ニハヨコ

ii. case two : rooftop roughhousing

you think you’re so intelligent.

lunch break & you’re on the school rooftop with a skip in your step. you dragged suna rintarou away from his teammates during lunch & now he trails behind you with hands in his pockets as you hop unto the railing.

thighs crossed. hair in the wind. lopsided grin with blood drenched cheeks & eyes star-achingly bright. “tell me you love me.”

he’s rolling his eyes but his palms find your thighs. “i love you.”

you pout. “say it like you mean it.”

he kisses your neck instead.

you squeal, dodging suna’s kisses as he chases your lips with a grin. he pulls away teasingly before you tug him in by the tie.

you don’t hear the door unlock behind you.

rintarou’s tongue licks your molars. you kiss at his teeth & his thumb grazes your inner thigh as you giggle between his lips. he mutters something about how your gloss tastes like home before a voice sends a jolt down your spine:

“OUT.”

the home room teacher with obnoxious clipboard in hand & outfit desperate to align with the office siren aesthetic. you cling to suna as he quickly lifts you off the railing, palm still gripping your skirt even when he sets you on the ground.

busted.

★ Y/N L/N ⎯⎯ STUDENT RECORD.

offense: INAPPROPRIATE RELATIONS IN RESTRICTED AREA

punishment: detention.

issued by: madam keqing, homeroom teacher.

‘such behavior is not tolerated on school grounds. should this happen again, parents will be notified immediately.’

iii. case three : security snitching

suna’s tapping your thighs like it’s morse code for ‘mine.’

5PM thursday / behind the school gym / your fingers & suna’s belt loop. the middle blocker’s especially hungry today. god knows that thursdays mean you don’t get to share a single class with the athlete; so on days like this when school is long closed & you think no one’s watching he kisses you like he can’t fucking breathe.

point of empasis: you think no one’s watching.

the security camera overhead gets a front row seat to your antics. suna says your gloss spoils in the heat so you lick him off your wrist like honey. he’s pressing you against the wall with teeth on your earlobe like if he bites a little more you’ll seep into his skin. you let him unbutton your shirt & kiss you till he’s love-drunk & bleary eyed.

friday morning starts off in the vice-principal’s office.

black & white images neatly printed on the desk, a fan that blows just loud enough to cover up your feet tapping. you’re mortified. suna’s fingers, however, drum on your thigh like he’s not in trouble for kissing you silly on a midsummer day.

“what do you have to say for yourselves?”

“crazy work.”

you pinch him under the table. you don’t miss the grin that tugs at his lips as he takes a good look at the photos.

“interesting response, mr.suna,” the vice-principal’s eyes narrow. without them leaving suna he continues, “and ms. l/n ? i expect better from you. both your parents will be notified.”

you’re about to apologize & plead on your behalves, but suna notices the worry in your eyes & beats you to the punch.

“wait,” he clears his throat. “i have an explanation.”

“yes?”

“we’re in love.”

he says it like it’s the cure to all your problems. you resist the urge to slap him (and yourself).

“thank you, you are both dismissed. and again, your parents will be notified.”

busted.

again.

★ Y/N L/N ⎯⎯ STUDENT RECORD.

offense: EXPLICIT BEHAVIOR ON SCHOOL PROPERTY

punishment: parent report issued, two-day detention and required report on student ethics.

issued by: mr. ayato, vice principal.

‘inarizaki high makes it a point to ensure student safety by strictly prohibiting sexual or explicit acts on the premises. we hope ms.l/n will heed our warnings, regardless of whether or not she is “in love.”

STUDENT CASE STATUS : CLOSED.

being a high-ranking cog in the fatui's machine had its pros and cons. the pros being that you get a lot of money and authority; the con was that, once in a while, you get bullshit missions like this.

seriously, who thought it was a good idea to send a fatui captain to mondstadt where she personally helped il dottore of the harbingers conduct his experiments on the townspeople, resulting in casualties, and became the target of ire from the whole nation?

the tsaritsa, apparently.

it's even worse now that mondstadt's grandmaster is back and still kicking.

you honestly never thought you'd see the man again after parting ways all those years ago.

you had prayed to every deity there is that you'd be out of here by the time he came back, but it seems the gods hated you enough to decide that – yes, let's bring back your ex-lover who you were madly in love with but ran away from because of persistent guilt and insecurity. great.

you had genuinely considered leaving mondstadt.

like reaaally thought about it the moment you heard the news.

but that would just put a target on your back, and given that you had three months left before the mission finished and you'd be transferred back to snezhnaya, you didn't think it was worth the hassle.

so you decided to swallow your worries and do your best to fake a facade of nonchalance.

and hell, you were doing a pretty amazing job.

until varka himself walked up to you, with a lopsided grin and your favorite beverage in hand. your gut was telling you to run and hole yourself up in your office at that moment.

"hey! lookin' gorgeous as ever,"

the grandmaster of mondstadt, being buddy-buddy with a high-ranking fatui executive?

preposterous.

but at the same time. . . not really. some already knew of your history with him. they were there when you two laughed with your arms linked together, strolling through the streets with obvious hearts in both of your eyes.

luckily, most have already forgotten about you.

you shiver just remembering those old memories of your shameful youth.

"how've you been?"

he acts as if everything is perfectly normal, as though your parting words hadn’t broken something in him when you walked away.

varka doesn't even glance at the drink he places in front of you, behaving as if this is just another ordinary day from back when you were together – when he'd buy you a drink after knightly duties and ramble on about his day while the two of you shared a warm meal.

you look at the drink in front of you, "fine. mostly."

'he remembered, of course he would.'

you ignore the heat creeping up your chest.

varka lingers beside you, smile twitching, like he wants to say something else, but he decides against it and sits across from you instead.

the wood creaks when he plops down, adjusting himself until he finds some semblance of comfort. varka has always been too big for things; too broad, too tall, limbs hanging awkwardly past the edges like the chair was never meant to hold someone like him.

no matter how uncomfortable, he doesn't give it much thought. varka lifts his mug to his lips, taking a few small gulps, clearly trying to savor his time with you.

usually, he'd just guzzle it down in one go.

you stare at the people and stalls beside you, trying your best not to look at him. initiating eye-contact with him would mean an automatic loss, you knew this from experience.

"not gonna drink?" varka asks, taking another long sip of his own beverage. likely beer or dandelion wine again.

you hum, not even bothering to look at him properly when you answer.

"no, i'm alright."

he laughs, though it comes out stiff and forced. it doesn’t sound like him, and that bothers you more than you’d admit.

is he forcing himself to talk to you out of politeness? maybe. he’s always been that sort of man — the kind who can’t just walk away from people. that’s how rosaria ended up in his orbit. it’s how you did too, whether you wanted to or not.

"you sure? it's your favorite. you really gonna waste a good drink on a nice evening like this?

your reply is icier than dragonspine's mountain peak, "my tastes have changed over the years. it's not something i'd enjoy drinking now."

it's a jab at him. an obvious 'go away, you don't know me anymore. we aren't close like that'— just said in a more roundabout way.

varka is a gentleman, a knight through and through. he wouldn't bother a lady who clearly doesn't want his company.

but this isn't just any lady.

it's his lady.

