🌜Rayne/Fable🌛

The man’s presence wasn’t the not-nice part. (It was often nice when people admired the same things you did, because it meant they might ask you about them. And as many years as you had under your belt visiting these same paintings, these same steps, you knew quite a lot.)

The not-nice part was that there was a man standing in front of your favorite painting, and he was staring at (horror!) the wrong thing. 

As you trace your familiar steps, coming agonizingly closer, you can see that he’s not looking at the painting but the frame. The frame! Of all things! He’s got his head tilted just-so, looking at it this way and that. Like he’s admiring it. He stops only when your footsteps get close enough to make it clear that you’re about to stop at the same spot.

“The frame isn’t period authentic,” you say, perhaps a bit too loudly, “There’s no point in looking at it.”

The man hums. You half-wonder if he’ll snap at you, people sometimes do.. But instead he looks back at the painting, as if he’s trying to see what you mean. “What makes you say it isn’t period authentic?” 

His voice is low, a murmur. Out of respect for the museum, maybe, or he’s just embarrassed at being called out. You don’t bother trying to figure it out, because the question he asked is more than enough to have you ready to spill out the words.

“Well,” you begin, swallowing because you can already tell it’s going to take a while. “For one, it’s gilded with aluminum.” When he doesn’t respond, you smile, unbidden. “And of course, aluminum isn’t suitable for water gilding.” Your finger points to the frame (an unwelcome frame, in your opinion–but again, it was the painting, not the frame, that one ought to look at) and wiggles. “The era this painting was made, water gilding was the most popular. They certainly wouldn’t have used an inferior material like aluminum to do water gilding.”

“I see,” he says, after a moment. “Is that all?”

It is, naturally enough, not all.

“No!” You say, maybe too loud, because he raises an eyebrow. But you press on. “If it was just the frame material, that would be one thing. Not everything was water gilded, of course, it was just the most popular. But the real tell…” 

And you might be reading him wrong (you do that a lot) but he does lean in, doesn’t he? Because he’s interested in what you have to say. You think. It would be welcome, anyway.

“The real tell,” you continue, pointing here and there on the frame. “Are the fasteners. Especially around the joints..” You press on before he thanks you, because he shouldn’t thank you before you give him the really important detail here. 

“When the painting was made, they didn’t have keyed stretchers yet.” You point here, and there. “These made it easier to expand the frame, or make it smaller, simply by sliding the keys and tightening the screw. Before,” and there’s a laugh in your voice, “it was a pain when you wanted to take a painting out and swap it for something else. But with these newer ones, it was much simpler!”

There is a beat or two, and you wonder if he’s going to scoff and give you that smirky little smile people give when you’ve shared too much information that they apparently didn’t want. (Even if it was fascinating information, nonetheless.) 

But he doesn’t. Curiously, and it’s a pleasant sort of curiosity, his smile isn’t smirky at all–it’s pleased. Happy, even, if your guess was as good as gold. 

“Thank you,” he says, eyeing the frame–still the wrong part, you think–again. “I wasn’t aware that frames held such nuance.” He glances at you. “I appreciate your insight.”

Insight. Huh. No one has ever called it that before. Word-vomit, yes. Over-explaining, definitely. “Stuff no one cares about,” that one was pretty common. But insight–that was new. And it was, like his smile, perfectly pleasant. It made you feel almost fluttery. 

“Most people don’t appreciate it,” you admit, too honest. “But the frame isn’t the important part of the painting, anyway…” 

The next time he looks towards the painting he, thank goodness, actually looks at the painting within the frame. “Is this your favorite painting?”

“Of course.” The words come quick and sure.

“Why of course?”

Sometimes you wonder if other people have a switch that lets them choose when to hold back, 

and when to indulge in their words. Because you find it very, very hard. Especially when it’s something like this, something like a painting you adore, something like being asked to explain why it is your favorite painting.

But this stranger asked about it, so even if this mysterious switch did exist, you certainly would have slammed the “full speed ahead” setting without hesitation.

“Well…”

This stranger gets to learn about it all. About the artist (Henri Lamorliere) and why he chose the subject (a village scene in the winter) and who commissioned it (a prince who owned the land and later died from complications related, presumably, to his gout) and how it ended up here, in this city, of all places. (That was, indeed, a longer story–involving said potentially dubious origins that you were more than happy to indulge in, considering the stranger’s interest.)

As for why it is, of course, your favorite–it is because of all the tiny details, small things, inconsequential and silly to most, but details that keep you coming again and again. A child depicting playing in the snow with friends; a couple ice skating, with one leg clearly losing balance, forever frozen before the young man falls straight on his bum; a woman with a bucket, frowning, staring into a frozen water well; a farmer carefully draping warm blankets over his horses; a streak of mud revealed underneath the pristine snow as a cart of firewood is pulled along; and on and on. It’s not just a painting, it’s a frozen moment, people forever engaging in these mundane or delightful or simplistic moments.

When you are done (and you must admit, you talked for quite a while) the man doesn’t roll his eyes or sigh or say that he must be off, which is very often the case when you talk too much. 

Instead he, of all things, smiles.

“Thank you,” he says, and before you can ask why, continues: “How fascinating. I didn’t know the history of the piece as well I as I thought.” His eyes roam over the painting, the details you cling to. “And I never thought much about the scene being depicted.” He glances at you. “Not in the way you have, at least.”

It might be an insult. It might not. 

“When you come here as much as I do, you learn a lot.” 

He hums. Seems to consider something. And then, he asks:

“Would you like to share a coffee?” If you’re not mistaken, there’s a warmth to his voice. A bit of humor, too. Maybe he didn’t hate your diatribe about the piece, in the end. 

But–well. It won’t work out, at least not without a concession on his part. (And yours, too, not that he’d understand it.)

“I only get coffee after I see the rest of my paintings.” A pause, something heated piercing the apple of your cheeks. “Um. They’re not my paintings. I didn’t paint them. I don’t have any work on display,” you explain, as if he needs that clarification. “I think of some of them as mine, because I visit them when I come here.”

Sometimes, when there’s time to ponder on it, you liken actions to machinery. It starts with thoughts. They go through a certain process before resulting in an expression or a word. That’s what you think of, now, as you watch this stranger taking in what you said. His own thoughts are no doubt moving through the cogs, being sent this way and that on some conveyor belt, ending in his final action. 

Though it isn’t one you expected.

“Well then,” he says. “May I accompany you to see the rest of your paintings, so that I could join you for coffee?”

Huh.

It’s a break in the routine, sure. But he didn’t roll his eyes while you talked or quickly excuse himself to get out of hearing what you had to say. And if he was willing to listen, and follow your route, well–it might just be okay.

You don’t exactly plan to smile when you answer, but it creeps along your lips all the same.

“I suppose you could,” you say, and that smile quirks. “If you can keep up.”

“My name is Chrollo,” he replies, oddly, like it’s an answer. 

–

Chrollo does, in fact, keep up. More than that, he engages in conversation with you, offering counterpoints, asking questions, even going so far as to ask how you learned such-and-such a detail. 

Despite the interruption that he presents, it’s not unwelcome. It’s nice, actually, and as the afternoon goes on, you almost regret that there aren’t more paintings on your usual stop. But it’s not like the afternoon stops when you visit Boy and his Dog, one of the museum’s quirkier paintings; it is, yes, a Boy and his Dog. But the dog is wearing human clothes, and the boy is running wild on a broken leash. 

(The painting always makes you smile. When the stranger asks why, you’re almost–well, perhaps actually–rude when you explain: “Because it’s all backwards, of course.”)

After Boy and his Dog comes coffee. And if your newfound companion is relieved to have finally gotten to the part he asked you about earlier this afternoon, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he watches; he watches as you approach the counter and the barista greets you by name, already starting your familiar order before you say a word.

“You come here often,” he says, and it’s not a question.

You nod and eye the pastry case. “It’s tradition,” you say, not taking your eyes off the goodies displayed inside the climate controlled glass. If they have fresh cinnamon buns, you get one of them. If they aren’t fresh, you stick to the prepackaged cookies. “Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.” 

The glaze isn’t hard, but smooth, a bit of it still runny along the edges.

Fresh.

“One cinnamon roll, please,” you order. Then pause, because that isn’t quite right today, is it? “I mean, two.” But is that right, either? You eye Chrollo and something like a smile plays at the edge of his lips. “Er, well, if you’d like one, that is–”

“I would, thank you.” It’s a relief to not have to walk back the order, and the barista behind the counter swiftly bags them up.

Chrollo orders his own coffee before you can offer to add his to your tab, but that’s all right. At least you’re buying him the cinnamon bun. It’s nice to help others, especially someone who was patient enough to listen. (Not just listen, though, you remind yourself. Actively engage with you, which is far better. And more rare.)

You’re in the middle of your cinnamon bun–literally, fork stabbing the middle part first, which is the softest, gooeist part–when he speaks up.

“I enjoyed our conversation today.” Soft, almost as if he didn’t say the words often. Maybe, and this was perhaps too egotistical of you, he didn’t. 

“Mm,” you say, because you really did want to eat that middle part first, and the explosion of sticky-sweet cinnamon goodness in your mouth prevented further words for a few moments. Something about this seems to amuse him, and he places a hand over his mouth before he chuckles.

“What?” There is still some cinnamon roll still clinging to your teeth. 

“Nothing,” he murmurs, though it wasn’t nothing at all. “I was simply thinking that I might see you on Thursday. If that’s all right.”

Your mouth quirks. It’s not irritation that you’re feeling. Not really. But he was something new, a blip in your schedule. Still, he didn’t make a mess of things. He listened, and it was nice, actually, for someone to not shoo you away like some gnat the moment you got going on a favorite topic.

“It’s all right,” you say, mind still wavering, but voice already made up. “If you can still keep up.”

He snorts, and nothing more.

–

On Thursday, he’s there. Standing by your favorite painting. And staring, again, at the unimpressive, unimportant frame. Of all things–again! 

“You–” And it’s strange, how easily the indignation bleeds into your words. “But I already told you about the frame–”

But when Chrollo turns, he’s smiling, and it takes you a few slow moments to realize that he was kidding. Ah. It was… It was a joke. 

There’s a flush in your cheeks as you stuff your hands into your jacket pocket. “I’m not good with jokes,” you admit. 

He stuffs his own hands in his pockets and you can’t decide if it’s intentional mimicry or if he simply does the same thing in an awkward situation. (And which of these options is better, really?) 

“Nor am I, it seems.”

That, for some reason, makes you laugh.

Makes him laugh.

Makes the afternoon start off on a better foot.

Later on, after paintings and coffee, Chrollo insists on coming to the museum Saturday to see you again. 

You don’t protest.

–

It’s remarkable how quickly Chrollo becomes a part of your daily routine, and how swiftly he moves from being solely within your once-tidy museum routine to the outside. 

To things like asking you out to dinner, and when you explain that on Tuesday evenings after work you go home and make breakfast for dinner, he insists on taking you to a diner-style restaurant to maintain your breakfast meal while not intruding on your home life.

Which is considerate, you think, that he understands that you’re wary of inviting a relatively new acquaintance into your home. But–going out to eat is not what you usually do. At least he doesn’t comment when you fidget too much, when you don’t look in the waitress’s eyes as you order, and when you seem relieved when the check comes. 

You like him better for it. 

–

Chrollo doesn’t tell you that you’re doing things wrong. Which is nice. It’s not that most people tell you flat out that you’re doing something wrong, at least not since you’ve become an adult. But you can tell by their looks; pinched eyebrows and frowns, glances, murmured comments to their peers. 

Chrollo does none of this. 

Chrollo does, however, often forget how you like things; or rather, how you don’t like things. 

He gets too close. A hand that brushes your thigh when you sit together for lunch or coffee, his arm slung around your shoulder when the museum gets too crowded and you start to feel the crush of it crawling up your back. A term of endearment slipped in at the end of the night. Goodnight, dearest. 

Maybe it’s a lot to remember, or maybe he’s just forgetful. There are other options that sometimes sneak up in your mind–maybe he’s doing it on purpose–but they are swiped away so quickly. 

Because it’s Chrollo. He listens to you, he actually pays attention to what you say. He doesn’t mind that you sometimes have trouble making eye contact or that you get flustered in ordinary situations. 

More than that–

He’s your friend. Someone who listens, who has something interesting to say, who seems to actually care about you. He’s the first friend you’ve had in a long time, and you were willing to put up with his forgetfulness in order to keep that friendship alive and well.

Even if it meant having to bat his hand away from your thigh on more than one occasion. 

–

It’s Friday evening. 

Friday evening should be relaxing. The end of the work week, a time to grab a favorite frozen dinner from the freezer and relax in front of the TV with a show that you’ve seen a thousand times. 

Once it’s over, you’ll turn on the news and you might work on a puzzle or write in your journal or slowly make progress on an embroidery kit you picked up 2 years ago and have only ventured into a few times.

You might do these things, except–well. 

Except everything has fallen apart.

Your shaking fingers almost don’t manage to pick out Chrollo on your contacts, and it’s a wonder your phone doesn’t crash to the ground and break into a million pieces with how much your hands tremble.

“Hello?”

He barely gets the word out and you’re already blubbering into the phone, incoherent, words bubbling out with no time to make them more understandable. They choke out, stuttered and half-baked, before you finally beg for the one person who might understand your distress. 

“It’s–it’s–and–they–and–it’s–g-g-g-...Chrollo–please-come-over.”

He manages the trek in record time, impossibly fast, but you don’t pay attention. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s here and you don’t even protest this time when he sees your sobbing form and immediately scoops you into his arms.

It’s almost comforting, the way he squeezes you, gives you something to feel grounded. One of his hands inches a bit lower on your back than you’d like but even that doesn’t matter, doesn’t even register, because his presence has calmed you down enough to spit out the terrible truth:

“They stole it.” You gulp in a great, heaving gasp. “The Village in Winter. Someone… someone stole it.”

Chrollo’s body tenses. The news drones on in the background, but it’s moved on to something less important now. As if something could be less important than this. There’s a great big hole where the painting used to be, on the wall, in your mind.

Chrollo steps in or rather, steps back, placing one hand on your chin–the sensation makes something itch down your back, but you ignore it, because such things can be ignored in a time of great distress. “You are truly upset,” he says, finally, slowly. 

“Of course I am!” Your own hands come up now, grabbing the one on your chin, tugging it down so you can squeeze it with great abandon. Chrollo doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s all wrong–” It’s wrong, too, the way that other hand still rests far too low on your back. “It won’t be there. I love that painting. I love it and now when we go to the museum tomorrow, it won’t be there!”

Chrollo’s hand on your lower back begins to stroke. Maybe it’s soothing. Or meant to be; you have to give him credit, you think, for rushing over and trying to calm you down. 

“We don’t have to be there,” he murmurs.

Which does nothing to calm you down at all, because of course–

“We do have to be there.” Bitterness sets your jaw hard. “We do have to be there, and it will be all wrong.” The thought of all those precious details lost to you forever, the stories you’ve wound through again and again in your head. Even the new routine of admiring them with Chrollo, who always takes interest in the wrong part of the painting–that will be gone, too.

And it’s wrong, wrong, wrong. The world feels worse for it. What would be the point of going to the museum, when you’ve lost some integral part of yourself, all thanks to the work of some lowlife thieves?

Chrollo finally pulls himself away from you, a frown set on his lips. He glances around your living room, the disrupted Friday evening routine that is begging to be set back into place without all the pieces. 

“Have you had your tea? You always drink it while you watch the news, don’t you?”

You do. Yes. Not tonight, though. At least not more than that first sip before it was interrupted by the horror of the news report. 

“I was too upset to finish it,” you admit. “It’s on the counter.” But if you could finish it, maybe it would help. Now that Chrollo’s here to set everything back into order. It wouldn’t make things right–nothing could, except the restoration of that pivotal painting–but it’s a start. A comfort.

 “Could you…” 

He’s already on his way to the kitchen, a hand slipping into his pocket. “Of course. I’ll warm it up for you.”

“Thanks,” you force out, the word heavy on your tongue. Yes. Thank goodness Chrollo is here to set things into place. He knows what you like and need, wandering hands notwithstanding. So it comes as no surprise when he emerges from the kitchen with a newly warmed cup of tea and you stumble on shaking legs to the sofa.

Microwaved tea never tastes the same, and it’s no exception here. It’s almost too bitter now. But you choke it down anyway while Chrollo sits next to you, eyes on the screen, the flickering bar underneath the next program that repeats the news about the museum break-in.

Theft suspected to be the work of professional thieves. More updates on stolen paintings will emerge as staff inventory the losses. At least three security guards found dead…

The world spins. Literally, the world spins, and you reach out a hand and stand up on reflex with the anxiety that spreads through your chest.

“Chrollo?” He’s there, sitting next to you, but he falls in and out of focus as your vision wobbles.

“Yes, love?” 

“I don’t feel very…” The word never comes before everything goes black, and you only just register the awful sensation of falling and being caught in someone’s sturdy hands before you faint.

–

Someone has shoved cotton into your mouth. That’s the only explanation your mind comes up with when the world returns and all you can taste is stale dryness. Someone must have shoved cotton into your mouth at some point before the blackness and this bleary, foggy wake-up.

But why would they do that, and why does your head feel so fuzzy, and why does the world feel like it’s moving? There’s an awful sound underneath you too, almost like rushing and wheels mixed together, like heavy traffic or–or a train. 

Oh. Oh, no.

Air comes in great gulping gasps as you heave yourself forward and sensations assault your senses. A leather seat underneath you, the sun dimmed by drawn curtains, warm, stale air, the sound of rolling wheels and ground underneath you–and Chrollo. Chrollo sitting your opposite, on the same type of leather seat.

You’re on a train. You’re awake and on a train and Chrollo is sitting in front of you.

It’s a dream. Maybe. That’s what you think as you swallow up the cotton feeling, smacking your lips, craving the realization that this is nothing but a bizarre nightmare.

But nightmares don’t feel like this. This is real. It’s your body that feels sluggish and heavy, your eyes blinking away an awful, long sleep. Your voice that croaks out the words that half-stick to the roof of your mouth:

“Chrollo? Where… am I?” 

There’s another question that clings to the back of it–What happened?--but the low curl in your gut makes you avoid it for now.

Chrollo, for his part, looks appropriately serious for the bizarre situation you’ve woken up in. He leans forward, folding his hands together, as he scans your face. For what? An injury? Is that why you’re here? You fell and hit your head and the only solution was a specialist who is only available in the next city, so Chrollo booked you the first tickets on the next train and he didn’t have time to warn you before–

“Dearest.”

The low curling in your stomach squirms, too. He knows you hate those pet names. It was easier to ignore them back then. When the two of you were strolling through the museum or he was indulgently watching you reorganize your books. When you weren’t suddenly on a train, feeling like you got hit over the head with a hammer.

A strange place, a strange Chrollo.

An answer might come, but your mouth is still too sticky and Chrollo interrupts what you might have said, anyway.

“We’re on a train.”

After a moment, a slow word comes. “Yes.” You swallow. “I know that.”

Chrollo smiles. It might be indulgent, but all you can think is: has his smile always been so condescending?

“Do you know why we’re on a train?”

Well. It would be stupid to say “yes,” when you don’t know the answer. 

So you spit out the runaround thought from earlier, though even to your ears, it sounds more ridiculous with every passing word.

“I fell and hit my head and the only solution was a specialist who is only available in the next city, so you booked the first tickets on the next train and you didn’t have time to warn you before–”

He doesn’t call you an endearing nickname (thank goodness) this time but instead his smile widens, just enough to make it look like he wants to coo at you. It’s gross and sticky and you rub at your arms to make some of the feeling go away.

“Stop that. I’m not a child.” 

His smile doesn’t waver, which only sparks a rush of indignation. The world has stopped feeling quite so heavy and when you sit up, you move to pull aside the curtains, if only to find out where in the world you’re at. 

The countryside that’s rolling by isn’t remotely familiar. All lush and green and pretty. Are you even in the same region? The same country? 

“How… how long was I asleep?” No, that’s not the right question. “Why was I asleep? I don’t remember…” Falling asleep at all. And what you do remember doesn’t fit inside this puzzle. You’d been watching the news, and there was the terrible report about the theft at the museum, and then Chrollo came over, and you drank your tea. One plus one should equal two, not waking up on a train.

Chrollo hums, and the sound brings you back. The ground rolls heavy underneath you two, separated by the carpeted floor. 

“I drugged your tea,” he says, plainly enough. 

It can’t be what he said, though. You’re hearing things. Maybe you suffered a blow to the head. That might actually make things.

“You what… my what?” 

“I drugged your tea,” he repeats. Calm and clear and you’re certain that you’ve heard him right this time, only it’s still all wrong. Because this is Chrollo. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t. But he did. He said so. So the only thing left to wonder is:

“Why would you do that?”

“I enjoy your company,” he says, still leaning forward. “Very much so. And it was time for me to leave town, but the thought of leaving without you, well…”

Now, there are no “right” answers to this question. No one ever catalogs the proper responses to a hypothetical question about drugging one’s tea. Still, what he tells you doesn’t sound like the sort of answer one should give. 

Kidnapping someone for ransom, sure. Kidnapping someone because they found out some terrible secret and no one else can no, understandable. Kidnapping someone to kill them because you’re secretly a murderer, again, makes sense.

Kidnapping you because he likes you? 

It’s so wrong, so out of place, that you don’t answer. Can’t answer. There’s something sticky keeping your mouth shut and that something is Chrollo’s lack of common sense.

And then, of all things, he puts a hand on your shoulder. Firm. Irritating. A touch you want to shake but when you try, his grip keeps you in place. It’s too much. Too heavy and personal. It was something to be brushed off before, swept under the rug while you focused on what you liked about him.

But now? 

You must be glaring. There’s a moment where you take stock of your expressions. Your eyebrows feel low and heavy, so they must be furrowed. Your mouth is dry and open. And your eyes are… well. It’s understandable to cry. 

Worst of all, though, is that Chrollo’s hand goes from your shoulders to your cheeks, and it’s when he wipes at your tears that you finally fling your body backwards with enough force that the back of your head smacks against the wall.

It helps, this pain. This motion. So you do it again. Move your head forward and then back, feeling the firm smack of the wood against your head. 

Thump. Thump. Thump.

An ordinary person might look shocked. An ordinary person might cry out and tell you that you're hurting yourself.

Chrollo, however, simply looks like he’s admiring a painting. He takes in the details, his head tilting just so. 

“I packed some of your favorite things,” he says after a while, over the sound of your skull smacking against the wall. “Once we arrive at our destination, we can unpack some of them. It could help you calm down.” 

“I want to go home,” you reply, between thumps. “I want to go home.”

He doesn’t reply, which is as good as a “no.”

“I’m taking you with me,” he says, still calmly, like you aren’t trapped on a train, like you aren’t banging your head with increasing intensity against the wood.

“I don’t want to go with you,” is all you can say, helplessness straining your voice. “I want–I want–” And when you look around, all you can see are these walls, the window, Chrollo. There are a thousand things that you want right now, and none of them are here.

You want your old microwave with the 7 button that sticks so you have to push it hard every time, you want the pink flower rug in your living room that you’ve had since childhood, you want your pumpkin-shaped mug with the chip on the handle, you want your blankets and your bed and the alarm clock on the side table on the left side, so you can wake up and easily roll over to hit the snooze button–

It’s only when Chrollo says your name that you realize you’ve been saying all of this, to him or to yourself, you’re not sure. There’s something stupidly hungry in the way he looks at you. It’s in the way he listens, too. Like he’s hanging onto every word so he can pick them all apart, splaying them open to reveal something inside.

