陸「りく」

You haven’t done this in years. Decades, maybe.

You swore you wouldn’t. Swore that whatever you are, you wouldn’t be that. Wouldn’t lure sailors to the rocks, wouldn’t feast on the drowned, wouldn’t become the monster the stories warned about.

But the hunger doesn’t care about your morals. The hunger only knows that the ship means food, and the song means the ship will come to you.

So you sing. And the song that pours out of you is everything you are—loss and loneliness and the desperate need to simply survive—and you feel it land, feel the ship begin to turn toward the rocks.

You rise from the water, ready, and find a man at the railing looking directly at you. Awake.

That stops you cold.

He should be entranced. They all are. You can see the rest of them behind him, swaying, glassy-eyed, caught in the current of your voice. The song doesn’t fail. It can’t fail. It reaches into the deepest part of a person and pulls.

But this man is watching you with clear blue eyes and an expression of frank, unhurried interest, like you’re a curiosity he’s decided to examine rather than a horror dragging him to his death.

And you find yourself looking back.

He’s tall. Broad through the shoulders in a way that speaks of someone who works, who fights, who doesn’t simply give orders from behind a desk. Blond hair, longer than a soldier’s, pulled back from his face but loose enough that the sea wind tugs strands of it free.

A dark coat hangs open over a white shirt left carelessly half-unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up corded forearms. He is wearing black trousers, worn leather belt, boots built for decks and danger. There’s teal in the trim of the coat, deep as the deeper water, and a wide-brimmed hat that shadows his eyes without hiding them.

He looks like the sea itself decided to put on a man’s shape. And he looks entirely unbothered.

You should be the dangerous one here. You’re the one who lures. Who drowns. Who sends the silver bones of ships to rest in the dark.

So why is it your pulse that’s racing?

He leans his forearms on the railing, entirely too comfortable for a man who should be drowning. “That’s quite a voice,” he says.

You bare your teeth.

His eyebrows rise. Not in fear, in something closer to delight.

“Easy,” he says. “I’m not steering toward your rocks. Though I’ll admit you nearly had my whole crew doing it for me.” He glances back at his men, frowns, then raises his voice into something that cracks like a whip. “Wake up. All of you. Now.”

Something in the command cuts clean through the song. His men shake themselves, blink, look around in dawning horror at how close they’ve drifted to the black stone.

“Hard to port,” he says, calm as anything. “Bring us about.”

They scramble to obey. And they obey fast, the way men move for someone they trust with their lives.

And he turns back to you like none of it was urgent at all.

You stare at him, chest heaving, song dying in your throat.

He’s still affected—you can see it now that you’re looking. There is a tension in his jaw. A faint roughness to his breathing. The song touched him. He simply refused to let it take him, the way a man might plant his feet against a current strong enough to drown him.

That should be impossible.

“How,” you demand. Your voice cracks, unused for anything but the song. “The song should have—you should be—”

“Drowning?” He says it mildly. “Mm. I felt it. Don’t mistake me—” His gaze sharpens, and for half a second something flickers there, something that says the song reached him more than he’ll admit. “It’s a beautiful thing, what you do. I just happen to be very difficult to move once I’ve decided where I’m standing.” A faint smile. “Stubbornness has its uses.”

You don’t know what to do with any of this. You’ve never been seen before. Only obeyed, or feared, or fled.

This man is doing none of those things.

He’s just looking at you with those clear blue eyes. And you, traitorously, can’t stop looking back.

His expression shifts. The amusement doesn’t leave entirely, but something else moves underneath it. “You’re starving,” he says.

It isn’t a question.

You hiss at him, pride flaring even now. “I don’t need—”

“When did you last eat?”

“That’s not—”

“It’s a simple question.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. The shame is worse than the hunger, somehow. Being seen like this, reduced to this, by a human who should be afraid of you and instead is looking at you like you’re a problem he intends to solve.

He straightens, then turns to one of his crew. “The catch from this morning. Bring it up.”

You go very still. You expect a trick. You watch, wary and coiled, as a crew member hauls up a netted bundle. Fish, fresh, silver-bright and gleaming in the morning light. More than you’ve seen in weeks. The smell of it hits you and your whole body shudders with want.

The captain takes the net and crosses to the railing. “Come closer,” he says.

“So you can spear me?” Your voice is venom. “I’m not a fool.”

“If I wanted you dead, I’d have let you keep singing and put an arrow through your throat while you worked.” He says it without heat, a simple fact. “I don’t. So.” He holds out the net over the water. “Come and eat.”

You hesitate. Every instinct screams that this is wrong, that humans don’t help, that kindness is a hook with bait on it, but the hunger wins.

You dart forward, fast and ready to flee, and snatch the net from his hand. He lets it go easily. He doesn’t strike. He just watches as you tear into the fish with a desperation you can’t be ashamed of, can’t do anything about except eat.

He says nothing while you do.

When you finally surface again, he’s still there. He is leaning on the railing. “Better?” he asks.

You stare at him. “Why,” you manage.

“Why what?”

“Why would you do that?” Your voice shakes despite yourself. “You should have killed me. Or run. Humans always—”

“I’m not most humans.” He says it simply. “And I don’t kill starving things that sing like the whole ocean is grieving.” Something gentler settles in his face. “That wasn’t a hunting song. Not really. That was something else.”

You don’t have words. No one has ever heard it.

His name is Varka. He gives it freely, which surprises you.

“You’re not afraid I’ll use it?” you ask.

“Should I be?”

“Names matter. To things like me.”

“Mm.” He considers this, head tilting. “Then it seems only fair I’ve given you mine.” He nods at you. “And yours?”

You almost don’t tell him. Then you do.

He repeats it once, and something about the way he says it, like it’s worth saying correctly, makes your chest ache in a way the hunger never did.

“Suits you,” he says.

“You don’t even know me.”

“No,” he agrees easily. “But I know what it’s like to hear a name and feel it fits. Yours does.” He says it without weight, like it costs him nothing, and then moves on before you can decide whether to be flustered or furious. “You’ve been out here a long time, I think. Alone.”

“How would you know that?”

“The song.” His eyes are steady. “It wasn’t a hunting song. Not really. Hunger drove it, maybe, but underneath—” He pauses, choosing words. “That was the sound of something that’s been alone too long. I’ve heard grief before. I know its shape.”

You go very still. No one has ever heard it. You change the subject because you have to. “What are you, then? You sail under no banner I recognize.”

“A privateer.” A wry tilt of his mouth. “Sanctioned. Papers and all. Which makes me a pirate the way a sword is a letter-opener—technically accurate and entirely beside the point.” He gestures at the death-waters around you, the black rocks, the wreck-strewn deep. “I sail where honest men won’t. Through places like this.”

“And what is it you’re looking for? No one comes to the death-waters for nothing.”

Something flickers across his face. “A sword,” Varka says.

You blink. “A sword.”

“An old one. Lost a long time ago, in a wreck somewhere in these waters.” He says it lightly, but you hear the weight underneath, the thing he’s not saying. “A family blade. My father carried it. His father before him.” A pause. “It went down with a ship I wasn’t on. I’ve spent longer than I’d like to admit chasing where it fell.”

“It matters to you,” you say slowly. “More than a sword should.”

He looks at you. A little startled, like he didn’t expect to be read so easily. “Mm,” he admits. “More than I tend to say out loud.”

The honesty sits between you, unexpected and warm.

You find yourself studying him: the longer hair tugged loose by the wind, the open collar, the way he holds himself even at rest like something coiled and ready.

There’s the easy confidence of a man used to being followed. But underneath it, in the way he spoke about the sword, something quieter. Something that grieves.

You understand grief. “There are many wrecks here,” you say, before you can think better of it. “The rocks take ships. Always have. I know where most of them lie—which deeps hold what, which currents guard which bones.” You lift your chin. “Better than any map you’ll find.”

His whole attention sharpens onto you. “You’d know where my father’s ship went down.”

“I’d know where to start looking.” You hold his gaze. “These are my waters. I know them the way you know your own hands.”

For a long moment he simply looks at you, weighing something. “Why would you help me?”

It’s a fair question. You don’t entirely have an answer.

Because you fed me when you could have killed me. Because you said my name like it mattered. Because you’re the first thing in years that’s looked at me and seen something other than a monster.

“Because I want something in return,” you say instead, which is also true. “A deal.”

A slow smile. “Go on.”

“I’ll help you find your wrecks. Tell you which waters hide what.” You hold his gaze. “And in return you keep bringing the catch. Until the fish return to these waters.”

“And the singing?” he asks. “The luring sailors to their deaths?”

You lift your chin. “I haven’t done it in many years. Today was—” The shame again. “I was desperate. I won’t, if I don’t have to. I never wanted to be that.”

Varka studies you for a long moment, then nods. “Then we have a deal.”

He extends his hand down toward the water. You look at it. At him. At the strange impossible warmth of a human offering his hand to a thing the stories call a monster.

You reach up. His grip is warm and careful, and when your hand meets his, something passes between you that has nothing to do with sirens or captains or swords.

— ✦ —

The first days are not easy.

The deal is struck, but a deal is just words, and your body doesn’t trust words. It trusts the hunger, which has ruled you for weeks, which doesn’t simply vanish because a stubborn captain promised to feed you.

And the death-waters don’t make it simple. Storms roll through, days of them, churning the sea so violently that the ship has to run before the wind, leaving the stretch of water you know.

You lose them. You spend two days, three, fighting currents and searching, the hunger creeping back with every hour, sharpening you down again into that feral, narrow thing you hate being.

When you finally find the ship, you’re past thinking. You’re not reaching for the song, not eyeing the crew, nothing like that. It’s simpler and worse than that: you’re on edge, every nerve scraped raw, the desperation back in your blood like a fever.

And then you see Varka at the railing. And something in you goes wild. You don’t decide to move. You surge up out of the water fast and high, almost onto the deck itself, close enough that the nearest crewman shouts and stumbles back.

“Whoa.” Varka’s hand comes up, palm out. “Easy.”

You snarl at him, teeth bared, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it, and then you catch yourself. Catch the wild thing by the throat and drag it back down, chest heaving, horrified at yourself, sinking back toward the water with your pulse roaring.

“I—” Your voice is wrecked. “The storms. I couldn’t find you. I haven’t—” You can’t finish.

Varka doesn’t flinch. That’s the thing that undoes you.

A creature of the death-waters just came at his deck with bared teeth, and he hasn’t reached for a blade, hasn’t done anything but watch you with those clear blue eyes and that infuriating, impossible calm.

“The catch is already up,” Varka says, like nothing happened. He nods to the net waiting at the rail. “Figured you’d be hungry, wherever you’d got to. Eat.”

You don’t have the pride left to refuse. You take the fish and you eat with a desperation you can’t hide and can’t be ashamed of, and the whole time you’re aware of him watching with a kind of intent, arrested fascination.

When the worst of it passes, you finally meet his eyes.

He’s still watching.

“You shouldn’t stare like that,” you say roughly. “I nearly attacked you a moment ago.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t look away. “You didn’t, though. You stopped.” A pause, something thoughtful in it. “That can’t have been easy. Hungry as you were.”

You don’t know what to say to that. No one has ever given you credit for the stopping. “You’re a reasonable man,” you manage. “By all accounts. Reasonable men don’t lean closer to the thing that just bared its teeth at them.”

A faint, wry curve of his mouth, aimed more at himself than you.

“No,” Varka agrees. “They don’t.” He still doesn’t move back. “I’ve been told my judgment occasionally takes the night off.”

And there is that current under everything again, that thing neither of you will name, pulling at you both even now, even like this, even with your hands still trembling and your pride in tatters.

You make yourself look away first.

The silence stretches. Varka is still watching you with that arrested, against-his-better-judgment intentness, and you can't stand it.

“Why are you still helping me?” you ask. It comes out sharper than you mean. Still half-feral, still raw. “You’ve fed me for days. You don’t have to. The deal would hold without the kindness.”

“The deal’s the deal." He says it easily enough. “You guide my charts, I keep your belly full. Fair trade.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Something flickers behind his eyes. “I help people who need it,” he says. “Always have. Doesn’t much matter to me whether they walk on two legs or—” a glance at the water “—don’t. Someone’s starving in front of me, I feed them. That’s not complicated.”

You bristle, the wild thing rising again. “I don’t need your charity.”

“Good thing it isn’t charity, then.”

That stops you. “It isn’t?”

“No.” He’s blunt, and there’s an edge to his voice you don’t yet have a name for. “Charity is something you give and might forget. I haven’t forgotten a single conversation we’ve had. I think about the things you tell me. I look forward to—” He stops himself. “It isn’t charity. Don’t insult us both by calling it that.”

You don’t know what to do with the honesty. So you do what you always do. You go prickly. “You shouldn’t get attached to a thing like me,” you mutter. “It never ends well. For the human.”

Varka doesn’t reply. Instead, he looks at you with an expression you can’t decipher.

It’s getting dark. You hadn’t noticed until now. The sun has gone down behind the rocks, the water turning to ink, the first stars surfacing overhead.

And in the dimness something shifts in the way Varka is looking at you. “You glow a little,” he says quietly. “In the dark. Did you know that?”

You go still. No one has ever told you that. No one has ever been close enough, or unafraid enough, to notice.

For a moment you just look at each other across the dark water, and the silence is so charged it’s hard to breathe.

“Still,” he says, leaning back, “you’re remarkably aversive for someone who keeps coming back.”

You hiss before you can help it. “Can you blame me?”

“Mm.” He tilts his head. “Can you blame humans? For being careful? The stories about your kind aren’t gentle.”

“Yes,” you snap. “Exactly. The stories.” The bitterness surprises even you. “Everyone knows the stories. Everyone’s so sure they know what we are. Drowners. Devourers. Monsters with pretty voices.” You bare your teeth. “No one ever wonders if the stories are wrong. No one ever asks. They just decide, and reach for the harpoon.” You look away. “Most of my kind never touched a human in their lives. But it’s easier to believe the song than the silence.”

Varka is quiet a moment. “That,” he says, “is the most human complaint I’ve ever heard.”

You glare at him.

He studies you a moment longer. Something thoughtful working behind his eyes. “I’ll admit,” he says slowly, “I didn’t expect it. Your kind. The—” he gestures, searching for the word “—the feeling. The bitterness, just now. The way you talk about being misjudged like it actually wounds you.” He pauses. “It’s almost human.”

You go still.

“I wouldn’t know,” you say, quieter than before. “I have no comparison. I don’t know what humans feel. I only know what I feel.” You look away. “Maybe it’s the same. Maybe it isn’t. No one’s ever asked me before, so I’ve never had to wonder.”

Varka is quiet. Then, almost in passing, offhand, like he’s only just realized it himself, he says: “Mm. Maybe they’re not so different. The core of it.”

He turns the thought over. “Hunger. Loneliness. Wanting to be more than what people decided you are. Wanting—” he stops, then continues “—wanting to survive, and not be hated for it.” His eyes flick to you. “That’s why I keep feeding you, if you must know. It isn’t pity. I just don’t see much difference between a starving siren and a starving anything else. A thing that wants to live isn’t a monster for wanting it.”

The honesty unspools something in your chest you’d rather keep wound tight. So you reach for the old armor. Dry. Defensive.

“You should be careful with that thought,” you say. “There are stories about us too, you know. Our own kind tells them.”

You trail your fingers through the dark water. “That the first sirens weren’t born in the sea at all. That we were human, once—centuries ago. Cursed. Drowned and remade into something that sings instead of speaks, that hungers instead of loves.”

A bitter little laugh escapes you. “If the stories are true, then everything I feel is just a human heart that never stopped beating. Twisted up. Made sharper. More—” you search for it “—more. We feel too much and too hard, the old songs say. It’s why we’re dangerous. Why getting close to us is a bad idea.” You meet his eyes, daring him.

For a moment Varka doesn’t answer. He’s processing it, filing it away somewhere, the way he files the shape of a coastline or the set of a sail.

“Noted,” is all he says. “Dangerous creature. Feels too much.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’ll add it to the list.”

You hiss at him, and the moment passes, but the words sit in the water between you, planted, waiting.

Human once. We could be again, some small buried part of you doesn’t quite let itself say. You bury it with the rest.

And then Varka moves. Fast and sudden. Not a real strike, you realize that even as it happens, but your body doesn’t know the difference. The wild thing surges up, instinct screaming threat, and the old memories claw at the edges of your mind.

You hiss, recoiling, teeth bared, every nerve alight, and then he stops. Hands up. Calm. “Easy,” he says. “Just showing you something.”

“What,” you spit, “could you possibly—”

“That’s a feint.” He says it like an instructor. “You read the motion, not the intent. You committed to the dodge before you knew if it was real. A clever opponent would’ve used that. Would’ve drawn the reaction, struck where you weren’t.” He nods at you. “You’re fast. But you’re all instinct. No reading. Same thing I told my crew this morning.” A beat. “If you ever do have to defend yourself against something with hands and a blade—you’ll want to know that.”

You stare at him. The fury drains, replaced by grudging interest. Because he’s right. And no one has ever bothered to teach you anything but fear.

“I don’t need lessons from a human,” you say. But there’s no venom in it now.

“No?”

“No.” And then, because the prickly pride demands it, because you want, fiercely, for him to understand that you are not the helpless starving thing he keeps feeding: “Watch.”

You lift a hand from the water. And you call, just a little. The sea answers: a current curling up at your command, lifting a rope of water into the air, coiling it around your wrist like a living thing before you let it fall back with a slap against the hull. The ship rocks, gentle, at your whim.

Varka’s eyebrows climb.

“The sea listens to me,” you tell him, and you can’t quite keep the satisfaction out of it. “That’s what your stories never mention. We don’t drown sailors with our hands. When the sea listens—” you let the water curl once more, then still it “—we don’t need to.”

He’s gone very quiet, looking at you with something new now. Something closer to awe. “...Remind me,” he says slowly, “never to make an enemy of you.”

“Try your best,” you say, a smile creeping up on your face.

It startles a laugh out of him. And just like that, something between you has changed. The wild thing has settled. The wariness, on both sides, has cracked a little further open. You showed him a piece of what you are, and he didn’t reach for a weapon. He marveled.

You find that you want to tell him things, now. So you do.

“I heard something,” you say, the prickliness gone soft at the edges. “While I was lost in the storms. Passed close to a trade route, a fishing village. Sailors talk.”

You drag the conversation back to something safe, something transactional, something that isn’t the way he’s looking at you right now. “There’s word of a wreck off the northern shoals. Old. Carried something valuable down with it, they say. Might be nothing. Might be worth your charts.”

It works. Mostly. His attention sharpens onto the information, the captain surfacing over the man.

But not entirely. Because even as he asks his questions—where, how old, what the sailors claimed—there’s a part of his gaze that hasn’t left you. That’s still turning something over. Still, against all his better judgment, interested.

You tell yourself you don’t notice.

— ✦ —

The days that follow settle into something you don’t have a name for.

The deal holds. Each morning the catch comes over the railing. Fish, fresh and silver and plentiful, more than enough to dull the screaming hunger down to something you’d almost forgotten existed: an ordinary appetite, easily fed.

Your strength returns. The hollow in your cheeks fills. You stop counting time in absences.

Sometimes it’s Varka who brings the catch.

Sometimes it isn’t. There’s a sharp-eyed first mate too. He’s blue-haired, perpetually amused, and calls you the captain’s mermaid in a tone that makes you want to drag him under purely on principle. He hands the net down with a grin and a comment you don’t dignify with a response.

You decide you don’t like him. You decide this several times, mostly because he keeps looking like he knows something you don’t.

And sometimes there are no words at all. The fish come down, you take them, the ship moves on to chart another stretch of wreck-strewn water you’ve marked for them. A transaction. Nothing more.

Except it never stays nothing more for long. Because Varka talks to you. Not always but often enough that you start, traitorously, to look for it.

You also learn the ship’s name. The Dandelion’s Flight.