— or at least, you used to be.

he knows you better than the back of his hand. knows that if he leaves just like that then it's truly over. you'd find some way to leave mondstadt as soon as possible, throw yourself into danger outside the city gates just to never look at his face again.

for as long as he'd known you, you've always had this bad habit of running away from problems. deep emotions never came easy to you, so you never knew how to handle it like how people nornally do.

varka would be a fool to not notice. and, really, he'd always been a fool for you, willing to stay ignorant so long as you'd be there to wrap him around your finger.

but you left him in that cold winter all alone without a jacket, didn't even bother to look back while you continued on with live your life.

as if varka was nothing but a passing memory in your life, something you can easily walk away from.

his unfair, traitorous, and peppery beloved.

there he was in nod-krai, tracing your eyes among the stars, sighing like a mournful widow while he downed another cheap imitation of his homeland's liquor — and you never even bothered to write back.

he'd send you letters, anytime he could, talking about the mundane and not-so-mundane. there was probably a few very private information in there that he shouldn't have told to a fatui, lucky (or unlucky) for him, you didn't read any of them.

three long years.

not a single letter back.

three long years, of letters consistently sent to your home address in mondstadt.

three long years, where he hasn't seen or even heard from you.

three long years, without closure or explanation as to why you abruptly ended the relationship.

now that he can finally see you in the flesh, he feels relieved, it's as if the crushing weight on his shoulders had finally dissipated.

you're alive. safe and sound.

he was so worried back then, thinking you got yourself into trouble because you wouldn't write back. logically, he should have known you wouldn't answer because of, well, the break-up but those sort of things were irrelevant.

you two were close friends after all, even before the romance and late-night escapades. if you found him bothersome, you would have sent even a small piece of paper saying: "fuck off, varka." because you have done that before, and he kept that note on him ever since.

through the lonely hours of his expedition, he’d find himself staring at that scrap of paper again and again. it told him to fuck off. nothing more. nothing kinder. but it was written in your hand and somehow, that was enough for him to keep it.

maybe varka really did have a few loose screws. or maybe it's just when you're involved.

rather than write reports about the expedition, varka found himself asking jean if she'd seen you recently, asking how you were doing, and if you said anything about him. he found out late that you've completely left mondstadt, sold your old home, and went somewhere without anyone knowing.

typical you, running away again.

he can tell from the way your lips purse a bit before you smooth out your expression, the way you fake indifference by biting on the inside of your cheek. and he sees how your fingers twitch whenever he even slightly moves in his seat.

you're alert. very alert, and very much ready to run.

varka can't have that, not after so long. you'd dumped him right before his expedition, made him nearly lose his mind right after.

but for the sake of his people, he steeled his resolve and pushed through the heartbreak. he threw himself into the battlefield with a heavy heart and crawled out with it.

under the moonlight, varka dreamed of many things:

his home,

his family,

his fallen comrades,

and most of all – you.

he's dreamed of you so many times that varka never forgot how you looked despite the years. he calls it photographic memory, but it's really just delusions and grief.

coming home to mondstadt felt like a dream back then too. he'd spent hours mulling over his life and decisions, staring at the campfire with a look of melancholy which he'd promptly replace with a carefree grin once his soldiers came to check up on him.

but he'd done it. he came back safely, into the arms of his family and his people.

when he first spotted you in the crowd — that same eternal frown carved into your face, that same couldn’t-care-less attitude wrapped around you like armor — his body started moving before he even realized it.

like something inside him had already decided where he belonged.

he wanted to reach for you. to run his fingers through your hair, to pull you close and kiss you until you were breathless and angry and real again.

his chest had ached sharply, ribs pressing tight around a heart that suddenly beat too fast, too hard.

but you weren’t looking at him.

you were busy talking to someone else, scowling like everyone had personally offended you.

he could already imagine the sound of your voice — sharp, impatient — and the quiet click of your tongue that always followed.

you were just as beautiful as the day he lost you.

time seemed to treat you better than him. in fact, he'd say you aged finer than the best dandelion wine dawn winery could ever produce.

which, coming from him, was a big compliment.

suddenly varka felt a little insecure about his growing stubble and unkempt hair. he'd turned around to hide his face, a little shameful of his rugged appearance but kept his posture straight for the others who surrounded him, congratulating his return.

back then, you used to take care of that for him. tidying him up before he went to work. your gentle hands would brush against his cheek while you carefully slid the razor downward.

swipe.

and the stubble would come off, leaving a foamy residue on the razor.

you'd wipe the foam off his face with a softness reserved for him only, fingers lingering for a few more seconds necessary.

it had become his favorite time of the month – whenever you decided his beard had become too much of an obstacle to your kisses and promptly respond in kind with a pout and a threat to shave it off by noon.

but his veins turned ice-cold when he saw you in that uniform, the familiar fatui symbol on your jacket and the other fatui soldiers beside you.

varka thought you'd left it for good. you promised him that, for as long as you loved him, you'd never go back to the fatui. dottore had taken so much from mondstadt that it made you feel disgusted whenever you talked about your old occupation.

he had to confirm it for himself – that you didn't love him anymore, that what you two had was truly gone forever. maybe then he'd sleep a little easier instead of tossing and turning, thinking about what he did wrong and the things he could've done to salvage it.

"never thought you'd go back to your old job though. kinda weird seein' you in that coat after so long,"

he chuckles, gaze scanning you from head to toe.

"'doesn't suit someone as sweet as you."

your head automatically translates his words: so is it really over? no take backs?

it goes without saying that varka missed you —dearly, if he may add. if you didn't seem so annoyed, he would've already jumped across the table to embrace you in his arms.

"it's. . . " you trail off, unsure of how to answer. you wanted to say 'yeah, so what', but the words died in your throat once you finally took a proper look at the man in front of you.

since when had varka looked so. . . worn down?

it's pretty obvious he tried to clean himself up to the best of his abilities. he's (kind of) cleanly shaven, and his hair no longer resembled the bird's nest it did during his arrival. his coat is freshly cleaned too, leather polished to perfection, and the wolf fur sewn into it was brushed and unmatted.

the icy blue irises that resembled snezhnaya's famed ice lakes — an enchanting gradient that darkened whenever he's focused.

now they've turned into a dull and murky ocean; you could hardly see his pupils.

varka looked as handsome as ever, even when consumed by exhaustion. muscles more toned, new scars lining up beside old ones, wrinkles now a tad more noticeable than all those years ago.

this is why you didn't want to look at him.

you're already losing, feeling your resolve crumble to pieces. although you managed to salvage your expression, it felt like your heart was going to leap from your chest.

you decided that staying was too dangerous.

"sorry, i have to go." you stand up abruptly, almost tipping your chair over in the process.

varka panics, fumbling towards you, he manages to catch your hands by lunging on top of the table like an idiot, "stop running, please."

you flinch at his accusation, "i'm not, i simply have work to do. something a slacker like you would never understand."

varka chuckles, but the way his grip tightens says a lot, "i know, i know. . . 'm sorry for being allergic to paperwork,"

he finally stands properly, dusting his front while still holding onto your wrist, "but jean's given me a week or two to 'acclimate' back into mondstadt. so how 'bout we make use of it to finally have an actual conversation?"

varka knows if you wanted to rip his hand off yours, you definitely could. and he'd let you, of course, he'll try again tomorrow if that's what it takes.

but you dont. you stand rooted on the spot, glancing at varka with a look of shame. people are starting to stare, wondering what's going on with their troublesome grandmaster again but quickly avert their eyes when they realize the scary fatui captain was also there.

