just think i'm some crazy idiot." 

the tears come suddenly after that, fast and unfiltered. he doesn't even try stopping them. he just cries exactly the way he laughs – with his entire heart. 

"what if i'm too much?" 

you don't answer right away. instead, you take his face into your hands. 

"you've never been too much, ryu. you've just spent too much time around people who only accepted the loud parts of you." 

he completely falls apart after that. he hugs you so tightly you're pretty sure your spine audibly protests with a few cracks. 

"... don't leave." 

you smile into his hair. "not a chance." 

karasu tabito

karasu prides himself on reading everyone else. he notices lies before they're spoken. he can tell who's nervous just by the way they shift their weight. he always knows what someone else is feeling. 

but his own emotions? those stay locked behind sarcasm and easy smiles. 

he convinces himself he's handling everything because he's still functioning, still training and winning and making everyone laugh. 

then his grandmother passes away. he attends the funeral. thanks everyone politely. comforts his own family. helps clean afterward. he does everything right. but he doesn't cry. not there. not even once. not even a single tear. 

it's 2 weeks later. you're both grocery shopping. you absentmindedly toss his grandmother's favorite candy into the cart because you remember she'd always sneak him pieces when he visited. 

"... oh." that's all he says. 

then he's standing completely still in the middle of the snack aisle. his shoulders start shaking. 

it finally clicks what you just did. “tabi baby, i am SO sorry.” you take the shopping basket from his hand before it falls. "i forgot..." 

his voice breaks as he holds up a hand. "it’s okay… it was… me who forgot… that she'd never eat these again." 

that's what does it. 

grief doesn't always arrive right away. sometimes it sneaks up between cereal boxes and discounted snacks in the most random of moments. you sympathize with that. 

karasu cries quietly into your shoulder while strangers politely pretend not to notice. 

later, he'll laugh weakly. "out of all places..." 

you smile. "love doesn't care where it catches up with us." 

he squeezes your hand all the way home. 

kaiser michael

kaiser has spent his entire life believing affection is conditional. perform well. be useful. be extraordinary. earn love. repeat. 

crying never fit into that equation so he learned to swallow every emotion until they became part of him. 

you notice it way before he does – how he dismisses compliments, how he instinctively apologizes for needing help, how he thanks you for things people in healthy relationships never think twice about. 

"thanks for waiting for me." 

"thanks for making dinner." 

"thanks for… staying." as if your love has an expiration date. 

the first time he cries happens after he loses a match he desperately wanted to win. 

the media tears him apart. fans argue over whether he's "washed." 

he brushes it off publicly with that familiar smirk. but privately… he stands in your apartment staring out the window. 

"if i stop being good..." his voice is almost inaudible. "... would you still love me?" 

you don't answer with words. you walk over, gently take his face between your hands, and kiss his forehead. 

"michael." 

he finally looks at you. 

"i loved you before today's match. i loved you during it. and i'm going to love you tomorrow." 

his composure shatters so quietly it almost hurts to witness. his lips tremble and his breathing catches before tears slowly spill over, one after another, while he desperately tries to blink them away. 

"... i don't know how to need people." 

"you don't have to know. we'll learn together." 

he leans into your touch like someone discovering warmth after living in winter for years. no loud sobs escape him either. he just cries with the exhausted relief of someone realizing they no longer have to earn a place in someone's heart. 

ness alexis

ness cries because he's finally loved without conditions. 

before you, so much of his self-worth came from what he could offer other people. what he could do. how useful he could be. whether he could make himself indispensable enough that nobody would leave. 

loving you is terrifying because, for the first time, he can't understand why someone chose him. 

one day, the two of you found yourselves playing a deep questions card game on the apartment couch. 

ness picks up a card and reads the question out loud: “... why me?” 

you don’t even have to think twice about it. the answer comes naturally: "you're brilliant, lex.” 

"... really?" 

"yes." 

"even when i'm emotional?" 

