“I fell in love with a fatuus man, as sly as he could be! He fucked me once! (He fucked her twice!) But left before he made it three! I drank for days! (She drank for nights!) I drank until I spilled my sick! To Hell with it! To Hell with love! To Hell with him! (And his puny dick!) There's only one thing that I love and need: A song, (and a bard!) and big ol’ mug of Mondstadt’s finest mead! Let's drink! Let's drink! Let's drink! Let's drink! Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”

Varka doesn't take his eyes off the performance as he makes his way over to Charles behind the bar. He's heard this tune before, popular amongst shipmen in the ports, although he's never heard this vulgar version. 

“Started a party without me, eh? Who’s the outlander?” Varka asks over his shoulder as he leans back against the bar, not wanting to miss out on the excitement. 

“Little lady has been here since dinnertime, drinking up a storm. I reckon she might even give you a run for your money,” Charles says as he shakes up the dandelion wine fizz he started preparing as soon as the Grand Master walked in. 

“A woman after my own heart,” Varka says, though it gets lost in the music and merriment. 

Charles slides him the drink, and he nods his thanks before joining the crowd. His presence usually causes a stir amongst the knights, so he approaches slowly so as not to take any attention away from the music and liveliness. However, he stands at least a head taller than most of the knights, making him stand out amongst the crowd. He makes eye contact with the outlander: You. 

Your gaze lingers on him for a moment, and his lips pull into a small smile. Even as you spin around and sing more vulgar lyrics about a man who loved you until he found someone with bigger breasts, your eyes keep meeting his. Perhaps he's just imagining the attention, but he can't deny the warmth in his face. 

The crowd of knights hollers and cheers as the song comes to an end. You take a bow along with the fiddle-playing bard, and once again, Varka catches your gaze—or maybe you catch his, since he hasn't taken his eyes off you. 

“Miss Outlander, I can treat you right! Dance with me!” One of the knights, Sem, professes as he offers up his hand to you. 

“Screw off, Sem! We all know what happened with your last girlfriend! I, on the other hand, am a true gentleman and knight! Dance with me instead!” Another knight, Emilian, claims. 

“Do you think she's stupid? Anyone declaring themself a gentleman is not to be trusted! Dance with me—I will never lie to you!” Bastian from the 2nd division says with drunken gusto. 

The men start bickering, and Varka goes to step in and calm things down before there's a brawl. However, stomp your foot on the table, causing a loud rattle. 

“I will only dance with someone who can down a pint faster than me!” You declare and dramatically point out across the crowd in a sweeping motion. 

There's a brief hush through the tavern, and then a burst of excitement. Varka chuckles as knights rush to the bar to fill their mugs. As much as the idea intrigues him, he won't partake. Seeing that you're confident in your ability to out-drink any challengers, it's clear you have no desire to dance with anyone at all. 

So he sits back and observes as Charles taps a fresh keg for the eager contestants. You saunter over and take a seat at the bar with seats left open for whoever you'll be drinking against. You must be fairly drunk already. Just how many people will you give a chance to? 

Sem, Emilian, and Bastian are all put to shame in seconds. They barely finish half their drinks by the time you slam your empty mug down. Others step up, including some of the women who've also been charmed by your drunken charisma. Some even join the challenge more than once. Nevertheless, you take them all down, letting out a shameless belch after well over a dozen rounds. 

“Come on! I thought you Mondstadters were supposed to be impressive drinkers! Nothing but a buncha dandelions so far!” You taunt with a hearty laugh. 

“I….I resent…hic….that,” Sem slurs. He tried and failed three times. You were kind enough to talk him out of a fourth. “Dandelions are…..awesome.”

Emilian and Bastian come stumbling over to where Varka is sitting with desperation in their eyes. It's obvious what they want. 

“Grand Master! You must avenge us! Mondstadt’s reputation is on the line! You're our only hope!” Bastian cries with much melodrama. 

“Is that so? Looks to me like you lack resolve. If any of you truly wanted a dance with the little lady, then you would've won her challenge,” Varka says with a laugh. He looks between the knights and catches your eye, to which he raises his glass to you in acknowledgement. You simply raise your brows playfully and recross your legs on the barstool. 