It’s a strange name for a pirate’s vessel. The flag that snaps above her mast is a single dandelion seed-head scattering on the wind, white against deep teal. But the longer you know Varka, the more it makes sense.

Varka is never quite the same twice.

Some days he’s easy, almost teasing, leaning on the railing with that open-collared confidence, drawing the wild out of you just to watch it spark. “Careful,” he’ll say when you snap at him. “Bare your teeth at me like that and I’ll start thinking you like the company.”

And you’ll hiss something cutting back, and he’ll laugh brightly like your sharpness is a gift rather than a threat.

One morning you arrive to find the deck in motion. Sparring. The crew paired off across the boards, blades flashing in the early light. Varka is in the middle of it with his coat discarded and his sleeves shoved up, drilling them the way you’d drill anything you intended to keep alive.

You stay low in the water and watch. You can’t help it.

Because this is different from the captain who leans on railings and teases. This is the man underneath the ease. He moves through his crew correcting a grip here, a stance there, then takes on two of them at once just to prove a point, and disarms them both without ever quite seeming to hurry.

There’s no glory-seeking in it. No showing off. Just a man who has decided his people will come home alive, and intends to make sure of it.

The white shirt clings to him with sweat by the end. You become aware that you’ve been staring for some time. That your tail has gone still in the water. That something warm and inconvenient has settled low in your chest.

Varka catches you looking. “Enjoying the view?” he calls, not even winded.

You sink immediately to your eyes, glaring over the waterline. His laugh follows you down.

Other days he’s serious, stern, even, the weight of command settling over him, the privateer-captain who’s responsible for every life on his deck. On those days he asks careful questions about the waters ahead, the currents, the hidden rocks, and listens to your answers with a focus so complete it makes your scales prickle.

And some days he’s simply wondering and quiet, watching the water like it holds answers. Asking you things no human has ever asked. What it’s like beneath the waves. Whether you remember being anything other than what you are. Whether you’re lonely.

(You never answer that last one. Varka never pushes. But he asks again, another day, gentle as the tide.)

You’re meant to be the dangerous one. Instead you find yourself surfacing earlier each morning. You’re lingering longer each evening, memorizing the different shapes of him and being unable to decide which unsettles you most.

“You’re staring,” Varka says one evening, not looking up from the rope he’s coiling.

“I’m assessing a threat.”

“Mm. And?”

“The threat is irritating.”

That earns you the laugh again. You tell yourself you don’t swim a little higher in the water to hear it better.

(You’re a liar.)

— ✦ —

The ship is not your whole world. It only feels that way, lately.

When you’re not trailing Varka’s hull, you do what you’ve always done. What you did for all the long years before a stubborn captain sailed into your waters and refused to drown. You roam.

You drift along shorelines at dusk, close enough to watch the lights come on in distant windows.

You explore the caves that honeycomb the black rocks, cool and dark and full of the small glowing things that live where the light can’t reach. You follow the great slow currents out past the death-waters and back again, mapping the sea the way you’ve always mapped it.

And you visit the wrecks. There are so many. Centuries of them, scattered across the deep. Ships the rocks took, ships the storms took, ships that simply vanished and came to rest here in the dark. You know them the way you know your own scales.

You drift through their broken hulls, past the coral that’s reclaimed them, and sometimes you find things. A name carved into a beam. Cargo that survived the drowning. Charts gone soft with seawater but not yet illegible. The small persistent evidence of who a ship was before the sea unmade it.

You never used to care what any of it meant. Now you find yourself lingering. You’re reading names, noting which wrecks are old enough, deep enough, the right shape to maybe be the one a certain captain is looking for. You catch yourself memorizing details to bring back to him, as if his quest has somehow become a thing you carry too.

In one of the deeper wrecks—an old merchant vessel, half-swallowed by coral—you find a strongbox that the sea hasn’t quite managed to ruin.

Inside you find jewelry. Tarnished but fine. Rings, a chain, a brooch worked in silver. And a belt, the leather somehow preserved, the buckle heavy and well-made.

You tell yourself it’s practical. The sea will only ruin them, given time, and a pirate—a privateer—surely has use for such things. It’s nothing. A scrap of the deal, perhaps. Repayment for all the fish.

You very carefully do not think about the fact that you noticed, days ago, that Varka’s own belt is worn nearly through at the buckle. That you found yourself looking at this one and thinking of him.

You don’t usually take things. You take these. You don’t examine why.

— ✦ —

You are not the only one of your kind in these seas. There are others. Scattered and rare. Sirens don’t gather. You don’t build, don’t share, don’t keep each other company the way humans crowd their warm little ports.

You drift through the vast dark alone and cross paths so seldom that years can pass between sightings. It’s simply what you are. What you’ve always been.

You tell yourself you prefer it.

You meet one of them while roaming the cold currents north of the death-waters. Another like you, rising pale and luminous out of the deep, regarding you with eyes that hold nothing you recognize.

You greet her, in the old wordless way your kind speak.

She answers strangely. Distant. As though something in you reads wrong to her. She looks at you the way you imagine humans look at you: warily, like you’re not quite the thing you’re supposed to be.

When you find yourself asking after the warmer waters, the inhabited places, the ships—she recoils, faintly. As if the question itself is a kind of sickness.

You linger near them, she seems to say, without saying. Why?

You don’t have an answer she’d understand.

The exchange leaves you unsettled, lost in a way you can’t name. A sense that you’ve drifted somewhere your own kind can’t follow, and that the distance is in you, not the water. That you’ve become a stranger to the only beings who share your shape.

You shake it off. You keep roaming. But the feeling lingers, cold at your edges: the dawning suspicion that you don’t quite belong anywhere. Not among humans, who fear you. Not among your own kind, who find you wrong.

You bury that, too. (You’re getting good at burying things.)

You don’t understand it. That’s the part that unsettles you most. It would be easier if you could explain it. If you could tell yourself it’s only the deal: fish for information, a fair trade, nothing more.

But the deal doesn’t explain why you swim a little faster on your way back to the ship. Why you find yourself wanting Varka to find his sword. Why the thought of him sailing north and not coming back sits in your chest like a stone.

Humans have never been kind to you. You remember that much. Short, sharp memories that surface unbidden in the dark. Nets and spears and faces twisted with fear and hatred. A harpoon that grazed your side once and left a scar that aches in cold water still. The certainty, learned early and learned hard, that to them you are only ever a monster, a danger, a thing to be killed before it kills.

That’s why you came to the death-waters. To be left alone. To stop being hunted.

And then a captain fed you when he could have killed you, and said your name like it mattered, and leaned closer when you bared your teeth instead of reaching for a blade. And something you’d sealed away a very long time ago has started, quietly, to crack open.

There’s an older memory, too. Vaguer. From so long ago you can’t be sure it’s real and not something you dreamed. Warmth. A shore. A voice that wasn’t afraid. Hands that didn’t reach to hurt. A feeling you don’t have a word for anymore because you’ve gone so long without it.

You don’t know what it was. A kindness, maybe, before the world taught you to expect cruelty. A memory from before you understood what you were and what that meant.

You’d buried it. It was easier not to remember that humans could be gentle, easier to believe they were all nets and spears, because then the loneliness of the death-waters felt like safety instead of exile.

But Varka keeps cracking the seal. And the old memory keeps drifting up through the dark, insistent, like something rising toward light. And this memory is turning into this new feeling you have no proper explanation for.

You tell yourself it changes nothing. You’re a siren. He’s a human captain. He’ll find his sword and sail away and the death-waters will close over the strange interlude like water closing over a stone.

That’s how it has to be. You tell yourself this, alone in the cool dark of a drowned ship, running your fingers over a name carved into salt-soft wood.

Then you memorize the name—just in case it’s useful to him—and turn back toward the surface. Toward the ship. Toward him.

— ✦ —

The next time you reach the ship, you wait until the deck is empty. Then you rise just enough to set them on the boards near the rail—the jewelry in a small bright heap, the belt coiled beside it—and you sink back down before anyone can see.

You don’t mean to be there when he finds them. You are anyway, lurking in the dark water, telling yourself you’re only passing by.

Varka comes up at dawn. He stops, looks down at the small pile of salvage on his deck. He picks up the chain, turns it in the early light, then scans the water, and finds you immediately. “Yours?” he asks.

You bristle on instinct. “I found them. In a wreck. They’d only rot down there.” Your reply is defensive, too fast. “You’re a pirate. I assumed you’d want them. Treasure. Isn’t that the whole point of your kind?”

Something crosses his face.

“That’s not what we do,” he says. Mild, but firm. “Not really. We run cargo the honest ships won’t risk. Clear waters of the things that prey on them—you’ve seen that part. Carry word between ports that don’t trust anyone official.”

He sets the chain down. “Treasure’s nice when we find it. I won’t pretend otherwise. But we’re not the story, either. We don’t sink ships for baubles. Most of what the songs say about pirates is about as true as what they say about sirens.”

The parallel lands. You hadn’t expected it.

“Still.” His voice softens. “It’s a kind thing. Thank you.”

You’re already retreating, oddly stung. Because he glanced at the jewelry when he said treasure’s nice, set it aside, and you read it as I don’t need your gesture. The wild prickly part of you decides he’s humoring you.

“It’s nothing,” you say, distant now. “Do what you like with it.”

And you slip beneath the surface before he can answer.

— ✦ —

It’s an ordinary morning when you notice. Varka’s at the rail, sleeves shoved up, going over charts, and around his waist, holding everything in place, is a belt with a heavy, well-made buckle. Not his old one, worn through at the clasp. Yours. The one you left.

He’s wearing it. Has been, you realize, for who knows how long because it’s already softening to the shape of him, already his.

Something turns over in your chest. Warm and entirely unwelcome.

Varka catches you staring. He glances down at the belt, then back at you.

“Mine gave out,” he says. “This one’s better made. Seemed a waste to leave it in a box on my deck.” And then, quieter, with the ghost of a smile: “The jewelry I gave to the crew to trade at the next port. Didn’t think you carved it up out of a wreck for me to hang baubles off myself.” His eyes hold yours. “But the belt I kept. Use something every day, you don’t forget where it came from.”

You don’t have a single thing to say. Varka goes back to his charts like he hasn’t just undone you completely.

You sink lower in the water, watching the way the buckle catches the light at his hip, and feel the odd warm thing settle deeper. The understanding, unwanted and undeniable, that he chose to keep the piece of you he’d use. The practical one. The one that stays close.

You tell yourself it means nothing. (You really are getting tired of lying to yourself.)

— ✦ —

The rhythm changes, as rhythms do.

You range wider now. The storms have passed and the silver has begun creeping back into the death-waters. Small schools at first, then larger, the sea slowly remembering how to feed you.

You find new grounds, too: a cold trench to the east thick with fish, a kelp forest where the currents herd them into easy reach. You don’t go hungry the way you did.

Which means, some mornings, you simply drop the day’s findings on the deck and go. A wordless transaction, the deal humming along in the background of two lives that have their own business to attend to.

Varka has his charts, his lead to chase, his crew to drill. You have your wrecks, your wandering, the wide dark sea that’s always been yours.

You’re each doing your own thing. It’s only that your own things keep, somehow, bringing you back to the same stretch of water.

— ✦ —

You don’t always follow the ship. But you’ve started swimming closer to the inhabited places than you used to. The harbors, the trade-islands, the lantern-lit docks where humans gather.

You tell yourself it’s for intel. Sailors talk, and talk is currency now, something to bring back to a certain captain. But the truth is murkier than that. Some part of you has started to like it. The warmth of it. The music that drifts out over the water. The strange, bright, fragile life of people who don’t know a siren is listening from the dark.

You don’t examine that feeling too closely.

So when the Dandelion’s Flight puts in at a trade-island to restock, you drift in after her, keeping to the deep water beyond the docks, watching the lights.

It’s a rough place. Privateers and honest sailors and the occasional overdressed nobleman, all crammed into taverns that spill noise and lamplight onto the water.

You hear a brawl break out in one of them: shouting, breaking glass, the ordinary violence of too much drink and too little sense. Nothing remarkable. The crew of the Dandelion’s Flight drifts to a quieter tavern down the quay, and you settle in to wait and listen.

It’s much later when you see him.

Varka. Alone. He is moving fast down the dock. Not the easy, unhurried stride you know, but something tight and furious, shoulders rigid, a bottle hanging forgotten from one hand.

He is not drunk. You can tell that much even from the water. But he is not steady, either. Tipped just enough that whatever’s burning in him has slipped the leash he keeps it on.

You’ve never seen him like this.

He reaches the end of the dock and stops. He stands there breathing hard, staring out at the black water like it’s done him a personal wrong. And then he grabs an empty barrel from the dockside and hurls it into the sea.

You’re so startled you nearly give yourself away.

Because this is Varka. The man who didn’t flinch when you bared your teeth, who is, by every account you’ve gathered, the most maddeningly composed person to ever sail these waters. And here he is, on an empty dock at night, throwing barrels into the ocean like a furious boy.

You’re fascinated. You’re a little shocked. You call out before you can think better of it. "You know, most people just yell. The barrel seems excessive.”

He whirls toward your voice. For a moment he just stares at you. And there’s no warmth in it, none of the easy interest you’ve grown used to. Just raw, unguarded anger, looking for somewhere to land.

“What,” he says, low and sharp, “is it to you?”

You bristle. “I happen to live in the thing you’re throwing your tantrum into.”

“Then move.” He turns away. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Clearly.” You surge closer, stung. “What’s wrong with you? You’re not—you’re never like this."

“You don’t know what I’m like.” His voice is cold. “We’ve known each other a couple of weeks. Don’t pretend you’ve got me figured out.”

That lands harder than it should.

“Fine.” You bare your teeth at him, the wild thing rising. "Throw your barrels. Drown your bottle. Sulk on a dock like the whole sea owes you something. I don’t care.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“Because—” You don’t have an answer, and that infuriates you more. "Because you’re being an idiot, and someone should tell you!”

“You’re infuriating.” Varka rounds on you fully now, and there’s something almost desperate under the anger. “You know that? You appear out of nowhere, you nearly capsize my ship, you save it again, you sing like the whole ocean is grieving, and now you won’t even let a man be angry in peace—”

“You sound like you’ve got plenty of practice not being angry!” you snap back. "Maybe that’s the problem!”

The words hang there. And just like that you both stop.

Varka drags in a breath and lets it out slow. You watch him visibly take hold of the fury and force it back down.

“You’re right,” he says finally, rough. “That wasn’t fair. None of that was about you.”

You’re still coiled, still stung, but the calm in him pulls the wild out of you too. “No,” you agree, quieter. “It wasn’t.”

A long silence folllows. The water laps at the dock. And then—because the moment is too heavy and you don’t know what else to do with it—you tilt your head and say, dry as you can manage:

"Well. If you intend to pollute the ocean, you should know I might have a say in the matter. Territorial rights. The barrel’s an act of war.”

Varka blinks. For a heartbeat he just looks at you, thrown completely off his stride. Then something in his face breaks. A startled, helpless huff of something that’s almost a laugh. “An act of war,” he repeats.

“I’m prepared to escalate.”

He sits down heavily on the edge of the dock, then scrubs a hand over his face. And for the first time since you spotted him, the rigid set of his shoulders eases. “You,” he says, “are unbelievable.”

“You’ve mentioned.” You drift closer, settling in the water below where he sits. “What happened in there?”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

You think he won’t answer.

“There was a man in the first tavern. Someone I knew, a long time ago—back when my father was still alive.” He turns the bottle slowly in his hands, not drinking. “He had something that belonged to my family. An old piece. The family sigil’s on it—a wolf.” A flash of bitterness. “Don’t know how he came by it. Stole it, most likely. Picked it up cheap when the household was broken up and sold off, after.” He doesn’t say after what. “Either way. He had no right to it. So I took it back.”

“That’s what angered you? Getting it back?”

“No.” His jaw tightens. “What angered me was what he said. About my father. Casual. Like he had any right to the man’s name.” He stops. “I don’t lose my temper. Not like that. Haven’t in years. But he said it so carelessly, and I just—”

He doesn’t finish.

You understand more than he knows. The way an old grief can sit quiet for years and then surface all at once, wild and ungovernable, at the smallest careless word.

Varka talks, after that. Not easily. But the night is dark and the anger has burned down to embers and maybe there’s something about a creature who lives outside the human world that makes it easier to say things he’s never said on his own deck.

He tells you about his father. The wolf sigil, generations old. The sword, the one he’s chasing through the death-waters, that his father carried and his grandfather before him. How it went down with a ship Varka wasn’t on, and how some part of him has never stopped trying to bring it back up.

He tells you about the household that was broken and sold. The pieces of his family scattered to careless hands like the one in the tavern. How the Dandelion’s Flight and her freedom-flag are the life he built after and how the sword is the one piece of before he refuses to let the sea keep.

“It’s not really about the sword,” Varka admits, somewhere near the end. It’s the most honest thing he’s said all night. “It’s about not letting them take everything. Keeping one thing that was his. That was ours.” A pause. “Stubbornness has its uses.”

The words strike something in you. He said that once before, standing at the rail of his ship while your song tried to drag him toward the rocks.

Back then you’d thought it arrogance. Confidence, perhaps. The sort of easy certainty that seemed woven into him. Now you hear something else in it. Devotion.

You think of the names you’ve read carved into salt-soft wood. The wrecks you’ve started searching with new eyes.

The anger’s burned all the way down now. What’s left is quieter. Looser. Varka turns the bottle in his hands, looks at you, sidelong. “Can I ask you something?”

“You will regardless.”

“Mm. True.” A pause. “That anger. The kind that makes you bare your teeth—the way you did on my deck.” He’s watching you carefully now. “That’s not all instinct. There really is something under it. A person, feeling something. Same as I was, in that tavern.”

You tense. “We’ve already talked about this.”

“Easy.” He lifts a hand, softer than usual. “I’m only trying to figure something out. No need to go defensive on me again.”

And then Varka goes quiet. But it’s not the angry quiet from before.

It’s something else. Something you can feel, even through the dark water. An aura coming off him that isn’t fury, that’s rawer than fury, almost wild at the edges. The same untamed thing that lives in you, surfacing in him.

He doesn’t say anything. He just shifts and leans forward where he sits on the edge of the dock. Closer.

Close enough that if you rose even a little, you’d be near enough to feel the warmth of him, to count the new salt-dried strands of hair against his jaw.

Close enough that something in the air goes taut and humming and dangerous.

And then his hand comes up. The backs of his fingers brush along your cheek, warm and impossibly gentle for a man who hurls barrels into the sea.

You go utterly still.

Varka is not looking at your eyes anymore. He’s looking at where he’s touching you, with an expression you’ve never seen on him. Unguarded and almost lost.

His hand lingers. The whole world narrows to the warmth of it.

You don’t know what breaks it. A shout from a distant tavern. The slap of a wave against the pilings. Something. But you feel the moment he comes back to himself, feel his hand still against your cheek as he realizes he’s doing it.

You break first. You’re sinking back, sending yourself gliding off through the dark water along the line of the dock. Retreating. Your heart is pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with hunger or fear.

Behind you, Varka laughs, warm and amused at your escape. “Hey,” he calls after you, and there’s a tipsy ease in it, an unguarded fondness he’d never let slip sober. “Come back here.”

You slow and glance over your shoulder.

He’s still sitting at the dock’s edge, lit by the harbor lanterns, watching you with that raw open look he hasn’t bothered to put away. “You should never leave good company behind,” he says.

It’s a small thing. A throwaway line. The kind of thing a man says when he’s had a little too much and forgotten to be careful.

But you hear what’s underneath it.

I like having you here.

I don’t want you to go.

You—you specifically—are good company.

I’d rather sit on a cold dock with a siren than be anywhere else tonight.

He doesn’t say any of that.

He thinks about something else, too. You can see it move across his face, there and gone, the thought he doesn’t voice and won’t act on. His eyes drop, just once, to your mouth. Then back up.

He doesn’t move. He’s too disciplined, even now, even tipsy. Even with the wild thing loose in him.

But you felt it. The almost.