"varka, i. . ." your head lowers in embarassment, face burning hot.

the knight of boreas, patient as ever, leans closer while he waits for you to continue. he wants to personally hear it, every small whisper you could muster.

he doesn't need apologies, varka knows he's not entitled to such things. he can already feel himself bristle at the mention of 'varka' on your lips, missing the way you'd call out his name.

"can we do this another time?"

it shatters whatever expectation he had a few seconds ago.

varka sighs, low and trembling. his shoulders sag a little when he lets go.

for a moment you think that’s it.

that he'll step aside like the gentleman he is and let you disappear into the crowd like you always do. he knows how much you hate conforntations, he practically had to wrangle every small 'i love you's' from you back then, and he'd done them easily.

you’re already halfway turned when he speaks again.

"another time," he repeats slowly.

you pause.

". . . yeah."

he scratches the back of his neck, eyes drifting somewhere over your shoulder like he's carefully choosing his words – a rare thing for him to do.

"alright, yeah, got it. . ."

that simple agreement makes your stomach twist.

varka has never been the type to push you into corners. even back then, when you two fought, he would give you space to breathe. space to think. space to come back on your own terms.

because for him, loving things means setting them free. truly a man of his home, to bring mondstadt's teachings even in his love life.

you hated him for it sometimes.

because it meant he trusted you to return and this time. . . you weren't sure you would.

"i'll wait," he says, lightly as if it might harm you if he spoke even an octave higher.

your brow furrows. "for what?"

he flashes you a grin that feels far too familiar, warm and radiant as the morning sun.

"for that 'another time.'"

you stare at him, incredulous. the audacity of this man never fails to leave you shocked, no matter how many times you've seen it for yourself.

". . . are you serious?"

"totally serious, swore it on barbatos just now," he admits easily.

a small gust of wind passes the two of you, as if the wind itself was answering to his oath. it carries along the smell of wine, pastry, and home – mondstadt, whether you liked it or not, has always been home.

varka had been here, in this windy city, after all.

the smile softens, turning into something more intimate, "i'm always willing to wait for you, i think you know that already."

of course he is.

varka has always been annoyingly patient when it comes to you.

you click your tongue and pull your hand away fully, forcing a disgusted expression on your face, hoping it would hurt him enough to back off.

"well, don't wait too long. you might die of old age, grandmaster."

"worth the risk." he laughs, the sound rumbling from his chest and echoing into yours. it makes your stomach twist, heart aching from nostalgia.

you shoot him a glare before turning away again, this time actually leaving.

you don't look back, you didn't have to.

you can feel his eyes on your back the entire way down the street.

the rumors start the same day.

mondstadt is terrible at keeping quiet about anything, especially when it involves their beloved grandmaster.

you've known these people for years, back when you were still naively in-love and looked at the world through rose-tinted glasses. you made an effort before; you wanted to be more sociable like varka but people found it obvious how much you hated being bothered. so in the end, you gave up.

they say you two were an opposites attract sort of couple, and you had to agree. many told you it felt like an overexcited large dog was walking with a stoic black cat whenever the two of you strolled the streets together.

on your way to the market, you notice the stares first, then the whispers.

a pair of knights stop talking when you walk past, trying to sneakily glance at you.

one of the merchants near the plaza practically leans over his stall trying to listen whenever you pass by.

by the third day, someone had finally gained the audacity to ask you directly.

"so is it true?"

you pause mid-step, slowly turning towards a brown-haired bard leaning against the fountain. he had a face that screamed troublesome and nosy, lips that curled like it's ready to spread the next big scandal at some tavern.

a typical gossipmonger.

". . . what is?"

the bard grins even wider.

"that the grandmaster's been sniffin' around you again."

your eye twitches, "he's not a dog."

"debatable," the bard shrugs.

with the way varka acts, it definitely is.

you consider stabbing him, instead you settle for a deadpan stare, "mind your business, can't you see i'm a fatui diplomat?"

"hey, i'm just curious!" he raises his hands defensively. "whole city's talking about it."

of course they are.

mondstadt thrives on gossip like plants thrive on sunlight. also the people here genuinely have nothing better to do.

unlike in liyue where they talk about market values and recent price changes first before gossip or sumerians who'd rather debate and discuss academic papers – mondstadt had been too quiet and peaceful.

which means, even something as trivial like the grandmaster of mondstadt chasing after someone is suddenly important news.

"people say you broke his heart," the bard continues, strumming his lyre.

you freeze, lips twitching down to an even deeper frown. great, your day was ruined by some nobody and now you've become the talk of town.

". . . people assume a lot of things."

"yeah," he hums thoughtfully.

"but they also say the poor grandmaster's been lookin' like a kicked puppy every time you walk away."

you scoff and turn on your heel, "then he should stop following me."

the bard laughs behind you, lazily waving at you.

"oh, he definitely won't."

unfortunately, the bard is was correct. maybe he was also secretly prophet of some sort.

as expected, varka does not stop.

he doesn't corner you again, he doesn't grab your arm, nor does he demand answers. instead, he simply. . . appears.

sometimes he's leaning against a wall when you're fresh out of a meeting, that same scowl prominent on your face.

sometimes he's chatting with the tavern owner when you step inside, and he'd immediately brighten the moment he sees you.

once you nearly ran straight into him outside the city gates and he just blinks down at you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

just like everyone else in mondstadt, of course he'd have nothing better to do too. what were you expecting? for him to leave you alone? yeah right.

it's wishful thinking at best.

people here would latch onto anything interesting, trying to alleviate the boredom of the nation's quiet evenings.

and mondstadt had always been a city that thrives on three things: wind, wine, and gossip.

lately, however, the wine industry has been facing stiff competition.

because nothing – absolutely nothing – has been more entertaining than watching their beloved grandmaster try to court this terrifying fatui captain who was clearly ready to punch him in the face.

the rumors had started small as they always do, from the quiet corners of mondstadt's walls where knights had nothing better to do but talk.

and talk they did.

someone from the tavern swears they saw varka buying two drinks at the bar.

which would be normal, no one would be surprised by his large appetite when it came to alcohol. he is considered mondstadt's biggest alcoholic, next to a certain green bard.

except he doesn't usually sit across from a fatui captain who looks like she'd rather jump off stormterror's lair than share a table with him.

the bartender watches the whole thing unfold, completely absorbed to the point he forgot he had customers he should be serving.

varka's smiling.

you looking like you’re planning his funeral.

he leans over to charles and whispers, "five thousand mora says they used to date."

charles snorts.

"five thousand says they're still dating."

by the next day, the story has evolved.

a fruit vendor insists she saw the grandmaster chase you halfway across the plaza after you tried to leave, it made for quite a dramatic scene. straight out of fontaine's famous plays.

a knight swears varka vaulted over a merchant stall to catch up. he was laughing during it too, all while you tried to stop him from becoming the knight's embarassment.

"that man is pushing forty and still jumping over tables for romance," someone more sensible comments with a shake of their head.

"how inspiring."

"you mean concerning?"

inside the tavern, the knights are very invested. it is their grandmaster after all, why wouldn't they be a little nosy about it? in fact, it was the only thing they've been chatting about as of lately.

a small crowd has gathered around one of the tables.

rosaria sits nearby, pretending not to listen while absolutely listening. she remembers you well, and reckons that others might soon.

jean pinches the bridge of her nose, already looking more exhausted than usual. although she never planned on going out, diluc and the others had insisted.

meanwhile kaeya looks like he's having the time of his life.