“Don’t be like that, Grand Master! You know, most of us can drink like there's no tomorrow. That outlander lady is just something else! She drinks like an archon! She might even be able to out-drink you!” Emilian says. 

A mighty bold claim. Varka narrows his eyes and stands up, gathering the attention of the tavern. He marches over to you slowly, sizing you up. Knowing Barbatos on a personal level, it would be unwise of him to judge your drinking ability based on appearance. However, you are not the Anemo Archon, nor any archon for that matter, despite Emilian’s claim. This should be an easy win for him. 

“Oh? Are you going to challenge me, too? I was wondering what a man of your size could do against me,” you say as you look him up and down with an amused smile.

His coat hides the way the hair on his arms pricks. Flirtations come his way a mora a million, which is why yours is so unsettling—there’s nothing on the other end of it. Before he can question it, the other patrons cheer him on, infusing him with his usual confidence. 

“Grand Master, show her what Mondstadt is made of!” Swan calls out. 

“Grand Master?” You repeat with a quirk of your brow. 

“That's me. Varka: Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius, Knight of Boreas, protector of Mondstadt, and dandelion wine enthusiast,” he announces and puffs out his chest.

You giggle and cover your mouth as a playful gleam twinkles in your eyes. 

“So many titles,” you muse. “I can't say I have any that mean anything outside of my homeland. I'm just an outlander, an unlovable vagrant mercenary, and apparently, the fastest drinker currently in Mondstadt.” 

“Haha! We'll see about that. In fact, I'll even give you an advantage,” Varka says and leans on the bar. “Hey, Charles, pour me one in my stein.” 

“Showing off your other title? As you wish, Knight o’ Cups,” Charles says and turns around to reach a larger mug on a hook. He fills it up and slides it to Varka as a bit of foam dribbles down the side. 

“Are you mocking me?” You ask, sizing up his drink compared to yours. It holds over twice the volume of a regular mug. 

“I'm simply offering a fair—”

“Hey barkeep!” You wave down Charles and point at the huge stein. “You got another one of those? I want one, too!” 

Varka’s eyes widen for a moment, but it quickly turns into a look of determination. 

“You don't know what you're up against, little lady. I'm just trying to give you a fair shot,” he says. 

“I'm sick of men insisting that fairness exists,” you say sharply. A storm brews in your eyes. 

The uncomfortable weight of dread forms in his chest. There's no way you can see through him and scrutinize his deepest burdens. You're right: Fairness does not exist. He learned that the worst way. And there's plenty of history to suggest trying to correct every imbalance is a harrowing path. 

It's only a drinking game, but habits always start small and innocuous. It's a good reminder to keep with him before he sets out on the expedition. 

“Order up,” Charles says, and places your new drink on the bar with a heavy clunk. “She's got a point. It's not up to you to decide what's fair if she insists.” 

“Well, there's no arguing against you both,” Varka concedes and snaps out of his thoughts. “I do admire the competitive spirit and confidence. Haha! Whaddya say then? Let's see who's really the fastest drinker!”

He lifts his stein to you. He's sure he'll win, but he also can't doubt you after watching all the rounds you put the other knights through. Your scrutinizing glare softens as you lift your drink. It looks absurdly large in your grasp, but you easily handle it with one hand and clink it against his. 

“Próst!” He cheers. 

Both of you tap the bottoms to the bar, and it's game on. The knights cheer him on. “For Mondstadt!” they yell. Varka knows not to get ahead of himself. There's no fancy technique, just drinking like he normally would with the ease of familiarity. Even though it only takes mere seconds for him to reach the final sips, he still enjoys the flavor of the brew and lets out a satisfied sigh as he brings the empty stein back down. 

The knights erupt in song and cheers, though Varka waits a very patient two seconds for you to finish your drink before celebrating. You empty your mug and make a comical face of disbelief. 

“That's Mondstadt for ya!”

“No one can beat the Grand Master!”

“Dammit!” You groan through the fanfare and drape yourself on the bar next to the empty mug. 

“If you took the handicap, you would have beaten me easily,” he teases, earning a scathing glare from you that’s more satisfying than winning. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you grumble. “Now I owe you a dance.” 