"especially then." 

he stares at you like you've spoken another language. 

the first time he cries is after making a mistake during an important match. he's convinced you're disappointed. he spends the entire drive home apologizing. 

"i’m sorry, i should've passed sooner." 

"alexis." 

"i know i looked stupid." 

"alexis." 

"i'm sorry you had to watch that–” 

you finally park the car. turn toward him. and take both of his hands. "why are you apologizing to me?" 

"because..." he can't finish. "... because i wasn't enough today." 

the silence that follows is deafening. you gently squeeze his fingers. 

"you think i love you because of football?" 

his eyes widen. "don't you?" 

your heart aches. "no. i love you because you're kind." 

another tear. 

"because you remember things about me that i even forget." 

another one falls. 

"because you always stop to pet every dog you see." 

his shoulders start trembling. 

"because you make me laugh until my stomach hurts." 

he completely breaks then. nobody has ever listed reasons to love him that had nothing to do with his performance. he cries into your embrace while clutching the front of your shirt with both hands. 

"i was so scared you'd stop choosing me." 

you kiss his temple. “you were never a trophy to win." you hold him just a little tighter. "you've always been a person to love." 

he cries harder after that, but this time, every tear carries away a little more of the fear he'd been holding onto for years. 

teddy x streamer!reader

teddy would notice that your energy during the day dulled much more in comparison to before. your nightly behaviours (streaming) took a toll on your body and he knew.

you used to ‘make up for it’ by sleeping in the afternoon, however due to your new work schedule, you had no time for that. he didn’t know why you chose to stream at night instead of afternoons, but because most of your viewers were from the other side on the planet— you said it was to accommodate that. And to add on to that,, you were widely known for streaming at such hours of the night anyway.

no matter what teddy said to try to convince you to get some rest when you weren’t streaming, you’d say ‘oh i have to edit this video’ or ‘oh i need to record something.’ — ending the conversation there.

so when teddy got a call from a friend of yours saying that you’ve been sleeping through your entire break period at work instead of eating, teddy didn’t want to let you keep destroying your own health.

so as soon as you got home at the end of the week, he bought you guys plane tickets to Japan to spend a week there. you protested against it at first, but realising that your boyfriend was genuinely worried for your health, you took a hiatus and caved in.

sae x gamer!reader

sae didn’t really find the appeal in playing games until such late hours of night but he never questioned your behaviours. it wasn’t because he didn’t care, but because he trusted you to take care of your own health and rest for an appropriate amount of hours. 

he wasn’t home for the past two weeks to monitor your sleep schedule, but before he left it was decent. surely nothing much would’ve changed right? no.

when he got back, everything seemed normal. except your horrible eyebags and overall demeanor. it was easy to tell that you haven’t been sleeping properly.

sae being the blunt person he is, asked you directly. “are you not sleeping well?”

you told him that you just kept getting carried away and he shouldn’t worry about it. but sae completely rejected that answer. later that night, he had forbidden you from touching your setup after 10PM until you fixed your sleeping schedule. 

© zzuzzv 2026.

sae itoshi ᢉ𐭩

sae most likely wouldn't make a day out of it, to be perfectly honest. i think that as soon as he comes to the conclusion that you're definitely the one for him and he wants to marry you, he'd go out, buy a beautiful but simple ring, and just propose once he got home. expect to wait a good few years before sae proposes to you; three or four, probably. it's not that he doesn't love you, he loves you more than anything actually, but sae had genuinely just never really quite got the appeal of marriage.

he's the type of guy to grumble about how it's not a big deal, he can't say he really understands getting married, but once he sees the pure joy on your face he realises that there's definitely a reason why people decide to tie the knot.

you guys' wedding would be a lowkey affair; held in a small, private, yet beautiful venue with the only people in attendance being the two of you, family members and close friends. he doesn't see the point in involving others in the affairs of the two of you (his own words).