And the worst part, the part you carry back into the deep water that night, turning it over, is that you wanted him to do it. Whatever it was. You wanted it so much it frightened you.

Cursed things feel too much, the old songs say.

You’re beginning to understand what they meant.

You drift back toward Varka anyway, closer than before. Because good company goes both ways, and you’re done pretending otherwise tonight.

“You’re maudlin when you drink,” you inform him.

“I’m more direct when I drink.” He settles back, the moment banked but not gone. “There’s a difference.”

“I’ll find it,” you say then. And you mean it. “Your sword. I know these waters. If it’s down there, I’ll find where it fell.”

He looks at you for a long moment. “Why?” he asks. “Why would you care about a dead man’s sword?”

You don’t have an answer. Or you have one, and you’re not ready to say it. “Territorial rights,” you settle on. “Can’t have you cluttering my sea with your unfinished business.”

He huffs that almost-laugh again. “Right,” he says. “Territorial rights.”

You continue talking after that. And above the dock, the dandelion flag stirs in the night wind while you and Varka sit in the dark and let one more wall come quietly down.

— ✦ —

One evening you surface to find the crew gathered on the deck. They are just sitting. A lantern is lit between them, the day’s labor is done, the ship rest at gentle anchor in waters you’ve assured them are safe.

And they’re trading stories. The first mate is in the middle of one that has half the crew groaning and the other half laughing, and Varka is leaning back against the mast with the loose ease of a man entirely at home.

You hover at the edge of the lantern-light, uncertain.

He sees you and lifts a hand. An invitation.

You drift closer. For a while you only listen. They tell stories of ports you’ve never seen, storms they’ve survived, a tavern brawl that grows more impossible with each retelling. It’s strange and warm and utterly human, this circle of light on the dark water, and you find yourself aching at the edge of it in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.

“You’re quiet,” Varka observes eventually. The crew has drifted off in twos and threes. It’s only the two of you now, the lantern burning low. “Sirens don’t tell stories?”

“Sirens don’t usually have an audience that wants to stay near them.”

He huffs a laugh. “Fair.”

You hesitate. Then, because the night is soft and the warmth has loosened something in you: “We did once. Long ago. Before the stories made us monsters.”

You look out at the dark water. “I’ve seen things, you know. It isn’t all hunger and drowning men. I’ve watched whales sing to each other across an entire ocean. Swum beneath ice so clear the moon shone straight through it. Found a city, once, sunk so long ago the coral had made it beautiful again.”

You sigh softly. “My life hasn’t only been this. This empty place. The fear I put in people’s faces. There was wonder, too. I have to remind myself of that, sometimes.”

Varka has gone very still, listening. “Tell me,” he says.

So you do. You tell him about the whales and the ice and the drowned coral city, and he listens completely like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

“Are they all like you?” Varka asks, somewhere in the warm lantern-lit quiet. “Your kind. Do they all see the things you’ve seen? Sing the way you do?”

You’re quiet a moment. “No,” you say finally. “We’re not alike. Not really.” You think of the pale stranger in the cold current, the wrongness in her eyes. “We don’t gather. We don’t talk, much. And the ones I’ve met—they don’t—”

You search for it. “They don’t wonder. About any of it. The ships. The shores. The lives up here in the light.” You look away. “I met one not long ago. She looked at me like I was something broken. Because I linger near the human places. Because I’m curious.” Your voice wavers. “I don’t think I’m like the rest of them. I never have been. I just didn’t have a word for it until she looked at me that way.”

Varka is watching you across the low flame. And he doesn’t say I’m sorry, or that’s sad, or any of the soft useless things a person might. He just looks at you and says: “Well. I knew that from the start.”

You blink. “Knew what?”

“That you weren’t like the stories. Like anything I’d heard.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “First time I saw you, the whole crew was halfway over the rail and you were singing the saddest thing I’d ever heard, and I thought—that’s not a monster’s song.” He pauses. “You were something else. Something I hadn’t met before.” His voice goes quieter. “Unique. I knew it before I knew your name.”

The fire pops. The water laps the hull. And you sit there in the dark, the creature who belongs nowhere, looking at the one person in any world who’s ever made you feel like not belonging might be the same thing as being special.

You don’t have a word for that, either. But for once, you don’t want to bury it. So you keep talking.

At some point, Varka tells you stories too. And your conversation carries on naturally. Quieter than all the other times, and yet charged with something that makes your skin tingle.

Somewhere in the middle of it you both seem to realize, at the same moment, what’s actually happening.

You stop mid-sentence. He notices the same instant.

“This is strange,” you say slowly.

“Mm.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I was just thinking that.”

“You’re a human captain trading stories with a creature you’re supposed to fear.”

“And you’re a siren who saved a ship instead of sinking it.” He shakes his head, something rueful and warm in his expression. “I’ve sailed a long time. Seen most of what these seas have to offer. I never once imagined I’d spend my evenings talking to one of the death-waters’ own like she was—” He reconsiders the word. “Like an old friend. Or, actually, like—” He stops.

Your heart does the painful, bright thing again.

“Every day out here brings something I didn’t expect,” he goes on, quieter, looking at you and not the water. “I thought I was past being surprised by the sea.” He pauses. “Apparently not.”

He doesn’t say you. You both hear it anyway, sitting there in the lantern-light, neither of you willing to name the thing that’s so plainly settling between you.

“Don’t make it strange,” you finally manage.

His mouth curves. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” But he’s still looking at you like you’re the most unexpected and fascinating thing he’s found in all his years at sea.

And you’re still letting him.

— ✦ —

The shift happens quietly. You find a wreck off the northern shoals. The one the sailors whispered about. The one you went looking for after that night on the dock.

An old warship, deep and broken, its hold long since claimed by the dark. And in it, half-buried in silt and the bones of the sea, a chest bearing a sigil you’ve come to know better than you’d like to admit.

A wolf.

You don’t open it. You know what it means.

You bring Varka the location the next morning, and you watch his face change as he understands what you’re telling him.

“That’s it,” he says quietly. “That’s where she went down. My father’s ship.” His hand tightens on the rail. “You found it.”

“I found where,” you correct. “The recovery’s yours. It’s deep, and the currents are bad, and you’ll need divers and time and a great deal of luck.” You pause. “But yes. I found it.”

He looks at you for a long moment.

And you both feel the thing settling between you, unspoken.

The deal is complete.

You guided his charts. You found his sword, or near enough. He fed you through the lean weeks until the sea remembered how to feed you itself. Both halves fulfilled.

Both of you free, now, to go your separate ways—him north to raise a dead man’s blade from the deep, you back to the wide dark solitude that was your whole world before a dandelion flag sailed into it.

That’s how a deal ends. That’s how it’s supposed to end. Neither of you says a word about it.

Instead, you keep coming back.

The reasons get thinner. You don’t need the fish. You tell him about the eastern trench, the kelp forest, and Varka stops sending the catch up as often, and it changes nothing. You come anyway.

Varka doesn’t need your charts—he has his bearings now, his crew already preparing for the long haul north—and still he lingers at the rail when you surface. Still he saves the day’s small stories to tell you, still his eyes find you in the dark water before you’ve even called out.

You’re both pretending not to notice that the thing holding you together has quietly dissolved. That whatever keeps bringing you back now isn’t a bargain. It’s just want.

— ✦ —

The wind is wild the day you almost don’t stop. You’re only swimming a wide arc through the choppy water on your way somewhere else, the sea restless and white-capped, the Dandelion’s Flight riding hard at anchor with most of her crew below decks, sheltering from the gusts.

Most of her crew. Not her captain.

Varka’s up near the wheel.

You slow without deciding to.

He’s training. Alone. He’s just moving, for himself, the way you’d almost forgotten a body could move when no one’s watching it. A slow, deliberate sequence of strikes and turns against nothing but the wind, sleeves gone, shirt half-open and snapping around him, the muscle of his back and shoulders working as he flows from one form to the next.

The deck pitches under him. The gale tears at his hair. And he moves with it, using the roll of the ship, letting the wind be part of the dance instead of an enemy.

You forget, entirely, where you were going. You watch far too long before you find your voice. And when you do, it comes out sharper than you mean, because being caught staring makes you defensive even with yourself.

“You do know the wind’s wild today?” you call up. “Or are you too absorbed in whatever that is to notice the sea’s trying to throw you off your own deck?”

Varka doesn’t stop mid-form, exactly. He just turns and looks back at you over his shoulder, hair whipping, a grin breaking across his face. “I’m a captain on a ship,” he says, “who, once in a while, helps out sirens, as it seems.” The grin sharpens. “I can assure you—I thrive in the wild.”

And he holds your gaze when he says it.

You are, for one humiliating moment, completely stunned. Because of the way he tosses those words at you, daring and bright. No one has ever spoken to you so freely.

It does something to you. Something unraveling.

Before the prickly part can stop you, you say: “Careful, Captain. The sea’s thrown wilder things than you off their feet.” You pause. “I’d know. I’ve been most of them.”

Varka blinks. Then he makes a delighted sound. “Did you just make a joke?”

Heat rushes up your neck. “The wind must’ve been whispering things to you.”

“No. No, that was definitely—” he’s grinning so wide now it’s infuriating “—that was a joke. From the fearsome siren of the death-waters. I’m honored.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Of course not.”

And then, because you can’t let him have the last word, you give your tail a single sharp flick beneath the surface and throw a sheet of water up the hull, a wild glittering arc of it that catches Varka square across the chest.

He staggers back a step, soaked, laughing, head thrown back, the sound of it ringing out over the wind.

“That’s for the harpoon comment I’m sure you were thinking,” you inform him primly.

“I wasn’t!”

“You were.”

“I—” He wipes water from his face, still grinning. “Mm. I might’ve been.”

You’re both laughing now like neither of you has ever been dangerous a day in your lives.

It doesn’t fit. That’s the thought that surfaces through the laughter, sudden and unsettling. This doesn’t fit. None of this fits. You’re a creature of the deep and he’s a man of the surface and the world has spent centuries insisting you’re meant to drown each other.

And here you are, soaking him through on a wild bright afternoon, more at ease than you’ve been in longer than you remember, possibly your entire existence.

You catch the same realization moving across his face, the laughter fading into something more careful. Both of you are suddenly aware of how natural this was. How little either of you reached for it. How neither of you is remotely prepared for whatever’s happening here.

“I should go,” you say.

“Probably,” he says although his voice suggests otherwise.

Neither of you moves.

The wind howls. The waves crash. And you stay a moment longer than you should, two wild things blinking at each other across the rail, apparently equally confused and equally unwilling to be the first to leave. Then you slip under, finally, your heart doing the inconvenient thing again.

Behind you, faint over the gale, you hear him say to no one in particular: “Huh.”

You understand the feeling completely.

— ✦ —

In the spaces between, alone in the deep, you’ve started looking for something of your own.

You tell yourself it’s idle curiosity. You’re a liar. You admitted this to yourself by now.

You seek out the old places. The drowned shrines, the ancient wrecks, the rare cold currents where the eldest things drift. You’re chasing the lore you threw at Varka that night like armor: human once. Cursed. Drowned and remade.

You want to know if it’s true. You want to know if the old songs say anything about the curse running the other way.

You even seek out the pale stranger again who looked at you like you were broken. You ask her, in the wordless way, whether the stories are real. Whether a siren can become what she was before.

She recoils from the question like it burns.

Why, she seems to say, horror and something like pity in it, would you ever want to be something so small? So mortal? So easily drowned?

You don’t have an answer she’d understand. But you have one.

You just keep it to yourself, the way you keep the buckle-light at his hip and the almost on the dock and the sound of him saying good company. A small, fierce, impossible hope, gathered in the dark and guarded like a pearl.

Human once, you think, drifting back toward a ship you have no practical reason left to visit. Maybe human again.

You don’t know if it’s possible. You’ve decided to find out.

— ✦ —

You should have known the death-waters wouldn’t let it stay so simple. They never give anything freely.

The storm comes from the south, faster than any storm should.

You feel the pressure dropping, the currents turning frantic, the deep going cold and wrong in a way that prickles every instinct you have. The sea you’ve lived in your whole life suddenly feels like a stranger.

You’ve felt this before, only once, a long time ago, when you first came to these waters and learned why even other monsters avoid them.

“Varka.” You surge up against the hull, voice cutting through the rising wind. “Varka!”

He’s at the railing in an instant, reading your face. “What is it?”

“You have to get out of these waters. Now. Whatever’s coming—”

The sea answers before you can finish. The water erupts.

A tentacle the width of a mast breaks the surface fifty yards out, streaming black water, suckers the size of shields catching the storm-light. Then another. Then another. Rising and rising until they blot out the horizon, until the thing beneath them lifts a bulk so vast the swells it pushes nearly capsize the ship on their own.

A kraken.

Old. Enormous. Woken from the deep by the storm, or by hunger, or by nothing at all but the ancient cruelty of the death-waters.

The crew doesn’t panic.

That’s the first thing that strikes you, even through your own terror. They don’t panic, because he doesn’t. Varka’s voice rises over the storm, hard and clear and absolutely steady, and his men move, fast and certain, because their captain has not for one instant looked like a man who expects to die.

“Hard to starboard! Get us out of its reach! Loose the deck cannons—aim for the eyes, nothing else will matter!”

He fights.

And now you understand the legend of him, the famous captain who sails where others won’t. He’s everywhere at once, hauling a man back from a sweeping tentacle, putting his own blade through a limb thick as a tree, shouting orders that turn chaos into something almost like a dance.

The cannons roar. The kraken shrieks—a sound that shakes the water in your bones.

For a moment, you almost believe he’ll win.

He’s that good. That fearless. That impossibly, brilliantly alive in the middle of something that should be his death.

But the kraken is the sea’s own child, and the sea does not lose in its own house.

A tentacle catches the mainmast and pulls. Timber screams. The ship lists hard, taking on water, and you see Varka go down, just long enough for your heart to stop, before he’s up again, blood at his temple, dragging a half-conscious crewman toward the rail.

And you realize, with terrible clarity, that fearless is not the same as invincible.

That he is going to die here. That all of them are.

Unless.

You promised yourself you wouldn’t sing again. Not the luring song. Not anything that used what you are as a weapon. But this is something older.

You dive into the heart of the churning dark where the kraken’s bulk hangs vast and ancient and you open your throat and you sing.

To the sea itself.

You sing the death-waters the way you’ve never let yourself sing them. Every rock and current and bone you’ve memorized in your long loneliness.

Every secret of this drowned and dangerous place, pouring it all into a song that isn’t a lure or a threat but a command, because these are your waters, this terrible empty place that starved you and sheltered you, and it will listen.

The currents answer. The sea turns.

You feel the kraken’s confusion as the water itself seems to push against it, as the storm bends, as the deep that birthed the creature now seems to call it home.

You sing of darkness and depth and the cold quiet far below where ancient things belong. You make it a lullaby, you make it a tide, you make it irresistible.

The kraken stills. Then, slowly, it sinks. Down. And down. And gone. The storm breaks apart above you like it was never there.

You surface, gasping, spent, the song having taken more than you knew you had to give.

The sea is calm.

Varka is staring at you like he’s never seen you before. “Out there,” he says, and his voice isn’t quite steady, “that was not luring.”

“No.”

“You commanded the sea.”

“I told you. It listens to me sometimes.” You hold his gaze. “When it matters enough.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, taking you in—the exhaustion, the way the song has hollowed you out again, the fact that you spent yourself completely to save a ship of humans you have every reason to fear.

“You saved us,” he says quietly.

“I’m aware.”

“You could have let the sea take us and gone back to your peace.”

“I’m aware of that too.”

The look on his face is anything but strange. It’s wonder. He’s quiet for a moment. “Thank you,” he says.

You only find gratitude, plain and warm. You don’t know what to do with it.

The Dandelion’s Flight is hurt. Badly but not dead.

The kraken took the mainmast halfway down. The rigging hangs in ruin and there’s a breach below the waterline where a tentacle caved the hull. She’s taking water. Under any other circumstances she’d be following the kraken down into the dark.

But the sea is glass now. Still as a held breath, because you’re holding it. You’re keeping the currents gentle, the swells low, the water that should be flooding her hold pressing in slow instead of fast. You bought them the calm. The calm is the only reason she floats.

“She’ll sink if we stay out here,” Varka says, bloodied and soaked, already doing the grim arithmetic of a captain counting his losses. “We need land. Somewhere to beach her, patch the hull—”

“East,” you say. “There’s an island. Half a day, no more, if you run with the current.” You’re already moving, already certain. “Sheltered cove on the leeward side. Shallow enough to beach her, calm enough to work. I’ll guide you through the rocks.” You smile. “And I’ll keep the sea quiet the whole way. She won’t go down. Not while I’m under her.”

He looks at you. “Then lead,” he says.

So you do.

It’s slow, careful work: a wounded ship limping east through waters you smooth ahead of her like a hand pressing wrinkles from cloth.

You swim beneath her keel the whole way, singing the currents soft, easing her over the worst of the shoals. When the hull groans and the water gains, you press the sea back and buy them another mile.

By the time the island rises green out of the haze, you’re exhausted in a way the kraken-song alone didn’t manage. But she floats.

You bring them into the sheltered cove as the light goes gold, and the crew runs her gently aground on the pale sand, and the Dandelion’s Flight settles at last. Broken but whole enough.

Alive. Like her captain. Like you.

They make camp on the crescent of beach.

The repairs will take days. You hear them tallying it that first evening, around the fire: timber to cut, the hull to patch, a jury-rig for the mast until they can make a proper port. Days of work before the Dandelion’s Flight can sail again.

You tell yourself you’re only staying to be sure the cove stays calm.

You’re still a liar. But the lie buys you days, and you’ve learned to be grateful for what the sea gives.

— ✦ —

You shouldn’t come back. You know this.

You should slip back into the deep and let Varka sail away and forget the strange days when a starving siren and a stubborn captain made a deal in death-waters.

That would be the sensible thing. You’ve never been good at sensible.

So you come back. The night before he’s meant to leave, you swim to the little island and find him already there, sitting on the sand, looking out at the water, as if he’d been waiting. As if he knew.

“You came,” he says.

“Apparently.”

His mouth quirks. “I’m glad.”

You settle in the shallows near him, close enough now that closeness has stopped being frightening. The moon lays a silver road across the water. The fish have started coming back—you noticed it days ago, the silver returning to the dark, the hunger finally easing.

Varka notices you noticing. “The waters are recovering,” he says.

“They are.”

“So you’ll be alright. After I’m gone.”

You don’t answer right away. Because alright isn’t the same as unchanged, and you don’t know how to explain that the empty dark felt different before it had a stubborn human leaning over a railing in it.

“There are stories,” you say instead. “Old ones. About my kind. That under the right circumstances—rare ones—we can become something else. Walk on land. Lose the song. Trade the sea for—” You stop.

He’s watching you very closely now. “For?” he prompts.

“I don’t know if they’re true.” You look away. “Probably not. Just stories sailors tell.”

“Mm.” He’s quiet for a long moment. “I’ve found that stories sailors tell are wrong about as often as they’re right.” He looks back at the water. “Which is to say—not always wrong.”

Your heart does something painful. “You have a sword to find,” you say.

“I do.”

“North, then. Past the rocks,” you say. “Once she sails again. To raise your father’s sword from the deep.”

“North.” He nods, watching the firelight on the water. “It’ll take time. A proper crew, a proper port to refit. But yes. I’ll have it. Finally.”

“And after?” The question lands softer than you mean it.

He goes quiet. For long enough that you think he won’t answer. When he does, there’s something in his voice you haven’t heard before. Not the captain. Not even the man who opened up on the dock. Something younger. More uncertain.

“I don’t know,” Varka admits. “I’ve never let myself think past it.” A rueful breath. “That’s the truth of it. There’s always been a next thing—a next mission, a next stretch of water, a next piece of my family to pull back from wherever it scattered to. The sword was always the end of the road. I never bothered imagining what’s beyond it, because the road never ran out before.” He turns the thought over. “It’s about to. And I find I don’t know what I want.”