"i'm telling you," one knight says, slamming his mug down, "the grandmaster is down catastrophic."

"define catastrophic." one asks, clearly drunk off their knockers.

the man gulps down his ale before sporting a serious expression, "he smiled at her while she insulted him."

another knight gasps, eyes blown wide.

"not the smile."

"the soft one."

"oh my barbatos. . ."

someone whistles.

kaeya leans back in his chair, nursing a cup of wine in his hands, "ah, young love."

jean looks baffled. "they're both over thirty."

"exactly, vice-grandmaster."

it gets worse when people realize something else.

the fatui captain?

she's the same woman who used to walk around mondstadt with varka years ago. back when he was still a young hot-headed knight who chased after battle and glory.

arms linked like you two would never part ways, laughing as if there's no tomorrow, the one who suddenly disappeared without a word.

suddenly, the entire city remembers.

"wait."

a florist nearly drops her bouquet.

"they're exes?!"

instantaneously, scenes of varka's annoying giggling everytime you two were together, and the way you'd smile shyly whenever he kissed you on the cheek or held you close by the waist had all came back in the citizen's memories.

now the gossip becomes unstoppable.

people began to quietly placing bets: how long until they reconcile?

three days.

a week.

someone claims they'll be married by windblume.

someone else says the fatui captain will stab him first.

mondstadt had become a mess, watching over the developing romance with a hawk's eye. some even tried to secretly help by mentioning your location to varka every now and then.

meanwhile, you are completely unaware of this massive development in mondstadt's social network.

your soldiers are too scared to say anything to you in fear of your anger and other people sure as hell won't say it to your face.

rosaria, on the other hand, finds the whole thing too interesting so she keeps quiet about it too, even if you two talk regularly.

so you've been completely left in the dark.

mostly because you're too busy trying to avoid the giant knight who keeps appearing everywhere.

the market.

the plaza.

the tavern, all of them.

once even outside your lodging.

completely coincidental, or so he says.

"'didn't think i'd find you here," varka says cheerfully when you walk out the door and nearly run into him.

you stare at him, "are you stalking me."

"nope."

he gestures vaguely, "i live here."

you narrow your eyes, ". . . this is the fatui's personal lodging."

"yeah well,"

he shrugs, grinning, "i got lost on the way."

'you have lived in mondstadt all your life, you got to be kidding me.' is what you shout in your head, but all that comes out of your mouth is: "oh, okay."

and unfortunately, everyone sees this interaction.

everyone.

a group of merchants nearby lean toward each other immediately, while the knights snicker in amusement.

"that's them."

"oh archons. . .

"look at how awkward they are."

none of these bother varka. if anything, he fuels their gossips with stories of his own. nothing too personal, just short anecdotes of his time with you.

like that time you two fought a dozen ruin guards together,

or that one evening where he caught you asleep on the couch with razor safely tucked in your arms,

ah, there was also a time when you would take rosaria out for shopping, spending his mora like it's dirt.

he's written so many letters about it, reminiscing the past like the lovesick fool that he is.

you hate to admit but you've always kept those pesky things – varka's letters, that is. though you never had the heart to open a single one.

it's mainly due cowardice.

on nights where you felt especially vulnerable, you'd take one out just to feel it on your palm, like it could solve all your problems. like it could alleviate your guilt. like it could bring crepus back.

you hated yourself ever since that incident with il dottore.

guilt had eaten you from inside out, turned you into someone unrecognizable. you avoided diluc religiously during your time in mondstadt, slipping away whenever he saw you. if you didn't, you might’ve just broken down in front of him.

kaeya was much harder to avoid, the cavalry captain was practically everywhere. so you just ignored him everytime he tried talking to you, or answered with quipped sentences.

indirectly, you contributed to crepus' death. killed the father of two wonderful sons. killed a man who was loved by many.

you helped raise those boys. crepus trusted you with them, even after he knew your occupation. acted likr you wouldn't hurt a fly.

a young fatui stationed in mondstadt, awaiting orders from a harbinger. that's who you were.

you joined for the money, the authority, glory, power. to be larger than what you really were.

the ragnivindrs welcomed you into their home, served you food, and gave you a room.

and yet you. . .

in the end, your conscience caught up to you. the blood on your hands were too red, reminiscint of his hair.

the others never blamed you for it, especially varka.

so you did it for them. you had loathed yourself to the point of near-death. not that you ever told varka about that specific incident, it would break him.

the cliff was especially windy that night.

you only backed out because of that weird bard who was taking a stroll at that time. venti, he was just varka's drinking companion to you back then, before you learned of his true identity as the anemo archon.

to think barbatos themselves would stop you, at least he didn't say anything to anyone. the bard respectfully kept his mouth shut, and you can appreciate that.

during his three year expedition, varka had sent a total of seventy-two letters, some with several pages based on how thick the envelope was, others that probably barely had three sentences.

you knew that because you counted every single one, like a fool.

they were kept neatly inside a small wooden box tucked beneath the false bottom of your luggage – a stupid hiding place, really, considering you checked it far too often for it to mean anything.

the envelopes had long since lost their crispness. the edges softened from being handled too much, the ink on some of the older ones slightly faded.

snezhnayan winters were unforgiving to paper.

sometimes you wondered if he wrote them while drunk.

sometimes you wondered if he stopped writing when he realized you weren’t answering but the dates on the envelopes told you otherwise.

two weeks. they always arrived every two weeks, sometimes more when he's in a particularly tough spot.

even when you moved away from mondstadt, even when you changed addresses, even when you made it very clear that whatever you had with him was dead and buried.

varka still wrote, persistenntly like the lack of response didn't bother him.

you never opened a single one.

not the first. not the seventy-second.

stared at it, sure but never more than that.

because opening even one meant acknowledging that he still existed in your life somehow, and that was too risky and dangerous.

dangerous for him.

dangerous for you.

dangerous for the fragile excuse you called moving on.

so the letters would stay sealed.

like nasty wounds you refused to clean because you were convinced you deserved to hurt for it.

the cathedral bell rings somewhere behind you.

you blink and mondstadt rushes back into focus around you — merchants shouting prices, the scent of apples and bread drifting through the air, the steady murmur of civilians who have no idea their city once nearly destroyed you.

your hand is still resting against a crate of fruit.

you don’t remember walking here.

“— hearin' me?"

varka’s voice again, closer this time.

you glance sideways.

he’s standing beside you, arms loosely crossed, watching you with an expression that’s softer than usual. not teasing. not amused.

just observing, taking you in with a reverent look on his face. it's as if he's making up for the times he couldn't see you, and this time he's burning your image in his memory.

you hate that look a lot, makes you remember the past too clearly.

“you zoned out,” he says casually, in that usual raspy tone of his. “been doing that a lot lately.”

you scoff lightly, turning away from the stall, “i always did that.”

“yeah,” he agrees easily.

then, after a moment, “not this bad though.”

you don’t respond.

instead, you pick up an granny smith apple, inspecting it like it’s the most fascinating object in the world.

anything to avoid looking at him.

anything to avoid the weight of that quiet attention.

varka doesn’t push, he never really did.

instead he glances at the apple in your hand, then back at you, "you used to hate green apples."

your eyebrow twitches. ". . . tastes change.”

“hm,” he doesn’t argue, just hums thoughtfully like he’s filing that information somewhere in his head.

the silence stretches between you two again – comfortable for him, agonizing for you.

then —

“you really never read them?”

the question lands gently this time. no accusations or bitterness.

just quiet curiosity, as if he’s asking about something trivial — the weather, perhaps — and not about the years he spent writing to someone who never answered, let alone read those writings.

you feel something tighten in your chest.