i can see sae advocating for a travelling honeymoon. visiting multiple different gorgeous cities and seeing all there is to see in various climates with you, the literal love of his life, is his idea of the quintessential honeymoon and the ideal way to spend his time. sure, sae is blunt and a littttleee emotionally stunted, and it would be a lie to say he doesn't find it difficult to express his love for you sometimes, but seeing the adoration on your face when the two of you lock eyes and the awe in your voice as you gaze at the numerous monuments and landmarks on your trip reassures him that he's not doing a half-bad job as your boyfriend.

mikage reo ᢉ𐭩

reo would take his proposal to you very seriously. he's meticulous and deliberate in every part of his planning, but he disguises his intentions so well as just another extravagant date that you wouldnn't expect a thing. what you can expect, however, is a lavish outfit waiting for you in your home after you return from errands which reo asks you to wear to a date at a worryingly expensive five star restaurant.

he'd definitely propose to you inside the restaurant instead of waiting until the two of had left; he'd be down on one knee essentially as soon as you'd finished your meal. he'd do a good job of hiding it but trust me, this man would be a nervous wreck. he'd have to psyche himself up in the bathroom before it and would have to wipe the sweat from his brow several times.

i can see reo proposing around a year and a half to two years after you guys initially started dating, and the idea of getting married would have honestly been floating around in his mind long before that. reo's the type of guy to just know you were the person for him not long after you began your relationship with him.

the wedding itself would be verrryy extra; huge, extravagant venue, over the top florals, champagne towers and food options with titles you can't properly pronounce. there would be a long list of guests, a strict dress code, the whole deal.

reo would treat you to some kind of city break for you guys' honeymoon; probably somewhere like new york or paris. and you can certainly expect plenty of 'just because' gifts and romantic dinners during the duration of your trip. when you voice your guilt about him spending such an amount on you after the two of you had just married, his response would be something along the lines of 'it's not like i don't have the money for it' with a small shrug of his shoulders. is he wrong?

nagi seishiro ᢉ𐭩

nagi is definitely the type to literally just roll over in bed, half asleep, on a mundane weekday, and ask you to marry him. you'd definitely think he was joking at first, laughing at his seemingly ridiculous question, until you see the innocent, genuine look on his face, the endearment in his big eyes, and your laughter immediately dies. once you realise he's being perfectly serious, your elation and delighted screaming would definitely have him overwhelmed, yet he's so pleased with himself that he can't help but smile.

in all honesty, i think nagi would take ages to propose. marriage had just never been a priority for him. it wasn't until he started sounding out how your name would sound before his surname (and realised that your name sounded so perfect slotted behind 'nagi') that he came to the rather melodramatic conclusion that you were indeed made for him and decided he did truly want to tie the knot. you guys would have been dating for several years before he finally decides to ask.

he wouldn't want an overly expensive wedding nor would he invite loads of people to attend. seriously, it would be you guys' parents, possibly a couple of very close friends and thats it. he believes socialising with so many people -when its supposed to be his special day with you and you alone- is an uneccessary hassle. i actually wouldn't be surprised if he went for a totally private wedding, where it's only yourself and nagi.

i don't know if nagi would be all for the honeymoon idea, to be honest, not abroad at least. i think he'd be up for a getaway close to home in a cute, private area away from other people but he wouldn't exactly fancy the idea of going overseas. it's too much of a hassle!

michael kaiser ᢉ𐭩

kaiser's proposal to you would feel really out of the blue. he would take you on a date that's very similar to the ones he has a habit of taking you on often, and you genuinely wouldn't suspect a thing. but the truth is, behind the scenes, kaiser would have planned his proposal in advance; he just didn't want you to catch on. he wanted it to feel random. he'd even put the receipt for the ring in between the pages of one of his books you've made clear you have no interest in reading and hide the actual ring in a place you'd never find it.