“You must want something.”

“Mm.” A long pause. Then, quietly, like a confession, he adds: “There’s a place. I read about it once, years ago—an old account, half legend. An island, far past the charted waters. They say the wind there never stops singing and the whole sky goes green with light at night, and that no flag has ever flown over it because no one’s ever stayed long enough to plant one.”

His mouth curves, almost embarrassed. “A free place. Beholden to no one. I used to think about sailing there just to see it. To stand somewhere no one’s ever told me what I’m supposed to be.” He shakes his head. “Foolish. A captain’s daydream.”

“It’s not foolish,” you say.

He glances at you.

“It sounds like the most honest thing you’ve ever wanted,” you go on. “More than the sword. The sword is for him—your father. The blood. The past.” You hold his gaze. “But that island. That’s for you.”

Something moves across his face. Like you’ve named a thing he didn’t have words for himself.

“Maybe it is,” he says slowly. “Maybe that’s where the sea leads us, after. Find the sword. Settle the past.” His eyes find yours in the dark. “And then go looking for a place that’s only mine. That I chose.” Quieter. “I think I’d like that. Having something I chose, for once. Sailing toward something instead of back to something.”

The fire crackles. The unspoken thing sits between you, warm and enormous.

Would you come, Varka doesn’t ask. Would you be part of the something I choose.

I don’t know if I can, you don’t answer. But I’m trying to find out. I’m trying to make myself into something that could.

Neither of you says it. But the dream is out in the open now, and it hangs there like a horizon you might both, someday, sail toward.

“When you find it,” you say instead, “the singing-wind island. You’ll have to tell me if it’s real.”

“You could come and see for yourself,” Varka says lightly.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “Maybe I will.”

It feels like a door.

The horizon suddenly feels less distant than it did a moment ago. And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you want to give something freely. “Sit,” you tell him. “And listen.”

Varka raises an eyebrow but obeys, settling back on the wet sand.

You take a breath. And you sing. Something you haven’t let yourself sing in years, something with no purpose at all except its own beauty. Just a song.

The kind your kind sang once, long ago, before the stories made monsters of you. When sirens sang simply because the world was vast and strange and worth singing to.

You sing the moon on the water and the silver returning to the deep. You sing a stubborn man at a railing who refused to drown. You sing the small impossible warmth of being seen.

It’s not a weapon. It’s a gift.

When you finish, the night is very quiet.

Varka hasn’t moved. He’s watching you with an expression you’ve never seen on him. Something raw.

“That,” he says softly, “was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It wasn’t meant to do anything.” Your voice is unsteady. “I just wanted you to hear it. Before you go. The way it’s supposed to sound. When it isn’t trying to hurt anyone.”

“I know.” He hasn’t looked away. “That’s what makes it beautiful.”

The space between you has gone very small.

“You’ll forget it,” you say. “Out there. Chasing your sword. Looking for that island. The sea’s a big place and I’m just—”

“I won’t forget it.” Quiet. Certain. The same voice that turned chaos into order on a dying deck. “I’ve spent my whole life sailing toward things. Glory. Duty. A blade at the bottom of the sea.” He pauses. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to sail back to something before.”

Your heart does something painful and bright. “That could take a long time,” you whisper.

“It could.”

“You’d come back anyway.”

“I’d come back anyway.” No hesitation. “I’m told I’m difficult to move once I’ve made up my mind.”

Varka reaches out, slow, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t.

His hand finds yours in the shallows. Warm and careful, the way it was the first time. But this time his fingers close around yours, and he pulls gently, leaving you all the room in the world to refuse.

You don’t.

You let him draw you up out of the water, up the slope of wet sand to where he sits, until you’re tucked against him, your back to his chest.

His arms come around you, and he holds you there, in the place where the sea meets the land, where neither of you quite belongs and both of you somehow fit.

The water laps around you both. You feel the sea wicking up through his shirt where you’re pressed against him, the cold of it, the wet.

Varka doesn’t shift away. He doesn’t try to keep some dry part of himself clear of you. He just holds you, and lets the sea soak him through.

You nuzzle closer and press your cheek against his chest, over the steady drum of his heart, and feel his arms tighten in answer. His chin comes to rest atop your head. And you stay like that, both of you looking out at the silver road the moon lays across the dark water.

The waves come and go. And the sea holds the two of you gently in its shallows, patient as the tide, for as long as the moment can last.

He’s warm against the cold water. You’re cool against his warmth.

And in the place where you meet, something settles that neither of you has the words for.

It isn’t a promise spoken aloud. But then, the sea carries some things farther than words ever could. And for now that’s enough.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. :) I had entirely too many ideas for this concept, which is probably obvious by now. Somewhere along the way this stopped being “the pirate Varka fic” and turned into a story about loneliness, belonging, sea legends, impossible hopes, and two stubborn people who kept finding reasons to come back.

There are still a lot of unexplored waters out there for them (and for me). For now, though, I wanted to leave them here. :) Thank you for sailing with me. I hope you enjoyed the fic.💙

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]"

(as if he hadn’t been drooling all over the damn couch.)

“insufferable,” you’d mutter, an exasperated scowl on your face.

varka would only laugh at that — loud, bright, utterly unashamed, 'cause of course he is, he's varka for archons' sake.

“but still yours, no?”

which was, (un)fortunately, true.

even if he gave you migraines on the daily. even if he was utterly unbearable sometimes.

varka was yours, as much as you're his.

decades of marriage had taught you many things about the man you loved. some grand, some small, some hidden in the quiet habits he didn’t even realize he had.

but you'd see them all, no mattter how miniscule they may seem.

you knew the way exhaustion settled into his shoulders after long days, knew the look of him when he walked through the door.

dim ocean blues, a crooked, tired smile, muscles aching beneath his coat.

these days he would simply press a quick kiss to your forehead before disappearing into the bathroom to wash the grime off his skin then spare a few minutes for mantaining his swords, talking about the day with you as he wipes and polishes them to perfection.

and inevitably, after a meal, he'd end up passing out just about anywhere but your shared bed.

you knew your husband very well.

which is why the moment he steps through the door tonight, you kmow something is different.

his eyes meet yours.

and the fire burning in them — sharp, bright, dangerously familiar — sends a shiver down your spine.

“i’m home,” varka whispers, boots heavy against the wooden floorboards as he crosses the room.

tonight he isn’t wearing his usual coat, nor the small pieces of armor that usually cling to him like a second skin. they’re nowhere to be seen. instead, he’s dressed only in a black shirt — the top buttons carelessly left undone.

half of his chest is exposed through the open buttons — scarred skin, a faint trail of blonde hair, and the familiar wolf-tooth necklace swaying faintly with each step he takes.

yet somehow, tonight, everything about him feels. . . different.

"sorry if i've kept you waiting," he places a light peck on the side of your lips, eyes gazing straight at you as he does.

predatory.

that was the gaze of someone who wanted to devour something — or in this case, someone.

warm, large palms rest just above the side of your hips, and you can feel the way he presses slightly, inching your body closer to his.

"no 'welcome home, honey' for me?" a deep chuckle spilled from him, soft with fondness, "finally got tired of your husband, hm?"

his eyes gleam with a certain hunger, tracing over the shape of your lips to the half-exposed cleavage of your dress.

varka does not lighten his grip, eventually pushing you further and further until your back hits the wall. leaning over until he's got you trapped between his frame and the wood now, faces mere inches apart.

you could hear the sound of his heartbeat, loud yet steady.

gulping the sudden nervousness, you were about to welcome him home as you usually did.

before you could speak, he captures you in a deep kiss, discarding whatever restraint he has. varka places a hand behind your head, softly caressing, before forcing your face closer into his waiting mouth.

he can barely keep it together, chest heaving with every rhythmic dance of his lips on yours.

"welcome—mmph—" kiss. "ahhn, home. . ." kiss.

you whine at his desperation, "varka—"

he groans into your mouth at the mere mention of his name, lips turning even more desperate. the sound rattles your bones, making you squirm against him.

and with how large the knight is, you're practically engulfed in his arms, body pressing onto the flimsy fabric of your dress until you eventually mold into one, until you eventualy feel it —

your face goes red immediately, and you hopelessly try to hold onto his biceps as he grinds the very obvious bulge against you.

you can hear every wet smack of his lips on yours, the lecherous sound bouncing off the sides of your throat into your ear. he's practically devouring you by this point, panting into the wet cavern of your mouth.

there’s a hunger in the way he looks at you, not for anything fleeting, but for the entirety of you — your voice, your laughter, the way you carry yourself

he needs you so bad that it's breaking him apart.

a small yelp escapes you when varka suddenly lifts you into his arms.

the motion pulls your lips from his, the kiss breaking too soon. he doesn’t go far, though — only tilts his head forward until his forehead rests against yours, breath warm against your skin.

your hands fumble to rest at his shoulders, steadying yourself in his arms.

"yeah, much better," he laughs, bright as ever, "my back was killin' me, leaned over too much."

varka's moved the both of you to the living room now, hs probably knocked into a few things on the way but the two of you are much too distracted to care.

"it's not my fault you're built like a hilichurl tower." you quip, looking to the sides so you can avoid his peering eyes.

he flashes you a fond, crooked grin, resting his face on your chest. "hilichurl tower? surely, there are better structures to describe someone like me."

"like what, grandmaster?"

"a guizhong ballista?"

". . . i have no idea what that is."

varka lingers dangerously near your throat, warm breath brushing your skin.

"hah, don't worry, love— you'll find out soon."

you're sitting on his lap now, directly over the twitching bulge of his cock. your thighs flinch at every shift of his hips, feeling it brush over your warmth.

he's nipping at your exposed neck, leaving faint marks that you'll scold him for in the morning. though, varka could care less about the scolding he'll get when he has you exactly how he wants you:

flushed, trembling, and soaking wet.

the strap of your dress starts to fall off your shoulder, revealing the rest of your cleavage for him to stare at. he's mesmerized at how beautiful you look, finding it hard to believe he has you all for himself.

"have i ever told you how beautiful you are?" he rasps, unzipping your dress from behind. maybe it's because of the way he's speaking to you in that tone, looking at you with that gaze, but you suddenly feel like putty in his hands.

"many times, i believe you say it everyday."

he chuckles, "really?" pulling the dress down further until it's bunched at your hips. "s'pose i can't really help it when you make me hard every damn time i walk into this house."

you feel him lick and suck bruises into your skin, each mark blooming red and pink across the canvas of your flesh — a vivid display of his relentless desire for you.

"aren't you embarrassed being this shameless at your big age?"

even well past thirty, there’s still that same restless hunger in the way he looks at you, the same eagerness in the way his hands find yours. time may have carved new lines into his face and scattered scars across his body, but it has never managed to dull the way he wants you.

varka makes a show of caressing your thighs, pushing your skirt along with it, "shameless? i'm just being honest, don't you like an honest man?"

he sneaks a glimpse at the cotton underwear hidden beneath, swallowing the urge to push them aside and take you already.

"maybe if this honest man stopped seducing me everytime he came home, i'll like him better." you huff, carding your fingers through his disheveled hair.

he looks back up at you.

"oh?" varka smiles toothily, amusement rolling off him in waves, "so the lady screamin' for more last night was just a figment of my imagination then? the very same lady who rode me so well she—"

memories of last night started flowing into your head, causing you to fluster.

your hands immediately fly to his mouth, shutting him up for good, "okay! i get it, that's enough!"

you hear his muffled laughter through the gaps of your palms, his eyes crinkling with shameless amusement.

meanwhile you’re left flushed and needy beneath him.

it’s terribly unfair.

for all the years you’ve had this man wrapped around your finger, not once have you felt undesired.

if anything, there were moments you felt too desired.

his appetite for you was relentless — rivaled only by his well-known love for alcohol.

passion has never dimmed in your marriage,. you were in an eternal state of the so-called 'honeymoon phase' where the two of you fucked like rabbits and slobbered over each other anytime you can.

that never changed, even as varka traded the reckless, stubborn youth he once was for the measured, commanding man worthy of the grandmaster’s position.

you actually found it quite funny that the young boy who used to cause a ruckus everyday for valentine would mellow down into this boisterous but dependable leader.

he's changed so much over the years, turning into the pillar of strength in mondstadt — a legend among men.

and even so, he still acted the same with you, as if he was that same bumbling fool who professed his love to anyone who would listen.

varka might have changed — in ways that might seem inconsequential to anyone else — but deep down, he was still the same man you married all those years ago.

even down to that insatiable hunger he always carried for you.

your husband has you laid out on the sofa, legs wrapped around his waist — though they never quite meet around him, his broad frame simply too large, pressing you close in all the ways you’ve grown to know and crave.

"is it too much, hun?" varka asks, combing a hand through his hair to keep it away from his eyes, all so he could stare at the way your face scrunched up for him, kiss-swollen lips trembling from the stretch.

"need me to slow down a li'l?"

you vigorously shake your head, clutching at the large palm softly caressing your cheek, "no, no, keep going, please—"

varka laughs at your desperate cries, pushing a bit further into your warmth. it's always been necessary to prep you for hours before you could take him without much pain, and varka doesn't mind the extra work – he quite enjoys it actually.

but you don't have that patience, too needy and wanting to feel him inside you as soon as possible. he finds it very cute by the way, seeing you beg for it always gets blood rushing to his nether regions in no time.

"taking me so well," he whispers, kissing your forehead, "just a bit more, mhm? be a good girl f'me."

you whimper, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he starts to slowly thrust back and forth, and it immediately makes you even wetter, soaking him in your juices.

varka lets out a lengthy groan, throwing his head back when he feels you clench around him.

“fuck,” his brows pull together, beads of sweat trailing down the hairs of his chest. “relax a bit. . . gonna break me at this rate.”

varka chuckles lowly, an obscene grin curling across his lips.

"s-sorry. . . " you say, clinging to his arms like it's the only thing anchoring you to reality.

his wolf-tooth pendant sway with every delicious roll of his hips, nailing you to the cushion, the metal glinting under the dim-lighting of your home.

your eyes linger on the many scars along his chest and arms, each one waz a testament to the battles he’s survived — a symbol of courage, of years spent facing danger without hesitation for the sake of his lobed ones.

and yet it’s the very same body he uses to carry you to bed, careful hands far gentler than anyone could imagine.

the same arms that once raised a blade now wrap around you with an ease that feels almost tender, as if the weight of war and bloodshed melts away the moment you’re in them.

it always amazes you — how a man built for battle can hold you like something precious.

varka's lips found its way to the dip of your neck, licking anywhere he could while his hips gain a steady rhythm for the both of you.

and soon enough, you start to see blurry white stars along the edges of your vision.

decades may have passed between the two of you, yet varka’s desire has never learned how to calm itself. age has softened many things in life, but not this — not the way his hands still find you with the same urgency, thee same hunger as it did all those years ago.

time may wear down mountains, but it has never managed to wear down the fire he carries for you.

"still, ah, with me?" varka asks, face still buried in the crook of your neck. his voice a soft and warm thing, contrasting the way his hips viciously slam against your soaking heat.

you could barely even garble an answer, moaning and whimpering his name at every hard thrust.

varka gently pushes your knees toward your chest, holding you close as he leans over you, his presence overwhelming in the small space between you.

you could feel every vein and throb of his thick cock, the way he stretches you out sooo good that it leaves you limbless.

he's got an arm under both of knees, locking them together, and pushing them to the side of his waist.

"take a deep breath for me," varka warns you, chuckling at the way your pussy seems to respond instead, pulsing around him with need.

he fucks you roughly, frantically pushing in and pulling out. bright red marks start to form on your ass, his pelvis repeatedly hitting against it.

every loud slap of skin makes you go dizzy, mind turning into mush as you let yourself get lost into the throes of pleasure.

your neighbors could probably hear you by now, moaning so loud that the sound bounces off the walls. varka could care less, more than happy to let you disturb the ones nextdoors — what are they gonna do? complain to the knights of favonius?

plus, hearing you sing his name like this, talking about how good everything feels and how he's 'too big' just pushes him off the edge.

he leans over to lick your lips, fingers brushing onto the side of your face.

"too much, hngh. . . "

varka laughs quietly against your ear, the sound deep and gravelly, “oh, but you love it rough. don’t you, pretty?”

your nearly roll to the back of your head, a line of drool slipping past your parted lips, "yes, i do! love it s'much—"

"really?" varka teases, voice low with desire. he wipes the drool with his thumb before bringing it back to your lips, "tell me how good it is then, c'mon, cry for me."

cry for me.

this is the only time varka would let tears run down your face willingly. he loves seeing how good he makes you feel, especially through the soft cries of his name.

"i love you! i love you!" you wail, feeling him speed up, the sounds of skin against skin getting louder. "ah! varka—"

he’s practically buzzing with adoration, every muscle taut and alive with each “i love you” that slips from your lips. even now, his heart leaps every time you praise him — a feeling that has never waned, no matter how many years have passed.

he bites his lip, letting his hips do the talking.

the sofa shakes with every brutal thrust, wood creaking under his weìght and strength.

he laughs, a low rumbling thing that makes your cunt throb, "fucking gorgeous, could never get tired of this pussy—hah, shit."

"could never, ever, get tired of you."

a mixture of sweat, drool, and cum is splattered across his meaty thighs and sticking to the trail of hair along his navel.

varka loves it when you make a mess — whether it’s around the house or on his cock. to him, it simply means his wife feels comfortable enough to let herself go around him.

and he loves it the most when you arch so beautifully in his arms, cunt clamping hard on him as you cum — you could call it an addiction with the way he groans at the way your eyes cross, whimpering his name.

"i love you too," varka whispers into your ear, leaving small butterfly kisses along the shell of it, "gonna—ugh—cum." he stutters, a low exhale leaving his lips.

your nails scratch down along his shoulders, leaving bright red marks but the pain doesn't register for him, too busy chasing his release.

not that something as small as a scratch could ever faze him.

his eyes never leave yours, following every tremble, every small gasp, as if he could memorize you whole. varka’s expression stays gentle, even as his hands leave indents on your skin — a silent tether, a promise you’re not going anywhere.

even through overestimated tears, you manage to see the silhouette of his face, desperate in a way he shouldn't be. after all, he had you nearly everyday, so why is it that he always fucks you as if it's your last?

varka presses down on you — hard. putting most of his weight onto you while you keen, cumming for a second time.

his hips goes completely still, filling you to the brim with all of his length.

all while he crashes his lips into yours — hungry, desperate, and all consuming, moaning into the kiss while your tears fall from overwhelming pleasure.

"sorry, honey. . . i don't think i'll be able to hold back tonight."

"ugh, maybe i should just go ahead and get married too. . . " one of the junior knight sighs dreamily, looking at the grandmaster's bright grin as he steps into the favonius headquarters.

his partner looks at him with a confused expression, "hah? what brought this on?"

the junior knight, palez, points over to varka, "the grandmaster gets to come home to a sweet, loving wife and a warm meal. . . that's why he's always smiley like that, look at how much he's glowing!"

"are you mentally ill?"

a suave voice cuts in, "oh dear, gossiping about the grandmaster's love life in such an open space, getting a little too chummy are we?"

kaeya and rosaria look at the two knights, and an air of chill sweeps through making them shiver. when put together, these two are no joke (outside of a tavern).

"s-sorry! captain kaeya, sister rosaria! it won't happen again." the two frantically salute, palms already getting sweaty.

kaeya laughs lightly, saluting half-heartedly as he walks away. rosaria follows right behind, her expression as icy as ever.

step.

step.

step.

". . . ."

"you think she's alright?" kaeya whispers, cringing at the thought of you being bedridden again.

rosaria can only scoff, massaging her temples as if talking about it was already giving her a migraine, "likely not. she hasn't gone to good hunter all morning which means she's. . ."

"especially since he's looking so refreshed then she's probably. . . " kaeya trails off, silently praying for your recovery.

speak of the devil.

kaeya straightens up, smiling like normal. rosaria rolls her eyes, wincing at the loud voice.