Honestly, Varka had forgotten that was the whole reason you started this drinking contest. He was too wrapped in the spirit of drinking to even think about it, but now that you mention it…

“Though I think you're too tall to dance with properly,” you say as you look him up and down. 

“What? So you're backing out of your end of the competition?” He questions. Not like he’d be mad about it—clearly, you had no desire to dance when you made your declaration. Still, it would be nice to spin you around to the visiting bard’s lively fiddle. 

“I'm not that much of a scoundrel,” you say, sliding yourself off the barstool. 

You stumble into the crowd with heavy, drunken steps, swerving and swaying as you drag a chair from one of the nearby tables and move it to the middle of the floor. Perhaps he might be too tall, but you might be too drunk to dance with. The patrons move around your arrangement, and Varka nearly loses sight of you as you wander into the crowd. 

However, he spots you speaking to the bard. After whispering something in his ear, the bard gives a thoughtful look before nodding. You slip some mora to him and then make your way back to the chair in the middle of the floor. You stand up on it, catching an imbalance in your step, and then extend your hand towards Varka, still sitting at the bar. 

“I shall make good on my word to the challenger who beat me in the drinking contest! Since you're too tall to dance with, I'll simply dance for you. Come, sit here,” you say confidently, once the patrons quiet down at your spectacle. The alcohol is doing its job of emboldening even as you sneak a sheepish look to the side. 

“With everyone watching?” He asks. Again, not like he minds, though he would much rather take your hand in his and move his feet. 

“Just come and sit,” you insist as you swat your hand in the air dismissively and then hop off the chair. 

Varka chuckles as he stands up from the barstool. Some of the knights whistle at him when he goes to take a seat in the chair. The two of you pass one another, and something in the air changes as you watch him sit down. It's oddly vulnerable. 

You clear your throat and reach into your robes, pulling out something small and thin. After muttering about “never using this thing,” your drunken slouch straightens up completely as you strike a pose with it raised in your hand. Then you simply nod to the bard, who starts to draw out the notes on his fiddle. 

The crowd hushes. The song is slower than what's been playing all night. You move your arms gracefully as you take small, crossing steps, finding your time and rhythm with the music. Then, with a delicate flick of your wrist, the object in your hand unfurls into a beautifully painted indigo fan. You bring it to your face, covering the lower half. 

Varka's eyes stay locked onto yours over the rim of the fan as you sway and prance ever closer to him. Your free arm sweeps and twists to the drawn-out and wistful notes of the fiddle. The song is beautiful, filled with longing. Even though he's yet to set out for Nod-Krai, it fills him with homesickness. 

You're light on your feet despite the weight of drunkenness. You sweep the fan away from your face, sending a gentle waft of air to kiss his cheeks. He's brought back to all the days over patrolling the hills and cliffs as the breeze rushes through the tall grass and tousles his hair. His heart aches for the home he hasn't left yet. 

The notes of the fiddle ascend, sounding like a human voice. You spin to his side in a graceful motion, holding the open fan out to him and letting the edge graze his stubbled chin like a whisper of a caress before moving behind his seat. He tries to turn his head either way, but it's not enough to see more than just glimpses of your sleeves fluttering. However, he can hear the fan closing and unfolding, and your footwork tapping against the wood floors. His hair rustles slightly from the air of your movements that he can only imagine happening out of his sight. 

You appear again on his right, twirling with the fan, covering half your face again. Floating past him, you continue to dance with your back to him. The bard switches back to the lower, dream-like verse, filling Varka with that sense of longing once again—only this time, it's not for home. 

After dancing away from him, you look over your shoulder and catch his gaze. Then, your body opens up toward him in a graceful sweep. In just a few weightless prances, you're right in front of him, grazing his knees with the fabric of your robes. His eyes stay locked on yours as you reach out and place your hand on his shoulder, dragging your fingertips down his arm until your hand takes his. 

Your eyes smile above the edge of the fan. With your hand still in his, you pull away. He doesn't let go. His fingers curl ever so slightly, beckoning you to him. You comply, spinning into him so his arm wraps around your waist. You plop yourself down on his thigh as your eyes crinkle at him over the fan. Only a beat goes by before you slip out of his hold, momentarily escaping to his other thigh and then jumping up to twirl away from him once again. 