". . . no.”

you don’t look at him when you say it and for a moment, varka doesn’t respond.

he just takes it in.

the way a man might take a punch – steady, breathing through it, deciding what to do with the feeling afterward. doesn't mean the sting isn't there though.

“ah,” he says after a second.

no disappointment dripping from his voice, just quiet understanding.

you finally glance at him.

he's leaning against the empty stall with that sheepish smile you remember too well, arms crossed and shoulders light.

“well,” he continues, shrugging lightly, “that explains why none of my jokes landed.” he's laughing lightly, eyes crinkled like crescents.

you stare at him.

". . . you wrote jokes in those letters?”

“course i did,” he replies offhandedly. “can’t send seventy-two letters without at least trying to be entertaining,"

seventy-two.

"wouldn't want you to get bored and drop them halfway through. . . though i suppose that didn't really matter since you never read them."

he says it so casually.

like he didn’t just confirm that he kept count too.

you look away again, focusing back on the apple in your hand.

“. . . i really can't with you."

“yeah,” he agrees without hesitation.

then he grins, a little crooked.

“i was pretty desperate.” he admits, looking directly at you.

you almost drop the apple, a small but traitorous churning in your stomach – something dangerously close to elation.

varka laughs quietly when he notices.

not loud enough to draw attention, but warm enough that it sends a strange ache through your chest.

"don’t look so shocked,” he adds. “i’ve never been subtle.”

that part, unfortunately, is true.

subtlety was never varka’s strength.

back then he was the type to sling an arm over your shoulders in public, laugh too loud at your dry remarks, and proudly tell anyone who would listen that the scariest woman in mondstadt was his.

and somehow. . .

that hasn’t changed.

he leans slightly against the stall now, giving you space instead of crowding you, as if he's scared you'll retreat off somewhere again.

“but hey,” he says after a moment, voice lighter, “good to know they didn’t end up in a fireplace somewhere.”

you hesitate, "i kept them.”

the words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

varka pauses, eyes widening for just a fraction.

he smiles. a soft damning smile – relieved in a way that’s almost embarrassing to witness.

“yeah?” he says, chuckling like he can't believe it.

you nod once, stiffly, ". . . don’t read too much into it.”

“wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies immediately.

and you know he means that.

varka was always like this, he never forced meaning into your actions, never demanded explanations you weren’t ready to give.

he just. . . accepted what you offered.

even when it was very little.

the wind passes through the market again, rustling the banners overhead

you place the apple back into the crate.

"you’re not curious?” you ask

“about what?”

“why i didn’t read them.”

varka hums, thinking about it.

then he shrugs, “i figured you had your reasons.”

simple as ever.

he pushes himself upright from the stall, stretching his shoulders like a man who just finished a long shift instead of someone reopening old wounds.

“besides,” he adds casually, glancing down at you with a grin that’s just a little too familiar, “you’re here now.”

you blink.

he gestures vaguely between the two of you.

“means we can talk instead."

your stomach twists, because that’s the problem, isn’t it?

talking.

talking meant explaining, explaining means admitting and admitting means facing the thing you’ve spent years running from.

varka watches your expression shift, and whatever he noticed, he doesn’t comment on it.

instead he picks up one of the apples, tossing it lightly in his hand. bright green, similar to the glazed pottery in his office. the one noelle got for him.

“y’know,” he says thoughtfully, “i always wondered which letter would’ve convinced you to punch me first.”

you shoot him a flat look.

"punch you. . . ?”

“yeah,” he says easily, “figured if you were mad enough to hit me, at least i’d know you read one.”

you stare at him, long and silent.

stoic as ever.

then you mutter, " you're an idiot.”

and for some reason, varka looks ridiculously pleased about that.

"you should really read them, i think it'd help in sorting out your thoughts."

you didn’t mean to open it.

that’s what you told yourself, anyway.

the box sat on the small desk of your rented lodge room, exactly where you had thrown it earlier that evening. the wood creaked softly under the weight of the letters — three years’ worth of them.

three years.

thirty-six months.

seventy-two envelopes.

every single one addressed in the same familiar handwriting – messy, large, and impossibly hard to ignore.

they say a person's handwriting shows who they are as a person. you think it's pretty accurate.

you stared at the parchment like they might bite.

the confrontation from earlier replayed in your head for the hundredth time.

"you should really read them."

you clicked your tongue irritably, an expression of storm crossing your face at the memory. you nearly clenched the paper in your hands.

"easy for you to say,” you muttered under your breath.

the room was quiet, comfortable. mondstadt’s night air drifted in through the open window, carrying distant laughter and music from the taverns below.

your fingers drummed against the table.

then stopped.

your gaze drifted back to the box, already feeling like you were gonna do something you'd regret.

one letter wouldn’t hurt.

just one.

totally not because you care, just to prove to yourself that whatever he wrote back then didn’t matter anymore.

that was all. . . nothing more, nothing less.

your hand moved before you could reconsider.

you grabbed the oldest envelope, letting out a low exhale.

the paper was slightly yellowed now, edges softened from time and travel. the wax seal had the knights’ insignia pressed into it, it travelled through the official system, addressed specifically for you.

roasaria had kept them while you were gone then gave them to you when you came back. you had been confused then, wondering why the box was so heavy.

"i think you should read these," she had told you, with that monotone voice of hers.

like father, like daughter. she had grown to resemble him ever more as the years passed.

your stomach twisted.

for three years, that seal had remained untouched.

you stared at it for a long moment. then broke it, the sound of cracking wax felt far louder than it should have.

you slid the folded paper out slowly, biting your lip while tried to calm your beating heart.

the ink hadn’t faded, despite the yellowed margins.

varka’s handwriting was rough and messy — letters slanted and uneven, like he had written it quickly.

you unfolded the page our eyes scanned the first line.

to the love of my life,

hey!

i’m writing this while the horses are dozing and the campfires are still warm. we left mondstadt a few days back. the wind here doesn’t just bite, it feels like it's whipping me through my coat.

the men are in good spirits, all of them big talk and brash laughter. seems like they can’t wait to prove themselves out there in the battlefield. the world’s harsh out here though, you’d tell them that.

you always did enjoy pointing out when i was being dramatic.