But what? And why?

He doesn’t tell you. Instead, he hums. It’s a low grounded sound. It makes you feel–and you hate it, it’s gross, this feeling–comforted. Almost. Sort of. The way it used to, when you were feeling out of sorts and he swooped in to get you off the ledge.

Only this time he’s the one who pushed you to it, first.

“I’m not taking you home,” he says with a finality that makes your body jerk. “But you can view me as your new home, if it helps.” The smile he gives is warm and kind and if you were sitting in the museum over a cup of coffee, maybe you’d believe it.

“But you can view me as your new home, if it helps.”

It doesn’t help.

–

Your upper arm hurts from the way Chrollo gripped you in the hotel lobby.

“Don’t try anything, dearest,” he’d said, on the way in. Quiet and calm and sticky on the dearest. He might as well have been telling you that he was ordering in for dinner. “I’ll kill everyone in this hotel if you do. I’d rather not have to clean up any messes tonight. I’m sure you understand.”

The words should have shocked you. Or maybe they did, and you’re still in such an inward frenzy that you can’t seem to react to anything within the freezing utter bewilderment of your present situation. 

So you didn’t say anything, though he gripped you hard all the same. And now you’re sitting on some oversized sterile hotel room bed that smells too much like sharp laundry detergent. There’s a mint on the pillow. You bet it tastes like soap.

“We’ll be staying here for a few nights,” Chrollo murmurs. The pair of suitcases he’d brought in are on top of the bed, and there’s a shock to your system when he unzips one of them and you recognize what’s inside.

It’s filled with your things–your hairbrush, a wellworn paperback copy of your favorite book, a bottle of your tried-and-true face wash.

Your clothes. (Well. Some of them.) Right down to your underwear, neatly folded on top. Chrollo had–taken them. Touched them. Been through your things, clearly. 

“You…” The word comes out all strangled, and heat rises to your cheeks for more than one reason. “You really…” You really kidnapped me, you really planned it out, you really went through my private things and plucked them up. 

He takes the pause in your thoughts to crouch down, peering into your face like he might yank the words out himself.

“Yes? What is it?”

“You... you…” And the words you want to ask are stuck between your teeth until you force them out. “Why did you do this? It’s not just… it can’t be just because you,” and your mind reels to remember what he said on the train. “Because you enjoy my company.”

Chrollo says nothing for a moment. A whole lot of nothing. Your mind is working too fast and you expect him to smile or grin, expect him to give some terribly wicked speech like a villain in a movie you’ve seen a thousand times.

Instead he blinks. Instead he frowns.

Instead his hand reaches out to grip your chin and you don’t have time to register the uncomfortable buzz from being touched when says something so softly that you have to strain to hear it.

“Oh, dearest. Don’t you know?”

When your chin does try to jerk away from his touch, it grows tighter, even as his gaze seems to soften. It’s a strange look on Chrollo’s face. Chrollo has looked contemplative, yes; contemplative and intrigued and annoyed, even, when some museum-goers were being too loud for your liking. He’s even looked sympathetic.

But soft? It’s new. It’s unwanted. And the expression stays on his face despite both of those terrible qualities.

“I care for you,” he says, repeating his earlier words. “Not just as a friend. But…” He turns your head this way and that. It makes you feel like a prized horse at auction. “I believe… as something more.”

Not just as a friend… 

Not just as a friend–

“Not just as a friend.” Your repetition comes out all stilted. Maybe because of the hand on your jaw. Maybe because the words seem to creak out of you, every syllable one step down the staircase you’d rather avoid descending.

Something like a film reel flickers through your memories. Little moments, brought back to the forefront with a disgusting clarity. Why had you brushed him off so often? Because you were lonely; because he was your friend. Or so you thought.

But the way he pushed past what you wanted so often seems calculated now. The times he sat too close and let his thigh brush against yours; the way he didn’t hear you, or so he said, when you’d asked him to please stop calling you those soft, sweet pet names. The times he claimed not to be hungry only to ask if he could share your meal afterwards–the way his fingers brushed against yours when he accidentally (or was it?) reached for a bite at the same time.

“The whole time,” you bite out, acid rising in your throat. Your fingers curl against your thighs and there’s a terrible urge to knock them into something. “Were you like this… the whole time?”

Amusement crinkles through the softness in his face. It’s just as grating as nails on a chalkboard. “Did you really not notice?”

Shame flushes through you, heating up your cheeks, your chest, the very air in the room. “Of course not,” you spit out, words sounding more stilted with every passing moment. “Most people wouldn’t notice–notice that.”

At some point, he’s let go of your chin, and you take the moment of the realization to scoot backwards on the bed. Away from him and closer to the dingy looking headboard, which might have been pretty once upon a time, but was now scratched and chipped.

“Of course they would,” he counters, climbing onto the bed like some sort of terrible cat. “And they have, with far less effort on my part.” He pauses, a smile. “Not out of any genuine affection, of course. Don’t worry about that. Only to get something I wanted.”

He’s closer, now. Too close. His hand cups not your chin this time, but your cheek, and there’s only a few moments in between his face and yours. What if he…? 

“Stop,” you say, desperate, helpless. “Don’t touch me.” He doesn’t stop. He leans in closer and you smack against the headboard. “Why aren’t you listening to me?”

What he says makes about as much sense as jello salad. Which is to say, no damn sense at all. “I am listening.” The almost-coo in his voice makes you want to hurl. “I’m hearing what you can’t say out loud, that’s all.”

But that’s not true. Is it? There’s too much going on. He’s too close and this room smells like soap and you ought to be home, not here, with yourself, not Chrollo. The muchness of it all has you aching to get away and make sense of it all, some way, some how.

“I always say what I want to say,” you manage, but you can’t hide the question in it. Isn’t that true? Isn’t that how it’s always been? It’s why people tend to look at you strangely sometimes. It’s why you were often too much for them, when it came down to it.

“You think you do, my dear.” His thumb rubs against your cheek. The touch is sandpaper. “But there’s something else inside you, I think. Something stuck that I’d like to crack open and pull out, if I could.” The fondness in his tone is out of place with the world around you. “If you’d let me.”

You need him to stop touching you. You need him to get away. You need this entire room to vanish, the sight of it, the smell of it, the feel of the unfamiliar sheets underneath you. A sound comes out, something short, stacatto–

“No.” 

And Chrollo doesn’t leave and his thumb keeps rubbing your cheek, so you bring your arm up, smacking him away. Only his arm doesn’t move at all. It’s like hitting a pole–sturdy and impossibly strong.

So you try again, and again, and the sensation of hitting his arm isn’t helpful or soothing. It only makes your breath come in faster, makes the world spin. His breath grows faster, too, and you can’t begin to imagine why.

“You’ll grow to like this in time,” Chrollo says, finally, a touch of a sigh in his voice. “You’ll grow to like me.” 

“No,” you say again, even though it doesn’t help. 

In response, Chrollo simply continues to stroke your cheek.

–

In his defense–not that you are defending him–Chrollo said nothing when you’d taken the first opportunity to abandon the bed and build something like a fort in the corner of the room. It wasn’t anything like the pop up tent you used to have as a child (then a teenager and, sometimes, in a pinch, as an adult) but it would do. A fort made from blankets and some of the bed pillows, despite the detergent stink.

Anything to avoid sleeping in the same bed as Chrollo. More than that, anything to be alone, or something like it. You rocked yourself to sleep and dreamt about the museum. 

In the morning, you wake up and remember everything in one great gulping heave. Your body tenses when you hear Chrollo walking around the room–the sound of the sink, the toilet, the rustling of clothes–until his footsteps stop outside your makeshift shelter.

He pops his head inside without so much as a warning.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

The glare he receives is enough of a response. He chuckles it away, easy as a gnat.

“I’d like to show you something. It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises,” you reply, voice tired and dull. He’s going to show you anyway. He knows it, and you do, too.

He holds open the drape of your fort but you don’t have the energy to be grateful that he at least didn’t drag you out of it. Your limbs feel heavy and awful as you crawl out, and the hotel room in the daylight looks no better than it did at night. 

But Chrollo must have done some unpacking while you slept, because there are a few more things scattered around. His clothing, slipped into hangers. Toiletries–his and yours–on top of the chest of drawers.

And something set against the wall, covered in a plain black tarp. 

The surprise, it seems. Curiosity prickles at you. Maybe it’s a good distraction from everything else. Maybe you’re just genuinely interested in what could possibly lay underneath.

Chrollo’s smile almost looks youthful as he tugs at the edge of the tarp, and you see a flash of black as he pulls it away, revealing the treasure underneath.

The Village in Winter.

It’s all wrong. It’s naked, without the frame, propped up in some hotel room surrounded by chipped furniture and laundry smells.

There is no air left in the room, no water left in your lungs. You could cough up a thousand years of dust right now and still not run out.

“You stole it,” you manage to say. Chrollo simply nods and looks for all the world like he’s showing you something he’s proud of; and he is, you think. Proud of everything. The urge to fall down swims through you, and you grip the wall.  

“You were a great help,” Chrollo says, voice soft and confident and anything but assuring. “We were struggling with the best way to remove it without damaging the work underneath.” He tilts his head, just so, the same way he did that first morning in the museum. 

Nothing is the same as that first morning in the museum.

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

On the other side of the door, you frowned and hesitated. His voice sounded tired and grumpy. Had you taken too long and robbed him of time he’d rather be sleeping? Had he actually been upset that you had ordered him to bathe instead of asking? Had something come up in the time you’d been gone? Only one way to find out.

You had to stop and stare at Buggy once you were in the room. He looked gorgeous. You already knew he was hot but this was a different type of attractive. Even though the loose clothing you’d stolen for him (sorry Zoro) was casual sleepwear, the way it draped brought out the places where he was bulked up. Each lax section of soft cloth juxtaposed beautifully with the spots where muscle pushed against fabric. Shoulders, chest, and thighs stood out to you most, calling to you with the request to treat them as overstuffed pillows pressing at their cases. You admired him as your eyes made their way back up to his face. His hair was pulled back in a large messy bun that looked so, so soft and left his face completely unobscured. The refresh on makeup was skillfully executed and brought out all his features in a way that had your mouth run dry. The tempting lines of his lips stood out behind vibrant red. His brow and cheekbones were highlighted by slashes of blue. His sea-glass eyes looked all the brighter set against a rim of dark lashes and smudges. You were probably staring too long, but it was too difficult to look away.

Buggy didn’t mind. He can’t remember someone looking at him with awe this way before. It was the best balm he could've asked for to cover his freshly agitated self-loathing. He almost couldn’t believe that his efforts on his appearance had worked out so well. Feeling high off of his success, he couldn’t resist taking some time to gloat.

“Need help picking your jaw off the floor, sweetcheeks?” he teased. His teeth bared in a wide smile, splitting his face and narrowing his eyes. His canines shined white against the dark of his lips.

One hand flew over to you and held your chin. Buggy placed the pad of his thumb against your bottom lip, before rubbing the whole length of it down. Enraptured by the sight of your lip being pulled, Buggy stared and swallowed hard. His breath shook lightly, just like the breath he felt puff out against his hand. He let your lip flick back up before pressing his hand up to guide your gently parted mouth closed.

Feeling unsure of where things would go next, you cleared your throat and turned away. Maybe something routine would settle your nerves. Lotion. Yeah, that would work. The movements would be calming and it would let you stay in your own physical space until you were less flustered. Maybe it would even give you some time to cook up some vengeance and get the upper hand on the clown again.

Buggy was still taking up the chair at the desk, and you weren’t ready to breach the border of the bed yet. Luckily, there was a large pouf you could sit on and continue avoiding things. You tried not to let Buggy’s gleeful giggling at your expense goad you into saying something stupid to shut him up. Instead, you focused your attention on the calming smell of your lotion as you opened the tub. Delicate scents of amber, wood, and lavender greeted you and the pavlovian training from a long history of hard days smoothed out to this smell made you instantly loosen and breathe deeper.

“Were you a perfumier pre-pirate or something?” Buggy asked. He had made himself sound condescending, but you caught the interest in the way he looked over at you. 

You had noticed before how very unsubtly he had taken to your care products anyway. You had caught him sniffing at his own hair more than once since you’d washed it. If there was an occasion with an excuse for him to be close, his face tended to gravitate around your shoulders and head and you could’ve sworn he’d deepen his breath. It skirted the perfect line between sweet and pathetic for you to let it continue. Some part of you wondered if you would find it creepy from someone else, but a much larger part of you didn’t care.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, circus boy,” you scoffed. Having made quick work of your feet, you were now on to massaging the creamy lotion into the meat of your calf. 

“That’s not one of the things you’re allowed to call me,” he said, lip curling. “Closest you can get is ‘ringmaster’.” He paused then added as an afterthought, “You could always just keep it to ‘master’ too.”

“You wish,” you laughed out. You had switched to your other calf, the one closer to Buggy, and bent your leg towards yourself this time, tired of bending forward. Buggy’s rebuttal died on his lips as he watched your movements, especially the way it made your sleep shorts ride up. He didn’t know if he wanted to know how your hands felt, digging long stripes across skin and muscle, or how it felt to replace your hands with his, molding and admiring your body. His indecision only grew as you moved up to your thigh.

Noticing the long silence, you looked up at Buggy to see what had him distracted. His gaze was glued to your hands. To make sure that he was watching and not staring into the abyss, you leisurely slid your hands all the way back down to your ankle. His eyes intently followed the whole process. Definitely watching. Huh.

Going to the other thigh, you tried to decide how to react to that. Sure, he’s been flirty and so have you, but he’s also missed too many offers for closeness for you to think there was more to it. He’d shy from your hands more often than he would seek them and he tended to make himself scarce soon after your personal spaces mingled. That’s one of the things that tipped you off that he liked your shampoo and not you; it was the only time he would truly linger. You had decided that he yearned for touch but not your touch.

The thought had little pangs going through you, causing you to slow and slump. You looked back up at him and saw the longing in his eyes before he covered it up by screwing up his face and sticking his tongue out at you. What a fucking child. He’s perfect.

So, you treated that longing as what you thought it was: pure touch-starvation. You’ve been there and knew that pain. Honestly, you fell into it pretty quickly. Recently that was exacerbated by leaving Luffy’s crew, who would keep you sated on that front. Well… mostly Luffy, but Usopp was a hugger and Sanji would never be upset with contact. Nami would sometimes tolerate it, giving you the energy of a standoffish cat beginning to accept your presence. The most you broke out of Zoro were playful shoulder bumps and other such affectionate roughness. Reminiscing aside, you didn’t want Buggy to ache like that.

Gesturing towards Buggy with the lotion, you asked, “I’m guessing you didn’t use any yet?”

“Why would I? I don’t need it,” he responded, furrowing his brows.

“Well you won’t die without it I’ll give you that,” you started, “but it makes your skin soft and smells good.” You were surprised to see him take a moment to think over your offer so quickly. His eyes lingered on your legs again, and you worked to tamp down the hopes for affection it brought up in you.

“Looks like too much work,” Buggy dismissed, getting up and making for the bed.

“I’ll do it for you,” you pressed, falling victim to your own yearning for contact.

Buggy froze completely, even halting his breath, repeating the sounds of your voice in his mind to make sure they actually made those words. No way. Yeah, you did that lovely hair wash and seemed soft on him, but he figured that was mostly from pity for how helpless and bedraggled he was as a head. There’s no way you’re here just handing out a massage. “Care to repeat that, dollface?”

“I’ll do the lotioning for you, like, give you a massage,” you explained. The fact that he still hasn’t moved was making you nervous. It was a good thing you couldn’t see the wide-eyed look of startled prey frozen on his face. “If you don’t want me to that’s fi-”

“No!” Buggy yelped. Head and torso spun around, lifting off his lower body in his haste to face you. His lower body caught up and he popped back down onto his waist, causing his clothes to flutter. “I mean, uhhh-” he cleared his throat “I don’t mind. It’ll be a nice service for your Captain.” By the end of that, he at least started to sound smug and teasing again. There was no saving it, but you were gracious enough to let the fumbles pass this time. It helped that his eagerness was flattering.

“Sure thing, Cap,” you said, messing up the title to keep at least a small level of disrespect to rub at him. He was too fun to bait.

“It’s Captain. Captain Buggy, actually,” he told you. He backed up and sat on the edge of the bed to watch your approach. “It’s easy - Cap-tain Bu-ggy.” 

You huffed good-naturedly at him talking to you like you were a child, split syllables and all. Might as well continue toying with him.

“Cap-” you kneeled down between his legs “-tain” you had a hand at each of his ankles “Boo-” his left pant leg was pushed above his knee “-gie!” and the right one follows.

“You are such a brat,” he chastised, trying to sound stern and pissed off, but he was too distracted by the way the mischievous glint in your eye had his heart pounding. He had no clue what you were planning, but he was sure he would hate and love it. “Say it right.”

“Or what?” you snorted dismissively, rolling your eyes and trailing light fingertips down his shins. Unfortunately, that was a step too far; something in him felt you saw him as a foolish boy in that moment, making him lash out.

Your cheer fell the moment his hand fisted the front of your shirt. His grip tugged you in and his face got as close as possible without breaching to touch you. For a fraction of a second, it didn’t matter how pretty those eyes were; all you could see of them was anger. 

“Sorry, Captain Buggy,” you mumbled quickly. For a tense few breaths, his wild eyes peeled yours apart. You let him, wanting to show compliance and that you had nothing to hide. You got to watch first-hand how the fight left him in his relaxing brow, drooping shoulders, and slipping grip. Those fiery eyes lost their burn and his look closed off into something you couldn’t understand.

“Whatever. Just don’t do it again,” he grumbled. Sometime when the two of you had more practice opening to each other, you needed to ask him precisely what ‘it’ was. For now, you would file this away to await that day.

“I won’t,” you promised, truly meaning it. It wasn’t due to the threat but because you hated when he was upset. You started to get in your own head; somehow it seemed each time you moved to get close to him that you would upset him. The night that you two shared a hammock had ended up lovely, but you couldn’t help but worry that you were crossing boundaries he had tried to express to you through these turns of temper.

Buggy noticed how your hands at the lotion had become limp and hesitant. You didn’t want to touch him. But you offered! You can’t take it away from him now; he needs it. Hot shame broke across his skin at the realization that he had lashed out at you and made you nervous to touch him. You should never be scared of him and he resolved to stop giving you reason to be. You should look at him and see a reliable Captain, a brave protector. A lifelong lover. The ache was back and more pungent than ever.

You were still stalling, tracing nonsense into the lotion and shifting on your knees, when the hand that had been loosely holding your shirt instead smoothed it out and Buggy’s other hand grabbed your own and placed it against his calf. The hand at your chest rubbed soothing swipes back and forth beneath your collarbone, easing the creases he’d made out of the fabric of your top. You began to mimic this motion on the side of Buggy’s leg. Before you started to commit to your task, you looked up to meet Buggy’s eyes. He wouldn’t say the words, but his eyes were glassy and pleading for forgiveness. While words were nice, you could feel how genuine the apology was through his caring and nervous touch, and for now that was enough for you.

A tentative smile eased onto your lips and Buggy felt some of the pressure in his throat and chest loosen its grip. Your other hand joined the first in kneading his muscles and his lungs were freed enough to stretch full again.

He watched you intently while you set about lotioning his legs. The task helped you ease back up and you quickly took to enjoying it; touching Buggy always had your heart fluttering. You felt like you were edging on something unknown and unexplored and exciting. You had gained quite the affection for this temperamental and wounded man. You wanted desperately to be the one to soothe and comfort him and make it so more of that goofy and loving side of him could flourish. The goofiness has come out quite easily but he holds his love very close to his chest. You imagine that is the place that has been the most damaged with how he guards it. His pride also seems to be held quite close for fear of injury.

Buggy hummed out relief as you pressed more firmly into his calf. It gave you more confidence in your touch to know that you were making him feel good. Working thumbs down next to his shin, you marveled at the fact that even the soft hairs there were blue. You found it fitting that so much blue was wrapped into his looks: blue like the sea that promised the freedom that he endlessly chased, blue like the sky that has been his roof since boyhood, blue like the melancholy that steeped into his being. Red fit him too - his nose, his lips, his passion, his rage - but the blue seemed to run deeper.

Tending to the second leg, you broke yourself from your reverie to check in on Buggy. He was looking down at you, but you could tell from the glaze in his eyes that he wasn’t actually seeing you. Wherever he was in his head, you hoped that it was kind. 

You’d happily take advantage of his zoning out to stare at that pretty face for a while. The makeup highlighting his features looked extra meticulous, not a single wobble in the diamonds over his eyes. The color he put on tonight was richer by his lips and eyes than you’d ever seen it. Dark smudges fit him so nicely; they made his eyes more entrancing and the sea-green of his irises stand out. You trailed your gaze down to admire the other feature he’d emphasized; his lips. The bright crimson of his painted smile bled into a hypnotizing deep carmine right where you would kiss. Your new favorite color was interrupted by a flash of pink - a nervous tongue flicking to wet his lips over makeup - and you looked up.

Buggy’s eyes have managed to darken even more with his blown pupils. There was a questioning furrow to his brow but no apprehension to match it. His posture seemed a lot more leisurely than the hard set of his shoulders you had seen after his outburst. It made you smile brightly up at him, pleased that you were making him feel better. His eyes shot away from you, and you could’ve sworn you saw a flush peeking out on his cheeks. You placed a hand on each of his knees, giving them a playful squeeze.

“Wearing anything under these?” you asked, tugging at the pant legs shoved up on his thighs. Buggy took a second to choke on his surprise. He recovered quickly.

“No, but don’t let that stop you,” he teased. Ah, there’s that cheesy wink, tongue click and all. What a man. It was even better knowing that he’d shy away the moment your fingers touched his waistband. You eyed that waistband longingly for a moment before deciding to keep things away from your other massage talents.

“Captain!” you gasped in mock offense. “You’d offer such a thing to a pure maiden like me?”

“Pure maiden?” he laughed out, much too amused at the idea. “Oh, sure, the same pure maiden who offered a ‘tasting’ to that pretty boy chef?”

Despite laughing with him, you still gave his thigh a little smack for the jab.

“He was the one who responded to a compliment of his palette with ‘thank you, love, my tongue is well trained’!” you defended, making sure to put on a terrible impression when quoting Sanji. “What was I supposed to do? Not flirt back?”

“Do you always just flirt black?” Buggy’s eyes and tone turned more intense but not angry. You were happy to see that nothing harsh spilled into his expression with that focus.

“Only if I enjoy a person,” you responded evenly, a bit apprehensive of where he could be leading this. “I don’t play to anyone I don’t like.”

A pleased grin slowly split his face and you focused in on his shining teeth framed in blood red lips.  His words came out light and airy in a way that made you suspect a trap beneath their veneer when he asked, “Then tell me, little tease, do you like me?”

Buggy’s sudden confidence quickly had yours faltering. It felt the same as when someone toys with you because they know something you don’t. He had to have something up his sleeve to set you up like that. Sure, he had a moment earlier when he noticed your gawking, but this can’t be the same Buggy that tripped on his own feet when you offered to learn burlesque for his show. You decided to play it safe.

“Of course. I chose you as my Captain, right?” Agree but deflect - perfect.