expect him to make a bit of a scene of it; he'd definitely propose after the two of you return home from your date but that doesn't mean he isn't gonna go all out. the lights will be on low, candles will be lit and soft music will be playing in the back. you'd probably start to suspect something was up but before you can put it all together kaiser would be on one knee with a ring. he'd try his best to be nonchalant about it, but as he listens to your delighted screams he'd be lying if he said he didn't have to bite back a somewhat triumphant smile.

kaiser would either want a very extravagant wedding or a verrryyy understated one, there wouldn't really be an inbetween. dare i say that you'd get to decide? but he'd definitely take the lead in organising everything; figuring out menus, guestlists, practically everything else. i hate to say it, but i don't think this is because he wants to take the weight off your shoulders; he's just really picky...

a honeymoon with kaiser would involve a city break for sure; probably someplace like rome. he'd be all for trips to museums and historic landmarks mainly so he can mansplain everything to you... and would absolutely be spoiling you the whole time too. don't even think about trying to tell him that spending so much money on you is unnecessary, given you had just married, because all you'll get out of him is a scoff and some sort of condescending question about whether you seriously think he'd waste money on someone he doesn't think is worth it. (his way of complementing you...)

alexis ness ᢉ𐭩

ness would plan his proposal months in advance. he wants so badly for everything to be totally perfect but he's so incredibly nervous about actually proposing that planning it takes a great deal longer than he intended, and he'd be so anxious about the whole thing that it would genuinely be allll he thought about too. so expect a very distracted and stressed out ness for at least three months before the proposal!

when he finally proposes, he'd be visibly trembling and would probably stutter when he gets down on one knee and forces the words out. he'd definitely do it in private; on the beach at night after everyone had left or in the park after a date night as the sun sets and splits the sky a deep orange. and yeah, he’d start bawling when you say yes and you'd likely have to help him up off the ground.

this man would be a wreck when he sees you walking down the aisle; you can guarantee that there will be tears streaming down his face as he sniffles. the wedding itself would be held in a small, quiet, somewhat secluded venue with minimalistic decor and large windows. his vows would be very sweet and well thought out and i can assure you there wouldn't be a dry eye in the small crowd.

honeymoon wise, ness couldn't care less where the two of you go as long as he's with you, which meeeansss you'd essentially have full power over where you guys go. city break in new york? cute village in the swiss countryside? beach vacation in the maldives? whatever wins your heart ness loves as well. it's not that he's a doormat, never that, he just wants to see you happy more than anything else.

vivian hugo ᢉ𐭩

oh, boy. this guy's gonna do the absolute most. i feel like hugo would genuinely propose at the top of the eiffel tower. he'd plan the whole thing with such care it's not even really fathomable too. the weather would be perfect, the timing would be perfect, the date he took you on beforehand would have been perfect. what's hugo if not a perfectionist? after all, he knows it's your destiny to be proposed to in such a scenic location on such an lovely and flawlessly planned evening.

trust me, your ring would be the most beautiful piece of jewellery ever too, and perfectly tailored to your taste. it would probably be that exact moment that you realise hugo essentially knows you better than you know yourself.

you guys would remain in paris for a few days following hugo's proposal before taking a honeymoon to a city like florence or venice. and if you expected the hotel to be anything less than, lets just say, absolutely perfect in every single way, you're sorely mistaken. because of course hugo picked an entirely immaculate hotel too.

to be honest, i don't think hugo would wait too long to propose to you. he wholeheartedly believes that meeting you, taking you out on a date and subsequently becoming your boyfriend was both his destiny and yours. around a year after the two of you first made it official he knew marrying you was kismet, and so he started planning everything out. why should he waste time with trivialities when he could do what was fated to do; spend the rest of his life with you?

julien loki ᢉ𐭩

loki is genuinely lucky you love him to death because he would look so annoyingly smug after you say yes to his admittedly very romantic proposal. seriously, this idiots facial expression would be reaching levels of self satisfied untouched by anyone ever before.