HAHAHAHAHAHA! i can imagine it already!

also i know you're gonna complain about how informal this letter is but i'm more used to this with you. remember when you once sent me that "report" with just two sentences? heh, i'm chuckling a bit just remembering it.

i'm not gonna act like strangers with you and do the whole poetic letters thing, i think we're well past that.

anyway, i miss the sound of mondstadt at night. that odd little lull between the last laugh in the tavern and the faint music from the cathedral door. it felt safe. homey. you made it feel lighter.

i’m fine. truly. i miss you, but i’m fine. don’t let that worry you. i just wanted you to know this much, i’m always thinking of you and i love you.

forever yours, varka.

without realizing it, you have slowly started to smile.

you pick up another without realizing, tearing into it with a certain hunger – as if you've held back for far to long.

to [name],

today was hard loud. too loud. a confusing sort of problem you can’t talk your way out of with jokes. or alcohol.

i don’t mention it to worry you, you’re more capable than you give yourself credit for. you’d handle whatever this world threw at you with that indifferent expression and sharp wit of yours.

when it was quiet again, i found myself thinking about the time we hid from a storm under that half‑collapsed stone wall in windvale. you were so annoyed about the mud on your boots, but you laughed anyway. i think that was the first time i heard you laugh back then, i knew from then on that you've doomed me and my heart to be forever yours. did you cringe just now? hahaha...

i’m okay. the other soldiers are okay, some are lightly injured. i tried my best, i really did

i miss you a lot, i think i've started to hallucinate your voice when i was out cold earlier. the injuries aren't that bad i think.

write back when you can, okay? only if you aren't busy.

with love, varka

it must have been something serious for him to be this shaken up. maybe it was the reason he changed course.

not like you can ask the past.

you pick out a more enlarged envelope, it must've contained so many pages.

to the one i hold dear,

not sure why i’m writing this. probably because i can’t stop thinking about you. maybe because i miss mondstadt, maybe because the weather here is actually driving me insane and makes me feel like shouting your name into the wind (don’t worry, i didn’t, the men would call me crazy HAHA).

so, crepus. i know you blame yourself. don’t. don’t even start rolling your eyes at me, i can see it. you didn’t intend any of it. none of it. i know you feel responsible, i can feel it from here, and i’m not even psychic....or maybe i am? for you.

i know you carry more guilt than anyone should, and i’m not here to tell you to shrug it off. i know you didn’t intend what happened, and i know you tried to make it right however you could. but i want you to hear it anyway — you didn’t kill him. you weren’t supposed to be the one to save him, and if anyone deserved blame, it wasn’t you.

but really. you tried. you always try. hell, you’ve probably tried more than anyone else. and yeah i know, it still hurts. it's messy as hell. life’s messy. we all know that.

okay, let's start somewhere lighter.

today, some locals tried to teach me to cook this really amazing chicken stew. let me tell you, it was really bad. i mean, truly BAD. fire everywhere, soup that looked like mud, and me, i had stood there like a fumbling idiot and for a minute,i thought about you. about how you’d probably sigh, mutter something sarcastic, and then hit me lightly with your book for somehow fucking up soup of all things and i laughed. yeah, instead of helping wirh dealing with the fire, i couldn't help but laugh.

don’t tell fred, he was the most pissed about the broken pot.

i miss the stupid, trivial things with you. the way you ignore me half the time but i still feel like i matter. the way you chew your lip when you’re annoyed. the way you… well, you.

i can’t promise you that the expedition will end soon. can’t promise you anything really. except this though: you will always live rent free in my thoughts. i’m worried about you. i’m rooting for you. and if you ever want to... not talk, not answer, not forgive, not anything...i’ll still be here. maybe writing more ridiculous letters. maybe climbing more ridiculous mountains. maybe trying to cook more ridiculous meals and failing.

. . .

you stare at the page, the words repeating in your head. slowly, the tension in your chest eases. your shoulders slump, almost imperceptibly, as if you’d been holding a mountain there for years and it’s finally letting go.

the ache of guilt, that gnawing voice you’d carried through every mission, every night alone in your quarters, every time you saw kaeya or diluc and felt the shadow of what happened – softens and melts. and for the first time in years, you allow yourself to breathe without pain.

“…i miss you,” the letter rambles on, and yes, he’s laughing somewhere between the lines, trying to lighten the weight of his own words. “…i miss you like an idiot who forgot how to breathe properly. and yeah, probably like a fool who thinks you’ll read these letters and understand me better than anyone else ever could. probably correct. you always have been better at understanding than i am. smart girl, aren't 'ya?"

among the pages were badly drawn doodles of landscapes and other knights. a few notes here and there of the fauna and some pressed flowers.

passionate as he was with them, they've always looked more like something children would scrawl on the walls.

the expedition’s been long. longer than i thought it would be. there’s a lot of snow out here and not much else to look at, which leaves a man with too much time to think. unfortunately for me, most of those thoughts end up being about you. before you get mad. . . i’m not saying that to make you feel bad. i just figured i should be honest. you always said i talked too much anyway. i keep that scrap of paper you gave me tucked in my coat pocket. it's the letter you didnt even bother to put in an envelope, just shoved it at me during the small expedition to the port.

the one where you told me to fuck off. real classy message, by the way. the knights laughed pretty hard when they saw it. i told them it was the nicest thing you’d ever written to me. …that part might actually be true. still, it’s in your handwriting. so i kept it.

a ridiculous man, varka was. and yet you couldn't help but fall for him ever further.

i’ve written to you. . . i don’t know. . . fourthy? thirty-six? maybe more. i’ve tried jokes, i’ve tried being serious, i’ve tried being clever, and all i end up with is a mess of ink and tears. not that i cry. not in front of anyone. but,you make me feel like i could.

and he'll continue until the seventieth, would probably reach over a hundred if the expedition went on for longer.

i keep thinking of the old days. walking through mondstadt, you complaining about the the loud noises, me pretending to know what i’m doing whenever i'm with you, and you. . . just you. laughing, making sure i don’t make a complete fool of myself.

i miss that. i miss you. sometimes i dream about grabbing you, threading my fingers through your hair, shaking you gently, and saying, “don’t ever leave me like that again.” sometimes i imagine you laughing, sometimes screaming, sometimes just glaring at me like you always did and i can’t stop thinking about it.

how much have you tortured this man during his expedition? to think he'd be this lovesick.

he seemed completely fine whenever the two of you bickered earlier in the market. and he'd been almost carefree with the way he treated you in the past week.

you never thought he'd be yearning this much for you throughout the years.

by the way, i heard from jean that you've left mondstadt.

without even telling rosaria or razor? do you know how worried they were for you?

listen, if you’re mad at me, fine. if you hate me, also fine. if you never want to see me or our kids again, i’ll survive. maybe. barely. but they won't.

at least let us know. at least don’t leave them in this limbo of imagining you somewhere out there, alive, safe, and completely unreachable. come back home

come back to mondstadt.

you're cruel and yes, i’m whining.

sue me, i guess. so. yeah. if you ever decide to show up again, or write me back, or even yell at me through letters for being an dumbass (this one's likely), i’ll be here.

rosaria thinks you're being an idiot and complicating things in your head again, don't tell her i told you though. razor thought you had died or something, he looked for you in the forest everyday. don’t make me climb dragonspine's peak for you. seriously. the climb is ridiculous. and the wind? don’t even ask. …miss you. don’t open this if it makes you mad. do open it if it makes you smile. do whatever you want, just know that you’re not alone.

sorry for rambling so much. not really though.

still infatuated with you, varka.

"our kids," you huffed, "did just fine without me."

you're not that cruel, you sent birthday presents and letters during special holidays to the two of them. never late. never forgetting.

also what's this about rosaria complaining to varka instead of talking with you? the favoritism is appalling.

she never even mentioned it when you came back!

razor too! why didn't he tell you about this?

they'd sided with varka all along in your kind-of divorce.

you laugh quietly at that. it comes out more as a choked sound than anything else, and you feel some of the years of silence, of self-loathing, slip away.

not fully, it's never that easy. but it doesn't feel as suffocating anymore.

your hand trembles over the letter. your eyes sting with unshed tears. and for the first time in a long, long time, the guilt doesn’t grip you. the blame isn’t yours. it was never yours.

and somewhere in the back of your mind, a thought slips in: varka. . . he never stopped caring. he never stopped watching over you. even across continents, across frost and snow and war, he never stopped.

you curl the letter to your chest, closing your eyes, letting the wind from the open window carry away the heaviness you’ve been carrying for years.

and maybe, just maybe, you allow yourself to hope.

hope that you’re not alone. hope that varka was right. hope that it’s not too late.

the city is quiet tonight, as it should be.

it's nearly midnight, barely anyone walked the streets by then. those who did were either drunks on their wobbly way home or people who had a lot on their mind.

like you.

you’re sitting on the cathedral steps when he finds you. it seems even the grandmaster took midnight strolls every now and then.

it's something you already knew and accounted for. after all, the two of you used to do it all the time. you'd drag him out for some fresh air when things got to stuffy, and he'd feel better right after.

varka doesn’t say anything at first. he just sits beside you, shoulder brushing yours, like he used to.