Buggy wanted to be frustrated at your answer. Actually, some piece of him was - he was sure you knew that’s not what he was getting at - but he was also happy. You did choose him. You chose to run away with him, a pirate you barely knew, not to mention that that short time was always spent with one of you as the other’s hostage. He’d question your judgment if it weren’t benefitting him so much. Even if it wasn’t what he wanted (‘yet’ he hoped), you liked him enough to completely change the trajectory of your life path to run parallel with his. That counted for something. A lot of something. 

The affection that started to blend into Buggy’s eyes had your heart stuttering. You couldn’t look away even when he gently placed a hand atop your head then petted it slowly back and down so that he held the back of your head.

“Right,” he responded quietly. He gave two gentle scratches to the base of your skull before leaning away from you. The distance helped break you from the spell his gaze had you under. He huffed out a breath then asked, “So, what’s next?”

“I can do your back?” Yeah that should help; it would keep those pretty eyes from making you want to bare your soul. It seemed to be their mission tonight to do so by force or by favor and you were not ready for him to find the immense (and still somehow growing) affection for him there. You weren’t ready for the rejection you expected. You don’t think he would reject a more active night sharing a bed but you were certain he would reject the pursuit of love and that’s what would actually hurt. And besides, it would give him way too big of a head and the teasing would become unbearably annoying.

Oh, wow, when did he take his shirt off? Were you really zoned out thinking for more than a few seconds? And how come this man makes chest hair look so damn good? You wanted to feel that dark blue under your fingers and the pecs decorated with it as well. His shirt did him justice but he looks just as good, if not better, without it. Those pecs flexed a few times, letting you know he caught on to your staring again. 

“You’re really distracted today,” Buggy said through a smile, looking all too wolfish for your liking at the moment.

“What can I say, I love blue and you’re just lucky to be covered in it.”

“Well I am a natural bluenette,” Buggy said with that stupid, wonderful, self-satisfied glint in his eye he got every time he tried out one of his tenuous puns. 

“You are the worst,” you laughed. The corners of his cheeky smile pulled wider. “Here, let me set up for you.”

Buggy quirked a brow at you but said nothing as he watched you shuffle onto the bed. You grabbed the pillows from the head of the bed and laid them out in the middle. After making an upside down “T”, you took a moment to fluff them for maximum comfort. Luckily, the inn didn’t skimp out on pillow budget so you had a lot to work with. You finished by giving them an appeased nod then turned back to Buggy. With dramatic flair, you swept an arm through the air over your setup. 

“Your throne awaits,” you said. You patted the top pillow, “Chest here-” and the middle of the bottom one “-and hips here. Keep your head above the top one with your forehead on your arms so you don’t have to crank your neck the whole time.”

Buggy began moving to the center of the bed with a sarcastic “Yes, your highness” and turned to lay on his stomach. You took the opportunity to admire your beloved blue on his chest and happy trail. You scooted to sit on your knees right next to his side. Looking down at his back, you took in the muscles he had built there too. They made enticing lines across the expanse of soft skin and you were ever more eager to be able to have your hands on him. 

You leaned forward to begin a few awkward times before deciding you didn’t like the angle. It would be more comfortable with a straight shot, not to mention you’d be able to do a much better job for him. You wanted to impress him (hopefully enough to be able to do this again), so you pulled together the courage to throw a leg over him. You hovered for just a second, before lowering yourself to sit on his glutes. It ended up being a more cushioned seat than anticipated (good for him) so you felt comfortable relaxing more of your weight down on him. Buggy let out a nervous little giggle before he cleared his throat and shuffled beneath you.

“Is this okay?” you asked, frowning lightly.

“Yeah, fine,” Buggy responded, too quick and too high. You rolled your eyes at his convincing response and began to lift your weight back off of him. He threw his left hand back to sink his grip into your thigh and keep you from moving.

“I said it was fine,” Buggy repeated too firmly, causing you to sit back down incredulously.

It was most certainly not fine. Buggy didn’t think that something so simple would fluster him so much, but his touch-starved nerves were staging light shows under his skin and his mind was running wild. He had hoped that the start of the massage would have prepared him for further contact. Instead, his brain was drowning under a tide of happy chemicals at the feeling of your weight and warmth. Your soft thighs pressed gently into the skin of his sides and the heat exchanging between your bodies had him melting into the pillows. 

You snuggled your legs more comfortably into him, and the wonderful pressure of the act along with the weight of you on him had him feeling held for the first time in… how long? The night of his head cuddled into your chest was close (and quite precious to him), but it was different with his body involved - more overwhelming. His heart ached again as he was left to take in the images his brain conjured of the two of you wrapped in each other to start and end the days. The pain of it was more poignant with the realism your closeness allowed. Yep, he was not fine, but he was desperate to stay right where he was.

The nerves still persisted though. If the firm strokes of your fingers along his calves had him holding back pleased sighs, he was sure he’d have to bite his tongue to keep from moaning with your hands working his tense back loose. He was already kicking himself for the giggle and crackling voice. You must think he’s so pathetic; how could you admire him when he always crumbled around you?

“Seafaring has certainly done wonders for you,” you complimented while trailing fingertips across his shoulders. Buggy blinked and worried for a second that you could hear his downturning thoughts with how well-timed your compliments tended to be. Your fingers brushed down the length of his spine and the shiver it pulled out shook the worries from him. Tracing that path back up, you turned your hand over to tease him with the brush of your nails. Another tremble rewarded your efforts.

After spreading a generous amount of lotion on your hands, you rubbed the moisture into the lower half of his back to start. It was a bit cold for a moment before it warmed under your palms and warmed the air with more of that relaxing scent. The lavender and wood settled over Buggy’s senses and helped keep his breath deep and mind quiet. You took your time enjoying the feel of him as you molded his muscles under the base of your thumb, moving from spine to side then letting your fingers touch all the way back to the start. 

Buggy was split between turning liquid under your touch and tensing up to keep control of his composure, and the divide only worsened with each measured stroke across his skin. When he let himself lean towards relaxing, he felt a whine pressing out of his chest and tucked his head down to bite into the plush pillow to hold it back. He found that clenching his teeth into something helped ground all of his tension there and he began to let his muscles relax with your urging hands. Even still, he had to continue biting back pleased sounds for fear of your reaction. Unwilling to part with your touch, he bore the brunt of his insecurities. Long and slow breaths helped him keep his nerves and excitement back, and he found the payment of filing this into his memory well worth the risk of embarrassing himself.

Your own mind quieted as you subconsciously mimicked his deepening breaths and filled your mind with your senses instead of internal monologue. They led you to indulge as your eyes saw Buggy look like art under dim lamplight.  You felt his form shift and mix with your hands under you, you smelled your lotion mixing with the sweet haze around his hair and the barely there scent of his skin, and you heard the ambiance of slow breathing and skin brushing skin. You yearned to fill your last sense with Buggy too, pulling him in for a kiss to have him eased onto your tongue.

Meanwhile, Buggy had sunk enough into the moment to forget how to yearn. He was already getting more than he could’ve hoped for from you, and the satisfaction of getting your touch so directly, intentionally, and extendedly had him on cloud nine. His brain was turning gooey and it was distracting him from his aversion to making noise; his deep breaths shifted to take on the air of a sigh each time a new or particularly needy spot found itself under your loving hands. He’d wind his jaw back tight again each time that he heard the noise become too audible, but each time he had less and less resistance to give. The desperation to stay calm and collected was sinking beneath the desperation to fall under the spell of your care. With each moment under your comforting weight, radiant heat, enticing scent, and worshiping hands he knew he’d drown under that rising tide. The surrender was frightening, but the other side seemed so blissful.

When you circled your thumbs right above the dimples on his lower back and worked them deep into the muscles framing his spine, you pulled the first faint moan from him. It was cut short by a tense inhale but the shaky sound resonated long enough to spread goosebumps up the back of your neck. Waiting until he started to exhale, you kneaded your thumbs all the way up until you were palming his traps and another moan followed, low and long. Since he wasn’t able to hide the sound, you got to hear every needy tone wrapped up in the pressure of his voice. Pressing his forehead down further into his arms, Buggy stretched his shoulders wide and the base of his neck up to give you more to touch while also feeling more hidden. It had him looking like a sleepy cat leaning into petting.

“Feels good?” you asked, just barely above a whisper but tone still noticeably eager.

“So good,” Buggy mumbled, voice thick and rumbling from his chest. The stubborn tightness he’s been holding deep in his chest was finally leaving him. The freeing space quickly filled with a thrill he found unfamiliar; it wasn’t bubbling, flinging, or shocking through him but instead it sat sturdy within his ribs, spreading and dripping like molasses out through his body. To your surprise, Buggy gave you more of that enticing sleepy lilt. “Splitting up can make me sore and fuck with my nerves. Leaves my muscles feeling-” he paused to grunt with relief when you broke up a knot that had tucked itself next to his shoulder blade “-heavy. Puts pin pricks on my skin like it's numb too if I’m broken up a long time.” Your hands pushed out to hold the lats that lay thick over his ribs. After a moment of simply appreciating the waves of his breath under your palms, you continued your massage and earned another pleased groan from him, this one completely unrestrained. “It’s worst when my head’s off - makes my whole body ache.”

Buggy had been simply talking without thought, so when you stopped for a few long moments he had the time to let his mind catch up. Before he had enough time to regain any of his anxieties, you resumed your task.

“That sounds awful,” you mumbled sympathetically. 

He hummed in agreement, but was too soothed to let his mind actually linger on any of his hurts or complaints. Everything was simply gentle breathing and soft skin. 

That head fuzz kept him floating through the rest of your attention. In the future he’d be kicking himself for not intensely focusing on recording every second down in his memory. As he was now though, that languid semi-sleep suspended outside of time was his personal heaven. 

You retained more of your own focus, but being more alert than Buggy in that moment was an exceedingly low bar. It meant that you were just able to keep your task going and be conscious of your actions. Beyond that, your mind wandered far and wide through scenes both domestic and dramatic. The same Buggy who brushed fingertips across your cheek to wake you also professed his undying love at the threat of you heading back to your old crew. The Buggy who placed a peck with an obnoxious “mwah!” each time you passed each other while readying for the day also cried from fear and relief and clung to you after he swept you away from danger. Your Buggy shared the mundane quiet with you through squeezing hands, silly faces, and leaning weight. Your Buggy bared his teeth at those who wronged you and spilled you over his bed to salve the wounds with fervent devotion.

The Buggy under you let out a quiet snore and forced you to fully exist in reality.

You giggled fondly at the man below you, heart swelling at the thought of how much more comfortable and relaxed he became. 

“Mmn-why’d ya stop,” Buggy grumbled. His sleep-thick voice barely made it past the pillow.

“I figured you were gone to the world,” you responded, “and besides, I’ve been at this for… about an hour fifteen actually.”

“Another then.”

“Another what?”

“Hour fifteen.”

You snorted at his needy petulance. Give him just a bit of attention and he’s immediately spoiled rotten.

“Not even a thanks first for the time already given?” you teased.

“Thank you, my sweetest, most dearest crew member! Truly you are a gift to your captain and deserve accolades and promotion,” Buggy snarked in a dramatic cadence, sounding like a play lead professing his love.

The only promotion you saw happening was his promotion from spoiled rotten to Spoiled Rotten Brat. 

“What position will I be promoted to, my sweetest and most dearest Captain?” You mimicked him but packed much more sarcasm into the flattery. Getting up onto your knees, you eyed him up and down. You knew how you wanted to shut him up but felt like you shouldn’t.

“Why, just what the most essential and beloved member of my crew deserves!” Buggy was trying to sound dramatic, but couldn’t keep the sound of his wide smile out of his voice. He peeked over his shoulder to expose that face splitting grin with you. Like always, the blues and greens in his smile-crinkled eyes messed with your heart.

“You’ll be my very own personal servant,” Buggy finally answered, looking like the very embodiment of self-satisfaction.

You blamed him for your slip in self-control.

The sharp sound that cut through the room and his shittalking as your palm met his ass was music to your ears. The moment after contact, you bolted for the door, leaving him behind with your laughter. Unfortunately, you were no match for the speed of chop chop hands, which latched onto your wrists to halt your escape. Buggy was right behind them, reattaching and then wrapping arms around you to throw you over a shoulder in one frantic motion.

The cackling that burst out of him was wild and bright and you couldn’t resist joining in. You wished you could see his face as it twisted in joy, but you were stuck hanging over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Your mind lost that thought along with all others when you felt a harsh smack against your own ass. When he received a disbelieving chuckle instead of vicious cursing, Buggy repeated the sharp motion a few more times for good measure. You yelped and squirmed playfully, mildly impressed how easily he supported your weight and kept his hold firm.

You decided he was a hidden gentleman when his hand only stayed in place for a moment before moving down to the back of your thighs. You shivered at the feeling of his hand brushing down the sensitive skin there to rest its warmth just above the back of your knee. He started walking, his steps bouncing through you, and just when you wondered where he planned to put you, your world spun. Springs creaked as your back met the mattress and continued their protests with each residual bounce.

“You’re not allowed to take up the whole thing this time,” Buggy teased, narrowing his eyes down at you.

“Like you needed the space.” You still started shifting towards the walled side of the bed to make room for him.

“You gonna hold your Captain’s weakest moment over his head forever?” Buggy asked.

“Unlikely, but no promises,” you responded, voice warbled by your heavy shifts to turn over and face Buggy once more.

He beat your grace by a landslide when he delicately sat on the bed and slid under the covers. It reminded you of someone trying not to alert a predator with any sudden movements. Or maybe a teen sneaking back into the house just before dawn. Grace leaves him once his motion stops though; he lays awkwardly on his back and his whole body stiffens up to resemble a plank. He’s kept himself arm’s distance from you, not at the edge of the mattress but close. And he really had the gall to say you’d take up the whole bed when he was going to act like this.

“You just had a hand on my ass; are you really that scared to touch me again?” Your voice is much more incredulous than judgemental. You were simply astonished by his capricious nature yet again.

Instead of responding, Buggy sent a pouty glare your way. You met it with an easy smile, making it begin to lean more pout than glare. It looked positively absurd coming from the corner of his eye because he was still too locked up to move. Wanting to ease him and getting tired of waiting (and missing his touch), you began to reach for him. Just to spite you, Buggy finally broke his method acting as Statue to turn his back to you. The huff he let out had you giggling again. You took a moment to cherish how much he’s had you doing that, especially tonight.

“If you think I won’t spoon you, you’ve got another thing coming,” you threatened.

You caught the barest hint of his gaze when he turned his head to peek at you. It was only there for a moment before he faced back forward and snuggled himself deeper into the mattress. Looks like someone might actually be up for little spoon.

Moving slowly so that he has plenty of time to object, you shifted yourself forward on the bed until you were only a few inches away. The divot both of your bodies were making was adding gravity to the pull between you two but you still hesitated. The final step to contact was the most daunting after all, and also the part you wanted to savor the most. You took a deep breath, smelling your own favorite lotion off of the exposed skin in front of you, and moved forward.

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

<-Prev Next (coming up!)->

You turn.

The man standing there is large. Broad-shouldered, muscular, with an easy confidence that probably makes most people instinctively defer to him.

You’re not most people.

“Fine,” you say flatly. “I won.”

His eyebrow rises. “Alone?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

Something flickers in his expression. Surprise. Maybe respect. “At the same time?”

“One got the jump on me while I was fighting the first.” You turn back to Katheryne. “So as I was saying—”

“The commission requires three people,” the large man interrupts. “For a reason.”

You give him a look. “And you are?”

“Varka. Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius.”

Most people would be embarrassed. Apologetic. Deferential.

You just nod. “Nice to meet you. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“I’m not excusing you.” But he doesn’t sound angry. If anything, he sounds… amused?

“I’m telling you that commission is too dangerous to take alone.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“You’re getting it anyway.” He crosses his arms, and you notice he’s trying not to smile. “You’re good—I can tell that much. But good gets you killed if you’re reckless about it.”

“I’m not reckless.”

“You’re trying to take a three-person commission solo. That’s reckless.”

You glare at him.

He gazes back, completely unmoved, and now he is smiling.

Katheryne clears her throat. “Perhaps a compromise? There’s a similar commission, lower rank, still challenging—”

“Fine.” You snatch the posting. “This one.”

Varka’s smile widens. “Smart choice.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

You turn to leave.

“Hey,” he calls after you.

You glance back.

“What’s your name?”

You hesitate. “Why?”

“So I know what to call you when I inevitably have to save your reckless ass.”

Despite yourself, your mouth quirks. “It’s not going to happen.”

“We’ll see.”

You leave without giving him your name.

(He finds out anyway. Katheryne tells him within the hour. He asks three times to make sure he heard it right.)

(You definitely don’t think about how his arms looked when he crossed them. Or how his smile changed his entire face. You absolutely don’t notice these things.)

The commission pays well.

You try not to think about blue eyes and an irritating smile while you work. You fail.

When you return to the city two days later, the sun is setting and you’re covered in dirt and blood. You’re walking over the bridge when—

“Heading out?”

Of course.

You don’t turn around. “Just got back.”

Varka falls into step beside you anyway, looking entirely too fresh and clean for someone who’s supposedly been working all day.

His stride is easy, unhurried, and you’re very aware of him. He could probably carry your pack and you without breaking a sweat.

“Successful commission?”

“Obviously.”

“No near-death experiences?”

“Not a single one.” You glance at him. “Disappointed?”

“Relieved, actually.” His smile is warm. “Though I did have a bet going with myself about how long you’d last before needing rescue.”

“How long did you give me?”

“Two days.”

“It’s been two days.”

“Exactly.” He’s grinning now. “I’m very good at reading people.”

Despite yourself, you almost smile. “You’re very irritating, is what you are.”

“I’ve been told that.” He doesn’t sound bothered. “Where are you headed?”

“Guild. Report the commission.”

“Mind if I walk with you?”

“Free city. Walk where you want.”

“That’s not a no.”

You don’t dignify that with a response.

He walks with you anyway, making easy conversation about nothing important. The weather, festival preparations, a merchant who’s trying to sell him “authentic Fatui memorabilia” that’s obviously fake.

You find yourself listening. Occasionally responding.

“You know,” he says casually, “you’ve got guts. Most people wouldn’t take commissions like that alone. You must really enjoy the thrill of it.”

You stop walking. “What?”

He blinks. “The danger. The fight. Some people are drawn to—”

“I don’t do this for thrills.” Your voice is sharp.

His smile fades. “I didn’t mean—”

“I do it because someone has to. Because if I don’t, people die.”

The words come out harsher than you intended.

Varka goes very still.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “That was stupid of me. I made an assumption.”

You start walking again. Varka catches up, falling into step.

“You’re trying to protect people,” he says. “Same as me. I should’ve seen that.”

You glance at him. His expression is serious. No defensiveness. Just understanding.

“Yeah,” you say finally.

He nods once. Doesn’t push. The tension eases slightly.

When you reach the Guild, he stops.

“Well,” Varka says, “this was nice.”

“You have a strange definition of nice.”

“Spending time with interesting people? That’s my definition exactly.” His eyes are warm. “See you around.”

He’s already walking away before you can respond. You stand there for a moment, watching him go. Then you shake your head.

You see him again two days later. And three days after that. And then it stops being surprising when he just shows up. The pattern continues. You take commissions. He appears. You work together with an ease that shouldn’t exist between two people who barely know each other.

(Except you’re starting to know him. The way he fights. The way he laughs. The way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.)

Two weeks later, he shows up again.

“You know,” you say, blocking a treasure hoarder’s strike, “don’t you have Grand Master things to do instead of slacking off?”

“Probably.” Varka disarms another hoarder with casual efficiency. “But this is more interesting.”

“Following me around?”

“Protecting Mondstadt.” He grins at you over the hoarder’s shoulder. “And getting to do it with you.”

He pauses, and something in his expression softens. “Enjoy spending time with you.”

You fumble your next parry.

The hoarder takes advantage, lunging forward, and Varka’s there instantly, intercepting the blade.

You catch a glimpse of his arms as he blocks. The way his muscles shift under his sleeves, controlled strength that could probably break someone in half but he’s using it to protect you—

Focus. You need to focus.

“Careful,” he says, and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or the hoarder.

Later, after the fight, you watch him sheath his claymore. There’s a scratch on his forearm that wasn’t there before, and you have the absurd urge to check if he’s alright.

He fought three hoarders without breaking a sweat. He’s fine.

You’re still looking at his arm when he nudges your shoulder.

“You alright? You seemed distracted there for a second.”

“Fine.” Your face feels warm. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing important.” You busy yourself cleaning your blade. “Thanks. For the save.”

“Anytime.” His voice is soft. “That’s what partners do.”

“We’re not partners.”

“Aren’t we?” He gestures at the defeated hoarders. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You don’t have a response to that.

— ✦ —

A month after your first meeting, you’re tracking Abyssal activity when he appears.

(You heard him coming. You always hear him now. You’ve learned the sound of his footsteps, the rhythm of his breathing when he’s trying to be quiet.)

“You’re getting predictable,” you say without turning around.

“Am I?”

“Every time I go after Abyssal monsters, you show up. Commission or not,” you mutter, refocusing on the tracks.

He’s quiet for a moment. “You track them outside of Guild work?”

“Someone has to.”

“That’s…” He pauses. “That’s dangerous.”

“Don’t care. Someone has to keep them away from the cities.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “Guess you need someone protecting you then.”

You swallow hard. “What are you doing here, Varka?”

“Maybe I’m just very good at timing.” He crouches beside you, examining the tracks. “Or maybe I worry.”

That makes you look at him. “Why?”

“Because you hunt them like it’s personal. Not just for the mora.” His voice is gentle. “And personal makes people reckless.”

“I’m not reckless.”

“You absolutely are.” But he’s smiling. “You’re like a firecracker. All explosive energy and no hesitation.”

You snort. “That’s not a compliment.”

“Sure it is. Firecrackers are exciting. Dangerous.” His eyes meet yours. “Beautiful when they go off. Hard to look away.”

Your breath catches. He’s close enough that you can see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. Close enough that if you leaned forward just slightly—

“The tracks go northeast,” you say abruptly, standing. “We should move.”

“Right. Northeast.” He doesn’t move immediately. Just keeps looking at you with that soft expression.

“Varka.”

“Yeah. Moving. I’m moving.”

But he’s still smiling as he follows you.

Four days later, you’re following a track near the Thousand Winds Temple when you hear his footsteps. Again.

You stand, facing him. “I can handle this alone.”

“I know you can.”

“Then why—”

“Because you don’t have to.” There’s frustration in his voice now. An edge you haven’t heard before. “You keep doing this. I’m right here and you just—”

He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “I’m right here,” he repeats. Quieter this time.

You blink at him. “I didn’t ask you to be.”

The words come out sharper than you intended. Something flickers across his face. Hurt, maybe. Or frustration.

“No,” he says. “You didn’t.”

Silence stretches between you.

He looks at a loss. Like he doesn’t know what to say. What to do with his hands.

It’s so unlike him that you actually feel bad. “Look,” you say finally. “You’re all strength and efficiency. And you like making use of your skills instead of just being in your office. I get it.”

Varka’s expression shifts. Something lighter creeping back in. “You could’ve just said you like it when I help you out.”

Despite yourself, your mouth quirks. “Must be the adrenaline talking.”

“Right. Adrenaline.” But he’s almost smiling now. “From all the standing around examining tracks.”

“Very intense track examination.”

“Clearly.”

He crouches beside you, examining the traces. Closer than necessary. “Not easy to rely on others,” he says quietly. More statement than question.

“Works better like this.” You keep your eyes on the tracks. “Simpler.”

“Simpler,” Varka repeats. “Right.”