"oh, hey— it's you two! thank barbatos! mind doin' me a small favor?" varka greets them with an enthusiastic wave, a bright, boyish grin on his face.

and he shall appear.

"jean's gonna tie me to the desk at this rate," varka grumbles, "so i was hoping you two could drop this off for me—"

he shoves them something warm wrapped in cloth, rosaria takes it and perks up at the familiar smell of food — it's your favorite dish from good hunter.

kaeya shares a look with her, looking back up at varka with a sly grin, "of course, leave it to us."

.

.

.

it's just another day at mondstadt.

oddly enough, you woke up that morning with your stomach feeling warmer than usual.

it's probably nothing.

#it's-your-captain-ari-speaking ☆ i was listening to sade while scrolling on twitter dot come when i suddenly came across such a golden tweet that inspired me to immediately open my tumblr drafts to goonwrite.

I KNOWW ITS ASS...im sorry i just wrote this in between other longfics.....just...take rhis for now...ill edit it when i have time

btw just a funny thing i added but he laughs/chuckles a lot in this fic, this is bcs i went through his voicelines and istg — this guy always has to let out a "AHAHAHAHAHA!" or "hahahaha. . . " or even a small "heh." like omg shuuut up....he just be hootin' and hollerin' all over mondstadt bro 😭😭 he is soo happy to be alive.

i asked the gc for a title, and 8 out of 11 people voted for "AITA for fucking my wife too often??" while the rest either voted/recommended "a case of erectile overfunction" or "HOPPIN' DIH DIH DIH" which cracks me up a bit.

anyways brought to you by this #truthnuke of a tweet lol:

“she doesn’t let the ball drop,” ushijima stated, his voice booming in the quiet tatami room like a sacred temple gong. he’s sitting perfectly straight, staring at his mother with an expression that could only be described as aggressively proud. “her platform is the most stable i have seen in the miyagi prefecture high school girls’ division. her center of gravity is remarkable.”

mrs. ushijima sat across from you, pouring barley tea with the grace of a woman who had never accidentally stubbed her toe in her entire life. she looked up, her sharp eyes scanning your face, then landing on her son.

“i see,” she murmured. then, a very tiny, very elegant smile touched her lips. “you chose well, wakatoshi. she has excellent posture.”

“thank you,” ushijima said, nodding once, looking immensely pleased with himself. “she’s my girlfriend.”

you, currently chewing on a piece of pear, just beamed and nodded along. yes! friend who is a girl! that’s me! you even gave his mom a little thumbs-up. “he’s really nice to me at school, mrs. ushijima! he let me use his personal muscle roller yesterday. it’s very heavy, but he carried it across campus for me.”

mrs. ushijima’s smile widened by approximately two millimeters—a monumental shift. “he’s a boy of few words, but he’s dedicated. please take care of him. he can be… single-minded.”

“oh, i know!” you laughed, completely missing the heavy, deliberate weight behind her words. “at practice, he just stares at me until i take a water break. it’s like having a giant guard dog.”

ushijima’s eyes softened so much they looked like melting chocolate. his hand came down on your knee—not a casual tap, but a heavy, warm weight that felt like an anchor anchoring you to the earth. “you require hydration to maintain your response time. i’m only monitoring your safety.”

your heart did a weird, violent salsa dance against your ribs. wow, you thought, he’s such a caring friend. boys’ volleyball captains are so intense.

the real test came twenty minutes later when ushijima’s phone began to buzz with a video call notification. he slid the screen open, revealing the face of his father, takashi utsui, sitting in what looked like an apartment in california.

“wakatoshi!” his dad grinned, the background behind him bright with american sunlight. “how’s the training going? are you hitting the cross-shots like we talked about?”

“the training is optimal, father,” wakatoshi replied, holding the phone out at an angle that gave his dad a magnificent view of the ceiling and half of his own forehead. “however, that isn’t why i’m calling. i need you to see her.”

he aggressively pivoted the phone toward your face. you suddenly found yourself staring into a screen, your eyes wide like a deer caught in high-beam headlights.

“hello!” you chirped, waving a hand.

his dad blinked, leaning closer to his camera. “oh! oh, wow! wakatoshi, is this—?”

“this is my girlfriend,” ushijima declared to the entire state of california. “she plays as a libero. her lateral movement is exceptional. during our last scrimmage, she defended three consecutive spikes from my opposite angle without losing her balance.”

takashi’s face erupted into a massive, delighted grin. “no way! a libero? you pulled a defensive specialist? man, i always knew you had good taste, but this is legendary! hey there, kiddo! how do his serves taste? they’re heavy, right?”

“they feel like a bowling ball falling from the second floor, sir!” you replied honestly, leaning into the frame. “but if i angle my wrists just right, they pop right back up to the ceiling!”

“she’s magnificent,” ushijima added, his voice dropping into a register so thick with reverence it belonged in a cathedral. he was looking at you through the screen, even though you were sitting right next to him. his gaze was a physical weight, warm and utterly unblinking. “i have no intention of letting anyone else have her.”

you blushed, your cheeks feeling like they have a built in heater. jeez, he really takes this friendship loyalty seriously. sport bonds are crazy.

“hey, treat her right, you hear me?” takashi laughed, shaking his fist playfully at the camera. “don’t just talk to her about air resistance and muscle fibers! take her out for parfaits!”

“i buy her meat buns every tuesday,” ushijima said, entirely serious. “and i carry her duffel bag because it keeps her shoulders aligned for the weekend matches.”

“good lad! nice to meet you, kid! keep him in line!”

the call ended, leaving the room quiet again. you turned to ushijima, your heart thumping against your chest like a trapped bird. “your dad seems really cool, waka. you look a lot like him.”

wakatoshi set the phone down. he didn’t pick up his tea. instead, he shifted his massive frame so he was facing you completely, his knees brushing against your thigh. the sheer size of him always made you feel small, but right now, with the afternoon sun hitting the side of his olive-brown hair, he felt massive in a way that made your stomach twist into a bunch of happy knots.

“he’s glad,” wakatoshi said softly.

“glad about what?”

“that i found you.” his large, calloused hand reached out, his thumb gently brushing a stray crumb of mango from the corner of your mouth. his touch was incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the hands that could dent floors with a leather ball. “i told him last month that i found someone who makes me want to play better. he told me to keep her close.”

your throat felt entirely dry. “oh. that’s… that’s really nice of him.”

the next morning at school, you were standing by the shoe lockers when tendō materialized from behind a pillar like a tall, red-headed sleep paralysis demon.

“soooo!” tendō sang, leaning down until his nose was nearly touching yours, his eyes wide with interest for gossip. “the golden boy took the celestial shield to the home fortress! how was the queen mother? did she approve of the future daughter-in-law? did wakatoshi show you his collection of perfectly organized sports towels? details, look, details!”

you slipped your indoor shoes on, looking at him with mild confusion. “mrs. ushijima was really nice! she gave me barley tea. and we talked to his dad on the phone. he’s in california!”

semi, who was walking past with a stack of printouts, stopped dead in his tracks. the papers creased under his grip. “wait. hold on. he introduced you to his parents? both of them? in the same afternoon?”

“yeah,” you said, adjusting your school bag. “wakatoshi’s so sweet. he’s the best friend i’ve made since coming to shiratorizawa. he’s just so supportive of my volleyball career.”

the hallway went dead silent.

semi’s soul looked like it was actively trying to escape through his ears again. tendō froze mid-sway, his long fingers locking into claws in front of his chest.

“…friend?” tendō whispered, his voice cracking like dry kindling. “friend who is a boy? platonic? like… a buddy? a pal? a comrade-in-arms?”

“well, yeah,” you said, completely earnest. “he asked me to be his girl-friend after that joint practice, remember? it’s really nice having a guy friend who doesn’t make a big deal out of things. he just treats me normally.”

from five feet away, shirabu walked past, paused, looked at your face, looked at tendō’s melting expression, and simply said, “moron.” then he kept walking.

“no, no, no,” semi said, dropping his papers onto a nearby bench. he grabbed you by the shoulders, his eyes wide with a frantic, desperate energy. “look at my face. listen to my words. ushijima wakatoshi does not have ‘girl-friends.’ he doesn’t even have regular friends that he invites over to meet his mother. tendō has been close to him for years and he’s only seen the inside of that house twice, and both times were because of a group project on regional agriculture!”

“he’s literally courting you like an eighteenth-century warlord,” tendō wheezed, clutching his stomach as a massive grin broke across his face. “oh my god. he thinks you’re his fiancé at this point. he probably has a small shrine dedicated to your knee pads in his bedroom.”

you blinked, the words slowly tumbling around in your brain. courting? fiancé? shrine?

“but… he just likes my receives,” you mumbled, though your face was suddenly reaching a boiling point. “he says my center of gravity is optimal.”

“that is the equivalent of a poetry slam for him!” semi yelled, throwing his hands up. “if that man tells you your platform is stable, he’s basically asking you to move in with him!”

before you could process the absolute collapse of your reality, a heavy shadow fell over the three of you.

ushijima stood at the end of the hall. he had his blazer buttoned perfectly, his hair neat, and in his right hand, he was holding a small, warm plastic bag from the convenience store. he walked past semi and tendō as if they were nothing more than decorative house plants, stopping right in front of you.

“the cafeteria was out of the pork buns you like,” he said, his deep voice instantly cutting through the panic in your head. he reached into the bag and pulled out a fresh, steaming bun, wrapping it carefully in a napkin so you wouldn’t burn your fingers. “so i walked to the station store before the bell rang. eat it before class starts. your energy levels need to be high for the afternoon receiving drills.”

you looked at the warm bun in your hands. then you looked up at his face.

for the first time, you noticed the way he was looking at you. it wasn’t the look he gave the whiteboard during strategy meetings. it wasn’t even the look he gave a perfectly inflated ball. his pupils were blown wide, his jaw was slightly relaxed, and there was a soft, almost desperate warmth in his eyes that was entirely directed at you. he looked like a man who had stared into the sun and decided he never wanted to look at the dark again.

“wakatoshi,” you squeaked, your heart doing a massive backflip that left you slightly dizzy. “do you… do you think we’re dating?”

ushijima tilted his head, his brow furrowing in genuine, uncomplicated confusion.

“we are,” he said simply. “i asked you to be my girlfriend. you said yes. i have already informed my family and the team captain registration form for the summer tournament lists you as my emergency contact.”

tendō let out a high-pitched shriek of pure joy behind him, while semi just covered his face with both hands, groaning into his palms.

you stared at him, the sheer, beautiful absurdity of the situation finally crashing down. he was so serious. so completely, utterly devoted to you that he hadn’t even considered the possibility of a misunderstanding. he had just decided you were his, and he had been taking care of you with every ounce of his massive, stubborn heart ever since.

a sudden, wild burst of affection bloomed in your chest. you took a big bite of the pork bun, chewed quickly, swallowed, and grabbed his free hand with both of yours.

“okay,” you said, your face burning but your grin matching his dad’s from across the ocean. “then you better buy me the big parfait after practice today, boyfriend.”

ushijima’s eyes widened slightly, a rare, beautiful flash of teeth showing as a genuine smile broke across his face. his hand squeezed yours back, so hard your fingers cracked a little, but you didn’t care at all.

“i will buy you three,” he said.

n: i’ll be going out to treat my siblings tomorrow so idk if i can upload :3 it’s my little sister’s birthday tomorrow !

© showhay — don’t copy, repost, or translate without my permission. do not use/feed my works to AI.

you hey number neighbor! hope youre having a good night :) xxx-xxx-xx3 Please stop texting this number.  you huh xxx-xxx-xx3 I'm a 45 year old male and this is my work number; I don't have time to deal with unemployed people like you.  Do not contact me again. you fuck im so sorry message failed to send

ah. he actually blocked you.

you let out a breathless laugh into your pillow, face burning from embarrassment. “oh my god.”

well. that went horribly.

but now you're fully awake, and the adrenaline of getting instantly rejected by some 45 year old man (you hope he isn't too peeved about that..) has you feeling reckless. 

after all, there's still the 5.

you copy the number, change the last digit – again, a five this time – and send the text before you can overthink it.

you okay i hope you arent a 45 year old man this time too because my other number neighbor just blocked me lmao anyway hi number neighbor !! (take two) xxx-xxx-xx5 ?? who is this?? and why are you texting me at 2am about middle aged men ^-^ you im your number neighbor 😔 our numbers are the same except the last digit xxx-xxx-xx5 hold on you holding xxx-xxx-xx5 WAIT OMG THEY ARE you see im not insane xxx-xxx-xx5 debatable you disliked this message and wow your other neighbor blocked you immediately? that’s embarrassing for you you i don't need another person to tell me 💔💔 xxx-xxx-xx5 too bad i'm telling you you okay dude xxx-xxx-xx5 you know what vibe you give off (^-^) you what xxx-xxx-xx5 small and grumpy

you snort quietly into your blanket.

if you have to say so, there's something stupidly easy about texting this person, even if it's only been a few messages. the texts come quick, like they're typing the second they get yours instead of leaving you on read for a bit. half teasing, half genuinely interested it appears.

you hesitate, fingers stalling on the keyboard before hurriedly replying.

you first of all  im not grumpy xxx-xxx-xx5 if not grumpy you texted strangers at 2am that, btw, automatically makes you a little weird you says the person answering xxx-xxx-xx5 touché ;) you liked this message but what made you text me well me and the 45 yr old man you couldn't sleep you? xxx-xxx-xx5 my practice ran late bones aching and muscles sore brain is still awake you practice for what and what the fuck is that a fucking haiku xxx-xxx-xx5 secret ;) fucking and fucking yes fucking it's fucking a fucking haiku you i literally said it twice. you are so dramatic 🫩 xxx-xxx-xx5 thank you! ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 

you roll your eyes – dramatic is honestly the perfect word for them. and as for those blasted emoticons, kaomojis, whatever you call them-

in any case, every message sent through from them somehow feels like they can't help making everything sound theatrical, even through text.

your phone vibrates again before you can answer.

xxx-xxx-xx5 WAIT what if YOURE actually a 45 year old man trying to lure me into a false sense of security!? you yeah definitely that's exactly what's happening xxx-xxx-xx5 i knew it you CON ARTIST you go to sleep grandma xxx-xxx-xx5 grandma??? 😨 i'm youthful and radiant actually (≧◡≦) and i'd be grandpa you gramps, only old people say youthful and radiant xxx-xxx-xx5 and you have experience with that you omfg no xxx-xxx-xx5 wow this relationship is becoming toxic  you swear like a sailor (⇀‸↼‶) you this is not a relationship 😭 arr me hearties xxx-xxx-xx5 wow okay way to friendzone me you we're not even friends xxx-xxx-xx5 YOU'RE SO CRUEL you goodnight annoying neighbor you changed xxx-xxx-xx5 to annoying neighbour 🙄 annoying neighbour 🙄 get rid of that emoji i’m begging you that is gruesome you no i’d rather not annoying neighbour 🙄 well then annoying neighbour 🙄 changed xxx-xxx-xx4 to oh so lovely neighbour (˘ ³˘) annoying neighbour 🙄 now we're matching you i actually don't mind that tbh annoying neighbour 🙄 liked this message

you fall asleep smiling at your phone despite yourself.

the next morning, you wake up late. obviously not because you went to sleep past three am.

your phone is at 12%, and there's a text waiting for you.

annoying neighbour 🙄 good morning! •⩊• did the 45 yr old text you back yet?

you snort, a little huff of laughter escaping your mouth.

you no 💔 he blocked me remember annoying neighbour 🙄 oh yes i should do that stranger danger you know.. you oh stfu why are YOU awake this early annoying neighbour 🙄 stop with that attitude some of us are productive members of society you i don’t believe that for two seconds annoying neighbour 🙄 then believe it for one

the next few days, texting him weirdly becomes part of your routine, first nature.

well, you still don't know their name, or age, or what they look like (a boy, apparently), but you know quite a lot at the same time.

like how they're the type to talk with their hands because they spam texts in bursts instead of one message, and you know they complain dramatically when they're hungry, you know they're competitive about literally everything, and-

yeah, you could go on.

annoying neighbour 🙄 just beat my friend at mario kart btw im basically a professional athlete you that is not athleticism. annoying neighbour 🙄 that's wrong actually! my thumbs are incredibly talented you that sounded gross annoying neighbour 🙄 OH MY GOSH NOT LIKE THAT?? why is your mind so dirty (¯ ¯٥) you reacted ! to this message 

you never send selfies, but they never ask either. however, sometimes you catch yourself wondering,

wondering if their grin is as smug as it sounds through text,

wondering what kind of expression they make when they type all these stupid dramatic messages, 

wondering if your luck is crazy enough that they have an extremely attractive face.

judging by your luck so far, though, probably not.

one friday night, you're brushing your teeth when your phone buzzes from where it lies on the sink counter.

annoying neighbour 🙄 EMERGENCY you what annoying neighbour 🙄 i need you to settle an argument you why me :/ annoying neighbour 🙄 because i trust strangers on the internet  obviously you that sounds unsafe who would even think! of texting on in the first place?? annoying neighbour 🙄 liked this message annoying neighbour 🙄 my friend says mint chocolate chip ice cream tastes like toothpaste tell him he's wrong you LMAO i'm brushing my teeth right now what a coincidence your friend is right actually annoying neighbour 🙄 blocked.

you grin.

you wow first the 45 yr old now this everyone keeps abandoning me 🤧 annoying neighbour 🙄 you deserve it for your horrible opinions you you're so dramatic annoying neighbour 🙄 you've said!  you do continue texting me every day though ⸜( ˙˘˙)⸝ now go brush your teeth, i bet they're stinky.. you oh shut up

then you pause, because he’s right; every day. without really meaning to, it's become constant.

whether it's during class, or late at night, while shopping, when he's apparently ‘at practice’.

you're still not one hundred percent sure what sport he plays, but you're beginning to suspect volleyball purely because of how often he complains about his shoulders, since you're somewhat knowledgeable on the sport.

and also, because one time he texted:

‘if one more person tells me serves are easy i'm going to lose it.’

this time, you're sitting in your kitchen eating cereal straight from the box when another text comes through.

annoying neighbour 🙄 i think my teammate is trying to kill me. you HELLO?? annoying neighbour 🙄 he spiked a ball directly at my face i'm sure it was on purpose (◑_◑) you oh so you do play volleyball .. wait did i guess right annoying neighbour 🙄 shit you HAHAAHAHHA annoying neighbour 🙄 don't laugh at me i liked being mysterious and all that you there is nothing mysterious about the way you text 😭😭 annoying neighbour 🙄 wow.

you stifle a laugh, then return to your cereal.

not even a minute later, though-

annoying neighbour 🙄 for the record i'm very mysteriously good looking ᵔ.ᵔ

you nearly choke on cereal. the confidence on this man..

that night you're walking home from the convenience store when your phone buzzes – again.

annoying neighbour 🙄 bad news you what now annoying neighbour 🙄 i think my teammate stole my knee pads you just confirming this is the same teammate who spiked a ball into your head and said mint chocolate chip ice cream tastes like toothpaste right annoying neighbour 🙄 YES you cool why would someone steal knee pads tho 😭 annoying neighbour 🙄 jealousy  envy obsession need i go on you no thanks  annoying neighbour 🙄 you wound me (╥﹏╥)

you smile, fingers typing back a snarky response, but then, then-

someone bumps into your shoulder, hard, and your phone nearly slips out of your hand as you nearly faceplant onto the concrete.