"did you? y'know – read them?" he says eventually.

you stare at the moon, "i read your letters."

he exhales slowly, "yeah. figured."

then you say the thing you've avoided for three years – ". . . i didn't leave because i stopped loving you or anything stupid like that."

varka’s head turns, eyes focused. he's leaning a bit lower now, wanting to hear everything. the things you've withheld for years.

you keep looking straight ahead, afraid to look at the man beside you.

"i left because i didn't deserve to stay."

another long pause, you feel your shoulders tense at the way he stays quiet.

then varka laughs, softly. like it's being whispered to the wind and not to you.

it's not mocking you, just. . . tired.

"you idiot."

you finally look at him.

he’s smiling, sad and warm all at once.

"you decided that on your own?"

"yeah," you murmured, feeling your face heat up. for all the times you called him immature, you had ended up doing something more stupid.

he leans back against the steps, thinking.

"well."

". . . well?"

he glances at you, blue eyes steady.

"next time you ruin my life, at least talk to me about it first."

you blink, ". . . that's it?"

"what were you expecting?"

"definitely not something like this. i had, at least, expected something more emotional for our official reunion."

you're scowling now, clearly displeased at his lukewarm response.

he nudges your shoulder lightly,

"i already did the dramatic suffering thing for three years, in foreign lands too."

he really did.

aside from usual dreams of past memories, he'd also get small flashes of what-if's and could-be's, one where you had completely moved on with another man. where you built a home without him in it.

he hated those the most, varka would wake up in an irritated mood, take it out on training, and pretend the woman he loved wasn't several hundred miles away and actively ignoring him.

the injuries he sustained didn't feel quite as real compared to the hollowness of his heart when you'd left him. even as the distance between you two got larger, he only grew more impatient to be reunited with you.

and out of every absurd ambitions he had over the years, from slaying a dragon to becoming mondstadt's hero, there was one that he could never hope to throw away – a wedding, with you as his bride.

it's childish. you called it stupid back then, saying that a marriage wasn't necessary as long as the two of you had each other.

but varka had truly desired it from the moment he'd seen your eyes twinkle at the mention of a wedding. nothing grand. just something for you, him, and family.

you've always thought loving someone as capricious and bland as you would be a chore. that varka would find you tiring to deal with, and leave you alone one day. because of that, distance had become your shield and ruin, building walls so high it could rival starsnatch cliff.

but the knight of boreas wouldn't have gotten this far without being persistent.

a devoted man through and through. for him, loving you was easy. too easy. he was almost concerned how effortless it was. no distance, lack of communication, or dramatic break-up could ever stop him from adoring you.

varka had never loved you because it was just that – easy, effortless, and undemanding. in between the cracks of your heart, he found something worth fighting for, worth taking care of, someone worth all the pesky troubles and headaches.

he'd found you.

his love was simple but enduring. more than casual attraction, akin to pure adoration and endless devotion, just as he'd do anything for his beloved nation. people can call you heartless all they want, but even the sting of your glare could warm up his clumsy, beating heart.

you could carve it out and he'd thank you.

you already did, actually.

mondstadt’s wind was warm now, sunlight peeking through the walls. it carried the smell of dandelions, wine, the faint sweetness of cider drifting out of the tavern when the doors opened. sometimes music too.

"you staying?"

your chest tightens, ". . . maybe."

'yes.'

varka smiles. not big or triumphant.

just relieved.

"good enough for me."

the cathedral bells chime behind you once again, this time signalling a future you've dreamed about for far too long.

#conductor's-afterthoughts ☆ dont @ me, ive been hacking away at this for a week now and ive nearly given up halfway through. . . this actually hurt my head so bad. . . can you tell i completely threw away my original plot at the end and just started to ball it out.

theres something awfully romantic about being so infatuated by a person who cant help but run away from everything when it gets too much, you'd chase after them and think, 'why am i not getting tired of this?' and realize it's something you won't mind doing for the rest of your life.

i think i like those romances the most. i am a flawed person after all, so for someone to accept and cherish these flaws without it affecting them mentally would be a dream.

ANYWAYS. was this good? i was genuinely losing my shit guys. i took 30 minutes to proofread it this time, thats right! i actually read through the whole thing! proud of me? u oughta be. i had like several hundred searches just being "synonym for [word]"

after that, he wasn't too interested in those drunken debates anymore, laughing in earnest when asked – who is the most beautiful in mondstadt? sometimes he says rosaria just to tease her when she's around, other times, he says barbatos for the heck of it.

"fools, all of you!" varka slams his pint of dandelion wine down the table, brows furrowed in irritation, "my wife is the sweetest and most beautiful lady there is! how blind can you be to suggest anyone else?" his voice booms all throughout the tavern, making people turn their heads.

"u-uh but grandmaster, let's be realistic here, you—"

the poor guy is now being glared at by the grandmaster of mondstadt, a living legend, a knight recognized by the great wolf boreas and the anemo archon – a smitten, wife-loving, hunk of a man who's willing to forgo all dignity in order to defend his wife's honor.

varka clicks his tongue, and it quickly shuts the soldier up, knowing who he's against but it's too late to stop when varka suddenly speaks up again:

"realistic, you say? you sayin' my wife ain't gorgeous, that it?"

older, veteran soldiers are now looking at the new recruit with pity in their eyes. they've known their grandmaster for years, have fought alongside him, and are even willing to lay their lives for him, so if they know one thing about varka, it's that you never speak negatively about his wife. don't even dare imply it.

a loyal dog may bark but a smitten one will bite.

"that's not it, sir!" the young soldier quickly tries to make amends, stuttering in the process but the only response he got was a small huff from varka.

the other soldiers circle around their table, snickering to each other, "now, now, you know your wife is never included in these kinda' stuff. we wouldn't dare speak of the grandmaster's beloved that way."