He doesn’t sound convinced. But he doesn’t push.

Seven weeks in, at Dadaupa Gorge, the fight gets messy. The Hilichurl camp is larger than expected.

You’re outnumbered, outflanked, and one of them has a crossbow—

Varka's improvised shield takes the bolt meant for your head.

“Behind you!” you shout.

He spins, catches your attacker with his shoulder, sends them flying like they weigh nothing. You’ve seen him fight before, but there’s something about watching him move that makes your breath catch.

He’s close enough now that you can see the sweat on his brow, the way his chest rises and falls with exertion.

You force your eyes back to the fight. You barely dodge the next strike. You cover Varka's flank as three more rush in.

The fight is chaotic. Messy. Dangerous. And you’re both laughing.

“This is insane!” you call out.

“I know!” Varka sounds delighted. “Isn't it great?”

“Are you actually enjoying this?”

“You're smiling too!”

You are smiling. You can’t help it.

Fighting beside him feels like you’ve been doing this for years. Like you know exactly where he’ll be, what he’ll do, how he moves.

The last Hilichurl swings wild—you dodge left, it clips your shoulder, throws you off balance—

You crash into Varka. He tries to catch you but the momentum sends you both down. You land on top of him, straddling his waist, hands braced on his chest to catch yourself.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Your heart is still pounding from the fight. Adrenaline singing through your veins. Blood rushing in your ears.

And now you’re acutely aware of everything.

The way his chest rises and falls hard beneath your palms. The heat of him even through armor. The way his hands have landed on your hips, fingers flexing slightly like he’s not sure whether to push you away or pull you closer.

Your faces are inches apart. His eyes are very wide. Very blue.

“Hi,” you manage. Your voice comes out breathless.

“Hey.” His comes out rough. Almost wrecked.

You should move. You can’t seem to make your body cooperate. Neither can he, apparently, because his hands are still on your hips and he’s just staring at you.

“You good?” His voice is lower than usual.

“Yeah. You?”

“Honestly?” His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before snapping back up. “Not sure.”

Your breath catches. The adrenaline from the fight is mixing with something else now. Something that makes your skin feel too tight and your pulse jump for entirely different reasons.

“You’re—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re still on top of me.”

“I know.”

“Just making sure you noticed.”

“Hard not to.”

Something flickers in his expression. Heat and surprise and want all tangled together.

His hands tighten slightly on your hips. You feel it everywhere. “If you wanted to pin me,” he says, voice rough, “there are easier ways.”

“I didn’t—I fell—”

“I know.” His mouth quirks, but there’s nothing casual about the way he’s looking at you. “But if this is a new combat technique, it’s very effective. I’m thoroughly distracted.”

“Varka—”

“Can’t think straight right now,” he admits. “You should probably move.”

“Probably.”

You don’t. Neither does he. His thumb brushes against your hip, and it sends heat racing up your spine.

“Firecracker.” His voice is strained. “You’re killing me here.”

That breaks the spell. You scramble off him so fast you nearly fall again, heart still hammering.

He catches your arm, steadying you, and when you glance at his face he looks flushed. Breathing hard.

You notice the scratch on his forearm then. Fresh, bleeding slightly. Without thinking, you catch his wrist, turning his arm to see it better.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.” But his voice comes out rougher than usual.

Your fingers brush over the scratch and the older scars beneath it.

His breath hitches. You look up sharply, but he’s not pulling away. Just watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

“You take a lot of risks yourself,” you mutter, still holding his wrist.

“Have to.” His voice is steady. Confident. “Besides, I’m good at what I do.” There's no arrogance in it. Just fact.

Your thumb traces the edge of one scar. Longer than the others, almost stretching across his whole forearm.

“Quite the battle map you’ve got.”

His mouth quirks. “That obvious, huh?”

“Tells a story.” You glance up at him. “Lots of them, looks like.”

“Yeah, well.” He tries for lightness. “Comes with the job. Can't lead from the back.”

“Mondstadt’s very own hero,” you say.

“Something like that.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “External scars tend to do that. Give people a heroic impression.”

Something flickers in his expression then. Brief. Complicated.

External. The word hangs there. You almost ask. Almost.

“You take calculated risks though,” you say instead, thumb still resting on one of the scars. “Not like me. You think things through.”

You glance up at him. “I admire that. Admire you for it.”

Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or something softer.

He clears his throat. “You’re growing soft on me, firecracker.”

“You wish.”

He laughs. That low, rumbling sound that you’re starting to recognize. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. You keep me on my toes.”

Something in your chest does a complicated flip.

But he’s already shifting, gently pulling his arm from your grip. Not rejecting the touch, just closing the moment.

“We should—” He gestures vaguely toward the city.

“Yeah.” You let him go. “We should.”

His hand finds your shoulder briefly. Warm. Steady.

Neither of you moves for another few seconds.

When you finally do start walking, there’s a new awareness between you. The way he stays close. The way you’re hyper-conscious of every accidental touch.

Everything’s shifted. And you both know it.

— ✦ —

A few days later, Varka catches you before you can leave the city again. “Angel’s Share,” he says. “Tonight. Just drinks. Just us.”

“Varka—”

“Please.” The word is simple. Sincere. “I want to understand. And I think you want to tell someone.”

You shouldn’t say yes. You do anyway.

The tavern is warm, filled with low conversation and the clink of glasses. You sit in a corner booth, and for a while neither of you speaks.

Then Varka sets a drink in front of you. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says quietly. “But I want to understand why you hunt them like this. Why it’s personal.”

You stare at your glass for a long moment.

“My parents,” you finally say. “Years ago. Abyss order attack.”

His expression shifts—understanding, sympathy.

“We were traveling. Coming back from visiting family.” Your hands clench around the glass. “It was supposed to be safe. The road was well-traveled, close to town. The enemy never came that close to villages”

“But they did.”

“Yeah.” Your voice is flat. “They did. We saw them too late. Mages. Hilichurls. They came out of nowhere.”

You stop. Breathe.

“My parents told me to run. Get to town, get help. I didn’t want to leave them but my father—” Your throat tightens. “He made me promise. So I ran.”

Varka’s quiet for a long moment. Then his hand covers yours on the table. Warm. Calloused. Surprisingly gentle for its size. His thumb brushes across your knuckles, and you’re suddenly very aware of every point of contact.

“By the time I got back with the guards, it was over.” You have to force the words out. “My mother was… she’d tried to crawl toward town. Trying to get to safety. But she didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My father fought them. Gave her time to try to run. There were five mages and he was alone and—” Your voice cracks. “I should have stayed. Should have fought with them instead of—”

You stop. Your eyes are burning.

“If I’d been stronger, if I’d stayed and fought, maybe—”

A tear slips down your cheek.

“Hey.” Varka’s voice is gentle. “It’s not your fault.”

“I left them—”

“You did what they asked. What any parent would want.” His thumb brushes across your knuckles. “You survived. That’s what they wanted.”

You wipe at your eyes roughly.

“That’s why,” you say. Your voice is thick. “That’s why I hunt them. Why I track them even without commissions. They came too close to town that day. Too close to people. And I can’t—I can’t let that happen again.”

Across the tavern, a bard starts playing. Soft strumming that gradually builds into something familiar. An old Mondstadt tune you've heard before but never really listened to.

A few people join in, humming along. The words drift over the conversation:

“When the wind calls you wandering...”

The melody is warm. Steady. Not quite cheerful. Not quite sad. Something in between. Comforting in its familiarity.

“Because you’re protecting people,” Varka says quietly.

“Because I won’t let anyone else lose their family like I lost mine." Your jaw tightens despite the tears. "I won’t let them get that close again."

“Follow the wind that’s whispering, the northern wind from far…”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Looking at his drink. Turning the glass slowly. “And you still care,” he says finally. “After everything. Could’ve been easy to just shut down. Get cold. But you didn’t.”

Something in his voice makes you look up.

“Lot of people rely on me,” he continues, still not meeting your eyes. “Knights. Citizens. Whole damn city. Not much room for…” He stops. “For anything else.”

He glances up then. Brief. Vulnerable. Your breath catches. He clears his throat. Looks away.

The song swells around you. Voices blending together, something about steady winds and finding your way even when you’re lost.

“Your parents would be proud,” Varka says quietly, nearly lost under the music. “What you’re doing—it takes incredible strength.”

“Home is not the place you harbor, but the heart that waits for you...”

The chorus fades. Returns to gentle strumming. Your throat tightens again.

“I’m proud of you,” he adds. "For what that’s worth.”

You look up at him. His expression is open. Warm. Full of understanding. “Thank you,” you whisper. "For listening.”

“Always.” His hand is still covering yours. “Anytime you need to talk. I’m here.”

Something in your chest loosens.

The music continues in the background. Familiar now, wrapping around the conversation like a blanket. You don't pull your hand away.

For the rest of the evening, you talk. About lighter things, easier things.

Varka tells you stories about the knights, about Mondstadt, about the time he accidentally started a food fight at an important dinner. He tells you about his past, and you can't help but imagine a younger Varka.

You tell him about little things. People you met on your travels. Encounters you are still fond of. Experiences that taught you something about life or yourself.

You laugh more than you have in months.

When you finally leave, his hand lingers at the small of your back as he walks you out.

The night air is cool. Welcome after the warmth of the tavern. You walk in comfortable silence for a while.

Then Varka glances at you. “You doing okay? That was a lot to talk about.”

“Yeah. I’m okay.” And you mean it.

You walk a few more steps. “You know,” you say, “most people get uncomfortable when I talk about it. They either avoid the topic completely or try to tell me it wasn’t my fault and I should move on.”

“That help?”

“Not really.”

“Didn’t think so.” He's quiet for a moment. “Grief doesn’t work on other people’s timelines.”

You glance at him. “You sound like you know something about that."

“Lost people too. Different circumstances, but...” He shrugs. “Yeah. I know.”

“So,” you say after a moment, deliberately lighter. “Do you always walk random Adventurers home? Or am I special?”

He grins. “Of course you’re special. Most Adventurers don’t try to fight several Mitachurls alone.”

“I won that fight.”

“One time.”

“Every time.”

“Keep telling yourself that, firecracker.”

You shove his shoulder lightly. He doesn't budge. Just laughs. “See, this is what I mean,” he says.

“What?”

“This. You giving me shit. Making me laugh after a long day.” He's smiling, but there's something genuine underneath. “Does me good.”

“What, having someone insult you?”

Varka looks at you, and there's something warm in his expression. “Makes me feel alive.” He clears his throat.

At that moment, you reach the corner where you usually part ways. Neither of you moves.

“This was nice,” he says.

“It was.” And you mean it.

“We should do it again.”

“Varka—”

“As friends,” he adds quickly. “If that's what you want. Or as—” He stops. “As whatever you want.”

You look at him. This large, kind, persistent man who's somehow worked his way into your life. Who listened without judgment. Who makes you feel less alone. Who you apparently make feel alive.

“I’ll think about it,” you say.

His smile is warm. “I’ll take it.”

— ✦ —

Three months in you’re walking back to the city after a fight, the sun setting behind you, when Varka glances over.

“You ever think about doing anything else?” he asks. “Besides commissions?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Settling down. Taking a break. Living life instead of constantly fighting.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “Fighting is living. For me.”

“Because of your parents.”

“Yeah.”

“I get it.” His voice is soft. “But you can’t hunt the Abyssal creatures forever.”

“Watch me.”

He laughs quietly. “Stubborn.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not. It’s very you.” He pauses. “Just don’t forget there’s more to life than revenge.”

“Like what?”

“Like this.” He gestures between you. “Working together. Talking. Spending time with people who—” He stops. “With people who care about you.”

Your heart does something complicated.

“Varka—”

“I know. Too much. Too fast.” But he doesn’t sound apologetic. “Just think about it.”

The shift happens gradually.

His hand lingers when he helps you over rough terrain.

He stands closer than necessary when you’re reviewing maps.

He finds excuses to see you even when there are no commissions. Bringing food, checking if you’ve eaten, asking if you want to spar.

And he flirts. Openly. Shamelessly.

“You know,” he says one afternoon, watching you sharpen your blade, “you’re really good with your hands.”

You don’t look up. “That’s what makes me a good fighter.”

“Also what makes you distracting.”

“How is me sharpening a blade distracting?”

“Everything you do is distracting.” He leans against the wall, arms crossed, smiling.

“But especially that. Very focused. Very precise.”

You can feel your face heating and look down. “Don’t you have paperwork?”

“Probably.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Better view.”

“Of what?”

“You.”

You make the mistake of looking up again. He’s backlit by the window, and the afternoon light catches in his hair, highlights the line of his shoulders.

There’s something unfairly appealing about the way he’s standing there, completely relaxed, just watching you.

“You’re—” The words slip out before you can stop them. “You’re very distracting too.”

His eyebrows rise slightly. “Distracting, huh?”

Oh no.

Your face heats. “I didn’t—that's not—”

“No, no. Don't take it back.” He’s grinning now. Fully grinning. “I’m listening. Distracting how?”

“You’re doing it on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“That—” You gesture vaguely at him. “Standing there all... like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know what you're doing.”

“Just standing here.” He’s clearly enjoying this. “Tell me. How am I being distracting?”

You look back down at your blade very quickly, then back at him. “The... the stones by the cathedral are very nice this time of year.”

Varka blinks. “What?”

“Stones. Cathedral. Nice. Pretty. You should look at them instead.”

His expression does something complicated. Confusion and delight and fondness all at once.

“You just tried to redirect my attention to cathedral stones."

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“They’re very interesting stones.”

“They’re not.”

“Sure they are. Very stone-like.”

He’s trying not to laugh. You can see it. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he says.

“I’m not flustered.”

“You just recommended I look at rocks.”

“Stones.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“Rocks are different from stones. Rocks are rougher. Stones are—” You stop. “Why am I explaining this?”

“Because you’re flustered and deflecting.” He’s fully smiling now. “And it’s working. I’m thoroughly distracted by your stone categorization system.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” He pushes off the wall. “But I’ll go look at the stones if it makes you feel better.”

“It would.”

“Alright.” He pauses at the door. “For the record? Still more interested in you than any stone. No matter how stone-like it is.”

He leaves.

You sit there, blade forgotten, face burning.

Stones. You talked about stones. This is getting out of hand.

— ✦ —

The weeks that follow establish a rhythm you didn’t plan but can’t seem to break. You take commissions. He appears.

Sometimes he has a reason—patrol routes that conveniently overlap with your targets. Sometimes he doesn’t bother with excuses, just shows up with that easy smile and asks if you need a hand.

You always say no. He helps anyway. (You're secretly glad.)

You fight together in Wolvendom. Clear hilichurl camps near Springvale. Track treasure hoarders.

People start noticing. Adventurers at the Guild exchange looks when you both walk in together. Knights nod at Varka with barely concealed smirks when you’re spotted training near the city walls.

You pretend not to notice. So does he. But when you’re both in Mondstadt at the same time, you end up at Angel’s Share.

It becomes a habit.

It's late evening when you walk into the tavern and find him already there, sitting in your usual booth.

He looks up when you enter. Smiles.

There’s already a drink waiting across from him. Your usual.

Your feel all warm.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” You slide into the seat, fingers curling around the glass. Still cold. He ordered it recently. Like he knew you’d show up.

For a while, you just sit. Comfortable silence. The warmth of the tavern wrapping around you, the soft murmur of conversation and music in the background.

Then Varka glances at you. “Windblume Festival’s coming up,” Varka says, turning his glass slowly.

“Mm.”

“You going?”

You shrug. “Haven’t decided.”

“You should come.” He’s watching you now. “It’s beautiful. Music, dancing, flowers everywhere.”

“Not really my thing.”

“Relaxation and joy?” His mouth quirks. “Yeah, I can see how that’d be terrible for you.”

You kick his shin lightly under the table.

He grins. “Come with me.”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“To Windblume. Come with me.” He says it easily, but there’s something careful in his expression. “We could walk around. Listen to music. I could show you the good food stalls. It’ll be—”

“Like a date?” The words slip out before you can stop them.

“Would that be so terrible?” he asks quietly.

The same bard from before is playing tonight. You recognize the melody immediately. That song about the wind. But this time it's different. Slower. Softer. Almost intimate.

No one's singing along. Just the gentle lute weaving through the quiet murmur of conversation, the melody familiar and grounding.

Your breath catches. “Varka—”

“I know.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I know you’re focused on your mission. I know you don’t want distractions. But I—” He stops. Breathes. “I like you. A lot. And I keep hoping maybe you feel the same.”

The music shifts to that gentler refrain. Something about home not being a place but a person.

“This is complicated,” you manage.

“Doesn’t have to be.”

“You’re the Grand Master—”

“And you’re an Adventurer. So what?” His hand finds yours across the table. “We're also two people who work well together. Who trust each other. Who enjoy each other's company. Who—” He stops himself.

“Who could be good together,” he finishes. “If you wanted to try.”

The bard’s fingers dance across the strings. Soft. Steady. Like a heartbeat beneath the words.

You’re acutely aware of his thumb brushing across your knuckles. Of how close he is across the table. Of the way his eyes keep dropping to your mouth.

Your heart is hammering. You should keep the distance you’ve maintained. But his hand is warm over yours, and his eyes are soft, and he's looking at you like you’re something precious.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit quietly.

“Neither do I.” His smile is gentle. “But we could figure it out together.”

The music seems to fade into the background. Or maybe you just stop hearing anything except the blood rushing in your ears. The space between you feels impossibly small.

“Varka—”

His eyes drop to your mouth. “Can I kiss you?”

You should say no.

“Yes.”

He leans across the table and kisses you soft and slow, like he’s been thinking about it for months. (He has.) His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek. Your hand finds his shoulder, gripping, and you feel him smile against your mouth.

When he pulls back, his eyes are warm and wondering.

“So,” he murmurs. “Windblume?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Windblume.”

He smiles. “Good. Because I already told half the knights we’d be there together.”

“You did what—”

“I’m an optimist.” His grin is unrepentant. “And I was really hoping you’d say yes.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. He kisses you again. Quick and sweet and full of joy.

The bard finishes the song. Starts another. But that melody lingers. When you finally leave the tavern that night, Varka walks you partway home.

(You still don’t tell him where you live. Some habits are hard to break.)

At the corner where you usually part ways, he catches your hand. His thumb traces across your knuckles. A gesture that’s becoming so familiar. Comforting. But now it also makes your pulse jump.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Meet me at the statue? The one near the gates. Afternoon, around three?”

Your heart skips. “Why?”

“Because I want to see you.” He says it simply. “And because we should probably talk. About this. About us.”

“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “Three o’clock. At the statue.”

His smile is brilliant. “It’s a date.”

“Varka—”

He kisses you before you can finish. “See you tomorrow, firecracker.”

You watch him walk away, heart full and terrified in equal measure. Tomorrow, you think. I can handle tomorrow.

You arrive at the statue at quarter to three. (You’re not nervous. You’re not. This is just talking. Figuring things out. It’s fine.)

Three o’clock comes.

No Varka.

That’s fine. He’s probably just running late. He’s the Grand Master. Things come up.

Three-fifteen. Three-thirty. By four o’clock, you’re still standing there, feeling increasingly foolish. By four-thirty, something in your chest starts to hurt. He’s not coming.

You wait until five. Then you leave.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Maybe he got called away. Maybe something came up. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe the kiss was a mistake and he realized it and didn’t know how to tell you. Maybe you misread everything.

You don’t go back to the gates. You don’t go to Angel’s Share. You take commissions without talking to anyone. Everything, not just fighting commissions. You train. You try not to think about it.

(You fail.)

— ✦ —

By day ten, the not-knowing is worse than any answer could be.

You find yourself walking to Angel’s Share without consciously deciding to. The tavern is busy. Warm. Familiar.

Charles sees you come in, and something flickers across his face. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he says.

“Been busy.” You slide onto a barstool. “Just water tonight.”

“Right.” He sets the glass down. Then hesitates. “There’s, uh… there’s a message for you. From Varka.”

Your heart stops. “What?”

“He left it about a week and a half ago. Said if you came in, to give you this.” Charles pulls out a folded piece of paper from under the bar.

Your hands shake slightly as you take it.

The handwriting is unmistakably Varka’s. Bold, slightly messy, rushed.

Firecracker, Got called to Liyue. Something came up—had to leave immediately. Tried to find you this morning but you weren’t at the Guild, and I realized I don’t know where you live.

Left this with Charles in case you come by. I’ll be back as soon as I can. A week, maybe two.

Don’t take any stupid commissions while I’m gone. —V P.S. - Still want to take you to Windblume. Don’t forget.

You read it three times.

He didn’t just leave. He tried to find you. He left a message. And you weren’t here to get it.

For ten days, you’ve been thinking he abandoned you, when really—

“You okay?” Charles asks.

“Yeah.” Your voice is rough. “I’m—yeah.”

You sit there, holding the note, feeling like an idiot.

Don’t forget.

An hour passes. Then two.

You’re still sitting there, nursing the same glass of water, when the door opens.

Your heart leaps—

Varka walks in. He looks tired. His armor is dusty and his hair is disheveled and he’s the best thing you’ve seen in ten days.

He scans the room—

His eyes find you.

Stop.

For a moment neither of you moves.

Then someone calls his name. A group of knights in the corner, waving him over.

He glances at them. At you. Back at them. He goes to the knights.

You stare at your glass.

The minutes crawl by.

You should leave.

You stay.

Across the room, Varka sits with the knights, but he’s not drinking. Not really talking. Just present.

He looks as miserable as you feel.

Another hour passes.

The knights eventually leave.

Varka stays.

You’re both sitting in the same tavern, fifteen feet apart, not talking.

It’s ridiculous.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore. You stand. Cross the room. Slide into the seat across from him.

“You’re back,” you manage.

He doesn’t look up from his glass. “Yeah.”

The silence stretches. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

This is wrong. He’s never this distant, never this quiet.

“I got your message,” you say, holding up the paper.

“When?”

“Tonight. Just now.”

His eyes lift to the note. Something flickers across his face. Relief? Hurt? You can’t tell.

“When did you get back?” you ask.

“Three days ago.”

Your stomach drops.

“I haven’t been coming here,” you admit. “I thought you just… left. Without saying anything.”

“I tried to find you that morning.” His voice is rough. Careful. “Couldn’t.”

“I know. I read—”

“I don’t know where you live.” The words come out blunt. Almost accusatory.

You blink. “What?”

He finally looks at you fully, and there’s something raw in his expression.

“Your apartment. I don’t know where it is. Spent a week in Liyue thinking about you. Got back, wanted to see you, and I didn’t know how to find you.” His jaw tightens. “Came here every night hoping you’d show up.”

Every night. He’s been here. Waiting. And you—

The confession lands between you like a weight.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Don’t be.” But his voice is strained. “Should’ve asked before. But we kept running into each other and I didn’t think—” He stops. Drags a hand through his hair. “Point is, I didn’t know. And it bothered me.”

The air between you shifts. Some of the tension bleeding out.

You take a breath. “Come on.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Come with me.”

You walk in silence through Mondstadt’s streets.

He follows without question.

You stop outside the door.

“Here,” you say. “This is where I live.”

He looks at the building. At you. Back at the building. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“Do you… want to come up?”

“No.”

The word is gentle but firm.

At your expression, he adds quickly: “Not—not because I don’t want to. But because if I come up, I’m going to—” He stops. “I need to do this right.”

“Do what right?”

“This. Us.” His hand finds yours. “I’m not going to rush this. Not going to mess this up because I’m impatient.”