you'd definitely figure out loki was up to something very quickly. he'd be acting very mysterious the whole day, a faint, barely there smirk lingering on his face every time he looked at you. he'd buy you a new outfit and take you to the absolute fanciest restaurant possible, one with marble floors and almost heart attack inducing prices beside the various meal options on their stylised menus. he'd probably reel off a sappy yet somehow simultaneously very genuine speech before proposing in front of absolutely everyone. he knew you'd say yes but he still felt relieved when you immediately accepted, tearing up as you did so. he'd probably be so over the top, lifting up or kissing you dramatically, more so to show off to all the avid restaurant goers who witnessed the whole thing.

expect your honeymoon with loki to be in venice. don't ask me why, i just know that would be his first choice. he'd treat you like royalty the entire time and each time you giggled and accepted his hand to cross the road or allowed him to open the door of the taxi, he'd only be encouraged further. to be fair to loki, you are quite literally his soulmate; and what kind of person doesn't treat their soulmate like they're an angel sent down from whatever is above in the sky?

bunny iglesias ᢉ𐭩

bunny's proposal to you would be romantic but not over the top; think a cute, candlelit dinner at a small-ish restaurant with sweet smelling flowers in vases placed neatly on tables. the absolute last thing he wants, knowing bunny, is being the centre of too much attention, so he'd likely propose after most customers had already left. when the last remaining people come up to the two of you to offer their enthusiastic congratulations, bunny would place aside his general contempt of others to be polite just because he simply can't ignore the fact that the euphoria on that face of yours he loves so much fills him with so much joy he, quite frankly, finds it uncomfortable.

i'd expect a proposal from bunny around two mayybeee three years after you guys start dating. sorta like sae (funny that), bunny took his time with proposing mainly because he just never really... got it? he knew plenty of people who were married, many of his teammates had wives or husbands, but if he said he was in any rush to wed you, well, there was a point in time that would be a lie. but then one of his teammates mistakenly referred to you as bunny's wife/husband and a switch in his head literally just flipped. he started mentally referring to you as such and everything changed.

a honeymoon with bunny iglesias would be personalised, subtly romantic and most importantly enjoyable. he'd put a lot of thought into the whole thing, organising itineraries down to the minute while also ensuring there was plenty time to relax inbetween the minimal activies the two of you are doing. i'd like to imagine bunny would uphold the idea of a laid back beach vacation in somewhere like turks and caicos or the maldives. his idea of heaven is a secluded, quiet, warm weather honeymoon by the sea where he doesn't have to interact with overly optimistic individuals. but for someone who claims to have an aversion to joy and believes true happiness is unachievable, bunny sure did look pretty happy when you walked down the aisle.

psst! this was so cute i enjoyed writing it sm 😺 also i've not got the faintest clue about honeymoons or wedding or whatnot so trust extensive research was done...

"What're you talking about?" you reply, hands held up to the sides of your head, a nervous smile encroaching onto your lips. Your back meets the metal of the Parlor Car's walls, your smile parting ever-so slightly to gasp for air, breaths haggard, as Dan Heng presses you further, his expression unfeeling.

"Don't lie to me," he states, the calmness eerie. "You are not [Name]."

"How's that even possible?" you reason, managing to tilt your head slightly, eyes crinkling as your smile widens.

For a moment, Dan Heng's resolve stutters. It's true that your face is the same; from the curl of your lips, to the bridge of your nose, to the scars and moles which line your skin—your well-loved face, those well-loved features.

But it's not. Dan Heng looks at you again and Cloud-Piercer steadies, unwavering, the blunt end pressing fully against the bob of your throat as your mouth hangs slightly agape, eyes craning down as if to gauge just how sharp the weapon really is.

How audacious, is all Dan Heng thinks, brows furrowing. To claim their identity when you cannot even judge the spear which I've told them so much about.

The curl of your lips, though the same in shape, does not resume its natural form when you smile. The crinkle of your eyes, though perfect in imitation, does not contain the natural mirth that enraptures your features.