"damn right, she's above these petty discussions! AHAHAHAHA!"

he's actually hopeless when it comes to you.

a truly unorthodox man, he is. hard to understand but terrifyingly easy to trust and admire. adored by many despite his ruffian-like demeanor. a slacker yet somehow the most reliable knight there is in the people's eyes. a person of contrasting qualities.

varka of mondstadt is said to be a 'man amongst men', chivalry comes to him like second nature and his list of admirers could fill the favonius library's record book, literally.

but they're in tough luck, the grandmaster only has eyes for you after all. it is no secret how smitten the oh-so-great knight of boreas, varka is for his wife.

no one even tries to approach him with romantic intentions anymore after he's made it very clear where he stands, which is forever next to you. many women, early on in both of your relationship, have tried to swoon and seduce him but they're met with very firm rejections. if there's anything he's strict about, it's this. and he expects the same treatment others give him with you, meaning if someone ever tried flirting or oh lord barbatos – make you leave him, they're getting the harshest talk ever, from varka and the people of mondstadt. 'cause the vendors are your biggest fans after all. though just him would probably be enough, do you know how scary varka is when he's serious? it's more than enough to make a grown man cry.

that's only if you can't handle it or the person is too persistent and you might actually hurt whoever this is. varka's there as a middle man, and hey if he pushes a little too hard while trying to create some distance between the two of you, who's to say it's not a complete accident? he's not exactly a saint of patience, particularly when your safety and comfort is compromised. he isn't the grandmaster of the knights of favonius for nothing.

he's like an obedient angel towards you though, if the angel was over six foot and had a frame huge enough to become an umbrella during hot days.

like a dog wagging it's tail, he beams immediately when he sees your figure from afar. suddenly, he's standing despite jean's protests and kaeya's exasperation, jumping out the window (even though he's on the third floor) and jogging over to you.

"hon! over here!"

you try to walk faster, hoping you heard wrong. because if you did, that means varka is slacking off again and you have to force him to go back to jean, lest she actually pops a blood vessel this time.

"hey don't ignore me!" he catches up to you in no time, barely even taking twelve steps before making it to your side.

you look up at his hulking figure, "go back to work. jean looks about ready to drop dead. or drop you dead." you can spot her angry expression from here, shouting a stern 'grandmaster varka!' but varka pretends to be deaf, focusing on you.

"puh-lease!" he scoffs, laughing boisterously with hands on his hips, "jean dropping dead, hah! you're hilarious. that girl's tough as nails! plus, those look heavy – ah, here let me.."

varka takes your shopping bags from you, carrying three bags in one hand while he interwines his other with yours.

"cookin' up a storm, huh?" varka glances at the ingredients in the bag: some vegetables, fruits, spices, and heavy cuts of meat. no doubt for him and his big carnivorous appetite.

he's smiling in that gooey, lovesick, way again. varka has always been a smiley person, but with you, it was more of a devoted sort of smile – one with less teeth and more wobbly, licked, lips where he gets an itch to scream ' i love you ' on the top of his lungs – letting it echo all throughout teyvat to make sure everyone knew.

eh, he does the same thing anyways with the way he chatters about you to every person he's met. talks and talks and talks until the people are listless, for hours if he could.

he escorts you home, hand in hand. cuts the vegetables as you get the stove started. sings a tune of windchimes and cliffs in that raspy tone of his while he helps with the peeling and heavy work, places chaste kisses on your cheek while you giggle.

jean can't get too mad at that, but she can at least nag varka until his ears fall off.

varka hates writing, hates paperwork all together. can't even stand the sight of paper in the office, always dreading the mountains of it stacked on his desk.

he'd rather be out fighting monsters, training recruits, or having a drink at angel's share. there are a million better things to do than boring ol' paperwork, like bothering people and smothering you with his love. he really, reeeally hates writing!

but he loves you.

he only likes writing when it's to his beloved. it's rare for the grandmaster to actually smile whenever he picks up a pen, usually he does so with a grimace. scowling like a petulant child while he twirls the pen in his hand, sighing every second while he stares at the documents on his desk. however. . .

it's different with you, it always is.

fredwinn is looking at the grandmaster with a suspicious and concerned gaze, it's really odd to see him so happy. . .

while writing.

he's getting weirded out, enough to ask others why such a massive and well-known loafer is actually writing with so much delight his smile looks about ready to split his face. he's met with small knowing grins and giggles from the other soldiers instead. he'll figure it out soon, they say.

he takes a peek over at what varka's writing, met with over two pages of words, small doodles of things they've fought in the margins of the paper – and how the hell is it colored? did he seriously buy crayons just for this? it's badly drawn though if he were to be honest, looks like a child made it. but the amount of words written baffle him, he's never seen the grandmaster write this much.

sure, it's starting to look a bit like chicken scratch because of how fast and how much he's writing but varka's never been one to be happy while writing something – he barely even wrote! like at all. even if he did, he usually made others do it in his stead. the man's great at fighting but he's not exactly a sit in a chair and write reports sort of guy.

perhaps long expeditions change people.

or, maybe he's an idiot who rambles too much in his letters – as long as they're addressed to you. fredwinn soon learns of this after a while, spotting the name of the recipitent in every letter, always followed by a heart. because varka's sappy like that.

varka loves you to the point of blatant favoritism, although he's never been strict with his soldiers, he does dish out punishments when needed. makes sure they learn their lesson too, 'cause what kinda grandmaster would he be if he doesn't?

you could never do wrong though, simply not a concept that exists in that empty head of his.

his wife made a mistake? ah, no biggie, he'll take care of it. you accidentally set the favonius headquarters on fire? oh no! don't worry, he'll handle it, just make sure to get to safety. you ripped his coat to shreds while washing? haha! so funny, anyways did you hear what razor learned today? that's right, its how to write yours and varka's name! isn't that so cool?

you can slack of more than him and he'd still call you the most hardworking person he's ever met. you could never ever do wrong in varka's eyes, it's like telling him the sky is brown or alcohol is bad.

. . .wait, you hid the alcohol? honey, dont be like that! he'll cry, seriously.

you're an exception to many things, and for a good reason, a simple yet profound reason, and also the main reason he fell in-love with you in the first place: it's you. beyond being his wife, his other-half, and varka's closest confidant – you are you, that in itself is already enough for varka, even without the prior accolades.

with both of your legs entwined with each other, your face in his chest as you rest on his bicep. it feels like a rock is under the side your head from how firm his muscles are, but you've gotten used to it, now it just reminds you of home.

because varka is home, and you'd never get homesick if he's around.

"does it not bother you?" he hums, chin propped on your head. you can feel the rumble in his chest when he speaks, makes your head all woozy and sleepy. being surrounded by his scent relaxes your tired body, and you let your eyes clos in response.

"what do you mean?" you ask, nuzzling in his chest further, his clothes smell freshly laundered, with that familiar detergent that you use.

varka keeps quiet for a few seconds, wondering if he should even say anything, "the way they address you as 'grandmaster's wife' instead of your name."

you can only mumble an answer, something varka can't quite catch but he assumes the worst.

he sets a small kiss on your forehead, wrapping you in his arms, "i'll tell them to stop, don't worry."

finally, you jolt awake, "no, no! it's really okay, i don't mind it."

varka looks at you with a complicated expression, finding it hard to believe.

"i like it...being called your wife, being known as yours." you flush, hiding your face. honestly, whenever people greet you in the market as 'grandmaster's wife' or 'varka's lady', it makes you giddy, heart-racing like a girl being teased about her crush.

the people don't mean anything malicious, you know that much and he knows too but it makes you grateful that he's still asking how you feel about it. always so considerate, treating your heart like porcelain. varka's like that, you're pretty sure his worst nightmare is making you upset.

varka has been completely quiet for a few seconds now but you can hear the loud thump, thump, thump of his heart within embrace. you don't have to look at him to know he's just as, if not more, flustered than you.

"alright, if you say so." he buries his face in your neck, curling in himself to be much closer to you.

"i really like it too, when they call me your husband. gets me all happy, y'know?" he mumbles gruffly.

you already know that, because he goes beet red whenever the vendors tease him. it's really obvious. but he's always been obvious with his devotion, you love that about him.

varka loves you, he's loud and clumsy with it but who cares? that just comes with the package.