“Varka—”

“I’m a knight,” he says, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression. “I’m supposed to be honorable. Patient. Do things properly.”

Then, quieter, he adds: “You regret it?”

“Regret what?”

“The kiss.”

Your breath catches. “No,” you say. “Do you?”

“No.” He steps closer. “But I’ve been gone for days thinking about it. Wanting to—” He stops. “Can I—”

You kiss him before he finishes asking.

This time there’s nothing tentative about it.

Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds immediately. His hand cups the back of your neck, the other sliding to your waist, and he kisses you like he’s been starving for it.

You make a sound—surprise or need or relief—and he swallows it, deepening the kiss. His thumb strokes the side of your neck and you feel his pulse hammering against your palm where your hand has found his chest.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.

“I missed you,” you admit against his mouth. The words slip out before you can stop them.

His forehead drops to yours. “I was going crazy. Not knowing where you were. Not being able to find you.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t.” His hand tightens on your waist. “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”

He kisses you again. Slower this time but no less intense.

Your fingers find their way into his hair and he makes a low sound in his throat that sends heat racing through you. When you finally break apart for the second time, you’re both flushed and breathless.

“Grand Master!”

You both jerk apart.

A knight is running toward you, out of breath.

“Sorry—urgent—there’s been an incident—”

Varka’s jaw tightens. He looks at you. At the knight. Back at you.

“Go,” you say. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not—”

“It’s your job.” You squeeze his hand once. “Go.”

He searches your face. Then nods reluctantly.

“I’ll find you tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll talk. Properly.”

“Okay.”

He kisses you once more. Quick and fierce.

Then he’s gone, running toward headquarters with the knight.

You stand outside your apartment, touching your lips, heart hammering.

Tomorrow, you think.

But something twists in your chest.

The way he looked at you. The way he kissed you. The way your whole body responds when he’s near.

The way you spent ten days thinking about him. Missing him. Aching for him.

Oh.

Oh no.

This isn’t just liking him. This isn’t just attraction or enjoyment or companionship.

You’re in love with him.

The realization hits like a physical blow.

You’ve never been in love before. Never wanted to be. Never had time for it, never saw the point when you had a mission, a purpose, a—

But now there’s Varka.

Varka who shows up. Who stays. Who looks at you like you’re something precious.

Who kissed you like you matter.

Who keeps getting pulled away by duty because he’s the Grand Master and that’s who he is and you knew this, you knew this—

Your chest feels too tight.

You don’t know how to do this. Don’t know how to be someone who loves someone who has responsibilities to an entire city, who could be called away at any moment, who—

You need to think.

Need space.

Need to clear your head.

At dawn, you see the commission posting.

Stormbearer Point. Camp spotted.

You stare at it.

You should wait. Should ask Varka to come with you.

But the thought of seeing him right now, of having to look at him and pretend everything’s fine when you’re still processing this crushing realization—

And he’s busy anyway. Always busy. He’s the Grand Master—he has responsibilities that don’t include accompanying you on every commission.

You can handle this.

You’ve been handling Abyssal monsters for years.

You grab the posting.

— ✦ —

Bennett crashes through the headquarters doors, wild-eyed and terrified.

“Grand Master—need help—”

Varka is on his feet immediately. “Bennett? What happened?”

“Commission—went wrong—there were Mitachurls—multiple Abyss Mages—they’re—”

His blood turns to ice. “Who’s with you?”

Bennett names you.

Varka’s already moving, grabbing his sword from the wall.

“Sir, should I alert—”

“No time.” His voice is clipped, focused. “How long ago?”

“Not long—I ran as fast as—”

Every second counts.

“Where?”

“Stormbearer Point, near the cliffs—”

Varka is out the door before Bennett finishes.

He hits the street at a run.

(Later, Jean will ask why he didn’t wait. Why he didn’t bring knights. Why he went alone.

He’ll say it was the fastest option. That he knew the route. That backup would’ve slowed him down.

All true.

But the real reason—the one he doesn’t say—is that it had to be him.

Because it was you.)

The clearing is too quiet when Varka breaks through the tree line.

His eyes sweep the scene. Fallen Hilichurls and Abyss Mages, scorched earth, broken weapons scattered across trampled grass.

And you.

Standing in the center of it all, swaying slightly, one hand pressed to your side.

Relief floods through him so fast it nearly makes him stumble.

“Hey!” he calls, running toward you. “You alright? Bennett said—”

You turn toward his voice.

That’s when he sees your face.

Too pale. Eyes unfocused. Blood—too much blood—soaking through your fingers where they press against your ribs.

“Varka,” you say, and your voice sounds distant. Confused. “What’re you… doing here?”

“What am I—” He’s moving faster now, closing the distance. “You sent word you might need backup—”

“Did I?” You blink slowly. “Oh. Right. Got a bit messy.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He’s close enough now to catch you if you fall. “Hey. Look at me.”

You try. Your eyes won’t quite focus on his face.

“’m fine,” you mutter. “Just need a… minute…”

“Sure. You’re fine.” His hands hover near your shoulders, careful not to jostle you. “That's why you’re bleeding through your clothes?”

“’s not that bad.”

“Uh-huh.” He’s assessing you rapidly. The blood, the way you’re holding yourself, the slight tremor in your legs. “How long have you been standing here?”

“Dunno. Few minutes? Half an hour?” You frown. “What time is it?”

His stomach drops.

“Alright. We’re sitting you down—”

“No.” You shake your head and immediately regret it, swaying dangerously. “Still got… gotta check if they’re all…”

“They’re all down. I checked on my way in.” His voice is gentle but firm. “You did good. Now let me—”

“Varka, I’m fine—”

Your knees give out.

He catches you before you hit the ground, arms banding around you with desperate speed.

“Easy—I’ve got you—”

His heart is hammering against your cheek. He’s breathing hard. From the run, from the fear, from the relief of catching you.

“Sorry,” you mumble against his chest. “Legs stopped… working…”

“Yeah, that happens when you lose blood.” He’s lowering you carefully to the grass, hands supporting your head, your back. “Stay with me. Eyes open.”

You blink up at him, and there’s something almost dreamlike in your expression.

“You came,” you say, like you’re surprised.

His chest tightens. “Of course I came.”

“Thought you were… in meetings…”

“Meeting can wait.” He’s already reaching for his pack, pulling out supplies with practiced efficiency. “You can’t.”

Your hand catches his wrist. Weak grip, but determined.

“’m okay. Really. Just… dizzy.”

“You’re not okay.” His voice is steady, but his hands shake slightly as he starts checking your injuries. “But you will be. Just let me work.”

He works methodically.

Years of battlefield experience make his movements efficient, clinical. Checking pulse points, assessing wounds, prioritizing treatment.

Gash on your arm. Superficial. He binds it quickly.

Bruised ribs. Painful but not critical.

The wound on your side where your hand had been pressed. Deep, still bleeding, but manageable.

He’s packing it with cloth, hands steady, when he notices your pant leg.

Dark. Too dark.

Wet.

His hands still.

“When did this happen?” His voice comes out rougher than he intends.

“What?”

“Your leg.” He’s already cutting the fabric away, and—

Oh.

The gash runs from mid-thigh nearly to your knee. Deep. Still bleeding sluggishly. The kind of wound that would’ve dropped most people immediately.

“How are you even—” His hands are shaking now. Actually shaking. “How long have you been walking on this?”

“Didn’t really… notice…” You’re squinting down at your leg like you’re seeing it for the first time. “Huh. That’s… not good.”

“No.” His voice cracks. His hands still for just a moment, like he’s forcing himself to keep moving. “It’s really not.”

He presses cloth to the wound. “You’re okay,” he says. To himself. To you. “You’re going to be okay.”

“’m sorry—”

“What were you thinking?” The words come out sharp.

You blink slowly at him.

His jaw is tight. “You could have—” He stops. His hands are shaking harder. “You could have died.”

“Varka—”

“I found you bleeding. Barely standing. Do you understand—” His voice cracks. “Do you understand what I thought when I saw you like that?”

You try to respond, but the words won’t come. Your vision is blurring.

Is that tears or is everything going fuzzy again?

“I’m sorry.” Your voice comes out small. Broken. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

A tear slides down your cheek.

He stops. Stares at you.

Then his whole expression crumbles.

“Shit. No. I’m sorry.” He shifts closer, hands gentler now. “I’m sorry. You’re in shock and I’m—”

Another tear falls.

“Hey.” His voice is softer now. Rough with emotion. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You’re crying, but you’re not sure why. The fear, the pain, the adrenaline finally crashing—

“I’ve got you,” he repeats, thumb brushing away tears. “You’re safe now.”

He's focused. And tense. You see how tight his jaw is, the way he keeps checking your pulse.

“Hey.” Your hand finds his arm. “Varka. I’m okay.”

“You’re not.” The words come out sharp. “You’re really not.”

“But I will be. Right?” You’re trying for reassuring and landing somewhere around slurred. “You said… you said I will be…”

“Yeah.” He swallows hard. “Yeah, you will be. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Talk to me,” he says. “Keep talking. Tell me what happened.”

“Commission went… sideways.” You’re watching his face instead of his hands. “More Hilichurls than… expected. Abyss Mages. And a Mitachurl. Strong one.”

“Did you fight them alone?”

“Didn’t have much… choice…”

“You could’ve run.”

“Couldn’t.” Your voice is getting quieter. “Had to stop them…”

His hands still for just a moment.

Then he continues bandaging, but his voice is rough when he speaks.

"You stubborn, reckless, incredibly brave firecracker."

“That a… compliment?”

“No.” But there’s something that sounds almost like a sob caught in his throat. “It’s me trying not to lose my mind right now.”

You blink slowly. “You’re...scared.”

“Terrified.” He doesn’t hide it. “When I saw you standing there bleeding—when you collapsed—”

He stops, breathes. “Yeah. Terrified.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just stay awake.” He finishes with the bandage and immediately shifts to check your pulse again. “Keep talking to me.”

“’bout what?”

“Anything. Everything. Just keep those eyes open.”

So you do.

He finishes bandaging in silence, hands steadier now.

— ✦ —

The sun is dropping toward the horizon.

Varka glances at the sky, then at you, then makes a decision. “We’re not making it back to the city tonight,” he says. “Not with you like this.”

“I can walk—”

“No.” It’s not harsh, just absolute. “You’re not putting weight on that leg until you feel better. We’re staying here.”

“Where?”

“I’ll figure it out.” He’s already looking around, cataloging options. “There’s a rock outcropping over there. Defensible. Out of the wind.”

“Varka—”

“Not arguing about this.” He looks down at you, and his expression is gentle despite the firmness in his voice. “I’m keeping you safe tonight. That’s what’s happening.”

You don’t have the energy to argue.

He works quickly—gathering branches, building a simple lean-to against the rocks, making a space that’s warm and dry and protected.

Then he comes back for you. “Alright. Arms around my neck.”

You comply, and he lifts you like you weigh nothing—one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back.

“Don’t jar the leg,” you mumble against his shoulder.

“I’ve got you.” And he does. Steady. Careful.

He settles you inside the shelter, back against the rock, and immediately starts building a fire.

“Cold?” he asks.

“Little bit.”

His cloak is around your shoulders before you can blink.

“Varka, you need—”

“I’m fine.” He’s arranging blankets, positioning you more comfortably. “You’re the one losing body heat.”

The fire catches. Warm light flickers across his face.

He settles beside you. Close enough to monitor, close enough to reach you if anything changes.

For a moment he just sits there, staring at the fire, jaw tight.

Then his shoulders drop slightly. Like something in him is finally letting go of the fear now that you’re stable.

He pulls you against his side, arm around your shoulders, holding you steady.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His voice is quiet. “But I’m going to anyway.”

You don’t argue.

For a while there’s just the crackle of fire and the sound of breathing.

Then Varka starts talking.

“You know what the worst part was?” His voice is low. Rough. “Seeing you standing there and thinking you were about to fall, and knowing I was too far away to catch you.”

“But you did catch me.”

“Barely.” His arm tightens slightly. “Another second and you would’ve hit the ground.”

“’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.” He presses his face briefly against your hair. “Just don’t do this again. Please.”

“Can’t promise that.”

“I know.” A rough laugh. “It’s what you do. But maybe next time don’t wait until you’re bleeding out to call for help?”

“Noted.”

“How you feeling?”

“Dizzy. Tired.” You pause. “Safe.”

His breath catches. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re here. So… safe.”

His hand finds yours, threading your fingers together.

“Not letting anything happen to you,” he murmurs. “Not tonight. Not ever if I can help it.”

You lean into him, and he adjusts to support your weight more comfortably.

“Varka?”

“Mm?”

“Thanks for coming. For staying.”

“Nowhere else I’d be.”

Time becomes strange.

You drift.

Sometimes you’re lucid. Aware of the fire, of Varka’s solid presence beside you, of the pain that’s settled into a dull throb.

Sometimes you’re floating. Disconnected, confused, words coming out wrong.

Varka talks through all of it.

Later—or maybe just minutes, you can’t tell—you’re drifting when Varka’s voice pulls you back.

“You know what happened last week?” he says.

“Kaeya convinced me to help him with inventory in one of the wine cellars. Made me believe I still owed him one.”

You make a vague sound.

“Should’ve known it was a trap. Man is always up to something.” There’s warmth in his voice now.

“Got down there and realized he’d ‘accidentally’ locked us in. Said we weren’t getting out until I told him about ‘the Adventurer who has the Grand Master running around Mondstadt like a lovesick puppy.’”

Normally you’d react to that. Tease him. Say something.

You don’t.

He continues anyway. “Tried to break down the door. Jean heard the noise, came to investigate. Very calm. Very professional. Right up until she saw me covered in wine because Kaeya had ‘accidentally’ knocked over a bottle trying to dodge my attempt to strangle him.”

Silence.

His hand stills in your hair for a moment.

“The look on her face,” he continues, voice a little more forced now. “Like she was reconsidering every leadership decision that led to that moment. Pretty sure she’s still thinking about bringing it up in a dignified way.”

Nothing.

“Hey.” His voice shifts—less storytelling, more concerned. “You still with me?”

“Mmm.”

“Come on, firecracker. Give me something. Tell me the story’s boring. Tell me Kaeya’s a scoundrel. Tell me anything.”

“’s boring,” you mumble.

“Liar. That story’s hilarious.” But there’s relief in his voice. “Though you’re right about Kaeya being a scoundrel.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“You were thinking it.”

Silence falls again.

His hand resumes stroking your hair, but there's tension in the movement now.

“You're scaring me,” he admits quietly. “You're not talking. You're not arguing. You're just—” His voice roughens. "Just stay with me. Please.”

“'m here.”

“I know. But I need you to stay here.” His arm tightens around you. "Keep talking to me. Even if it's just to tell me to shut up.”

“Won't tell you... to shut up.”

“Why not? You usually do.”

“Like... your voice."

He chuckles. “Yeah?”

“Mmm. 's nice. Warm.”

His hand is trembling slightly as it cups your face. “You're going to be okay. You hear me? You're going to be fine.”

“I know.” Your voice is getting quieter. “'cause you're here.”

“That's right. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”

Time passes. You're not sure how much.

The pain starts to dull. The dizziness eases slightly, then gets worse again. You drift.

Varka keeps talking. About anything, everything, his voice a steady anchor.

Then something shifts.

He's not talking anymore. He's humming. Quiet. Almost unconscious. Like he doesn't realize he's doing it.

You recognize the melody through the haze. That song from the tavern. The one about wind and wandering, about following the north wind home.

His voice is rough, unpracticed, but steady. Familiar. Safe.

Eventually, the fog lifts enough that you can follow thoughts again. The pain settles into something manageable.

You shift slightly, and your head finds his shoulder.

“Varka?”

The humming stops. “Right here.”

“That song...”

“Mm?” He sounds surprised, like he didn't realize he was doing it. “The one from Angel's Share?”

“Yeah.”

“Couldn't get it out of my head,” he admits quietly. “You looked... peaceful. When it was playing. Thought maybe...”

He doesn't finish. But you understand. He remembered. Noticed it comforted you. Used it to keep you here. His hand finds yours, threading your fingers together.

He starts humming again. Softer this time.

When the wind calls you wandering...

“You're really warm,” you murmur.

“That's the point.” His voice is soft, relieved. “Keep you warm. Keep you with me.”

The melody continues. Gentle. Grounding.

“'m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” His voice is fierce. “You better not.”

His hand finds yours, threading your fingers together. “Feeling better?”

“Little bit." You are. The fog is lifting. “Still dizzy. But better.”

“Good. That's good.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.”

“Don't apologize. Just don't do it again.”

“Can't promise that.”

“I know." His laugh is rough. “But I can hope.”

You lean into his warmth, and his arms come around you more securely.

The humming fades, but the melody stays. Wrapped around you like his cloak. Like his arms. Like safety.

“Tell me another story,” you murmur.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The wine cellar one was good. Even if you tell it boring.”

“Knew you were listening.” But he sounds delighted. “Alright. Think I got something...”

And then he starts talking again.

His voice rumbles through you, steady and warm and alive.

You hold onto the sound. And somewhere underneath it, you can still hear that melody.

Slowly, slowly, you start to feel like maybe you really will be okay.

Later, you're mumbling something that doesn't quite make sense.

“...can't believe you... came all this way...”

“Course I did.”

“Could've... sent someone else...”

“No time. Wasn't sending anyone else anyway.” His hand strokes your hair gently. “It was you. Had to be me.”

“Why?”

The question hangs in the air.

His hand stills for a moment. “You know why," he says quietly.

You're floating again. The words come out before you can stop them.

“Love you... too much to die...”

His breath catches audibly. “What did you just say?”

"Didn't mean... to say that...” You're fading, words slurring. “Wasn't supposed... to tell you... yet...”

“Hey.” His hand cups your face gently, turning you toward him. “Stay with me. What did you just say?”

But you're already drifting off, eyes closing.

"Damn.” He sounds wrecked. “You're gonna tell me this now? While you're half-conscious?”

He pulls you closer, and you feel his forehead press against yours.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Alright. We're talking about this. But later. When you're actually awake enough to remember saying it.”

His thumb strokes your cheek.

“And for the record?” His voice drops to barely a whisper. “I love you too. So you have to wake up properly so I can tell you that when you'll actually remember it.”

He starts humming again. So quietly you might be imagining it.

Home is not the place you harbor, but the heart that waits for you.

The melody wraps around you. Steady as his heartbeat. Warm as his arms.

Following you down into sleep like a northern wind guiding you home.

— ✦ —

You wake to sunlight and the smell of smoke.

Your body aches everywhere.

But you’re warm. And alive.

And Varka is right there, sitting beside you, looking like he hasn’t slept at all.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Welcome back.”

“Did I… sleep?”

“On and off. You talked a lot.” His mouth quirks. “Said some interesting things.”

Oh no.

Your face heats. “What kind of things?”

“We’ll get to that.” He’s already checking your pulse, your bandages, assessing.

“How you feeling?”

“Like I fought a mitachurl.”

“You did.” He helps you sit up carefully. “And won. Somehow.”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.” He hands you water. “Drink. Slowly.”

You do. It helps.

“Leg?” he asks.

You shift slightly and wince. “Hurts. But… better than last night.”

“Good. We’re getting you to a healer today.” He’s packing up the camp with efficient movements. “I’m going to carry you part of the way. When you feel steady enough, we’ll walk slowly. But you’re not putting full weight on that leg yet.”

“Varka, you can’t carry me the whole—”

“I can carry you as far as needed.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “We’ll take it slow. Rest when you need to. But we’re getting you treated today.”

The journey back is slow. Careful.

True to his word, Varka carries you for the first stretch—one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back, moving with steady purpose through the terrain.

“You can put me down,” you mumble against his shoulder after a while.

“Can I?”

“I can walk.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” But there’s warmth in his voice.

Eventually, when the path levels out and you insist, he sets you down carefully. Keeps one arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, his other hand ready to catch you if you stumble.

“Still with me?” he murmurs every few minutes.

“Still here.”

“Good. We’ll rest when you need to.”

You do need to rest. Twice. But each time he’s patient, never rushing, just sitting with you until you’re ready to continue.

By the time the healer’s house appears, you’re leaning heavily on him, exhausted.

The healer—a woman named Greta—takes one look at you and immediately gets to work.

Varka hovers.

“Sir, I need space—”

“I’m staying.”

“The wounds need cleaning, it’ll hurt—”

“I’m. Staying.”

Greta looks at you. You shrug slightly.

She sighs. “Fine. But sit down and don’t get in my way.”

He sits.

But his hand finds yours, and he doesn’t let go through the entire process. When Greta irrigates the leg wound and you gasp, his grip tightens.

When she stitches and you bite back a sound, his thumb strokes across your knuckles.

“Almost done,” he murmurs. “You’re doing great.”

Finally, Greta steps back.

“Well. You’re lucky.” She’s washing her hands. “That leg wound was deep. Another few hours without treatment and we’d be having a different conversation.”

Varka’s face goes pale.

“But,” she continues, “you’ll heal. Keep it clean. No strenuous activity for two weeks minimum. And someone needs to monitor you for the next few days.”

“I’ll do it,” Varka says immediately.

You blink. “Varka, you don’t have to—”

“I’m doing it.” He looks at you, and there’s no room for argument in his expression.

“Not negotiable.”

Greta‘s mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. “Alright then. Change the dressings twice daily. Make sure they eat. Rest. Plenty of fluids.”

“Got it.”

“And get some sleep yourself. You look exhausted.”

“I will.”

(He won’t.)

He takes you back to his place.

“Varka, I have an apartment—”

“Which is up three flights of stairs.” He’s helping you through the door. “You’re not climbing stairs on that leg.”

“I can manage—”

“You’re staying here.” He settles you on his couch with surprising gentleness. “At least until you can walk without limping.”

“That could be weeks.”

“Then you're staying for weeks.” He's arranging pillows, getting blankets, moving around his space with purpose.

He sits beside you, and for a moment there's just comfortable silence.

Then you notice him looking around his own place with a slightly bemused expression.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing. Just...” He gestures vaguely. “Place feels different with you in it.”

“Actually—” He stands, and there's something determined in his expression now.

He stops. Turns to look at you.

“You should just move in.”

You blink. “What?”

“Move in. With me.” He says it simply. Like it’s obvious. “Move in. For as long as you need. And if you want to stay after that, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Varka—”

“I know it’s fast.” He sits beside you again. “But last night, when I thought—” His voice roughens. “When I thought I might lose you—”

He takes your hand.

“I don’t want to waste time anymore. I want you here. Where I can see you. Where I know you’re safe.” He pauses. “Where I can tell you I love you every day instead of just when you’re half-conscious and bleeding.” Your breath catches.

“You… you remember that?”

“Every word.” His thumb strokes across your knuckles. “You said you loved me. And I said it back. And I meant it.”

“I meant it too.”

“I know.” He smiles. “So. Move in with me. Please.”

You look around his space. At the care he’s already taken to make you comfortable. At the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most important thing in his world.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You squeeze his hand. “I’ll move in.”

The smile that breaks across his face is brilliant.

“Good.” He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours carefully. “Because I’m never letting you do something that stupid alone again.”

“Hey—”

“You fought alone. While injured.”

“I protected Mondstadt—”

“I know.” His voice softens. “I know you did. You’re brave and strong and incredible. And I love you. But you’re also reckless and stubborn and you’re going to give me gray hair.”

You laugh despite yourself.

"Don't scare me like that again," he whispers.