To think anyone would even dare to mimic a fraction of the sublime—Cloud-Piercer digs closer into your skin, the possessor's eyes widening, lips shrinking to reveal the most fervent of frowns, its shape not suiting your features—how utterly foolish.

"Answer me," Dan Heng states again. "Where did they go?"

"Hah!" you then exclaim, the sound not fitting your voice, its melody infuriating despite its timber belonging to your chords. "You'd have better luck giving up. This body is mine, you mutt!"

Fury, though wildly impulsive, is something that Dan Heng submits to whenever he feels its phantom looming over his shoulder, its mouth widening, capturing him within the hinge of its jaws. Fury allows him to act, without the burden of thoughts, without the second-guessings of whether regret will follow.

Fury is his. There's someone in your body, claiming it as their own, and Dan Heng feels the mouth of fury swallow, he feels the esophagus, he feels the stomach acid as he fizzles in the bile.

He feels the grit of his own teeth as his jaw tightens, his brows furrowing to the point of wrinkling his nose, his figure hunched forward as he presses Cloud-Piercer's blunt end so violently into your throat that you start gasping for air, unable to breathe.

(And, despite it all, he's careful not to draw blood. He's careful to avoid the wounds which haven't healed fully, he's careful to avoid your lower neck, as you've mentioned how sensitive you are there. This is your body. This is, and will always be, your body.)

The doors to the Parlor Car slam open, and Dan Heng feels his figure part from yours, his dominant hand held back by the arms of another, the frantic cacophony of voices as you're subdued by Stelle and Himeko, March watching from afar, Welt behind him.

They say that eyes are the windows to the soul.

Dan Heng looks at you, and he does not recognize the entity which stares back at him. A possessor; a fraud; a thief. Something stole your body—but more than that, because Dan Heng couldn't care less about what sort of appearance you take, where your moles form, where your scars lie.

The crinkle of a joyful eye is unmistakable, the cadence of words are unique to each person, the syntax, the choices, the mannerisms of an identity. Dan Heng knows you to be a creature without regrets, to smile wildly, unabashed, teeth and all. He knows you to tilt your head when you speak, to use crude language that is common, not outdated, lousy terms such as "mutt."

Dan Heng knows you. And even when someone wears your eyes, and even when someone smiles with your lips, and even when someone speaks with your voice, he knows.

Something stole your body.

And where are you?

You're pretty.

Dan Heng has thought that ever since you stepped foot on the Express. He thought that the sofas seemed to reinvent themselves under your gaze, he thought that space must've shrunk away when your eyes sweeped over it, through the window, perceiving each freckled star. It felt as if this universe shifted in accordance to your examination, as if its worth amounted to how much time was spent beheld within the center of your pupils, sublime.

And when you smiled, Dan Heng thought you to be even prettier.

You smiled in such a way that felt as though you lived anew, as though joy alone was enough to rid this guilty world of its sins. Despite being the Express's newest member at the time, you quickly settled in, joining each game night with a striking resolve, creating inside jokes with the Stelle and March, laughing at things that made no sense.

And you were there for Belobog, for the Luofu, for Penacony, for Amphoreus. Throughout it all, you remained as you were: euphoric, unabashed, free. Sublime.

You're pretty.

From behind the makeshift prison which Himeko had crafted from bars made of steel, Dan Heng stares. Your hand tightens around the material, unable to reach fully through the crevice, expression sullied by a violent frown. Bottom lip jutted out, a sound leaves your lips, not too far removed from a growl.

You were pretty.

Dan Heng stares at you, whose countenance is devoid of any bliss, whose laughter remains humorless, whose gaze never once trickles towards the window, to look at the space which you oh-so adored.

But not like this.

"You possessed this body," Welt states. "And where was your original form?"

"As if I need to tell you anything," you spit.

"If you value your life, then I suggest you do," Dan Heng snaps, readying Cloud-Piercer once more. Himeko raises her hand, arm separating his figure from yours, an extra layer added to the prison cell which you wallow in, unmoved.