Varka is left seated with his hand still open and extended toward you. The music fades to an end. You stare at him across the floor and flip the fan closed. The dance is over. 

He should drop his hand, but he doesn't. He should get up and go to you, but he waits. Your eyes stay on his. This feeling. He felt it just before peering into Barbeloth’s scryglass. 

And then, your foot pushes off the floor. Perhaps it was planned, or perhaps the bard is just that good, but the fiddle sings once again, and the audience knows to clap their hands in time with a lively and energetic beat. You leap towards him, bypassing his open hand and wrapping your arms around his neck instead as you settle into his lap. He catches your waist by instinct, making sure the chair doesn't tip backwards. 

You lean your face toward him, smiling with a subtle confidence that could undercut his own. Varka has had his dealings and interests with plenty of beautiful people. This is something else. 

With a flick of your wrist, you open up the fan once again and use it to block his face and yours from the rest of the tavern. You lean in a little closer. You might actually kiss him. He's okay with that. 

The tavern patrons holler and cheer for what they think they're seeing. Your fingers tangle in Varka's hair, and you tilt your head before pressing the tip of your nose to his cheek. Not a kiss, but he’s still at a loss for thought when you lean back and snap the fan shut with a playful smile. The music ends, this time for real. 

You all too quickly hop off his lap and prance your way back to the bar. Varka already misses your scent and the feel of your body against his. He watches as you try to order a drink, but Charles clearly gives the sign that you're cut off, causing you to slump miserably on the bar—not dissimilar to the position you were in before the dance. 

“Whewwww! I’d be thinking about marrying her if I were you, sir!” Swan says as he approaches with a mug of frothy beer in hand. 

Varka just laughs, but the gate guard isn't wrong. He always thought it was too impulsive when knights and adventurers would write back to Mondstadt from Sumeru or Fontaine to say they aren't returning because they fell in love with a dancer’s performance. But he gets it now. Even though it's obvious you're by no means a professional and simply improvised something fueled by liquid courage, he saw—he felt the spirit from you. How can one not fall a little bit in love with someone who bares a glimpse of their soul? 

“It should have been me!” Sem wallows in the background and pounds a fist on the table. He's “comforted” by the other knights telling him that he was out of his depths anyway. 

Varka stands and accepts the playful slaps he receives on the back from his fellow knights. He makes his way over to you at the bar, still slumped over as you trace patterns into the wood with condensation from the glass of water Charles offered you. When he takes a seat next to you in your line of sight, you lift your head.

“So what didya think? Was the dance worthy of your victory?” You ask with a lazy smile.

Worthy doesn't even belong in the conversation. Worth is something measurable, and that was—

“It’s unforgettable,” he chuckles. “Are you this festive when you're sober?”

“Pffff! Who cares?” You scoff and prop your head up with your elbow on the bar. “Sober-me is a miserable bitch. That's why I drink and drink and never stop drinking. I’m much more fun this way.” 

“I don't believe that,” he says. He doesn't like that word, especially to describe you, even if you're the one saying it. 

You dart your eyes away from him, contemplating something. The drunken sparkle leaves your expression.

“I got dumped today. Well, officially. World's most drawn-out breakup. Had to cross oceans and nations and sacrifice my blood just to hear him say it,” you say a little too plainly. “So you best believe that I am miserable and a bitch since every man wants to run and hide from me behind the safety of a real woman.” 

The songs you were singing with the bard when he first walked into the tavern—the fatuus and the man whose head turned for bigger breasts. Maybe it was just a different variation of the song he knew, or maybe you really did come up with new lyrics. 

“You're…not a real woman?” He asks.

He knows what you mean, or at least he thinks he does. Rosaria has made similar remarks before. Even Frederica would say things like that before Seamus came along. 

“Don't feel like it,” you mumble. “I feel more like a creature—like a monster.” 

A monster wouldn’t have danced the way you did. He could tell you that you're not one, but why would you believe him? He's only just met you, and despite your level of drunkenness, he can tell you're not the type to be placated by generic assurances. 

“Some people are into monsters,” he says. 

Stupid. Why would he say that? He's only had two drinks. His tongue shouldn't be slipping up. However, he keeps his expression light despite his inward grimace. 

“Only for a night. Only so they can say they've done it. Like knocking off a bounty,” you mutter. 