You're quiet for a moment. Thinking about the night in the clearing. About him finding you. About how it felt to wake up in his arms knowing you were safe.

About how you told him you loved him while half-conscious and he said it back.

“Can't promise I won't do something stupid again," you say finally. “But I can promise this.”

“What?"

You look up at him. “I’ll only be reckless with you.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You heard me.” You squeeze his hand. “No more dangerous solo hunts. No more running off without backup. If I’m going to do something stupid..." You pause. “I want you there.”

His expression does something complicated. Surprise and joy and relief all tangled together.

“That's not much of a promise," he says, but his voice is thick with emotion. “You're still planning to do stupid things.”

“Yeah. But with you.” You manage a small smile. “We can be reckless together. A little. Like partners.”

“Partners,” Varka repeats softly.

“If you want.”

"If I want?” He laughs. Rough and wondering. “I've wanted that since you tried to take that commission alone and glared at me for interfering.”

“That was months ago.”

“I know.” He presses his forehead to yours carefully. “Took you long enough to catch up.”

Despite everything—the pain, the exhaustion, the fear still lingering—you laugh.

“So,” he murmurs. “Reckless together?”

"Reckless together,” you confirm.

“I can work with that.”

He kisses you. Gentle, careful, full of relief and love and the fear he's still processing.

When he pulls back, his eyes are very bright.

He settles beside you, arm around your shoulders, and you lean into his warmth.

“Welcome home,” he murmurs.

And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you actually are.

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

Albedo

"Oh,"

He knew the time would come eventually but why was it such a shock to him all the same?

"...Show me, I'll make sure to create a bridge between your realm and mine..."

You ask if he can actually do that.

"...Not yet. But if it erases this goodbye...then I'll make it happen,"

Alhaitham

Was, as usual, reading a book when you told him.

"How? Are you sure this isn't one of those scams that you fall for too easily?"

You say no. You explain to him and eventually show him the portal.

He silently stares at it.

You move closer to the portal just to get a better look at it but he stops you by the wrist.

"You're not going in there by yourself. You don't know where it REALLY leads to, do you?"

Admittedly, you aren't 100% sure.

"Come on then," drags you by the wrist towards the portal. You're shocked and ask him what if he's unable to go back.

"...If you were able to arrive in this world, then logically there should be a way for me to return back... Either way it's not smart to let you go alone,"

Ayato

Smiles at you. "I see,"

"...I have no right to ask you to stay." moves closer to you, hand raises to touch your cheek gently. "...but in the time you've spent here by my side, I hope you know that this will always be your home too,"

Does not and will not stop you, even if it hurts him.

Baizhu

"Interesting,"

Doesn't seem fazed at all.

"You've told me quite a lot about the medical technology in your world, Y/N, I'm quite interested to see it,"

He seems to be saying that he'll go with you. You explain that you're not sure if he can come back to Teyvat.

"Oh," seems to finally connect the dots. "Oh, well that would be a problem, wouldn't it?" puts a hand to his chin, deep in thought.

"Ah, no matter, let's see where it leads me and we'll worry about the details later,"

Bennett

"S-So... You're leaving?"

Already looks like he's about to cry. You explain that you feel really conflicted.

Frowns, looks at the ground, refusing to look you in the eye.

"I-It's okay... You should go, really! You must miss your family and--"

can't even finish his sentence and starts crying.

"N-No! I'll be okay, I'm just really sad right now, but--" hiccups "but I'll be okay. Knowing that I met you and got to spend all that time with you... I'll be okay,"

Dainsleif

Knows what it means. Is deep in thought for quite some time before approaching you about it.

"...I sometimes wonder if there really is anything left for me in this world. What fuels me? Anger? Revenge? A search for answers? Yes... Perhaps I might be interested in following you to your world, partly just to see if this curse might be lifted from me if I enter a different realm but also partly because..."

he glances at you, then stares back out into the distance.

"...Partly because I've found the calm that I lost 500 years ago... and it's right here next to you,"

Diluc

"Congratulations," is his first word.

But it takes him a moment to think about what to say next.

"...I won't hold you back from what makes you happy Y/N. Family is... something to cherish,"

Will walk you to the portal but stop you just before entering it.

"If the portal closes..." he doesn't seem to know what to do nor say next.

You touch his hand and tell him you'll try and find a way back to visit. Grasps your hand back, the pained expression on his face finally shows up.

"...Then I'll find a way back to you too, I'll see you soon,"

Gaming

"When my dad and I used to fight, even though we were in the same town... I already felt so alone. I felt like he was so far away from me and didn't understand me, even though he was right there. I can't imagine how it might feel for you, actually being far away from them,"

You say that it does feel lonely sometimes but that he has made your time here so much more better. His eyes light up despite his sadness.

"I'm really happy to hear that!"

Is very much conflicted.

"...But it's okay if I'm sad too, right? It feels like a piece of me is getting ripped away Y/N,"

Gorou

"Back home, huh,"

he sighs in defeat and doesn't hide his disappointment.

"That's good. I'm happy for you, but..."

takes a deep breath in and sighs it out just as slow.

"...It just... feels like I'm waking up from a long, long dream," his eyes open to look at the sky. "...and now I don't know how to live in reality anymore,"

Ifa

Cacucu speaks first "Seriously, bro?"

"You're leaving? Just like that?"

He asked, astonished. You tell him it's really hard for you as well but you haven't seen your family in years.

"...Y-Yeah, you're right. Forget what I said," smiles through the hurt and puts on a brave front. "I'll take you to the portal then,"

but once you're there he repeatedly stalls. Asks if you want to play with that saurian over there, or pick some flowers for your family, or look at the stars over the usual hill one more time.

"...I can't do it," he finally says. "I can't pretend I'm okay with this. I'm not gunna stop you Y/N, but... just know that Cacucu and I will always wait for you to come back,"

Itto

"That's awesome! You get to see your family and friends again!"

It doesn't completely register in his mind that you might not come back at all.

"Whaddyou mean? Like, it only goes there but you can't come back here...? Oh,"

Processes it quite slowly.

"Well, then, guess we gotta do more things together before you go! Let's go to that festival next week! Oh! We should get a photo together! I heard there's also a special show next spring--"

Seems to digest it bit by bit.

"...Right, you won't be here next spring, I guess..."

Kaeya

"I see,"

Kaeya states, smiling a little.

"I suppose it was just about time. You've stuck with me, what? Three years now?"

A silence fills the air as he realizes it's actually been three years.

"...Three years. That's actually a long time. It's a little unfair then isn't it? You're leaving and you have no idea whatsoever how long you're gunna leave me for,"

tilts your chin up to face him and whispers to you.

"Leave me something of yours, something to tell me that this wasn't all a dream. That these three years meant something to you too,"

Kazuha

"Hm..."

He sighs, solemn. But a faint smile is on his lips.

"Home is a great place, Y/N. We only appreciate it that much more when it's gone,"

Has a very genuine smile on his face.

"I suppose... Letting go is also a form of love, right?"

Kinich

"The world is a really big place,"

he says, almost without thinking.

"So I doubt it's a coincidence that our paths crossed. Though it was strange at first, I have to admit I've gotten used to you now,"

he stares off into the distance, almost as if asking the universe,

"...Am I just supposed to accept that our paths will now diverge?"

Lyney

Deflects the attention away from him. "...Lynette and Freminet aren't gunna take this well..."

You ask how HE feels about it. He doesn't answer immediately.

"I... think you know how I feel, Y/N,"

his hands start to wave and maneuver into a magic trick.

"Three years ago, I wasn't expecting you to come knocking at The House of the Hearth,"

he snaps his fingers.

"Neither did Lynette nor Freminet... But, what a joy it was to stay in your company,"

his hand does a little shake and a Rainbow Rose appears in it, he hands it over to you.

"It wouldn't be fair for us to deprive others of the joy you bring,"

Neuvillette

Makes sure that it is indeed a true way for you to get home before saying anything about it.

"I'm aware that the portal may close as soon as you walk through it,"

he says, levelling his gaze towards you.

"Though there is sorrow... there was also much pleasure in the opportunity to know you,"

the sky seems to darken and you hear a far off rumble.

"I would not ask you to choose between me and your family Y/N, but I hope you know--"

doesn't finish his sentence and droplets start to slowly fall from the sky, hitting yours and his face.

Ororon

"Oh! That's perfect, I was just thinking that my radishes were about to go bad. Maybe you can take some home?"

you explain that you might not come back and might not see him ever again.

Thinks for a second.

"...I'll just visit you in your dreams! The Night Kingdom's really in tune to people's dreams, you know?"

You say that it might not work in your world. He waves you off nonchalantly.

"Of course it will, The Night Kingdom reaches everywhere. I'll see you tonight then, let's make it a picnic, sweet dreams!"

asks Citlali to make sure he can still visit you in your dreams.

Scaramouche

"...The hell?"

Is clearly aggravated.

"After three whole years of you tailing me like a puppy dog, a solution pops out of nowhere? Sounds like bullshit to me,"

Is sceptical but asks you to lead him to the portal.

"Alright, point it out,"

Attempts to destroy the said portal.

Tartaglia

Somewhat contemplating on just keeping you for himself by making you think that the portal disappeared

"Stay,"

he knows what he's asking of you. Knows that it's selfish. So he doesn't meet your eyes.

"Can't you?"

back hugs you and buries his head into your neck.

"...Then, just for a few more days, can it just be you and me?"

Tighnari

"Interesting!"

Sees it as a studying opportunity.

"Why of all times would it open up now? Perhaps we can take a look together,"

sees it and does seem curious by the portal, but does not hesitate to send you home.

"It's only right for me to be the one to escort you back, after all, I'm the one who found you that day three years ago in the forest too,"

He doesn't seem to be too sad and you ask if he's okay.

"...For the most part, yes. I'm confident we can find a way back between our worlds,"

Wriothesley

"Here I thought you were gunna stay here forever, it's been nice to have an extra set of hands helping me out,"

seemed happy at first but his mood dwindles the more he thinks about it.

"Can you blame me for being upset? Who's going to make me my morning tea now?"

You playfully ask if that's the only thing he's worried about.

"Course not," he stays silent for a bit.

"It's the emptiness you'll leave. How quiet it's going to be, and how I know I'll keep seeing you in the littlest of things,"

Xiao

"...So be it, are you getting ready to go back?"

you say yes but you say that you do it with a heavy heart. He doesn't say anything.

He makes up some type of excuse and lets you know that he can't bring you to the portal...but also says that if you really need him, you can call his name.

In reality he had nothing to do, he just didn't know how to say goodbye.

You did call his name and he appears in front of you, black smoke dissipating.

"...Until our paths meet again Y/N. Even across worlds, I'll be listening for my name on your lips... Maybe if I listen hard enough, it'll bring me to you again,"

End

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Here's the masterlist:

Is it Diluc, who somehow finds you passed out in his vineyard?

Kinich who catches you when you just start falling out of the sky?

Alhaitham, who thinks it troublesome that he has to get you acquainted with Sumeru and the Akademiya?

Scaramouche who was suddenly led by the Aranara to where you appeared in the forest and slept?

You might think that going to a new world, Teyvat, of all places, would be exciting, but in reality, it would be frightening too.

No friends. No family. Monsters are out to get you. Nowhere to live.

Your chosen person, however, manages to keep you safe. Manages to get you more familiar with the world. Manages to build your life up in this unknown place.

They've taken care of you, have become your friend. Have become a lifeline for you.

Though some of them may bark and complain about how you know nothing at all, or seem to scoff at your problems. (Scaramouche, Xiao, Alhaitham)

And some might be hot or cold. You don't know if they care or not, cause sometimes they're nice, and the next they pull away (Diluc, Dainsleif, Kazuha)

Then there's ones who genuinely have taught you about Teyvat. Have integrated your existence into their every day life. (Tighnari, Neuvillette, Baizhu, Kaveh, Thoma)

And the ones who gave you purpose. Since you're here now, it's important to feel that you belong. (Wriothesley, Zhongli, Albedo, Cyno, Kinich)

In some ways because they were the ones who found you they do feel responsible for you. Inevitably, you spend a lot of time together. Where he goes, you usually go too, sometimes even in dangerous situations.

And so, what happens then, when, one day, out of the blue, you tell him:

"I found a way back home,"

By that time he might have already forgotten that you weren't from this world. That you had somewhere to go back to. That you could actually disappear just as easily as you appeared into his life. That next to him was not really your original place.

So, what then?

You are a messy, silly, babbling buffoon.

An adventurer from Mondstadt that embodies the nation's will of freedom. Bubbly, carefree, and loud, much like a fellow god he didn't particularly like.

Despite of his disdain of you, your affection towards him never wavered. You filled his somber days with excitement as you joyfully tell him stories about your adventures, share some new recipes you've learned, even ushering him to talk about obscure Liyue historical facts that you've always found interesting.

He was much too proper to shoo you away, and his cold looks and short responses didn't discourage you to try to make friends with the man that peeked your curiosity.

Ever so slowly, you had pried open his caged heart, planting a small seed that was so distinctly you.

He would have accepted you, he would have seen you as a friend... and yet...

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a faint, familiar mark on your neck, revealed when you put your hair up into a ponytail.

Zhongli knew he truly disliked you.

...

"I don't believe in the marks either, Mr. Zhongli..." You reasoned with him, but his gaze still stung you with daggers.

He caged himself back up, ensuring that you could not care for the little seed you planted, no light would be able to reach it again.

His heart would not open...

No matter how many times he catches himself smiling at your antics.

No matter if he displays every gift and trinket you give him from your travels.

No matter how much he preferred your cooking over anyone else's.

No matter how beautiful you look staring up at him with your doe eyes as you confess your affection.

No matter how frustrated he felt at himself when he made you cry as he rejects your feelings.

Because, for him, how could there be anyone else but her?

...

"Do you see why it could never be you?"

You both stood in front of a monument, surrounded by various plants and objects you assume to be from friends of this ancient goddess.

"I bet she was amazing."

"She was perfect. Perhaps that's why I was not worthy to share a mark with her."

At this point, you were used to his words, how they praise her, how they degrade you.

"You're pretty great too, Zhongli..."

Faith places identical marks on the necks of two soulmates, and the rest is a romantic story of the passion that builds up as people pursue their marks of love.

Fate is cruel to you and him.

"That mark is not for you, Y/N." The Geo Archon says to you, tearing you apart silently, as you stand and take his words.

His heart quivers despite the harsh words coming from his own mouth. Even after millennia of having the mark engraved on his neck, after concluding that maybe he would allow your little seed to prosper even just for a bit, he still chooses to cling onto his hopeless past.

Tears fall down from your eyes, but you remain quiet, only nodding in agreement.

You loathed the mark on your neck.

...

Zhongli opens the cage of his heart a little, allowing him to peak at the small sprout from the seed you planted.

So distinctly you, it was the only thing he has of you.

After letting you leave him at Guizhong's monument with tears still staining your face, he couldn't help but miss you.

He couldn't help but let you finally take your place in his heart, after so long of hating his soulmark, hating whoever the mark tied him to, he fears he has finally accepted faith.

...

"Where is it?" He grips your arm harshly, his hold not faltering as you try to shake him off. His gaze was cold, yet you could still catch the hint of alarm in his eyes. "What have you done?"

After weeks... you return to him... missing something.

You winced at the stress of his words, feeling frightened under his tense hold. "I..." His bruising grip didn't falter, urging you to explain yourself. "S-Surprise...?"

"You..." Zhongli looks at you in disbelief. "How stupid could you be?"

"M-Mr. Zhongli... it's a blessing of the Anemo Archon... I prayed for him set us free from fate."

"Y/N... I..." He was at a loss for words, his heart ached as his eyes searched your neck in vain. "Fate... going against it is painful. It must've been excruciating."

"It was... but this if for you, Zhongli..." You smiled, feeling him loosen his grip. "Because I love... loved you." You fully free yourself from him, rubbing at where he previously held you.

The wind around him picked up, and he hears the faint whispers of an old friend along with it. Whispers of comfort, as he clearly ruined what would have been the light of the rest of his days.

Your soulmark fades, but his remains...

Zhongli loathed his mark, for it bears no meaning, no one but him bears that mark.

As you leave, trying to fade away in the background of his life, you remain under a spotlight in his eyes, for you will always be the one that shares his mark, no matter if it is visible.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

What y'all think of this one? :3

The young girl frowns, confusion clear in her bright eyes. “But Master, aren’t they a sorcerer and not a monkey? I feel their cursed energy, even though it is weak. Why are you acting like this, Master Geto? I feel like…I feel like I don’t know you right now. How can you be so kind to us and then…and then treat this sorcerer…”

Her voice that started strong, as she means her words and thus began her inquiry with conviction, now gradually fades in volume until nothing can be heard but the roar of the wind.

He turns away quickly, trying to conceal how wide his eyes are, to hide the quiver that runs down his neck and through his fingers, to bury the contradicting feelings and morals that are tearing him apart. Yes, he has always been praised for his gentle nature and softness of his soul. Yes, he has always been commended for his strong moral compass and even sometimes accused of being self-righteous. Satoru had a tendency for the latter, but you…you would always readily agree with Geto and would look to him for an example. He remembers your eyes on him when Satoru pledged to kill all of the sorcerers that had involvement with Riko’s death during the Star Plasma mission. You had instantly laid down your weapon when Geto told Satoru that it wasn’t worth anything, that it wouldn’t change the tragic outcome that had already fallen upon them.

But when Geto later had—in the view of the sorcerer’s world, and most definitely in your view as well, he can only assume—his fall from grace, you had not looked to him or followed him then. But as he only had one opportunity to speak with you after, he could not pretend to fully understand your entire opinion of him—did you despise him, did you feel betrayed by him, or maybe, deep down, did you understand?

He doesn’t know what you truly think, and probably never will. And yet he cannot hold back about what he thinks about you—you, a pivotal figure in the Jujutsu world, a strong sorcerer who also has a strong attachment to the strongest sorcerer. You, who represent and fight for the future generation of sorcerers. You, who often put your life on the line to save mere monkeys, and teach others to do the same.

He turns back to Mimiko, who looks to him with wide, hesitant eyes. Her presence alone reminds him of his purpose, of his mission, and he quickly summons his resolve. He has his reasons, after all.

“Master, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean…I didn’t mean to doubt you or disrespect you—“

Geto sighs, expression softening at the slight tremble in her voice. “It’s quite alright, Mimiko. I am the one that should be apologizing. It’s just that it is difficult for me to be in their presence, knowing what they are and who they are close to. It makes me someone…someone that I sometimes wish I wasn’t. They are both symbols of everything we despise, of everything we are fighting against. I can’t help but feel disgusted and irritated in their presence.”

She blinks slowly, processing his words. "So you mean them and...are you talking about this sorcerer and Gojo Satoru?"

"Very good," Geto praises, but he does not smile. "Those two have been on my list a long time."

Mimiko raises an eyebrow. "I understand about Gojo Satoru, of course, but why this person? I don't recognize them from our black book. Aren't they just a teacher at Tokyo or something?"

"(Y/N) was our classmate at Tokyo, and it is true that they teach there now. They are particularly special to our situation, you could say. They could turn the tide for us," He pauses, then shakes his head decisively. "No, they will."

Mimiko's lips twitch as many more questions threaten to burst out, but she holds her tongue and instead takes in her master's expression. Excitement glitters in his dark eyes, or maybe anticipation. He looks like he has cracked the code to something very important, giving him an almost manic appearance. But there's also something else in his countenance. She can't put her finger on it, but an emotion akin to regret occasionally interrupts his otherwise eager expression.

"They have always been infatuated with Gojo. I can't say it was love at first sight, but as close as you can get to that. I knew that, eventually, they would fall for Gojo. For a long time, I never thought anything of it, other than the fact their heart was going to be broken someday. After all, he was notorious for his arrogance and, well...philandering, I guess you could say, back then."

Mimiko rolls her eyes. "You mean he was a playboy."

"So, you get my meaning," Geto chuckles. "Yes, he has always been like that. And ever since the night that...that I rescued you and Nanako, ever since we went our separate ways, I haven't been able to lure him out. Not that I've wanted to, yet, but you know my goal."

"Yes," She breathes out the word almost instantly. "To eliminate all non-sorcerers, for the betterment of our world."

"That's the end goal, yes," He says, letting out a grunt of assent. "But remember what I told you and Nanako all that time ago?"

He turns to face her, eyes searching her expression, wondering just how firmly she believes in his ideals.

She looks up at him instantly, eyes glinting with a determination and purpose beyond her age. The intensity of her gaze almost startles him. "Gojo is the sorcerers' figurehead. Once he is eliminated, they will panic and we can make our move. They won't have the advantage anymore."

"Figurehead...maybe I said that before, but he is no figurehead. The higher-ups are, definitely, but Gojo...Gojo is the real deal. As much as I hate to admit it, we are no longer equals and haven't been for a long time. He is the most difficult to handle, and that's why we have to take him out first."

"Even though you didn't get Rika? I thought acquiring that cursed spirit was necessary."

Geto sighs, "You wound my pride by reminding me of that failure...but, no, that won't be necessary anymore."

He enters his room and haphazardly deposits you onto his bed, although it is still considerably gentler of a movement than before. His eyes sweep over your form, scrutinizing your sickly appearance. You look rather convincing for his case.

"Why not?" Mimiko prompts after the silence stretches out too long. Her patience can only last so long—he has been avoiding what she has really wanted answers for this entire conversation.

He nods to your form. "Gojo will come for them soon. He knows this is my doing, I made sure of it. And once he sees their condition, knowing that he caused this...and after they explain our little Binding Vow we took, his worldview will shatter."

He doesn't elaborate. Mimiko, who was listening with rapt attention, shakes her head in confusion. "Master, please explain this to me. What do you mean to happen? I thought you wanted to dispose of him."

"I did, once. When I was angry with this world, angry at his sudden insistence on helping the weak, I did. But I've never truly wanted to kill him, just as he has no desire to kill me. He's supposed to, but he won't. We were best friends, after all. After this happens, after they succumb to this disease, then I can't imagine he will ever want to help anyone ever again, monkeys included. Even if he doesn't join us, he will no longer be a threat."

His dark eyes trail over your form, taking in your gaunt cheeks and thin hair. He lingers on your closed eyes—even though you are unconscious and technically resting, the fatigue that plagues your features does not fade in the slightest.

“Which disease, Master?” Mimiko prompts, seeing that Geto’s mind has drifted. His eyes quickly shoot up to meet hers.

"They are afflicted with Hanahaki disease. This is what I anticipated all those years ago as I watched them fall head over heels for Gojo. That he would be too cautious to show his affection to them and they would believe their love to be one-sided. It is not, I know it is not, but I convinced them otherwise. I made a Binding Vow with them to guarantee that they wouldn’t notify anybody else about their condition, once it has befallen them. They vowed to keep quiet until they sensed they were close to death."

“They took this Vow willingly, or…?” Mimiko asks in a hushed voice, as if afraid to offend her master.

“Yes. I told them that one day they would fall prey to this disease, that their love would be unrequited—they easily accepted this. I convinced them that letting them succumb to the disease would be…would be for the best.”

Fear and confusion pulse through Mimiko, quickening her heart rate. She is quickly piecing together all the information that pertains to her master, and through every line of thought she comes to the same conclusion. She squeaks out, “But won’t he come for you?”

Geto shakes his head calmly. “No, he’ll come for them.”

“That’s not what I meant, Master,“ She says with urgency. “Won’t he kill you?”

“And what would that accomplish?”