“sorry,” the stranger mutters, barely glancing back before continuing down the sidewalk.

you frown, then glance at your phone. you type out a response again.

you bro someone walked into me and nearly knocked me over

and at the exact same time you send it-

annoying neighbour 🙄 OMG i just saw someone almost eat shit on the sidewalk ⊙﹏⊙

you stop dead in your tracks.

that.. can't be a coincidence, right?

slowly, you look up.

across the street, near the crosswalk, a tall guy in a white hoodie is staring at his phone.

then he looks up too.

and even from this far away, you can see the way he freezes up.

no. way.

your heart starts pounding, frantically panging against your chest in a quick rhythm.

nope. absolutely not. there's no fakaashing way.

you start to type again, but slower this time, fingers hesitantly pressing each letter.

you if you're wearing a hoodie by chance what colour is it annoying neighbour 🙄 white you oh my god that better not be you standing there.

you stare across the street in horror, and the guy lowers his phone slowly.

then the light changes, and instead of crossing toward you-

he immediately turns around and starts walking fast the opposite direction.

like, fast. really fast.

your jaw drops, not at the speed (although shit, it is insanely quick) but at the fact he's literally running away.

you DID YOU JUST RUN AWAY?? annoying neighbour 🙄 SELF DEFENSE you WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN annoying neighbour 🙄 this is too much pressure suddenly Ծ_Ծ i wasn't emotionally prepared to find out you're like actually real

you burst out laughing. people stare, but you don't even remotely care.

annoying neighbour 🙄 so you were the one that nearly ate shit.. you oh hush you changed annoying neighbour 🙄 to run(a)way queen run(a)way queen i would complain but that's sort of genius you i know run(a)way queen changed oh so lovely neighbour (˘ ³˘) to shit eater :p you im not playing you better fucking change that right now before i chase after you. run(a)way queen oh please like you could catch me you YOU HAVE 5 SECONDS run(a)way queen OKAY OKAY run(a)way queen changed shit eater :p to run after queen you really run(a)way queen hey i had no ideas it's better than shit eater you you mean akaashiit had no ideas akaashiit oops run(a)way queen what the

after that, things get worse, or better – you're not entirely sure.

because now there's a face attached to the texts.

okay, well. sort of. you really only saw him for maybe.. three seconds?

tall, brown hair (you believe; it was hard to tell from only the faint light of the streetlamps) and that white hoodie.

also,the most obnoxiously smug posture you've ever seen in your life.

you you literally fled the scene like a criminal omg are you a criminal run(a)way queen listen i panicked you mhm sure  run(a)way queen AND YOU WERE SHORT??? like i've been calling you short but damn you really are this is the best day of my life you blocked. run(a)way queen NO WAIT

you still don't exchange names though. mostly because now it's become weirdly funny not to.

he calls you gremlin, menace, shortstack, the likes.

you call him drama queen, pretty boy, loser, read more.

he reacts quite strongly to pretty boy, which is suspicious.

one night he randomly sends:

run(a)way queen be honest am i your favorite person to text you absolutely not run(a)way queen you replied in 4 seconds btw （˶′◡‵˶）

and with that, you promptly yeet deposit throw your phone across the bed.

sometimes, he disappears for hours, usually after ‘practice’, but that's understandable since you're busy too.

then he comes back texting like nothing happened.

run(a)way queen im alive you congrats here's a golden star ⭐️ run(a)way queen wow no concern for my wellbeing?? you ?i gave you a star what more do you want dude run(a)way queen heartless (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞ you whered u go anyway run(a)way queen match you did you win?

the pause that follows is long enough that you think he won't answer, then:

run(a)way queen yeah :) you good job then i'm sure you played well 

three whole minutes pass.

run(a)way queen careful there! you almost sounded nice (≧◡≦) you JUST LET ME COMPLIMENT YOU 🫩

a few days later, you're sitting in class half asleep when your phone vibrates under the desk.

run(a)way queen EMERGENCY PART 2 you if this is about ice cream again i'm blocking you for real this time run(a)way queen dead sirius?? ( ͠° ͟ʖ ͡°) you you didn't. run(a)way queen ANYWAY worse i think one of my classmates has a crush on me and is planning to confess later

you blink.

why does that annoy you a little..

you okay? run(a)way queen okay?? that's all u have to say? you what do you want me to say 😭 run(a)way queen idk maybe cry a little (˶‾᷄ ⁻̫ ‾᷅˵) you and why would i cry run(a)way queen good question actudnf fkrmtm

you stare.

yeah.. he definitely got his phone taken away.

frowning, you lock your phone harder than necessary.

stupid. that's stupid. you don't even know this guy!

later that evening, he texts again.

run(a)way queen sorry i got my phone taken (◑_◑) you yes i could tell run(a)way queen i rejected her

your fingers pause over the keyboard – it's funny how you know what he's talking about straight away.

you why are you reporting this information to me like i'm your manager  run(a)way queen because secrets aren't good in relationships! you there's that word again..

you hate how warm your face feels.

the first actual real conversation happens accidentally.

you're out in the rain, trying to get home, safe and sound, when your umbrella honest to god snaps inside out from the wind.

you stand there in disbelief, getting more drenched by the second. surely your day can't get any worse.

run(a)way queen you alive

you send a picture of your destroyed umbrella, and his reply comes immediately.

run(a)way queen LMFAOOO that umbrella gave up on life you this is not funny run(a)way queen it's a little funny wait where are you rn

you pause, then send a vague picture of the street.

run(a)way queen oh wait i know where that is you what run(a)way queen don't panic but i think im like 5 mins away you that sounds threatening when you say it like that run(a)way queen LMAO do you need help or not

you glance up at the pouring rain and instantly get pelted in the eye, which makes up your mind straight away.

you fine but if you murder me i'll be really annoyed you know run(a)way queen liked this message

five minutes later, more or less, a black umbrella appears beside you.

you turn your head, and-

oh.

oh, he's pretty.

the first coherent thought that hits you.

still fluffy brown hair damp from the rain, stupidly sharp eyes that are crinkled up,. taller than you by an infuriating amount, an athletic build.

and smiling at you like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him.

“you are shorter than i imagined,” he says immediately, and you roll your eyes.

“you ran away last time,” is what you answer with. you try to keep the tremble out of your voice, and pray that if he does hear it, he'll believe it's from the cold.

shit. you understand why that girl had a crush on him now.

he shrugs, still grinning at you. “fight or flight response.”

“and.. you chose flight.”

“obviously.”

his voice embodies his texts somehow. dramatic and smooth and teasing all at once.

you stare at each other awkwardly for two seconds.

then at the same time,

“you really are pretty–”

“you really do talk too much–”

you both stop, and he blinks. then grins slowly.

“waaaait,” he says, an even larger smile spreading across his handsome face. “what was that first part?”

you flush. “nothing.” oh, why did you have to open your mouth?

“no no, say it again, i insist.” he's still grinning.

“absolutely not.”

“you think i'm pretty–”

“oh my god shut up.”

he laughs loudly enough that two people walking by glance over, and you swear one of them leans over and murmurs about ‘what an adorable couple you are’.

you clear your throat, tapping your foot against the pavement. “ i do not talk too much. i've literally barely spoken – if anything, you’re the chatterbox here.”

he continues to stare at you, an amused expression on his face.

“what?’ you demand.

“that was sixteen words in one sentence.” he beams. “point proven.”

“it was two sentences you nincompoop-”

walking home beside him under one umbrella feels like it's the only right way.

which is dangerous – walking next to him is dangerous, breathing the same air as him is dangerous, just being near him is dangerous. 

that's the only conclusion you come to during the fifteen minute walk home.

before this, he'd just been texts on a screen, annoying messages at 2am. 

dumb kaomojis. dramatic complaints about volleyball and life and mint chocolate chip ice cream.

now he's this actual, living breathing person beside you holding an umbrella, slightly more over your side than his without mentioning it.

and unfortunately, he's pretty enough to be a genuine problem.

“you're staring,” he says casually.

you'd think he's being cocky if you didn't chance a look at him to see the red snow peaking his ears.

god, he knows exactly what he looks like – of course he does.

“you talk exactly like you text,” you mumble into the collar of your jacket.

he smiles. “is that a compliment?”

“not really.”

he stops, causing you to stop too. “ouch,” he says, quirking an eyebrow at you that you snort at.

you glance at him sideways. “sooo.. what do i call you now?”

he gasps dramatically, putting a hand to his forehead. “wow. after all we've been through together, you still don't know my name?”

“bye, i'm leaving-”

“hey- wait-” he reaches out and grabs your wrist just as you turn to leave. you weren’t really going to, but..

when you turn to him with wide eyes, he clears his throat and lets go, albeit reluctantly.

you don’t know that, of course.

he laughs again, all loud and easy but sort of.. breathily? this time. “you can keep calling me number neighbor. or runaway queen. whatever is to your liking, maam,” and flourishes a bow.

you heave a sigh and cross your arms. “that’s stupid.”

“says the person who still hasn’t told me their name either.”

a smile pops onto your face, and you hastily pull out your phone.

he frowns now. “what.. what are you doing?”

you only hum. after a moment, you hold your phone up, turn the volume all the way, and an automated voice comes out, like the one used for google translate. 

“touché,” the robotic tone says.

he bursts into a fit of laughter.

when you reach your building, neither of you say anything as rain taps against the umbrella softly.

he shifts his weight awkwardly.

“well,” you start quietly, “thanks for rescuing me, i guess.”

“you’re welcome, tiny gremlin.”

“die-”

he grins and wags a finger at you. “hey, don’t make jokes like that.”

“oh, i’m not joking.”

then his grin wavers, then softens when he realises you're only teasing.

“text me when you get upstairs,” he murmurs. “so i know you didn’t slip and- die, or something.”

you sigh. “i solemnly swear i will not slip and die.” you turn to walk away.

“wait.”

you glance back, confused.

he’s rubbing the back of his neck now, looking oddly nervous for the first time since meeting him.

“you- er, still- still think i’m pretty, right?”

you stare at him blankly.

then immediately walk off without answering while he shouts offendedly behind you.

guess you’ve both pulled a walky-offy now.

you don't know it they're coincidences or not, because now he starts appearing everywhere. not intentionally, probably, but it's situations like you'll be walking past a shop or on the street and suddenly get a text.

run(a)way queen look left ;)

and there he is, across the street holding up an energy drink with that stupid grin.

or, you'll be in line at a café and hear, ‘wow, fancy seeing you here!’ like he didn't absolutely text you twenty minutes earlier asking where you were, all innocent and ‘oh, no reason!’

but, he still refuses to tell you his name, which honestly would annoy you more if you weren't equally stubborn, like two peas in a pod.

instead, your.. relationship settles into this weird in between.

not strangers, and not exactly friends either.

maybe flirting – although you're trying not to think about that too hard.

for all you know, he does this with everyone, or he could be in a relationship. for now, you're content to stay whatever you are.

you're lying in bed one night, contemplating whether to sleep or text your number neighour, when he beats you to it and suddenly sends:

run(a)way queen can i ask you something you depends if it's weird knowing you yes run(a)way queen rude you liked this message do you think we wouldve talked if we met normally? you wdym by that run(a)way queen idk like if we met randomly somewhere would you have talked to me

you think about seeing him for the first time in the rain.

his stupid smile, the confidence, the way everyone probably notices him immediately, and honestly? you probably would've assumed he was out of your league and avoided eye contact.

but you don't say that.

you maybe if you weren't annoying 🥹 run(a)way queen im never annoying?? (>o<) you would you have talked to me? run(a)way queen yeah i think i would've noticed you anywhere actually

when you eventually learn his name, it's completely by accident, which feels unfair considering how long he (and you) dragged it out.

you're at one of his volleyball matches – he'd convinced you to come after spamming you twenty four seven.

so there you are, sitting, pretending not to care‐

except you absolutely do care, because he's..

well.

annoyingly good.

and the girls behind you won't stop talking about him.

“oikawa-san's seriously so cool.”

“who? number 1?”

“yeah! him!” comes the following reply, then a dreamy sigh.

your head snaps up.

oikawa? oikawa.

of course his name is something like oikawa.

he's about to serve again when he looks up directly into the stands, and the girls start squealing.

but he finds you instantly, and smiles a real, genuine smile that warms you from the inside out.

later after the match, your phone buzzes just as you're leaving.

run(a)way queen you came!! ヽ(^。^)ノ you against my will run(a)way queen you still watched the whole game though ≧☉_☉≦ you yes well unfortunately your volleyball propaganda is working on me run(a)way queen that's because i'm amazing darling you don’t call me darling run(a)way queen sorry darling you okay you changed run(a)way queen to oikawa.. oikawa.. YOU FOUND OUT what's with the .. though it looks threatening you your fangirls were squealing your name it was kind of hard not to find out oikawa.. oh how nice of them well it's only fair i know your name now?? you hm l/n oikawa.. pretty name for a pretty person (o^ ^o) you boy 😭😭 oikawa.. changed run after queen to darling l/n (づ￣ ³￣)づ oikawa.. perfect you wtf is that kaomoji bro oikawa.. change my name to pretty boy oikawa (≧◡≦) you only because you won't shut up if i don't you changed oikawa.. to pretty boy oikawa.. pretty boy oikawa.. okay seriously what is with the .. you reacted 😊 to this message

the more you text, the more oikawa starts calling instead of texting, and it gave you the shock of your life when he first did it.

usually late at night, and you'll answer half asleep with a groggy voice to hear,

“l/n-channn.”

“why are you saying my name like that.” is your default response. and his will be, “because i'm suffering.”

“dramatic.”

then he'll ramble for twenty minutes while you listen sleepily, occasionally offering your mumbled inputs like ‘mhm’ and ‘uhuh’.

sometimes he talks about volleyball, or school, and most of the time random things that don't matter.

and sometimes, there are quiet pauses where neither of you says anything at all.

those are your favourite.

whenever you're upset or in a bad mood, you don't bother telling him – mostly because you're used to dealing with things alone. 

but one night when you answer his call, he notices that you're.. different, straight away.

“what happened?”

you frown, knowing he can't see it since your camera's off. “nothing.”

“liar.”

“wha- i’m serious.”

oikawa sighs softly through the phone, and you shift uncomfortably, pulling your blankets closer to your neck.

“did someone hurt your feelings?”

you laugh weakly, tilting your head. “that sounds so kindergarten.”

“answer the question.”

you stare up at your ceiling, vaguely making out the dying glow in the dark stickers that are stuck up there.

“i- it's no big deal- but um.. sort of.”

there's rustling on his end like he's sitting up.

“who?” oikawa says urgently.

“it doesn’t matter.”

“it matters if you sound sad.”

your throat tightens unexpectedly – that's the thing with oikawa.

he jokes around constantly, acts unserious all the time. but that only means moments where he suddenly becomes serious hit way too hard.

“my friend cancelled plans again,” you admit quietly. “for her boyfriend. and- i know it's selfish of me to be sad about that, but it always happens, and last minute.”

“wow. that sucks.”

you smile faintly. “thanks.”

it's silent for a few minutes after that, save for the sound of your combined breathing, then he breaks it.

“wanna come watch me practice tomorrow?”

you blink. “what?”

“you heard me loud and clear.”

“that's your solution?”

“well, yeah. if your friend sucks then i'll just steal you instead.” you can almost hear him grinning, and if he turned his camera on you're sure he would be.

it only takes a second to make up your mind.

“you know what, sure. i have nothing better to do anyway.”

so, the next day you go.

you almost turn around three separate times before even making it inside the gym.

you spot oikawa through the open doors and unfortunately remember how attractive he is. great.

he's standing in the middle of the court when he notices you. one second he's talking to one of his teammates, the next his whole face changes and he straightens up so fast, like a dog spotting its owner in public.

you barely have time to process that (did he just do that?) before somebody else notices too.

“oi.”

a guy near the net squints at you for a moment, then his eyes widen. “wait.”

you pause awkwardly near the entrance, hovering and not sure if you're supposed to go in or not.

another guy turns around at the tone of his voice and immediately points at you. “NO WAY.”

your stomach drops instantly, because why do they look like they recognize you??

“that's them, isn't it?” the first guy says.

“the phone person?” another one blurts out loudly.

you choke. “sorry, the what?”

oikawa visibly pales.

“mattsun,” he yells, horrified. “WHY WOULD YOU CALL THEM THAT.”

“because that's literally what you call them,” the guy – mattsun, apparently – says flatly.

“not to their face–”

you stare at him, expression beginning to turn amused.

“..phone person?” you repeat slowly.

silence for about four seconds, then another teammate snorts. “yeah, because you were ‘mysterious phone neighbor’ for like, months.”

your brain completely stalls.. “months?” you echo.

oikawa closes his eyes like he's in physical pain.

“okay,” he says carefully, already walking toward you, “before they start exaggerating–”

“you literally talked about them every day,” someone cuts in.

“alright, that is such a lie–”

“you asked us if using two exclamation marks looked desperate.”

“i-”

“you made iwaizumi read over your texts once,” mattsun adds with a lazy smirk.

you whip your head toward him so fast your neck almost cracks, eyes wide and glaring. “you what?”

oikawa looks genuinely cornered now, holding up his hands sheepishly. “in my defense, i didn’t know if saying goodnight twice was too clingy.”

you stare at him blankly.

and it hits you then, that this idiot has apparently been talking about you to his teammates for months while you thought you were just some random person he texted when he got bored.

now you can't even properly make fun of him for it!

oikawa stops in front of you, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly like he did the first time you met face to face. “listen, they're making it sound worse than it is.”

“you made your teammates help you text me?”

“once..”

“three times,” somebody corrects from the back.

“nobody asked you.”

you bite the inside of your cheek hard trying not to laugh, but ever so observant, oikawa he notices the moment you do.

his eyes narrow. “don’t.” that only makes it worse.

“you were workshopping your texts?” you manage between chortles.

“okay, wow,” he says, looking betrayed. “this is a vulnerable moment for me, you know? don't rub it in.”

you lose it a little after that, enough that a laugh slips out before you can stop it.

and the thing is, the second it does, oikawa just.. stares at you, like he forgot there are other people in the room.

the way he's just looking at you causes your laugh to falter, and the two of you lock eyes for a long moment until he clears his throat. 

“l/n-”

and the moment is gone when someone smacks the back of oikawa's head while walking past.

“quit flirting and practice,” the guy says bluntly, prompty smacking him again but harder.

“OW– iwa-chan!”

you laugh again, louder this time, and oikawa turns toward you looking extremely offended.

“you're enjoying this way too much.”

“because it’s funny.”

“my suffering should not amuse you.”

“your suffering is the funniest thing about you sorry to say.”

he gasps like you've personally stabbed him in the chest, then points dramatically. “see? this is what i deal with.”

you roll your eyes affectionately and cross your arms. “you love me, really,” you say offhandedly.

oikawa's ears dust a bright red.

it doesn't occur to you how important he's becoming to you until oikawa slowly starts disappearing.

it starts as slower replies, missing calls, and shorter messages. you tell yourself he's busy.

until nothing at all.

you hey. you alive? seen

and oikawa always replies – even if it's just to be annoying.

three days later, he finally texts.

pretty boy oikawa.. sorry been busy

and that's it. your stomach sinks.

you everything okay? pretty boy oikawa.. yeah dw about it

which is an obvious lie, but every time you try asking after that, he just brushes it off.

eventually you just stop asking.

you find out through social media; some volleyball account posts clips from a tournament.

the caption says:

‘aoba johsai eliminated after intense semifinal loss’.

that's oikawa's team.

and it all makes sense now. you stare at your screen, and immediately text him.

no answer, so you call.

straight to voicemail.

and you don't have to think before grabbing your stuff and heading out where you think he's most likely to be.

the gym is dead silent when you arrive, lights dim.

you almost think he's not there and are prepared to leave until you hear a volleyball bouncing somewhere inside.

you follow the sound, and find him alone.

he doesn’t notice you at first – he seems to be serving repeatedly at the far wall, hard enough that the impact echoes through the gym.

again

again

again

agai-

“oikawa.”

he freezes, and the ball rolls away slowly across the floor.

for a second he just stands there with his back to you, then laughs quietly.

except it sounds wrong, forced and twisted and sounds so unnatural coming out of the brown haired boy.

“you, ah- weren’t supposed to see this.”

your throat tightens, and oikawa finally turns around.

and oh,

he looks awful. eyes tired, eyebags hanging, smile plastered on and barely there.