Underneath and in between the tired lack of emotion in your delivery and words is hope for something more. It's a shame he's leaving in a few days, otherwise he could take the time to bring it to the surface. 

“It’s fine. It's fine,” you say as you do an awful job at lightening your expression while sitting up straight. “Don’t look at me like I'm some piteous thing. I'm a monster after all. Are you looking to collect a one-night bounty too?” 

“I…” He utters dumbly.

In a way, you're asking if he's just another disappointment. It's a lousy way to flirt—deflective and easily passed off as a tease. He's not put off by it, though. You might be building a wall, but he has much experience sneaking up to the city parapets and battlements. 

“What?” You laugh. “Is your knightly chivalry in conflict? I bet there's a code against fucking the monsters you're meant to slay.” 

“It’s not—No. Hold on,” he says. It's hard not to get a little distracted when you speak like that. “For starters, you're a person.”

“You don't know that.”

“I do know that.” 

You narrow your eyes at him, but he holds his confidence in the statement. Why trust a stranger?—your expression asks. Though after that dance, he's surely a step closer than a stranger. 

“That would mean I'm the same as you. We're not very alike,” you say as you look him up and down. 

“We both can drink a helluva a lot,” Varka offers as he leans closer to you. 

You don't say anything, opting to hold your skeptical glare in silence. However, you break by taking a swig of water and staring at the floating ice when you set it down. 

“Maybe you're a monster then,” you say, peering at him through a side glance. 

He might actually be able to win you over. Varka wins everyone over. Well, not everyone. Eroch was an anomaly, and he's still working on Diluc because of that. 

“Would that make you feel less alone?” He asks. 

You look away from him like you're remembering something or maybe someone. He watches as you let out a light huff with a barely visible smirk, and then let it fall. 

“It doesn't matter. I'm gonna pay my tab here in a minute, and we’ll never see each other again,” you say. 

“You're not staying in Mondstadt?”

“And run into that guy and his new little family? Fuck me if I ever wanna see him again,” you scoff. “I'm going back to Liyue since the money is good there. No need for mercs here anyway with you knightly lot around.”

There was an incident back in his rookie days when he was meant to safely escort a shipment of wine to Dornman Port. The expected bandits attempted to ambush and loot the delivery, but were met with Varka's blades and the experimental sword style he was still trying to master. The bandits were successfully fought off, however he also sliced through the barrels in the process. His heart sank, not for the failed escort, but because not even the ants had a chance to drink up the wind before the dirt swallowed it up. Watching something precious slip. through one’s fingers is never easy. 

“Well, I am taking most of the troops with me to Nod-Krai here in a few days. But you're not wrong, I trust the people I'm leaving behind to manage the land. From what I hear, though, Nod-Krai is the place for a mercenary to really make a name for themself,” he suggests. 

“You want me to follow you to Nod-Krai?” You ask, scrunching your eyes at him.

Maybe he is being ridiculous. When he looked into Barbeloth's scryglass, he only saw the Abyss—no explanation, no details, no outcome. He only knew that he had to act. A similar urging arose when you danced. 

“Just offering a word of mouth tip. I'm always glad to have a drinking partner outside of the Knights, particularly one who can keep up with me,” he says and leans closer once again, placing his foot on the rest of your barstool. 

You relax your expression in exchange for a small smile that emits an uncertain curiosity. However, you sigh out your nose and turn away. 

“Something tells me you'll be just fine with what you have,” you say and wave down Charles, signaling you're ready to square up your tab. 

So that's how it's gonna be. When you first sized him up earlier in the night, he knew there was nothing on the other side of your words. Then why dance for him the way you did? Why show him anything at all? Yes, there was quite a bit of alcohol involved, but alcohol isn't all foolery.

However, Charles comes over to close out, and Varka’s eyes could tumble out of his head at the amount he tells you. Just how much did you drink before he arrived? 

“Let me cover that for you,” he offers as he reaches into his coat. 

“No way! Just give me a moment,” you say, and you slap his arm from pulling out his wallet.

A bunch of loose mora splatters over the bar in coins and notes as you shake out the contents of your robe, flashing a good amount of skin as you do so. 