“He’ll be angry, he’ll want revenge! You implied that he…that he loves them, too.”

“Killing me will not bring them back.” He says simply, coolly. “It would only bring him more pain. His love and his best friend dead in one night? It would be too much to bear.”

Mimiko shakes her head worriedly. “Even so…would he really consider you his best friend after that? I think you are misjudging the situation slightly, Master…”

Geto laughs, “You believe me to be a fool. I can’t say I disagree, but I know him. Too well.”

“Can I ask you something, Master?” She asks quietly. He nods his consent with an intrigued expression. “Did he ever expect you to defect? When you two were close, did he ever know this side to you? If not, then…how do you expect to know him at all, either?”

Geto says nothing, train of thought interrupted by a bright sound. Mimiko’s point is clear, clearer than the peals of the bells from the rustling wind chimes outside. The wind that consumed Mimiko’s words before now disturbs his thoughts with this incessant chiming.

He eventually says, “He will be defeated, especially with the knowledge that they agreed to this. That they agreed to die for him.”

“Why did they?” Mimiko whispers, gazing at your broken form with unbridled pity in her eyes. “What did you promise them?”

“They came to me, begging to spare him. They knew I would come after him some day. They admitted to me that he had direct orders to kill me, but could never go through with them or even think on them. They feared this weakness of his would cause him to hold back and leave him vulnerable if I ever decided to go through with my plans. But I, of course, needed something valuable in return if I were to promise to spare him. And this is the only valuable exchange I could came up with…a way to defeat him without ever needing to physically do so. They didn’t hesitate to lay down their life, and I…”

Geto pauses, reflecting on his feelings for you. You had once been a good friend, although he always thought you were too lenient towards Gojo—always walking around with large puppy eyes for him, at times blind to his faults. At one time, you and Geto were so close that he perfectly knew your order at the local cafe, down to the two sugar packets and only a few droplets of cream, and that you would only ever go to bed earlier than 2 am if you knew they were serving your favorite breakfast in the morning. In comparison, Geto doesn’t know much of you anymore—but he knows your literal fatal flaw—you give up too much of yourself for Satoru, this time being your life.

“Well, I have to admit it didn’t feel great guaranteeing the death of an old friend, but…it is for a higher purpose. Our purpose. It’s for the sake of the entire world. If Gojo goes down, in one form or another, we will be able to infiltrate and dismantle their whole society. Their death won’t be in vain.”

A new voice pipes up from behind him, soft and choked. "That's too cruel, Master Geto.”

He looks over to the doorway and sees only long, dark brown hair and shaking shoulders.

“Nanako?” He questions quietly, tone gentle, yet curious.

Nanako slowly turns around, her face revealed inch by inch, and he is surprised to find glossy eyes and rivulets of tears pouring down her cheeks. One hand is pressed over her mouth as if she is trying to rein in her emotions, but is failing.

“I know it is for the betterment of our world—“ She is stopped by a telling rasp in her voice. “But—I really can’t believe in love and goodness anymore if they die.”

Before she can hear any response from either her sister or her master, she turns on her heel and races down the hall.

The air in Geto’s lungs is stuck and feels like it’ll be forever suspended there, but then Mimiko says, “She still believed in that stuff?” and he can finally exhale.

Gojo Satoru isn’t having a good night—or, rather, a good morning. Ever since you called him at 3 am, he has been wide awake and filled with a jumble of emotions. He was so relieved to see your name pop up on his screen—he thought it was a good sign, that maybe you didn’t hold his ghosting you for months against him. He was also glad that he didn’t have to initiate contact with you, which he honestly didn’t feel like he deserved after how he’s brushed you aside—although he couldn’t shake off the feeling that maybe he was just a coward and in denial about it. He’s often in denial about things pertaining to his feelings—oftener about feelings involving you.

Ever since the call ended, when your screams and near unintelligible speech were abruptly cut off, Gojo has been frozen: hands shaking, vision coming in and out of focus, mouth turning to sand. He can’t reach you right now. He wishes he could teleport instantly to you, but he remembers Shoko’s news that you have moved to a new apartment about a month ago. Shoko had been shocked when he admitted he didn’t know, and further so when he didn’t proceed to ask for your new address. Gojo always used to come by and bother you at your last apartment, after all. And here his past behavior comes to bite him in the ass.

His mind begins to race, full of regrets and hopes and fears; his thoughts fly by faster than they ever have before. It makes him think of you all the more, and memories he had long forgotten begin to surface.

It’s funny how fast he is inundated with memories. In school, you had always teased him about how slow he was in school, specifically how slow of a test taker he was. He would always finish last, no matter the day, no matter the subject.

“You must be a slow thinker,” You used to tease him. Once you had followed it up with, “I’m surprised you even take the tests seriously. I figured you’d just Christmas tree it and be the first one done just to get it over with. Wouldn’t ‘the strongest’ want to focus on training more anyway?”

Your mischievous smile flashes through his mind, your laughter so full of mirth that he hasn’t heard in forever also rings through his mind; his chest aches. Back then, he didn’t exactly know what to think of how you could never stop poking fun at him—he didn’t understand what you meant by it, but he sorely, sorely misses it now. Back then, he couldn’t help but try to fire back with something he found equally as insulting, but it never had the same effect. His face would always be flushed and his charisma would melt away, revealing a stuttering and helplessly in love boy. Nobody could look at him and recognize him as what would be the strongest sorcerer in their age, or relate him to the cocky, rich Gojo heir who was rumored to be head of his clan soon. He was a mere boy would wanted to impress a regular sorcerer of no material or familial importance or fame, a sorcerer who was smart and witty enough to cut down his personality—or, rather, his persona—down to his raw self with just a few words. And yet when Shoko and Geto would poke fun at his crush on you, he would vehemently deny it. He didn’t truly believe it himself—or didn’t want to believe it—because of how vulnerable you made him feel. Despite all the signs, he maintained his claim of not liking you, which was hard to believe with his strong need to impress you.

He couldn’t use his charm or fame to get to you, so he wanted—no, needed—to impress you through other means. For example, Gojo did indeed prefer training to studying, but he couldn’t just say that, otherwise he would reveal too much. So whenever you would tease him about his molasses pace in academics, Gojo would begin to either shrug or quip back with something about how you were quite the opposite, a quick learner with perfect grades but always the first one to be beaten in a spar and the last to understand a new technique. You never seemed offended or even embarrassed by his claims, which irked him, considering how ruffled he would get if you said something similar to him. You would just smile as if you knew something he didn’t.

The real reason why he tried so hard in academics is—surprise, surprise!—that he wanted to impress you. He found that you were difficult to impress—you didn’t seem to care about how strong he was as a sorcerer, or about his looks and charm. In Satoru’s view, you always seemed to prefer his best friend Suguru for his mind and moral compass. Suguru was naturally book smart and didn’t have to work hard to get good grades; if Gojo fell behind, he thought he wouldn’t have a chance with you at all. In actuality, you cared little about others’ grades, but you were amused—and, okay, maybe a little impressed—by how diligent Gojo seemed to be.

Either way, you’d be destined to fall for Gojo Satoru anyway. Either way, Gojo Satoru was destined to be oblivious to your attraction toward him.

But, your love for him was inconsequential—either way, he would always come for you. Even if you hated him, he would be there, with no ounce of hesitation. He wouldn’t think twice when it came to you, even if it involved someone he also had a painfully complicated relationship with.

His former best friend, someone he truly believed to be the only one to understand him, blindsided him all those years ago. Even you, who were always so perceptive and attentive to your friends, hadn’t anticipated Geto’s horrific exit from society.

That was the first time you had seen cracks emerge in Gojo’s mask. He remembers your concerned gaze on him when he would forget to laugh when a joke was told, or at how quickly his perpetual smile would fall once he thought nobody was looking.

“We’re all shocked,” You had tried to console him once, even though he acted like he didn’t need it. “It’s not your fault, Satoru. Nobody expected this…”

You two were enjoying ice cream, sat lazily on the steps of the school. It almost felt normal, but the fact that Satoru’s treat was untouched broke the illusion for you.

“Who said it was?” He tried to laugh like he normally would, but it sounded faker than he anticipated. “If that idiot wants to go running off like a little bitch, let him.”

Your brow had furrowed as you tried not to glare at him. You hated when he used misogynous terms like bitch or pussy when describing someone negatively, but he couldn’t give a flying fuck right now. You knew he was struggling so you said nothing on this, but your sharp gaze reminded him of his fault nonetheless.

“It’s a little more than just running off,” You had sighed. “The report was…”

You trailed off, not wanting to recount the atrocious crimes someone you believed to be so gentle committed.

“Like I don’t fucking know that.” He snorted bitterly, angrily.

The mask was slipping more, that much was obvious. You wanted to help ease it off, but knew you would likely have to press him. It wasn’t healthy for him to be holding everything inside.

“There’s a rumor that they’re going to assassinate him,” You said quietly.

“It’s no rumor,” He said, voice quivering from trying to hold back his emotions.

“Really?” You turned to him with rapt interest, but he didn’t elaborate. The school-wide known yapper sat silently, his jaw clenched.

“Why are you holding back?” You suddenly accused. “You never say so little.”

“He shook his head, avoiding your eyes. He felt like he could snap at any second, that his mask would shatter for good and he’d be completely exposed in front of you.

“Why are you holding back?” You repeated more loudly. You didn’t seem like you were going to give this up.

He suddenly threw his uneaten, melted ice cream to the ground. There was a palpable crunch as pressed his palm down on the cone, shattering it. You flinched, momentarily caught off guard, but deep down you weren’t surprised. He had so much guilt, anger, and sadness sitting dormant inside of him, and it was only a matter of time before it erupted.

Your eyes followed his figure as he pushed himself up and started to walk away. He didn’t glance at you—but it guessed he was being avoidant rather than spiteful.

“Don’t you dare walk away, too,” You had pleaded, but it sounded more like a threat. “We’re not done here, Satoru.”

You stood up quickly, ready to go after him, but your fear would soon be proven unfounded, because Gojo stopped abruptly at your words. For a moment, both you and him were still. You were scared of what might happen next, but you didn’t dare say another word.

You didn’t have to. Gojo swiveled around, eyes blazing with a fire you had never seen before and chest heaving as if he had just been battling. Long gone was his usual cocky smile and condescending, playful gaze.

He began to shout at you. “What do you want? For me to admit to you what you already know?! Well, fucking fine! They ordered me, me of all people, to murder him—or, as they put it, ‘dispose’ of him. Is that what you wanted to hear me say? Are you fucking satisfied now?”

Your eyes were wide, taking in this new and painful information. You recovered quickly, speaking back in the most gentle tone he had ever heard from you.

“I’m sorry, Satoru. I didn’t know. I can’t believe they would…No, I guess I can believe that, but they can’t…they shouldn’t be allowed to order you that just because you’re the strongest. I’m sorry I pressed you about this,” You murmured. “I just wanted you to let out whatever was hurting you. You keep pretending around everyone, but…You’re hurting more than any of us, but you won’t admit it. You can tell us your pain…you can let it out.”

Nobody had seen through him like that before.

Then words began to flow out, words he had never told anyone. Truths that had never seen the light of day. He hated that you had this effect on him, that you able to unravel him like nobody else could. He could never keep anything from you, and this alone would influence many decisions in the future.

He shouted the words out, thinking that maybe if he yelled it would force the ugly painful lump in his throat to go away. “I hate that I’m expected to kill my best friend. I hate that the higher-ups use me as a weapon. I hate that ever since I was born, that’s all I’ve been and ever will be. And I hate most of all that one day, one of us will have to kill each other, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Your eyes swam with tears, horror clear in them. You knew his words were true. You knew it was true, and you had to do something about it. Later you would seek out the other side behind Gojo’s back, not knowing why desperation burned through you until you had settled a deal.

You looked so scared that it startled Gojo out of his miserable state. He came closer to you, arms held out as if he was halfway thinking about embracing you.

“God, I’m sorry I yelled at you like that, angel.” He said, mistakenly believing that his yelling induced your horrified state, eyes crinkling apologetically behind his shades.

“Angel?” You questioned, taken so aback that you barely remember what other words he uttered.

His cheeks suddenly colored. You had never noticed him blush before, even though he had because of you many times, so you couldn’t help but be surprised at his redness.

“I-is that okay?” He asked, uncharacteristically sheepish.

You rolled your eyes. “Sure, Mr. Flirt. I’m sure you call everyone that, anyway.”

He shook his head, “Nah, I’ll reserve this one for you. Of course, everyone else is baby, or sunshine, or pookie—”

“Okay, can I give you one then? How about harlot? Can I call you that?”

“What? NO!”

He smiles at the memory—the first time he called you angel, which was then cemented as his ‘ironic’ nickname for you. How you never realized his pet name was indicative of his feelings, he could never understand.

His smile falls—that pet name hasn’t crossed his tongue in ages, just as he hasn’t been open with you about his feelings and situation. He is sorry to say that you and him haven’t had the type of transparency you had in the past in a while, at the very least not since he was backed into a corner by the higher-ups and forced to ignore you. And maybe even not since the time you once came to him, bawling your eyes out and claiming you felt like you had done something awful that involved him but you couldn’t remember what, as if someone had put a spell on you to forget.

These memories all run through his head at a speed beyond what he can comprehend. He feels like he is missing something, and that it may be hidden somewhere deep in his memories. But Gojo does not have the luxury of time on his side; he has no more time to dig through his memories. Even if the answer may lie from within, he has a better chance of finding it out by pursuing you.

After he allows himself a final moment to remember and remember and remember, to regret and regret and regret some more, he starts making calls—he needs to gather information as quickly as possible. He knows that Geto is crafty and calculated—this must definitely be related to your Binding Vow with him. He can’t guess what it entails, and as much as he wants to believe that Geto must have some good in him still, he can’t rule out the possibility of your life very much being in danger. You being some sort of a twisted bargaining chip is a fear that does not go unnoticed in his mind. He knows this to be highly probable, but he doesn’t want to admit it.

Gojo knows that Geto and his association, disguised and funded as a “religious organization”, are constantly moving around. Their temple’s location has been known for a long time, but they are rarely there, intel has reported. Thus he makes calls to all of the top sorcerers involved in collecting intel to see if a new hideout has popped up. He was hoping that they could pinpoint exactly where Geto is, but they only have a few general ideas of his location.

Gojo hangs up on the last sorcerer right after they could only propose two vague locations. He wanted to berate all of them for being inadequate, for letting such a high level dangerous sorcerer like Geto to exist without detection, to let him run amuck in their society with virtually no consequences, even after targeting Gojo’s student for his sole personal benefit. But Satoru knows this anger would be misdirected—projecting the higher-ups problems onto these sorcerers who are just obeying orders.

“Fuck!” Gojo yells, the panic and frustration rising with every passing moment. “I’m going to kill those fucking higher-ups one day.”

At least they all had similar guesses, so Gojo has an idea of where you could be held. The only completely useful piece of information he acquired was your current address, as much as it pained him to ask a random person for it. And just like that, Gojo is on the case. He could have called in specialized trackers, but it would take too long to dispatch them and would definitely result in interference from the higher-ups.

Instead, Gojo pockets his phone—which he had thrown quite forcefully onto his bed in his frustration after failing to locate you—and teleports to your new address. He races up the steps to your floor and stops in front of your unit. He frowns. Your front door is ajar, which makes him bristle. It’s a clear statement from Geto—brazenly boasting that he got to you easily and with little care about being caught. Well, really no care—which is suspicious and smells of a trap. But there’s no way Gojo will choose not to pursue you—and, unfortunately, Geto seems to know this, too.

Gojo sets his Six-Eyes on your apartment and finds no active cursed energy. Finding the coast to be clear, he quickly pushes the door open further and walks in. He is first struck by the mess in the living room, eyes darkening at the sight of the broken glass and neglected blooms lying on the floor.

You struggled all the way to the door, is what Gojo assumes of the eerie mess. His jaw clenches as he recalls your shrieks as you were dragged against your will. He continues on, reaching your bedroom first. It is surprisingly in order there, so he moves to your bathroom—and that’s when his heart drops into his stomach.

Blood. Blood is everywhere. He feels sick. The scent clogs his nose and he swallows to keep himself from gagging. He sees the imprint of your hands in the edges of the pool of blood on the floor. He feels sick. He sees red handprints on the doorframe where you desperately tried to hold on while you were dragged out—there are gouges in the wood from your nails digging in. He feels traces of your cursed energy, fainter than they should be, overpowered by Geto’s strong residuals. He feels sick.

The only key detail that Gojo fails to notice is the singular baby blue petal, darkened from a layer of dried blood, lying on the floor. You had disposed of the flowers earlier in the night because their presence only allowed you to think of him—but this petal had evidently escaped your notice. Is it ironic or fitting that the object of your affection and disease does not notice the petal in the color of his eyes?

Geto has been waiting patiently by your bedside. You haven’t woken yet, which spares him the ordeal of conversing with you. He fears that you would be troublesome if you realized that Gojo would be coming for you—if you truly realized what was going on, you’d in hysterics, surely. Good thing that he prevented that the day he made the vow with you.

On the other hand, however, Geto is curious about what you would possibly say to him. Would you be glad to see him after all of these years? He doubts you truly despise him, deep down. After all, you always aspired to be more like Geto—from his composure, to his gentle character, to his morals. You definitely don’t adhere to the same moral code now, and Geto is positive you think of him lowly for his misdeeds. But perhaps you may still envy him for his composure and even his apathy to an extent—his ability to keep calm in life or death situations, and for his ability to kill without batting an eye. Maybe you wish you more like that so that you could take him out and spare Satoru the pain of doing so.

Or maybe he is completely wrong. Maybe you have changed—if you had not been in such a sickly state, would you have fought back to the point of killing him? Have you gained enough mental fortitude and tenacity to kill him in Satoru’s stead?

After spending a few more minutes mulling over his thoughts, Geto leaves the room. Satoru should be here soon—but not too soon. After all, nobody knows his new location—only him and his girls know. So Gojo shouldn’t arrive at least until sun-up, or at least he hopes. He’s depending on that—if not, then he might have to interfere more directly.

Geto exits the house, hoping the chill of the night air will clear his mind. It is very cold tonight—a few small flakes are falling, but melt as soon as they touch the ground. He’s itching for a smoke, a warm stick of cancer to fill his lungs with. He detachedly wonders if Shoko is still keeping her old habit.

“Master Geto?” Comes a small voice.

He turns his head to acknowledge her presence.

“Can’t sleep?” He asks with genuine concern. “It’s late, Nanako.”

She shakes her head. “Not really…this place doesn’t hold the best memories for us.”

He nods. “I know. That’s why we chose it though, right? It sets the scene well.”

“Yeah. It’s kind of eerie that nobody lives around here anymore…I mean, this countryside was full of monkeys.”

“I remember very well,” Geto says with some disgust. “You and Mimiko were too good for this place. They were cruel to you.”

She sighs. “I know, we really hated it here. To think what would have happened if you didn’t rescue us…thank you, Master.”

Geto smiles gently. “There’s no need to thank me. I only did what was right.”

Nanako smiles back, looking a little sheepish. Then her smile falls and she nervously twiddles her fingers together. “By the way, Master, they’re still asleep…and still breathing. I thought they would…I thought you said they’d be deceased by now?”

His eyebrows furrow. “Hm. I thought so, but perhaps I was mistaken. I’ll go check on them. You should go back to bed and try to get some rest.”

He seems troubled and his mood noticeably soured. Nanako nods and quietly excuses herself, not wanting to bother her master any further. But before she is out of sight, Geto loudly lets out a string of expletives from. When Nanako turns to look at him, she sees that his head is in his hands.

“What’s wrong?” Nanako asks, rushing back to him.

“He’s here,” Geto says through gritted teeth. “Nanako, go. I don’t think he’d harm you, but I won’t take any chances. Wake Mimiko and go to the place we discussed earlier.”

Nanako doesn’t hesitate. She really doesn’t want to be anywhere near Gojo Satoru, who her master has admitted surpasses him in strength. She’s seen Geto in battle before—she can’t imagine how monstrous Gojo must be in comparison. She rushes back into the house, set on going directly to Mimiko, but instead pauses by the room where you rest. She studies your sleeping form, lingering on the unfairness of your situation. But what can she do? She is powerless to help you.

And so, Nanako and Mimiko flee just as they were told to. One wonders if she’s doing the right thing, the other yawns and asks about breakfast.

While they’re escaping, Geto ponders what to do. It’s not dawn yet—the sky is starless, covered by black clouds full of snow—but the barrier Geto placed has been penetrated. Gojo Satoru has arrived. Early. Which is, well, rather inconvenient: you aren’t dead yet. But he can’t just go and finish you off—it would defeat the entire purpose of this set-up. He doesn’t have to lay a finger on you for you to die. That’s the beauty of it.

Geto suddenly stands up straight, alert from the feeling of cursed energy so near. His eyes trace the perimeters of his vision, but he sees nothing even in his peripherals.

“Where are they?”

The words come from nothing, from nowhere. It’s as if the words enter only his mind and not his ears.

His instincts are going off like crazy—ringing through his head as a massive wave of cursed energy washes over him from behind. Geto slowly turns around, regaining calm as his thoughts catch up to his instincts.

There stands Gojo Satoru, the man who can change everything. Just like the time Geto ‘revisited’ Tokyo Tech, white bandages obscure his famous eyes. While Geto blends into the night’s shadows, Gojo almost glows. His white hair and pale countenance instantly draw attention to him.

As Geto quickly looks over his figure, his eyes begin to narrow. Considering what he’s seeing, he’s not sure how to approach this or what his reaction will be—because right now, Gojo looks different. He doesn’t stand with his usual casual air, and even lacks the cocky smirk he normally wears. His hands aren’t in his pockets, he isn’t leaning on anything, and his weight isn’t shifted to one side. In contrast to his normal posture, he stands tall, finally doing his height and strength justice.

If Geto were wiser, he might be scared. After all, he’s never seen Gojo look this serious, even when he was messing with his students in front of him. But knowing what he knows, Geto can’t help but feel smug. Almost everything has gone according to plan so far—a plan that he had enough foresight to create years ago. His prediction of you falling for Gojo and feeling the keen sting of unrequited love came to fruition—surely, everything else will also fall into place.

Geto chooses not to be wise.

Geto looks at Gojo calmly, a small smile appearing on his face. “Always so direct nowadays, eh, Satoru? Well, nevertheless, I’m glad you’re here. Without the strongest, this would all be pointless.”

Gojo’s lip curls. He can hardly believe that the man in front of him used to be his closest friend that he thought understood him the most. To Gojo, it’s sickening how gentle and familiar Geto’s easy smile is, knowing he has killed more innocent people than he ever saved.

“Oh, really? Care to enlighten me on your worthless plan this time? I’m really starting to think you actually went crazy just like everyone said.”

Geto walks away from Gojo, back turned to him. With no eyes on Gojo, he leaves himself completely exposed and at the mercy of Gojo. Geto’s display of trust makes him bristle, eyes darkening under the swath of white that lays over his eyes.

“That would be easier to accept, wouldn’t it?” Geto says, but quickly pulls away from the topic. “You know, Satoru, I didn’t even give you the address. I would give a warmer welcome for an invited guest…say, like (Y/N)! They have been received well by myself and my twins.”

Gojo sighs, adopting more of his casual charm as he chuckles dryly.

“Just what is this, Geto?” Gojo holds up his hands. “Don’t tell me you’re the jokester now, because this isn’t fucking funny.”

“Whatever you say, Gojo. I’m thoroughly amused.”