Then, you laugh.

How disgusting, is all Dan Heng thinks.

This is your body. This is, and will always be, your body.

"How hilarious!" you exclaim, laughing still, the sound disturbing, lacking humor and humanity and anything that serves to anchor you to this world, to liken you to the sublime, to make even space shy away. "To think you're threatening me! If you kill me, where will the original soul land?!"

Dan Heng's eyes grow wide, and he lurches forward, Cloud-Piercer stabbing past a crevice in the prison, slamming through the other side, your figure barely missing the impact.

"The original soul," he seethes, "where is it?"

You laugh again.

When you looked at the universe, it reinvented itself depending on the worth you had assigned it, how long each star existed within your gaze, how wide your smile became after perceiving each constellation, each striking comet.

He remains at the window of the Parlor Car for a long while, hands folded behind his back, eyes tracing over each freckled star, its shape lining the face of space. He wonders which one made you the happiest, which one was so beautiful it could make even the personification of radiance a witness.

When he's not in the Parlor Car, lost in his stupor, he's at the Data Bank, sifting frantically through the archives, desperate to determine what exactly is possessing your body.

Depending on what it is, maybe he can finally satiate the bloodlust which tugs at his hands.

A knock on his door. Dan Heng doesn't look up; he sifts through another array of pages before saying, "Come in."

It's Welt. Upon entering, he closes the door behind him, and Dan Heng tears his gaze from the archives to spare a glance at the man, his expression taking the shape of vague relief.

"Dan Heng," Welt says, hand coming to push his glasses further up his nose. "I believe [Name]'s possessor is a form of miasma which stems from the Luofu. It only makes sense, considering they had gone there the day before their possession began."

"But the only question now is," Welt continues, "what exactly is the type of miasma, and where has [Name]'s soul gone now?"

Dan Heng slams the archives shut, his hand tightening around the edge of the desk, brows furrowed so vehemently.

"Luofu possession either forces the host's soul back within their body, or ousts them into a new, soulless body."

"So, [Name] could still be in there?"

"Unlikely. Usually, if that were the case, the original host could manage to occupy the body at the same time as the possessor. In this case, however, it seems as though as the possessor has full autonomy over [Name]'s body."

This is your body.

This is, and will always be, your body.

"So, they've possessed a soulless body. The dead, then?" Welt remarks, quick as ever.

Dan Heng nods.

"I'm leaving," he states, grabbing his spear, damn near sprinting towards the helm, desperate to return to the source, the ship which he once belonged to, yet now exists merely as a past that serves to push him forward.

The future; it must have you.

Dan Heng likes you.

But maybe like is too light of a word, unable to bear the weight of which only a creature so hopelessly devoted could hold. Dan Heng adores you.

He adores you in such a way that has familiarized him with all of your habits; the tap of your fingers against glass, the way you save your favorite bites for last, the raise of your hand whenever you laugh.

Dan Heng adores you in such a way that renders him unable to part his gaze from your smile in pictures, the way you seem to have a signature pose, the way you are so wholly and completely radiant. It's sublime. You're sublime.

("Want this photo, Dan Heng?" March asked, handing him a polaroid, its frame depicting only one subject. You.

(He grimaced slightly. Was he so obvious?

(Before he could say anything, March waved her hand dismissively, knowing that he'd decline the offer yet want it anyway. "Just have it!" she said, mischievous. "And I better get credits when you get together!")

Dan Heng adores you in such a way that he himself doesn't quite know when or how or why it began, or exists; it just does, and that fact alone is enough.

He boards the Luofu. The moon hangs in the freckled sky, and Dan Heng revisits the sight once more, wondering how it looks through your eyes, wondering if, in this way, your gazes will meet again, lost in space's vast face.

Then, he looks forward.

Dan Heng adores you in such a way that feels as though he knows you better than himself. He knows your favorite foods, your favorite drinks, your favorite spots. He knows you love bustling environments, but also, that you like people watching from comfortable spots, content with the silence, wind kissing your skin.