“why didn't you tell me?” you ask softly.

oikawa shrugs like you're not even there, not worth talking to you. his shoulders hang low, drooping. “didn't really feel like talking.”

“you.. disappeared.”

“sorry.” he says lightly, like it doesn't matter.

you step closer, footstep sounding loudly against the wooden floorboards and state, “you lost one match.” not gentle.

his jaw tightens, eyes fiery. “it wasn't just one match.”

right. of course it wasn't.

for him, volleyball is everything.

you suddenly remember all those late night calls, all the pressure he puts on himself every single day, all the moments where he'd laugh something off before changing the subject too quickly. all the times he acted overly confident like he was trying to convince himself just as much as everyone else. that maybe, just maybe, if he stopped moving for even a second, everything would finally catch up to him.

then, quietly, he murmurs, “i'm so tired.”

and oikawa never says things like that. he complains dramatically all the time, sure, but never seriously. never in a way that sounds this honest. this exhausted.

you don't know what to do. standing there suddenly feels awkward, and maybe you shouldn't have come after all, like maybe this is something private and ugly and painful and hurting that he never wanted you seeing. 

but then he laughs again under his breath, except it still sounds wrong, jagged around the edges, and you realise he's waiting for you to treat this like a joke so he can pretend he's fine again.

instead, you walk toward him slowly until you're close enough to see how his shoulders shaking.

his eyes flick up to yours, surprised. 

you could melt, drown in them and be happy. 

so before you can think too hard about it, you wrap your arms around him.

oikawa goes completely still like his brain short circuited, like he wasn't expecting comfort from you at all. you can feel the sharp inhale he takes against your shoulder, and for one horrible second you wonder if you crossed a line.

then his arms wrap around you, leaning in and burying his head into your shoulder.

he's still shaking.

you close your eyes. “hey,” you mumble quietly.

he lets out this weak little laugh, muffled into your shoulder. “don't. this is kinda embarrassing for me.”

“i don't care.”

“i do.”

“good thing this isn't about you then.” you wince; maybe that wasn't the right thing to say. 

thankfully, another laugh escapes him at that, and he doesn't let go. if anything, oikawa's grip tightens more, fingers bunching in the back of your hoodie like he's afraid you'll disappear if he loosens his hold even slightly.

the gym is completely silent around the two of you now except for the faint buzzing of the overhead lights.

after a long moment, he says in a tiny voice, “i really wanted to win.”

and god, that hurts.

he feels so painfully human. just a boy who wanted something so badly and still couldn't reach it.

you embrace him tighter. “i know.”

he exhales shakily. “i hate losing.”

“i know.”

another pause. then he mutters against your shoulder, again. “oh, you're gonna think i'm pathetic after this.”

you pull back immediately just enough to glare up at him. “don't say that.”

“i'm serious. i'm literally standing here having a breakdown over volleyball.”

“yeah,” you answer, frowning. “because it matters to you.”

his expression shifts. the exhaustion is still there, heavy under his eyes, but something else slips through now too. surprise, maybe. or relief. like he expected you to brush this off the same way he always tries to.

instead you're still here.

oikawa stares at you for a long minute before speaking again. “you came all the way here.”

you blink. “obviously.”

“why obviously?”

you open your mouth automatically, ready to answer, but nothing comes out.

why obviously?

because hearing he lost made your stomach drop.

because the thought of him sitting here alone hurt worse than it should have.

because over the last few months, he somehow became the first person you want to tell things to. the first notification you look for when your phone lights up. the person you think about constantly without even trying or wanting to.

because somewhere along the way, you fell in love with him.

oh.

oh no.

your face must give something away because his entire face changes.

“l/n-chan?”

you can’t breathe properly all of a sudden.

this is bad.

actually terrifying.

because what if you ruin this? what if you care too much? what if all the flirting and jokes meant more to you than they ever did to him?

“hey,” he says again.

oikawa's hand lifts hesitantly, fingertips brushing against your sleeve as if he's not fully sure you'll let him.

“what happened?”

you stare at him helplessly, and apparently that's enough.

his eyes widen slightly before cracking in a way that completely wrecks you.

“oh,” is the only thing that comes out, his mouth an ‘o’ shape.

“don't,” you blurt out before he can say anything else.

oikawa blinks. “don't what?”

“make it weird.”

“make what weird?”

you gesture vaguely between the two of you, mortified. “this.”

oikawa merely looks at you. then the corners of his mouth lift a little.

“a bit too little too late for that.” ayo laufey reference

your throat burns, and it hurts to swallow. “oikawa–”

“i think i started liking you the first time you insulted me.”

now it's your turn to stare at him. “huh?”

he smiles weakly. “you called me grandma.”

despite everything, a laugh bubbles out of you. “that's your romantic origin story?”

“don't judge me,” he mutters. “i was charmed. you were charming.”

you shake your head, still laughing breathlessly, and when you do something in his expression relaxes. maybe he was nervous too, and that maybe he thought imagined the whole thing.

oikawa reaches for you again, giving you enough time to pull away if you want to.

you don't.

his arms wrap around you, almost cautiously now, like you're something fragile in his eyes. you can hear his heartbeat through his thin shirt, fast enough to make warmth spread through your chest.

“hey,” he murmurs into your hair after a while. “are you.. crying?”

“no, shut up.”

“this might be the best day of my life.”

you laugh wetly into his chest. “you're so annoying.”

“yeah,” he says gently, tilting your chin up to gaze into your eyes. “but you like me anyway.”

when oikawa pulls back, he's smiling properly for the first time since you got there. tired still, but smiling. his eyes flick down toward your mouth for a split second before darting back up again, and he looks.. nervous.

is he.. is he going to–

“..can i kiss you,” oikawa asks carefully, “or are you gonna bite me.”

you blink at him in disbelief. “that is genuinely the worst thing you could've said.”

“sorry,” he says immediately. “i got i want to kiss you disease.”

you snort, heart melting on the spot at the same time.

because this is oikawa. loud, confident, obnoxious oikawa who flirts with literally everyone without blinking. and somehow, he's standing in front of you looking like the answer really matters to him.

so before you can overthink it anymore, you grab the front of his hoodie and kiss him.

he makes a startled sound against your mouth before kissing you back instantly, one hand coming up to cup your face like he's scared you'll disappear halfway through it.

truthfully, a kiss worthy of the fairytales.

and when you pull away, oikawa's staring at you like he just won the lottery.

“wow,” he breathes. “i- wow.”

you point a warning finger at him. “don't start.”

“you're literally in love with me.”

“you love me more though.”

oikawa's grin widens so fast, almost blinding.

“hey, y/n-chan?”

“what.”

“remember when you hoped i wasn't a forty five year old man?”

you groan so loudly it echoes through the gym, and oikawa laughs hard enough that he has to lean against you to stay standing. 

hearing that sound again feels like finally being able to breathe.

you wake up to your phone vibrating nonstop against your mattress. you're surprised it isn't leaping into the air.

still half asleep, you blindly grab it, fumbling and squinting at the brightness.

tooru 🤍 good morning my amazingly amazing significant other >’v’< hm that sounds off sorry sorry good morning situationship  that sounds worse actually ignore that you're not my situationship.. i love you good morning love of my life  good morning DARLING ;))

you drop your face back into your pillow, groaning. he’s so endearing.

another text follows.

tooru 🤍 HELLO??? are you ignoring me this relationship is so toxic you oh my god shut up why are you awake tooru 🤍 i’m experiencing great joy and whimsy! darling you reacted 😐 to this message you tone it down a little tooru 🤍 never

dating oikawa turns out to be exactly as exhausting – in a good way — as you expected, now that he’s officially decided you're his person.

he gets dramatically offended if you take too long to answer texts (“i’m your top priority!”) he throws himself across your shoulders whenever he sees you after practice like he's been separated from you for years instead of six hours (“reunited at last!”). he complains constantly that you ‘don’t compliment him enough’, despite the fact you called him beautiful once and he looked so emotional about it for the rest of the day.

but there are quieter things too, things he does without noticing.

saving the seat next to him automatically, and walking on the outside of the sidewalk. tugging you closer absentmindedly whenever crowds get too big like it’s second nature, and falling asleep on calls because he says your voice helps him unwind and relax after practice.

one afternoon, while you're sitting across from oikawa in a café, you zone out so badly you don't even realise he's talking to you until he flicks your forehead lightly.

“ow? what was that for??”

“you're doing the thing again,” oikawa replies, chin in his hands and elbows propped on the table as he gazes at you with those eyes you could drown in.

you blink twice. “what thing?”

“the overthinking thing!”

“uh, that’s not helpful at all,” you grin, amused, stirring your tea. the scent wafts up, drifting into your nose, and you inhale deeply.

“is it not true?”

oikawa reaches across the table, hooking his fingers loosely around yours. he’s been doing that quite a lot lately. 

“what’s going on in that scary little brain?” he asks, tracing little shapes onto the back of your hand. imagine he wrote will you marry me lmao

you hesitate before shrugging nonchalantly. “nothing.”

oikawa frowns, stopping his thumb movements and causing you to jut out your bottom lip. “you know you don't always have to do that, right?”

“do what?”

“pretend everything's fine before you've figured out if it actually is.”

you look away toward the café window, a little annoyed.

“you do that too. and i just don't wanna ruin stuff.”

“ruin what stuff? y/n, darling-”

you gesture between the two of you.

oikawa stares at you for a second before snorting.

you narrow your eyes at him. “tooru. what now?”

“sorry,” he says, already laughing. “i just remembered you literally texted me because a forty-five-year-old blocked you.”

you groan, drawing it out as you thud your head down on the table. “can you stop reminding me? my gosh, that was ages ago.”

“and now we’re here.”

his thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles.

“you're not gonna ruin us, idiot.”

us.

like there's never been another option.

a week later, you discover he has screenshots of your texts saved.

“YOU SAVED THESE?”

oikawa, sprawled comfortably across your bed, looks completely unashamed. “of course i did!”

“why.”

“because they’re cute, why else?”

“they are not cute.”

he gasps dramatically before turning on his phone and reading one aloud.

“‘go away you're literally annoying.’ wow. true romance right there.”

you immediately lunge for his phone while he yelps and nearly falls off the bed cackling.

“give it!”

“never!”

“tooru–”

“wait wait, this one's my favorite.” his voice softens slightly while he reads. “‘text me when you get home okay?’”

you stop moving. you remember sending that, late at night after practice when he sounded exhausted over the phone and you got worried.

but you didn't realise how much it meant to him.

oikawa glances up at you with his stupidly fond little smile.

“that was one of the first times i thought i was completely screwed.”

whenever oikawa has a game, he never directly asks you to come. instead, he send things like:

tooru 🤍 match tomorrow btw you okay tooru 🤍 okay??? thats all??? you good luck? tooru 🤍 woah i can really feel the support you reacted 😊 to this message

it's worth it, though, when you show up regardless, and his entire face lights up as he spots you in the stands.

like he's surprised someone came for him specifically, even though he has a million fangirls that giggle his name.

oikawa only cares about you.

naturally, iwaizumi talks to you first about it.

one day after practice he falls into step beside you while oikawa's distracted arguing with kyotani, probably about something stupid.

“thanks,” iwaizumi says suddenly.

your brow furrows, and you turn your head. “er- for what?”

“for dealing with him.”

you snicker. “that sounds concerning.”

“oh, you have no idea.” he has an exasperated expression on his face, but then it shifts. “he's happier lately.”

before you can answer, oikawa appears out of nowhere and throws himself dramatically over your shoulders.

“iwa-chan, are you talking shit about me?”

“always.” iwaizumi deadpans.

oikawa gasps mockingly. “fake friend.”

“shittykawa.”

“shittyzumi.” then oikawa turns to you pleadingly. “save me.”

“nah. go on, iwaizumi. how many others you got?”

“no!”

it's funny how one stupid, impulsive text at two in the morning somehow flipped your entire life around – now your days are full of him. oikawa. your boyfriend. it still feels surreal to say.

his voice. his laugh. his constant whining. his hand finding yours automatically.

oikawa loves loudly, openly, like he's physically incapable of hiding it. he talks about you constantly, drapes himself all over you every chance he gets, looks at you like you're the best thing he’s ever found.

one night after practice, the two of you end up lying on the floor of his bedroom while he complains dramatically about training.

“i'm dying,” oikawa groans, letting his long legs flop over your stomach.

“you said that half an hour ago.” you half-heartedly attempt to push his legs off, to no avail.

“it's a slow death.”

you snort quietly, glancing over at him. his hair's still damp from his shower and there's a bruise forming near his knee. 

you reach over and brush your fingers lightly against his hand, and he immediately intertwines your fingers together without even opening his eyes.

automatic, like breathing.

“hey,” he says after a minute.

“hm?”

oikawa lowers his arm to stare at you properly before smiling brightly.

“thanks for texting me after. imagine if you’d only texted the forty five year ol–”

you burst out into a fit of laughter. “oh my god–”

he grins sleepily before rubbing his thumb absentmindedly across your knuckles just like he likes to do.

“seriously, though,” he says more softly. “meeting you kinda changed everything for me.”

pursing your lips, you murmur, “that's disgustingly cheesy.”

“yeah?”

“yeah. for me too, though.”

“aww.”

you squeeze his hand tighter, smiling helplessly. “good thing you answered, then.”

“best decision i've ever made.” followed by, because he physically cannot stay serious for more than ten consecutive seconds:

“also, thank goodness i'm hot.”

you grumble and shove his face away while he laughs hard enough to nearly fall onto the floor completely. sadly, he didn't and his heavy as fuck legs are still laying on you.

tooru 🤍 i love you my number neighbour you i love you too my number neighbour that isn’t the forty five year old man 😚 tooru 🤍 you ruined it 😠 you EMOJI tooru 🤍 so what anyway what if i text MY other number neighbour you oikaw fucking tooru tooru 🤍 OKAY you liked this message

“tooru?”

“yes, my darling?” 

“why are we texting when we're right next to eachother?”

oikawa smirks at you. “romance.”

i wrote this on google docs so the quotation marks look so different.. but anyway fucking hell that was a ride to write!! sorry, kat. i tried to make it 6.7k words for you but there was so much i wanted to fit in there so it ended up um exceeding that by 2k 😚

© akaashiit

it's stupid, risky, and exactly the kind of distraction you need right now. (anything to avoid homework ig)

your phone number ends in five.

you take a breath, open a new message thread, and type in your number, but change the last digit to a six.

you better be damn grateful i didn't make that six seven

you hey number neighbour! hope you arent a serial killer

you put your phone face down on your bed and wait. you expect to be ignored, left on read, or maybe blocked, like majority of the people out there on the internet.

five minutes pass. ten. then, your phone vibrates. with a racing heart, you glance at it.

xxx-xxx-xxx I'm not a serial killer, I am a student.

you snort, fingers already flying across the screen. who texts like that, apart from emailing a teacher? it's so.. stiff.

also, who just reveals that information?

okay then. you'll do the same.

you thats exactly what a serial killer would say im a student too how's life on the other side of the digit? xxx-xxx-xxx Life is fine. I'm currently finishing my evening meal. It's important to maintain a consistent schedule for digestion and recovery. you . okay 🥹 thanks for the health tip doc xxx-xxx-xxx You're welcome. you are you always this serious xxx-xxx-xxx I'm told I can be quite literal. I don't really see the point in unnecessary fluff. you unnecessary fluff 😭 well, im bored entertain me ! tell me something interesting about yourself without giving away your secret identity xxx-xxx-xxx I enjoy volleyball, and I'm left handed. you woah two fun facts and another lefty omg me too xxx-xxx-xxx Being right handed is more common, but it doesn't mean you cannot follow your interests effectively.

you stare at the screen. they sound like a textbook come to life.

you thanks for the pep talk, i feel so much more effective now 🤞 anyway im gonna go back to avoiding my essay xxx-xxx-xxx Okay you dont kill anyone tonight neighbor xxx-xxx-xxx I have already stated I'm not a murderer. Good luck with your essay. It's better to finish it now so you can sleep early.

you toss your phone aside, collapsing back on your pillows.

"what a weirdo."

you're sitting in the cafeteria, picking at your lunch, when your phone vibrates in your pocket.

xxx-xxx-xxx Did you finish the essay?

you almost choke on your own spit.

you hi to you too i did barely stayed up till two am xxx-xxx-xxx That is inefficient. Lack of sleep leads to decreased performance and physical sluggishness. you okay doctor xxx-xxx-xxx As I've stated before, if you scroll up to read our past conversation, I am not a doctor. you nvm what about you did you do your homework xxx-xxx-xxx I finished mine yesterday at 8pm. you sweat xxx-xxx-xxx Funny you should say, I'm actually at practice at the moment. you volleyball? xxx-xxx-xxx Yes. My teammate is yelling because I'm on my phone during a water break. He says I'm evolving because I'm texting a stranger. you LMAOO tell your teammate hes right you ARE becoming a social butterfly wait stranger?? we're neighbors theres a bond there xxx-xxx-xxx We share a numerical sequence. That is all. you ouch my heart 🥺 fine go back to your balls =3 xxx-xxx-xxx That is a crude way to phrase it, but I will. And what equals 3? ⤷ you hearted this message

you put your phone away, grinning. then you pull it from your pocket again, and change the contact name.

health inspector.

you're supposed to be hanging out with your friend, but they're currently hovering over your shoulder. still counts as a hangout, right?

"who are you texting?" they ask, squinting at your screen. "you've been smiling at your phone for, like, ten minutes straight."

"just my number neighbor," you say, tilting the screen away. you really need to buy a privacy screen protector.. "he's super intense. like, 'i eat for digestion' intense. well, im think they're a he."

"is he hot?"