“Here. Just take what I owe you. The rest is a tip. I'm too drunk to count,” you tell Charles as you push it all towards him. 

“Are you sure? This is awfully generous, miss,” Charles says while sorting and counting. “Oh, uh, this was in there.”

Varka has never seen Charles get flustered before, but a distinct flush paints the bartender’s face when he slides something towards you. It's a photograph, but before Varka can get a good look at it, you shove it away. 

“Ugh, just throw this shit away. I hate it,” you grumble and hop off the barstool. 

You meet his eyes one last time, but you say nothing despite a second of hesitation. He watches as you head towards the exit door, torn between going after you or just writing it off as a regular rambunctious night at the tavern. He glances at the photo on the bar and grabs it—it’s of you, make-up applied like a Fontanian beauty advertisement, and wearing a silk robe sliding off your shoulder, exposing much of your bare back to the camera. 

Varka blinks and remembers to breathe after a moment. He flips the photo over, reading what he assumes is your name scribbled on the back and a date from over a year ago. 

“Hey! Wait a-” He calls out when he looks up, but you're already slipping out the door. 

“Just bill me tomorrow, Charles!” Varka waves behind him as he hurriedly makes his way through the dwindling crowd. 

The open nighttime atmosphere greets him upon exit from Angel’s Share. Fresh air fills his lungs, invigorating him with romance of the literary sort. Warm-flame lamps light up a small radius. He scans the people lingering around the tavern, some having a smoke, others talking in intimately hushed voices. You're already gone from the scene. 

There are a number of inns on this side of town. You could be staying at any one of them. He should have asked. There are a lot of things he should have asked.  

Maybe it's instinct. Maybe it's all the little things he picked up tonight. Maybe it's some magical fate connection that only one of the witches can see, but he believes you wouldn’t want to go sit in a dark room alone. So he wanders the streets, trusting his feet to lead the right way. 

He hums to himself as he approaches the town centre. A cat approaches him, but swerves away when he bends down to say hello. It looks back at him and scurries up the steps past the Cat’s Tail. Varka chuckles, always one to be easily distracted by a cute animal and determined to pet it. He follows it towards Good Hunter when he notices you standing in front of the fountain.

He could just leave and never see you again, as you had proposed. That would be reasonable—he’s made many one-time connections over drinks and had no problem accepting the low odds of ever running into them again. But that dance. Somehow, both silk and metal shackles. Glass and smoke. Sweet cider and firewater. 

Perhaps it's just his weird affinity for strays—people who have the wilderness in them and will never be fully domesticated despite offering them a warm place to stay. Rosaria and Razor have his heart as much as his home, and while there's nothing paternal about the feelings currently digesting within him, the thought of you strangely fits right into his unconventional family. 

He's getting way too ahead of himself. There's no way he could come up with all that from one drunken meeting, but that thought alone is enough for him to move forward. He simply must know more.

Approaching quietly has never been his strong suit. His straps and buckles on his boots and coat clink against one another as he walks to you. He tries it on his tongue for the first time, your name as written on the back of the photo in his pocket. You spare him a side glance, but return your gaze to the water in the fountain. 

“Are you going to wish for something?” He asks. 

“No. I was simply looking at the moon,” you say, eyes with a tired glaze over them. The energy of the tavern has left you. 

Varka looks into the fountain and sees the rippled reflection of the moon floating on the surface. 

“Why not look at the real thing?” 

“Because it's ugly and I hate it.” 

Nobody ever says that about the moon. It's always words of beauty and reverence, often referenced in songs about romance. This is Mondstadt after all: the city of the moon. 

“Why even look at a reflection of that's the case?” He asks. 

You finally turn to him and run your eyes over his body. You reach for his arm, and he lets you graze your fingertips over one of the scars. 

“Have you ever just stared at one of your own wounds while it was still open and bleeding? Just disgusted and helpless and fascinated that all you are beneath the skin is sticky pulsating flesh. Going numb over seeing your own bones that you were never meant to see.

“Looking at the moon gives me that feeling of being stripped and cut open raw. Repulsion and curiosity. Seeing something inside of myself that I have no business seeing, but that's exactly why I have to look while I can,” you say and bring your hand back to yourself. 

“But the moon is always there,” Varka shrugs. 

You let out a light laugh. 