There's a hill. On top, is a bench, shaded from the moonlight by the leaves of a blossoming tree. In its tender embrace is a figure, slumped, head tilted towards the sky.

Just a silhouette is enough.

Dan Heng races towards the pinnacle, the sublime, the wonder.

"[Name]!" he calls, even before reaching the top, even before his eyes can behold the sight of his beheld, even before your habits find him, your manners familiar. The silhouette is enough. The crane of your gaze towards the sky, the universe shifting in accordance to your perception, its worth assigned based on the mirth that enraptures your features, irrevocable, is enough.

You turn towards him, finger tapping on the wooden plank of the bench, head tilting to the side, mouth hanging slightly agape.

"Dan Heng?" you reply, disbelieving. "Dan Heng, how are you—"

Cloud-Piercer dissipates, his hands free, arms outstretched, engulfing you within its grasp as he feels your figure press against his, your body devoid of any warmth, its previous owner gone. But it doesn't matter to Dan Heng, what form you take, where your moles are, where your scars form. All that matters is this soul is yours. His soul is yours.

He breathes, most desperately, most fervently, most ardently. Dan Heng presses you closer to him, as if afraid you'll leave him, as if your soul could disappear again—but what difference would that make? Dan Heng will find you, new face and all, and he will love you again.

"[Name]," he says again, barely above a whisper. "[Name], I was so worried..."

Your name is proof of identity. And, when his lips cradle the syllables, and when its sweet sound echoes throughout the air, Dan Heng cannot help but say it again. He says your name just to say it, to solidify this identity, to put more of you in the world, to exist, the sublime, the irrevocable, the unabashed!

Briefly, his figure parts from yours, his hands on your shoulders still, gaze tracing over your new, yet well-loved, face. He examines you for any injuries, unable to contain the frantic race of his heart, now reunited with his beloved.

"[Name], someone stole—"

"I know," you reply, smiling still, eyes crinkling, joy finding you despite the circumstance. "I'll get it back, you know. That shit's not free!"

Dan Heng, for the first time since your possession, finds it in himself to spare the most subtle of smiles.

In the end, the solution was much simpler than anticipated.

Upon re-entering the Express, you found yourself in front of, well, yourself. And you stared at the image of your figure confined within a prison cell, the sight sending a shiver down your spine. Is this foreshadowing?

"For miasma cases such as this, it says that just a touch is enough to swap souls, so long as the one with the foreign body desires it. In this case, [Name], it's you," Welt explains, beckoning you towards the cage.

You snort. "Damn."

Despite your possessor's vehement attempt at swatting you away, and curling back into the cage which they had once so desperately tried to escape, you manage to graze your finger against theirs, the world spinning immediately after. Hazy, you feel yourself falling back, and a pair of arms manage to catch you before the pain of the ground hits—but then, you wake up, now behind bars.

The arms, which once served to stop you from falling, now drop your possessor's form to the ground.

And, soon after, a spear pierces the body's chest.

Nobody says anything. Except for you, however, with an uninspiring, "Ooh... That looked like it hurt."

Dan Heng, paying no mind to Cloud-Piercer's spot in the body's newfound cavity, is quick to slam the prison open, his hand outstretched, callused and all, as he helps you up, his expression unreadable save for the slight melt of his irises, the relief which sweeps over his lips.

Click! A camera goes off. You wince at the light, and Dan Heng sighs.

"March," he mutters. The girl in question makes no effort to say anything.

"March," Stelle calls, before throwing up finger guns, "give me that photo!"

"Stelle..." Dan Heng mutters, in a tone quite similar to the one he just used to utter March's name. But then, your laugh resounds throughout the Express, the sound satiating the emptiness which pervaded so thickly in your absence, and Dan Heng can't help but turn towards you, pupils finding their place, beheld reunited with the beholder.

How beautiful, is all Dan Heng thinks.