His dark eyes, glinting in the light of the moon, crinkle in said amusement. Gojo holds back a shiver—there’s something sinister in those eyes.

“Just because you have forsaken yourself doesn’t mean others will accept that,” Gojo says firmly. “I thought that would be obvious by now.”

“And when has that stopped me?” Geto says with a tut. “Besides, you’d think someone would try to interfere if they didn’t accept this. But alas, you have left me alone for years. Is this not a product of your own doing?”

Gojo almost falters. After all, he’s not wrong.

“I leave you alone for years and you go and—” He audibly exhales. “You harass my students and then kidnap (Y/N)? Let’s cut the bullshit. What are you plotting? Why would you take (Y/N)? What could you possibly want with them? You left all of us and never looked back.”

“With them? Don’t you mean from them?” Geto says, turning to give him a small smile. “As to what I’m planning…you’ll find out soon enough.”

Gojo’s brow furrows, but he says nothing.

“It’s so cold tonight,” Geto sighs lazily, as if he hasn’t a genuine care in the world. “You know, I would welcome you inside, but you’re here earlier than expected. I don’t know if they’re ready for you, yet.”

Gojo is rendered silent for a few moments as he considers what Geto could possibly mean. Geto speaks lightly, as if he’s hinting at something amusing to himself. Obviously Geto has done something to you—but what could be possibly mean by ‘ready for him’?

Gojo doesn’t want to entertain Geto by falling for his bait, so he speaks only what he truly wants to know. “I already told you, Suguru. Cut the bullshit. Tell me what you want from them. Now.”

Geto turns to him with a sharp glare. “What am I, a dog for you to order around? Don’t you know that’s what monkeys are for?”

“Do you try to control, or should I say enslave, humans now, too?” Gojo sneers. “Sounds like you have less dignity than one of your so-called ‘monkeys’.”

“What a low blow. Enslave? No, nothing like that! I just put them out of their own miserable existence after they do some of my bidding. You know Satoru, you’re more feisty than you used to be.”

“I wonder why,” Gojo says bitterly, but tries to hold his tongue. The more he gives in to his banter, the further he is from what he came here for.

Geto doesn’t respond this time. Gojo doesn’t like the feeling he starts getting—the feeling that Geto is stalling for time. He needs more information if he can get it, but Gojo knows he doesn’t have any more time to waste—you could be in any sort of condition. He’s beginning to panic, even though he knows he shouldn’t.

“What do you want from them? Why would you take them?” Gojo speaks lowly. “They don’t have anything to do with you anymore.”

When Geto remains silent, Gojo barks out, “Tell me now, Suguru! I won’t play these fucking games with you. You already crossed the line before by messing with my students. Now this? You should be careful. It’s like you want me to kill you.”

Geto laughs heartily, as if this is just a tense moment in an otherwise pleasant reunion. “Sure, Satoru. We played poker together, don’t you remember? You could never hold your pokerface. You’re still horrible at bluffing, I see.”

“Call my fucking bluff then,” Gojo spits.

“I have been, all these years. We both know why I’m still alive.” Geto says calmly.

“But you know that I won’t overlook this. I don’t know what you’re thinking, Suguru, but there’s only so much I can sweep under the rug. Especially with…with them, and you know that.”

“Oh, yes, I certainly do.” He smiles easily, eyes crinkling as if he is particularly pleased.

This unnerves Gojo even more.

Geto startles when Gojo suddenly appears mere inches from him. He’s never before witnessed his former friend with an aura this agitated and full of aggression, with cursed energy so inflamed and oppressive. Gojo seems so tall in this moment, towering over Geto even though they’re practically the same height.

Geto finally feels a sliver of doubt. Gojo has never been able to harm him, or rather, could never bring himself to. Geto has known this and has exploited this, in fact—but right now, for the first time, he can’t help but wonder if today is the day.

“What the fuck are you doing, Suguru?” Gojo asks lowly, anger bleeding in to his tone despite his efforts to stifle it.

Geto laughs. If only he knew. If only he knew that he would soon be on his knees, reality falling apart, finally succumbing to Geto’s worldview.

“I don’t think that’s the right question,” Geto shakes his head, his voice teasing—mocking. “Wouldn’t it be ‘What have I done?’”

He watches the color drain from Gojo’s face as his meaning sinks in. Something has been done to you, and it might be irreversible. You might be…you might be de—

Gojo sharply inhales as his mind goes blank with fury. His entire mind is consumed with the thought of strangling Geto. He can’t get the image of his hands around his throat, hurting him like he must have hurt you, life draining from his twisted eyes, to fade away. The fiery rage in him is triggering the euphoria he gets with a taste of violence—when he almost goes mad, addicted to his own strength and invincibility.

But…but you. What about you? What if you’re still alive?

The violence falls away, cast away by thoughts of you. All it takes is a single second of your smile, an echo of your sweet laugh, for him to singularly focus on you. If you’re alive, he needs to find you right now.

And the next time Geto blinks, he is greeted on with an icy breeze, as the figure in front of him has vanished. Geto doubles over in laughter, thinking that he has won. He will be the one to break THE Gojo Satoru, or at least shatter the weapon the jujutsu higher-ups love to use. This weapon will be at his disposal; with Gojo Satoru by his side again, the extermination of the human race will be finally be within his grasp.

That’s assuming that your heart has stopped beating. Geto, who chooses to be a fool, does not even check. Even though Nanako relayed that you were breathing a few minutes ago, his arrogance and hope to break Satoru exceed any doubt.

Gojo is also a fool, or so he thinks. He wasted so much time on Geto, who had him so easily transfixed by his vague mentions of you. He should have just searched for you from the start.

Thundering footsteps and calls of your name now echo through the house in which you reside. Finally able to focus solely on you after separating from Geto, Gojo frantically searches the house, going from room to room as fast as he can.

He hadn’t acknowledged it to Geto, but he’s been here before, that time when he had to confirm with his own eyes the extent of Geto’s crimes. It doesn’t bode well with him that Geto chose this place to house you—the place where he slaughtered dozens of people, his first step to breaking away from jujutsu society.

Gojo finds himself profusely sweating—whether it’s from fear or from sprinting through this maze of a house, he can’t tell. But after learning practically nothing from Geto except that he has done something to you, Gojo can’t keep the bubbling anxiety at bay for much longer.

The panic rises acutely in Gojo once he realizes something—he feels so blind, running around like a chicken with its head cut off, because there is no cursed energy to detect. Your distinctive energy that led him from your home until here, is nowhere to be found, as if it has been extinguished.

He can’t breathe. His chest feels tight, and he is practically wheezing as he continues to rush around the rooms, scanning them with his bare eyes since he doesn’t trust his Six-Eyes right now. It’s illogical, he knows, but maybe his eyes are broken and that’s why he can’t see your energy. He refuses to give any serious thought to the alternative—if you didn’t have any cursed energy anymore, then that would mean…

He enters the last room—this room is larger than the rest, implying its greater importance, but is practically empty. It’s one of the the most minimalist looking bedrooms Gojo has even stepped foot in. The only thing that immediately captures his attention is a neat stack of papers that sit on the desk. He instantly recognizes the scrawl on the top paper as Geto’s. It pains him that he still remembers a detail as minute as that about Suguru.

His gaze migrates to the rest of the room, namely to the bed that is nestled into the furthest corner. His heart lurches. The fact that he didn’t notice this immediately, not used to relying solely on his normal vision, isn’t good. Him not noticing someone usually means they’re not with the living.

Only steps away, there is a figure strewn out over the sheets, unmoving and looking rather ragged. Hair unkempt, lips cracked, clothes bloodied, chest still.

Chest still.

He immediately moves to you, not wasting a second as takes a place by your bedside.

“No, no, no,” Satoru whispers, as if speaking too loudly will mean that this is reality, that maybe if you don’t wake up it’ll be because he didn’t speak loudly enough. Though soft, his voice is urgent and pleading. “Please no. Please don’t be true.”

He instantly scoops you up, handling your weight easily. He cradles you close to him as if you could disappear from his arms at any moment—and maybe, if you could see yourself, you’d understand that his fears aren’t unfounded, as you truly look as if your life force could fade at any moment. He then notices a rivulet of blood running from your mouth—he tries to gently brush it away, but ends up smearing it onto both your chin and his hand. Anger fills him when he thinks what Geto must have done to reduce you to this state.

Your eyelids begin to flutter open at his touch and warmth, but Satoru still sees more of your long eyelashes than your unusually dull eyes. They will not open past halfway, no matter how hard you try. In your disoriented state, you don’t notice Gojo’s sigh of relief, or how his grip on you tightens as if to remind himself that you’re here, you’re alive and breathing, you’re safe in his arms.

Through the spots in your eyes, you see a halo of white and two luminescent blue eyes. As your vision clears, you admire the light filtering through his translucent hair, which makes him appear angelic. Of course, he is as beautiful as the last time you saw him.

“Satoru? ‘S that you?” You manage to ask, and you sound raspier than a chronic smoker, much to your displeasure. You cringe internally, knowing how awful you must look and sound right now. You know it doesn’t matter how disheveled you look when you’re on the brink of death—and yet you can’t help but worry about it while you’re in his presence.

“You’re so cold,” Is his softly spoken answer. “God, I really thought– I thought that—”

If you didn’t know any better, you would say he sounds despaired. But that can’t be right—there’s no way he still cares about you. Not after his cold and harsh behavior towards you, not after he got together with Utahime—he can’t care. Or at least, not how you want to be cared by him.

After a few moments of silence, it’s evident that Gojo doesn’t intend to finish his sentence. Even in your hazy state of mind, you can guess what he was going to say. You do look awful, probably even worse than the last time you had a chance to look in the mirror.

“I think you’re just warm,” You tease weakly, with a smile full of too much amusement when considering the situation, when considering your condition. Now you’re playing Gojo’s role: joking when you should be serious.

It hurts Gojo to see the gentleness in your smile, gentleness and goodness that reveal how truly soft-hearted you are. Your natural softness after what you’ve been through—it angers him.

“No, I can’t be. It’s snowing outside,” He says, growing more upset with each sentence. “But you’re– you’re even colder than that. Your skin is—it’s like ice. You’re making me fucking worried!”

You blink rapidly, startled by his show of strong emotion but even more surprised by the glimmer of near tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” You say quietly, although neither you nor him know what exactly you’re apologizing for.

“That’s not what I meant,” He says, sighing, pulling you tighter to him. “I’m just…I was worried before I came, but now I’m really scared for you.”

“You are? You have been?” You blurt out automatically and mindlessly, eyes wide open now. You look so surprised that Satoru can’t help but chuckle a little, though it pains him that you don’t seem to believe him.

Heat rises to your face and you squirm a bit in his arms, now suddenly aware of your closeness, of all his skin touching yours. He quells your movement with a brush of his hand on your arm, encouraging you to stay still.

“You shouldn’t move too much. You really don’t look too good, angel,” He says, voice tight and threatening to break. “What did he do to you?”

Hah. You must look so disgusting and beat up that he assumes Geto hurt you. You smile weakly to yourself, wondering what he would think if you said you had looked like this for days.

“He didn’t,” You simply say, not seeming to have any intention to clarify. “This is how he found me. How could something like this happen overnight?”

You’re astounded by your own honesty. It’s always been difficult to be completely transparent for you, especially to Satoru—always trying to brush things off, make excuses for people, diminish your own pain in order not to bother or worry others.

Your words cut deep through Gojo and instantly take his breath away.

How could something like this happen overnight?

He hasn’t seen you since the day he rudely brushed you off, and it has been weeks since then. In the months before that dreadful interaction, he had only seen you one-on-one a handful of times. He knows you didn’t mean anything by your words, but he can’t help but feel guilt and karma very sharply. He deserves this after ignoring you for so long, even if he thought it was for the best.

You begin to cough, and it’s a horrible grating noise. It’s a miracle this didn’t happen sooner, although you wish that Gojo wouldn’t see this at all.

“You should go,” You croak out between coughs. “Leave me here, get away from Geto. It’s…it’s too late for me. Leave me.”

Gojo lightly rolls his eyes, partly in frustration by your melodramatic reaction and partly at himself because he has made you believe that he would just leave you there.

“As if,” He says almost playfully, gaining back some of his personality now that he has processed that you’re alive. “What are you saying? If I leave, I’m leaving with you. Just gimme a second to call Shoko, she’ll get everything prepared as always, she’ll be annoyed but she always has a soft spot for you—”

“No,” You interrupt Gojo, your voice firmer than he’s heard from you in a long time. “I told you, there’s no saving me.”

The dread sets in. Why are you so insistent on that?

He opens his mouth, about to say something, but doesn’t manage get the words out before the room is filled with rough coughing. You cough until all the air escapes from your lungs—and then you’re wheezing and choking on nothing.

“You okay? Tell me what’s going on,” He asks in an even tone, but he is anything but calm, especially when you are thrown into another coughing fit. “Angel? It’s okay, just breathe.”

Gojo places you back onto the bed, elevates your back so you’re in a sitting position, and begins to pat on your back in the hopes that it’ll help regulate your breathing. What he doesn’t realize, though, is that you’re not just having a panic attack. Something is actually lodged in your airways.

You begin to choke and gag. Satoru’s eyes are wide when he realizes that something is wrong, something is horribly wrong. He pats your back harder, the force beginning to push your body forward.

“Well, it’s finally started, has it? A little late, but no matter.”

Gojo’s head whips to the door so fast it almost gives him whiplash. He has been so focused on you that he didn’t even sense Geto’s sudden presence. He rests on the doorframe, watching with interest sparkling in his eyes.

“What’s going on here?” Gojo asks, accusatory, but is so scared to hear the answer that he almost wishes neither respond.

“Just watch and you’ll understand,” Geto says knowingly, easily. Everything is unfolding as it should, he’s glad to see.

Geto looks to Gojo smugly, wanting to see the fear swimming in his uncovered eyes, but is completely caught off guard by the intensity of his gaze. Adrenaline quickly courses through Geto’s veins, the type that spiderwebs through your tingling palms and traces icy fingers down your spine, for the first time in years. The true fight-or-flight feeling, reminiscent of when he first fought a high-level curse. But now it’s from Gojo’s hardened blue eyes boring into his own, penetrating down to his very soul, like a god passing divine judgment.

Your hacking interrupts the tense face off. Gojo is the one who looks away, but Geto does not feel as if he is backing down. He is ashamed to admit that he feels waves of relief once Gojo tends to you again. Unsettled, Geto takes a few steps away from the doorframe, retreating into the hallway away from Gojo’s scrutinizing gaze.

You don’t notice it, but of course you can’t in your state. At least, not when you feel it coming.

The thorns and stiff branches begin to scratch your throat. The numerous petals suffocate you and are slow to rise as they are heavy with blood. You grip Satoru’s wrist tightly to get his attention.

“Go,” You manage wheeze out. “Leave. Don’t want you to…see.”

He looks at you with so much horror in his eyes, looking even more scared than you feel. You can visually see the gears turning in his head, connecting the dots. Your weakness, your coughing, the blood from your mouth, the fact that this ‘couldn’t happen overnight’—

A blue petal escapes from your lips. It spins through the air, right before Gojo’s eyes, confirming his worst fears.

This must be a nightmare. It has to be a nightmare. Maybe he hallucinated the petal. Maybe you can still be saved, even though your coughing keeps getting worse and worse.

But then there’s something he can’t deny out of existence. As he rubs your back, helping you through your coughing and gagging, you cough up what he feared most. His heart rate skyrockets as he lays eyes on what you coughed up. A flower.

A flower the color of his eyes, the beauty of it corrupted by your blood that drenches it. A flower that’s meant for him. A flower that means you love him and that you don’t believe he loves you back.

Pain shoots through him, spikes working under his chest. He brought this on you. He thought he was protecting you, but instead he has been slowly killing you from the inside.

“No…” He whispers, unbelieving.

For some reason, you smile. Just a tiny quirk of your lips and the crinkling of your eyes as you look up at him. It’s a real smile, one he hasn’t seen in so long. And it hits him: one he might never see again, if he doesn’t fix this.

“No!” Gojo gasps out, not wanting to believe his eyes. “No, angel, no. Not this. This– this can’t be real. Why? Why did this happen to you?”

It’s cruel, but he knows very well why. He vied for your affection for years and years and has loved you for just about as long. And yet you are the one cursed to this fate, due to his denial erroneously leading him to Utahime and the suppression of his feelings leaving him to heartlessly ignore you.

You stare up at him with wide eyes, shame flickering through them. You didn’t want him to find out.

“‘Can’t help it,” You say weakly. “Not when it comes to you. Always sort of knew, but I figured it out recently. By then, though, you were…gone.”

He shakes his head frantically, words coming out in a jumble as he desperately tries to explain. “I just wanted to protect you. The higher-ups were after you—I thought I had to let go of you. I-I never thought this would happen. I never knew that you…”

“It’s okay, Satoru. I understand,” You say, holding back tears. “I’ve accepted it. It’s okay that you don’t feel the same. You have…you have her and that’s enough for me.”

You smile again. So bright, so genuine, and yet so painful.

“No! I…”

He wants to vehemently deny it, but the words get stuck in his throat. For years he has swallowed his feelings and never truly allowed himself to feel or speak them. The deepest feelings in his heart have never risen to the surface to be shared; they have always pooled deep in his soul, away from prying eyes and hearts.

But now they are so close to be verbally admitted that they are in his throat, choking him. He looks into your eyes and is overwhelmed by the waves of emotion that crash over him; it’s uncomfortable and even painful.

He has always shoved down his emotion for you. Any time he has ever shown his true feelings, about you aside, is when you eased it out of him. He has never divulged any real emotion on his own.

Despite his natural instincts screaming at him to keep it inside, despite the knot in his throat choking him, this time, he lets himself be overwhelmed.

“I love you. I always have,” He speaks, voice trembling with emotion. “Even when I didn’t know it yet. (Y/N), I’ve always liked you. I used to try so hard for you during school, always trying to get your attention. Remember how I never left you alone? You’d get so annoyed at me. Shoko and Geto said I was so obvious…”

Now that he’s started, he can’t seem to stop.

“I know I’ve fucked up recently, but it’s not…it’s not because I don’t have feelings for you. They’ve never once faded, even when I tried to ignore them. I tried with Utahime because I couldn’t get you out of my head, even though I needed to. The higher-ups have been targeting you, and I thought it was because of me, so I had to prove to them that you weren’t close to me. I even went out with Utahime, who hated my guts, but that…didn’t work out. It wasn’t fair to her—she herself realized how in love with you I am.”

He looks at you with an emotion you can’t place—it fills you with warmth and brings tears to your eyes. You sniffle a little, wondering if this is a cruel trick because this just cannot be real. There is no way in the world that Gojo Satoru went to look for you after months of radio silence. There is no way that he is here, right now, admitting feelings you never once suspected.

A sob wracks your body, even though you try your hardest to keep it in. You cover your face with your hands when you can’t stop yourself from the absolute meltdown that ensues, trying to preserve your dignity. He can’t love you, he just can’t.

“Don’t do that,” He says softly, gently easing your hands away from your face. “You don’t have to hide from me. God, I’m so sorry, angel. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”

He leans in close, wanting to embrace you but not knowing if he even deserves to hold you. You sense his hesitance when he comes near you, and you think that this is the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him. His hand slowly comes to your face to caress your cheek, to wipe away your pathetic tears, and you are shocked at the drops that fall on your skin from above.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” He chuckles weakly, tears freely falling, his words an echo of your own mind. “I shouldn’t be surprised, but please…please try. I don’t want anything more to happen to you.”

And you do try. You do, but you feel so tired and weak. Your vision is starting to go out of focus and your ears are ringing. Your body is telling you that it will soon give up. Your body is ready to give up, but you aren’t.

You lock eyes with him as best as you can, your heart skipping from the prolonged eye contact. If only you could have always been able to look into his eyes like this.

“Satoru, I think it’s pretty obvious by now, but…no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop loving you. Not even if it kills me…” You smile sadly. “And I think it might.”

“But I love you!” He cries, and it comes out as a plea. Tears stream down his face. “I don’t understand, I love you, (Y/N)! Is it– is it someone else? It’s okay if it is, I’ll take you to them and—”

You laugh, causing blood to dribble down your chin. “Even after all that studying, you can’t think. I already said it, but should I say it again? I love you, Satoru.”

“Then why? It was just one flower. You should- you should be fine. Please be fine.”

“The flower,” You explain hoarsely. “That wasn’t the first one. I’ve already coughed up a lot of them. Too many. I think my fate has been sealed for a while. I’m sorry, Satoru. I’m a fool. I finally learn that you love me, and I’m like this.”

He’s frozen for a moment, everything sinking in. Your life is no longer suspended in his hands, but rather in death’s treacherous grasp. There is no telling how long you have left.

In the next moment, he quickly gathers you in his arms, scooping you up effortlessly from the bed.

“You’re not dying on me,” He says, trying to assume his regular calm. “I won’t let you. We’ll figure this out, o-okay? Please angel, just fight it a bit more for me. We’ll leave right now, I’m sure Shoko can handle this.”

You nod, seeing through his false calm. “Satoru…I want you to know that even if I d—”

He shakes his head resolutely. “Tell me when you’re all better, okay? Promise me.”

Time feels suspended when you look into his eyes again, all of your emotions showing through them as if this is the last time you’ll ever see each again in this world.

You never get to promise him. Instead, Geto’s loud and commanding voice startles the two of you. “You’re not leaving with them.”

“Like hell I’m not,” Gojo snarls. “Like you can stop me.”

He closes his eyes, mentally easing into his large store of cursed energy, and prepares himself to make the familiar teleportation route to Tokyo Tech. But something’s different this time—his eyes fly open, pupils blowing wide, when he hits a block he never has before.

“You can’t teleport once you’re inside this barrier,” Geto explains calmly, voice as smooth and slow as molasses. “Thought you might pull something like this.”

You’re glad you didn’t promise him. Your ears ring again, and you feel so dizzy that you can’t keep your eyes from closing, even though you hear him begging you to keep them open.

The conversation between Geto and Gojo is lost on you with your fading hearing. You only hear their vague intonations and cadences, shouting and cursing. And then you’re being jostled wildly. Gojo is running with you in his arms, making a break for the edge of the barrier—that much you can surmise by the loud thumps and his erratic breathing.

You’re fading fast. You mumble out his name, giving everything you have just to open your eyes.

He’s so beautiful. The moonlight catches in his silver hair and reflects through his blue eyes you’ve always loved so much. You gaze into them as if they were pools you could dive into, endless depths of his soul. You wish you could spend more time looking at his eyes, just like this.

You hear his voice you could listen to for hours. He usually has a sly, silver tongue, but not today. It is weak and wavers. It bares the true feelings of the strongest today. “Don’t you dare die on me, angel!”

You wish you could promise him that, but your eyes close without your permission.

part iv

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a/n: not Geto listening to the confession like 🧍‍♂️

ahhh I’m so sorry it took this long!!! Thank you for your patience! basically I had a pretty long draft written out and it yeeted itself out of this world (😭😭😭 legit have no idea what happened to it) and was really frustrated by that, so I didn’t return to this for a long while…Anyway, I’m glad to be back!!

There will be another part! Sorry not sorry about the cliffhanger/ambiguous ending. 😳

Btw I’m really sorry to all Geto lovers out there, I feel like I always do Geto dirty and write him as some evil unfeeling man 💀💀 but I swear I don’t actually hate his character and I think he’s a lot more complex than I write him…🥴