“My last lover said he’d set it on fire, but he fooled me, and it's still here—just as ugly as ever, reminding me of how foolish and pathetic I am.”

Set the moon on fire? That's good. When he was a child, he used to climb onto the roof of his home and stare up at the night sky. He'd reach his hand and cover the moon with his palm, imagining grabbing it and bringing it down to play with. 

“If that's what you see when you look at the moon, then maybe I'll pull it down and throw something else up in its stead? What would look best? An apple? A pie? A harpastum?” He says proudly and rests his hand on your shoulder. 

“What is wrong with you Mondstadt men?” You snap as you slap his hand off you. 

It's dark out, but he can clearly see the storm in your eyes. However, it quickly dissipates into a drizzle. You slump and stumble forward. He doesn't hesitate to steady you despite the previous defiance. You don't fight back this time. 

“I must be stupid for everyone to treat me like I am,” you tell him, voice breaking. “I'm only worth lies and empty promises.”

It's like a wire snapping during a lyre recital. Pulling you in for an embrace would be futile. All he can safely offer is a squeeze to your shoulders with his hands, though he can't help the movement of his thumbs brushing back and forth near your collarbones. 

“That’s not true,” he says. 

“You don't know me.”

“I know that nobody is worth those things.” 

You sniffle and turn your face away from him, though the moonlight only highlights your tear tracks. 

“Whatever. I give up on love,” you mutter. 

“That's also not true.”

“Will you stop acting like-”

“You haven't given up. I can see it in your eyes,” Varka says. Even as you whip your biting gaze to him, he can see it so distinctly along with his silhouette against the moon. “People who have love are always looking for ways to share it.”

“Who says I have love?” 

Varka chuckles and slides his hands down your arms, stopping just shy of taking your hands in his before returning to his side. 

“I felt it from that dance. You can say it's the alcohol, and as magical as our ale is here, it didn't create what you showed me. A person who's lost all hope in love wouldn’t be able to act it out the way you did,” he says.

You remain quiet, holding your skeptical glower until it softens the same way metal does when it's being forged. 

“Maybe that was just me getting the last of it out,” you say, wiping your face and walking away. 

He shakes his head and smiles. You're ridiculous. He's ridiculous. There's no reason for him to keep hunting you down. He looks up at the moon. Perhaps it is your wound, and he's the hungry wolf who sees it as an opportunity for a successful hunt. 

“Well then, I'm honored to have witnessed it,” Varka says from behind. 

“Why are you following me?” You groan, though you don't slow or quicken your pace. You don't even turn to look at him. 

“Just making sure a lady gets back to her quarters safely,” he says. 

“Is that all?” Your voice drips with doubt. 

“That's all,” he assures. 

He follows a few steps behind. Every couple of dozen steps, you glance at him over your shoulder and attempt to speed up, only to get weighed down by your drunken steps a moment later. He laughs when you catch sight of the moon again, but rather than getting down about it, you hold up both your middle fingers to the sky and growl profanities. At one point, you try to dart into an alley, only to be standing just around the corner when Varka peers into it. You stick your tongue out at him and then continue walking ahead. 

There's a subtle hypnotic sway to your walk that can only be partially attributed to the alcohol. Maybe there isn't an inn. Maybe you'll stay awake for the rest of the night, and he can keep following you until morning. Maybe tomorrow morning will never come. He'll never have to set out for Nod-Krai, the Abyss will never expand, and you'll never decide to leave. 

However, the inn is real—hardly Mondstadt’s finest, which Varka expresses to you, but you wave him off and tell him you're used to sleeping outdoors. He shouldn't offer to let you stay with him at the headquarters, but he can't help himself. 

“So this all really was a ruse to collect your one-night bounty,” you say, voice tired and heavy. 

“No. You deserve better, that's all,” he says as he follows you to your room. 

“Empty promises and lies,” you correct. “I'm sure if you tell everyone at the tavern you did it, they'll believe you.” 

It only takes Varka two long strides to get in front of you and crowd you into the wall by placing a palm right above your head. It's dark in the hall with barely any moonlight coming through a small dusty window. You look up at him and then glance up and to the side. 

“This is my room,” you say, looking at the door and then back to him. 

He doesn't say anything or try to move any closer. What can he say? What can he do? He’s only just met you. He's leaving. You're leaving. There's no point. It might be everything. 

He should kiss you. He should kiss you. He should kiss you. He should kiss you. He should kiss you. He should kiss you. He should kiss you. He should kiss you. He should kiss you. He should kiss you. He should kiss you. 

You turn your shoulder and unlock the door. You look at him and his vacillating expression, eyes lingering on his lips. 

“Goodnight,” you say.

You slip inside the room, close the door, and you're gone. 

That's it. Varka could knock. He could say something through the door. Come back. One last thing. And another. And another. But you decided, and he can live with that. Maybe. It's probably the right move. 

It was just another night. You were just another person he met over drinks. It was just a little alcohol-induced infatuation. It was just some light conversation. He was just distracting himself from the weight of the expedition lying ahead of him. 

Varka finds himself back in the streets. He takes out his flask to down its remains, but something comes attached with it: the photograph. He holds it up to let the moon illuminate your captured figure. If this is what he has of you, then so be it. It's more than he could have asked for. 

He looks back at the moon. It does look a little less enchanting, and so he covers it with your photo. 

—

Rough wooden flooring with dirt in the cracks greets your face. There's indents in your cheek when you peel yourself up off the ground and take a look at your unfamiliar surroundings. The reminder that you're in Mondstadt comes with a headache and a wave of nausea. What was the point in renting a room if you were just going to pass out on the floor? 

There's a sink that you crawl towards and use to pull yourself to your feet. Oh hell, you look awful, and you can't even blame it on the greasy, hazy mirror. Splashing your face with water does little to improve your appearance—not like it matters all that much. 

You don't travel with much: just a light bedroll and a sack of fresh clothes if you need them. Some mora and the gifted hand fan you never use, spilled onto the floor in your sleep, that you sloppily gather back into the various creases and pockets of your outfit. You scan the room to make sure you have everything. It hardly looks used other than a drool stain absorbing into the wood floor. 

At least you made it back last night to take advantage of having a roof over your head. Your last memory from the previous day is of ordering your second drink at one of the taverns—anything beyond that has been blotted out completely. You remember the incident that drove you to the tavern in the first place, and the urge to vomit rolls over you again. 

You've got to get the hell out of here.

The streets of Mondstadt are bustling when you make your way out of the inn. Vendors wheel around carts of flowers, boar meat, wine, and ores over the uneven stone pavement. Esteemed members of the Knights of Favonius patrol the market, some helping the elderly carry their hauls. Stray dogs yip and prance alongside children's feet, hoping to scavenge a dropped hash brown or fried radish ball. 

You skillfully avoid bumping into anyone despite your haggard steps and lightheadedness. Someone selling bottled wolfhook juice catches your eye, which you purchase quietly with your head down. It has a pleasant tang that helps settle your stomach more than something overly sweet would. 

Eventually, you reach the city gates. The walls of the city are tall and sturdy. The citizens here likely feel safe behind them, but you're an outsider, eager to be back in the unobstructed space of the open country. 

“Oh, it's you!” The gate guard to your right exclaims as you walk through. 

You don't mean to scowl at him, but the late morning sun beams right into your exhausted eyes when you turn to look. He doesn't seem to mind. 

“You should have seen it, Lawrence! We were all singing and dancing on the tables last night at the Angel’s Share. She even nearly out-drank Grand Master Varka! I've never seen him so enamoured after she danced for him!” He says to the other guard on the left. 

Oh hell. Nothing, absolutely nothing, comes to mind when you try to recall any of that happening. Dancing for whom? Did you seduce somebody? Your room at the inn was seemingly only occupied by you last night. You grimace. Hopefully, singing and dancing were the extent of your foolery. You wipe your mouth, just in case there's any residual of some stranger’s saliva, but there's only the faint taste of wolfhook juice. 

“Is that so? Well then, safe travels to you, and be sure to come visit Mondstadt again,” the other guard says with a cordial smile and wave. 

“Thanks,” you mutter and hoist your bag further up on your shoulder. “I won't.” 

a/n: i feel like i'm going to puke. this story means too much to me. there's a million things i'd like to bring attention to, but i just need to post this and run away. thank you if you've read this far.