"wha- i don't even know his name! we agreed – well, we didn't agree, but we haven't asked. it's more fun this way. no expectations."

your phone pings again, and your friend groans.

health inspector My teammate took my phone and saw your contact name. you oh no what did you set it as health inspector Number Neighbor. you BRO THATS BORING i have you set as health inspector hah health inspector I don't inspect health. Anyway, he changed your name to 'Eagle Bait'. I don't know why. you eagle bait 💔 tell your friend he'd better start running health inspector He is very fast. I doubt you could catch him. you bruh i hate u health inspector Well, I don't hate you. I don't know you well enough to harbor such strong emotions.

you groan and bury your face in your hands. he's so frustratingly literal that it's actually.. cute?

you find yourself wondering what his voice sounds like. does he talk as formally as he texts?

you hey neighbor? health inspector Yes? you nothing just making sure u were still there health inspector I am always here.

wednesday arrives with a heavy rainstorm that swiftly cancels your outdoor plans.

with nothing else to do, you're lounging on your couch, watching a movie you've already seen (and cried to) three times, when your phone lights up.

it's a photo – a blurry, shaky shot of a red haired guy making a peace sign right in front of the camera lens. he has a wild grin on his face, eyes wide and mouth leering.

health inspector My teammate took my phone again. He says hello, and that he doesn't care if you see what he looks like. His name is Tendou. you lol hi tendou tell him he has very chaotic energy even through a blurry photo 🥹 health inspector He says that it's his specialty. you i can imagine health inspector He's currently trying to read our previous messages over my shoulder. I've placed him in a headlock to prevent this.

you choke on your microwaved, triple butter popcorn. the mental image of someone putting a hyperactive redhead in a headlock is a bit too much for you.

you damn rip tendou health inspector Oh don't worry. He isn't dead you i cant with you 😭 you actually have friends? i thought you were a robot /j health inspector I'm not a robot. Tendou is my friend, although he is loud sometimes. you sometimes or all of the time? health inspector Both He's asking if you are cute. I told him I don't know. you well what did you tell him after that health inspector I told him that physical appearance is subjective and that based on your texting, you seem pretty you aw thanks 🥺 health inspector capable of basic communication. Sorry, I accidently pressed send. you wow i knew something was off you didnt use a full stop 😔 capable of basic communication.. i should put that on my tinder bio! health inspector Oh. Do you use Tinder? you no lol i was joking do you? health inspector No. I don't have time. you you sounds like you never have fun. do you ever just eat junk food watch a bad movie etc health inspector I eat what is necessary for my muscles. you okay mr buff guy 🫩 health inspector How did you know I was male? you magic ABRACADABRA health inspector Okay. Occasionally, I have hayashi rice. That is enjoyable. you hayashi rice is your wild side? health inspector Yes. you jeez we need to get you out more ⤷ health inspector reacted ? to this message

the next time you get a text from Health Inspector™, you're at the shopping centre with your friends.

it's unusual because he usually only texts in the evenings after his apparently strict schedule is done.

health inspector We won. you oh a volleyball thing? congratsss (congratakaashilations) health inspector Yes. It was a practice match, but we won in straight sets. I scored 19 points. you 19 oh wow is that good? idk much about volleyball health inspector It's a high number for a three set match. My setter was very efficient today. you go celebrate! get some uh hayashi rice or something health inspector We're going to a convenience store. Tendou is buying icy poles. The blue double ones. echo reference?? you what flavor are u getting? health inspector I don't like sweets very much. I'll have water. you you're literally the most boring person ive ever met 😑 health inspector But we haven't met you oh COME ON get a chocolate bar live a little ⤷ seen by health inspector

when he doesn't reply, you go back to window shopping because you're broke asf with your friends.

five minutes later, a picture comes through, a large, slightly calloused hand holding a small chocolate bar. in the corner, it has a small nibble in the corner, as though someone has taken a tentative bite.

health inspector I bought it. It's too sweet. you CRYING i can literally feel the regret through the screen 💔💔 health inspector My teammates are staring at me. They think I'm possessed because I'm eating chocolate. you tell them your neighbor made you do it trust 😏 health inspector Okay Tendou is now screaming that I have a secret lover.

your heart does a weird little skip at the word lover, even though it's just a joke.. right?

you tell tendou i said hi and that hes a visionary health inspector I will tell him hi, but I won't tell him the other part. It will only encourage him. ⤷ you liked this message

you hey health inspector Yes? you we've been talking for a while now i still dont know your name or what you look like or how old you are health inspector I am 18. you okay one mystery solved im 17 health inspector Haha. 😂 I'm older than you you please never laugh over text again. what about a name health inspector I would prefer not to. If we find out who each other are, things might change. I like that you don't know who I am.

you pause, thumbs hovering over the screen.

he sounds like people usually treat him differently because of who he is.

orrrr maybe you're overthinking things again.

you fair enough i kind of like it too you can just be my health inspector health inspector And you can be my Eagle Bait. you NOT EAGLE BAIT AGAIN health inspector It's what's written on my screen, I've grown used to it. Also, I've said multiple times I'm not a health inspector. you touché health inspector I'm going to sleep now. Goodnight, Eagle Bait. Oh, that almost rhymes you night hi get it hi health inspector h.i hello oh youre gone GRANDPA delivered

it's a monday morning, so of course you're dragging yourself through the school hallways, clutching a coffee like it's the only thing keeping you sane.

your school is buzzing because the volleyball team has just won something huge, but you aren't really one for sports. you literally know nothing about the volleyball team - you just know their gym is always squeaky and smells like sweaty feet.

your phone buzzes in your pocket.

health inspector I am tired. you omg what happened to consistent schedules for recovery?? health inspector Our coach was dissatisfied with our blocking. We had to stay late. I didn't get to bed until 11:30pm yesterday. you uh 11:30 is a normal bedtime for most people yk also why did you have practice on a sunday.. health inspector Not for me My legs feel heavy. ⤷ replied to also why did you have practice on a sunday.. My coach says otherwise we will forget how to play. you thats stupid do you want me to send you a virtual hug

there's a long pause, and you watch the three bubbles appear and disappear.

health inspector I don't know what a virtual hug is. Is it a digital sticker? Do you want to call me? you LMFAO no it's just me saying i feel bad for you health inspector Oh you but here (づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ health inspector That is a strange collection of symbols. It looks like a person with very long arms. you thats because it is a person with very long arms 😭 health inspector I showed Tendou. Now he's trying to recreate the face. It's unsettling.

you burst into giggles, earning a sharp look from your teacher and bemused looks from your classmates.

"sorry," you murmur to no one in particular.

after school, your friend drags you to the gym, against your will.

"just for a bit," she pleads. "my brother is playing, and i promised i'd bring him his knee pads. the fat lump forgot them."

you groan but follow her.

you stand by the entrance, on your phone, completely disinterested in the teenagers jumping around.

you im stuck in a gym well, not in the gym, but close enough the squeaking is giving me a headache health inspector I'm also in a gym. The squeaking is the sound of effort. you yeah no. it smells like stinky socks in here health inspector That is a valid description. you SEE health inspector My setter just messed up. He's angry now. I should go.

you look up from your phone, scanning the court in front of you, but none of them seem to be checking their phones.

"ready?" your friend asks, returning from where she's just thrown the kneepads at her brother.

"yeah, let's go. this place is too loud," you say. she laughs. "and stinks."

as you turn to leave, a volleyball rockets off the court and bounces toward the door. you stop it with your foot.

"sorry," a deep voice calls out.

a tall guy with dark hair and a bit of a scowl starts jogging toward you. he looks intimidating, but his eyes are focused entirely on the ball.

you kick it back to him. he nods once - not a smile but rather a blunt acknowledgement of your existence - and heads back to his team.

you don't think twice about it.

you heyy neighbor guess what i ate today health inspector If it's not a balanced meal, I don't want to know. you it was an oreo with ham on it health inspector Why would you put meat on a sweet? you because it tastes good why else you should try it health inspector I refuse. you suit yourself health inspector I have a question. you shoot health inspector Why do you continue to talk to me? Most people find me difficult to converse with.

you lean back against your headboard, brow furrowing as you type your response.

you because you arent fake everyone else tries so hard to be cool or funny you just tell me about your diet and your early ass bedtime it's refreshing health inspector Huh. you plus you bought that chocolate bar because i told you to that was nice :) health inspector It was very sweet. I still have half of it in my locker. you HELP WHAT are you saving it 😭 health inspector I didn't want to waste it. you has anyone told you you're such a dork health inspector I am told that often by Tendou. you of course ⤷ health inspector liked this message you so since you wont tell me your name can i give you a nickname health inspector is getting old health inspector What did you have in mind? you toshi

you don't know why you picked it - it just popped into your head.

somewhere, a tall boy with dark, olive green hair freezes. his heart thumps against his ribs.

toshi.

only his family and his closest friends call him that. it's a fragment of his actual name.

health inspector Why that name? you idk it just suits you health inspector .... you it's fine if not i know that was random health inspector Fine. You may use it. you YES

( you have changed health inspector to toshi )

you okay toshi go do your squats or whatever it is you do toshi I will. Goodbye Eagle Bait you bruh i dont get a new name 😔?? ⤷ seen by toshi kys toshi Okay I will keep myself safe ⤷ you disliked this message

tonight, your screen stays dark.

you find yourself checking your phone every ten minutes, which is annoying. you aren't supposed to care this much about a guy who thinks salt is a bold seasoning. like, seriously!

finally, a message arrives, and it isn't a 'goodnight'.

toshi I'm at a team dinner. Tendou is standing on a chair. you of course it wouldnt be tendou if he wasnt toshi He's singing a song about chocolate bars and secret neighbors. I believe he is trying to provoke me into showing him our messages again. you and did you toshi No. I told him that privacy is a human right. He told me I'm whipped

your face heats up.

you whipped? 😭 pleasee you barely like me you just like having someone to tell about your digestion and shit toshi That is inaccurate. I quite look forward to our conversations you wow i think thats actually the nicest thing youve said toshi It's the truth. People usually only talk to me about volleyball. Or they are intimidated and don't talk at all. you damn toshi You just call me a dork. you because you ARE a dork toshi but a cool one in an i follow all the rules kind of way toshi That is nice to hear. ⤷ you liked this message

saturday morning, you're at a local cafe. you snap a photo of your overly complicated iced latte - the kind with a mountain of whipped cream.

you [attachment] look at this it's the complete opposite of your water bottle 😝 toshi That looks like a heart attack desguised as a drink. you it's delicious! i wish i could send you a sip toshi I'd decline you aw man hey if i sent you something would you eat it? toshi I don't give out my address to strangers, number neighbours or not. you no shit that would be dumb 😑 i meant like ill leave it somewhere toshi That seems unnecessary. you fine have it your way ⤷ seen by toshi

you put your phone down with more force than necessary, a little irritated. you weren't actually going to stalk him or anything, but his immediate rejection wasn't exactly a nice feeling.

you go back to your book, feeling a bit silly.

around an hour later, your phone buzzes.

toshi I'm at the park near Miyagi Prefectural Library. There's a large oak tree by the fountain.

your heart skips.

that's- not far from where you are now.

you ..and? toshi I'm leaving practice now. I'll be passing that tree in twenty minutes. If you were to leave something there, I might find it.

you're already shoving your book into your bag.

you run to the bakery next door, grab a single, high quality dark chocolate brownie (less sugar, more toshi friendly), and sprint toward the park as fast as you can.

the oak tree is huge and gnarled. you tuck the small white bakery box into a crook in the roots, hidden behind some leaves, then run again.

you hide behind a nearby gazebo, peeking through the slats.

not long after, a tall figure walks down the path.

he's wearing a tracksuit - white and purple. broad shoulders, long legs, and a walk that screams 'i own this sidewalk'. from where you're crouching, you can see he has dark, olive toned hair.

it doesn't occur to you that this is the same guy from the gym..

he looks serious, his eyes scanning the ground.

he stops at the tree, looks around, making sure no one is watching, and reaches into the roots to pulls out the white box.

he opens it.

he stares at the brownie for a long time. then, he looks around again, a tiny, almost invisible soften to his expression.

he tucks the box into his gym bag and walks away.

your phone vibrates.

toshi I found it. you it's a brownie! try it before you judge it toshi I'll eat it when I get home. Thank you. ⤷ you liked this message toshi You were there Weren't you? you guilty ⤷ seen by toshi

great.

he's much more intimidating in person than he is in a text message.

toshi It was acceptable you acceptable?? thats it? toshi It was the best thing I've eaten that wasn't healthy. you HA I KNEW IT toshi Perhaps. My mother asked who gave it to me. I told her it was a neighbor, and she seemed confused as to why our elderly neighbor, Mr. Sato, would give me a brownie. you LMAAOAOO 😭💔 did you tell her the truth? toshi No. I find I like having this to myself.

you bite your lip, a slow blush creeping up your neck.

you me too toshi me too ⤷ seen by toshi

—

toshi I'm at the doctor. you shit what happened?? are you okay? did the brownie take you out? fuck im sorry are you allergic i shouldve checked oh my gosh toshi No. The brownie was fine. you oh toshi My ankle is slightly inflamed. It's a common occurrence. you does it hurt? toshi Not really. I have been instructed to ice it and refrain from jumping for 48 hours. you oh noo forty eight hours of no jumping how will you survive? 🥹 you can go relax and sit on a couch toshi I don't like sitting on a couch. It makes me feel stagnant. you you are SO dramatic just watch a movie or something toshi I am watching a video of our last match to analyse my footwork. you NO that doesnt count watch something that doesnt involve a ball toshi Suggest something.

you spend the next ten minutes arguing over movies. he shoots down every romantic comedy you suggest (highly unrealistic human behaviour) and every horror movie (i dont find jumpscares logical).

finally, he decides on a documentary about deep sea creatures.

toshi The giant squid is impressive. you awh do you relate to a squid toshi Yes ⤷ you reacted 😑 to this message

you're walking through the school courtyard during lunch when you see a group of girls whispering and giggling over a phone.

"he's so stoic," one of them sighs. "i wonder if he ever smiles."

curiosity kills the cat, so you peek over.

they're looking at an instagram post from a local sports magazine. it's a photo of a volleyball player mid air.

the caption reads: Shiratorizawa's Ace continues his dominant streak.

your heart stops.

the jersey is white and purple.

just like the tracksuit the guy in the park was wearing.

aka. your number neighbour.

aka, toshi.

you can't see his face clearly, but the build is unmistakable. the thick legs, the broad shoulders, the hair.

then it occurs to you - it's the same guy in the gym from so long ago. you just didn't recognise him without the tracksuit.

you scramble for your phone.

you hey quick question toshi What is the question? you do you go to shiratorizawa?

the 'typing...' bubble appears, and stays there for a long, long time.

you're holding your breath. if he says yes, the mystery is basically over. you could find him in ten minutes.

toshi Why do you ask? you i saw a photo of a player he looked like the guy i saw in the park

another long pause.

toshi I have told you before. If we know too much, this changes. you i know but toshi Are you disappointed? you what?? no why would i be disappointed? toshi Because I'm not telling you who I am you toshi ive been talking to you for a while i know you think water is a treat and you relate to squids you can't disappoint me toshi I see. Then I won't confirm or deny. But I will tell you this: My ankle is feeling better because I'm distracted by this conversation. And you.

your face turns five shades of red, and you have to put your phone face down on a concrete bench to cool off.

you're back in the gym, this time because you left your sweater on the bleachers after gym class. you'd hoped you could wear it somehow, but the gym teacher had promptly sent you away.

you spot a familiar head of bright red hair.

it's..

wait.

tendou?

he's leaning against the net, looking bored while who you guess is the coach talks to someone else.

suddenly, tendou spots you walking toward the bleachers. he narrows his eyes, then a huge, mischievous grin spreads across his face.

he points at you and then turns to the giant guy standing next to him.

the guy turns his head.

you freeze.

you're wearing your school uniform.

you look normal.

but you feel like you have 'NEIGHBOUR' written on your forehead in black sharpie.

the guy looks at you.

he doesn't wave or smile. he just stares for a second too long before the coach barks an order and he turns back to the court.

you grab your sweater and bolt.

once you're safely in the outside, your phone vibrates.

toshi You were in the gym. you i was not toshi Tendou said, "There's the girl who smells like brownies." you i do NOT smell like brownies AND HOW COULD HE EVEN SMELL THAT toshi You didn't say hello. you because you were BUSY and INTIMIDATING and we have a DEAL no names no faces ⤷ replied to no faces we've broken that toshi I'm not intimidating. I was just standing there you toshi you are a 6 foot something mountain of muscle you are the definition of intimidating toshi 6'2 I didn't think you would be afraid of me. you im not afraid im uhm preserving the mystery toshi I think you were running away. you no i was walking fast toshi Tendou is laughing. He says you looked like a startled rabbit. you tell tendou im gonna put salt in his next chocolate bar. toshi I will relay the message. He says he likes salt in his chocolate bar. you for fucks sake toshi And for the record.. That sweater would look nice on you. It's a good colour.

you groan and trip over your own feet.

"fuck-!"

you can't stop thinking about what he said.

about the sweater.

because it means he was actually looking.

toshi I have a question about the long armed person face you (づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ this one? what about it toshi If it's a hug, does that mean you are a physical person? you you're gonna have to give me more info than that toshiTendou says some people show affection through touch, while others show it through acts of service. you tendou is getting deep and idk! maybe? i think im a bit of both what about you? toshi I give them my full attention. If I'm talking to you, it's because I believe you're worth my time. I don't engage in idle chatter with people I don't respect.

it's so blunt – there's no 'i think you're cute' or 'i like talking to you'.

just the fact that because he's texting you, you're officially worth it.

you wait thats actually really sweet does that mean i have your respect sir 🫡 toshi You have had it for a very long time now. ⤷ you reacted 🥺 to this message

it was his texts like this that had you speechless.

you just.. didn't know how to reply.

it's the night before a big game for him.

you know this because he's been texting less, which usually means he's, quote, 'in the zone'.

you big day tomorrow? toshi Yes. We're playing a team with very persistent defense. It'll be tiring you you got this! just think of the giant squid or smt toshi I will. Will you be there? you i dunno wouldnt that break the rules toshi What rules? The gym is a public space. I cannot stop you from entering. you yeah it'd be weird if you could toshi Besides, Tendou keeps looking for 'the brownie girl' in the stands. It would be easier if I knew where you were so I could tell him to focus on the match. you oh so u want me there for team productivity toshi Precisely you ill consider it ⤷ toshi liked this message

the stadium is packed – you've never seen so many people there for a high school game.

you're wearing a simple hoodie, your hood pulled up slightly, feeling like a spy. (cue spy music!) you find a seat way up, far enough that you're just a speck in the crowd.

the whistle blows, and the teams walk onto the court.

and there he is.

number one.

he seems.. different on the court. at the park, he was just a tall, imtimidating guy. here, he's still intimidating, but he's also a force of nature.

when he scores, he doesn't celebrate much. he just resets, expression completely blank, eyes fixed on the ball.

in one word, he's magnificent.

during a timeout, you see him take a drink from his water bottle. his eyes scan the crowd.

they move slowly, methodically, starting from the front row and working their way up.

your breath hitches. you know he can't see you – there are thousands of people here. you turn your gaze away, looking somewhere else.

your phone vibrates.

toshi You're here. I can feel it.

you nearly drop your phone in absolute shock.

you how?? you're literally in the middle of a game PUT YOUR PHONE AWAY toshi My manager is holding it. I asked her to check for a message during the break. My coach isn't very happy but I don't care. you I CARE YOUR COACH IS SCARY ASF whats his name again washing board toshi Washijo You're in the upper area. To the left of the scoreboard.

yes in this shiratorizawa has a manager idc

you are exactly where he said.

you you are a freak. FOCUS ON THE GAME toshi I am focused. Watching you watch me is not a distraction.

the whistle blows again.

you watch him hand the phone to the manager and walk back onto the court.

he looks up directly toward your section and gives a single, sharp nod.

then proceeds to absolutely demolish the other team.

you slip out before they officially announce the winner, not wanting to get caught in the crowd – or by a certain redhead.

you're halfway home when the text comes through.

toshi We won. you i saw! you were incredible toshi seriously toshi Thank you. I'm tired now. My muscles are aching you do you want another long armed person hug? toshi No.

ouch.

toshi I think, next time, I would like a real one.

you stop walking in the middle of the sidewalk, nearly walking into a mailbox, your face burning.

a real one.

the man who finds unnecessary fluff unnecessary – just asked for a real hug.

or at least, he admitted he wanted one.

you a real one? who are you and what have you done with the robot? toshi I'm the same. I'm just tired. Fatigue makes people more honest. you well go to sleep then mr honest toshi But it's still early. And I'm not home yet. you i dont care ⤷ seen by toshi

—

toshi Tendou is asking why I'm smiling at my phone. you youre SMILING?? toshi It's not a large smile My mouth is simply less straight than usual. you mmm sure ill take it so whats got u smilin toshi I was thinking about the way you ran away in the gym. you ?? I TOLD YOU I WAS WALKING FAST besides youre scary in person you have main character energy toshi I don't know what that means. It's my job to be reliable. And intimidating if necessary. you youre very reliable at making me nervous :/ toshi Why are you nervous? 🤔🤔 you BECAUSE we've been talking for months and i still dont know your real name i could find out rn but im respecting your privacy be grateful 😤 toshi I am grateful. ⤷ you liked this message toshi If I tell you my name, will you tell me yours? you maybe toshi Then not yet. I want to see how long we can last like this. It's like a game. you youre so competitive 💔 istg is everything a game to you toshi Only the things that matter.

you're in your room, folding your laundry and humming a song that has been fixated in your head lately. you really need to stop doomscrolling on tiktok. no, seriously ik damn well get off

your phone is on your bed.

not so wise decision.

you reach for a sock, stumble, and your palm lands flat on the screen.

and you had only been texting a specific someone moments earlier, so the screen is still on.

the phone starts ringing.

calling.. toshi

"no, no, no!" you scramble, fingers fumbling to hang up, but your phone is glitching. great – out of all times. it freezes on the calling screen.

he picks up.

on the other end, there's silence. you hold the phone to your ear, too nervous to breathe. you're too terrified to speak.

"hello?"

his voice. it's so much deeper than you imagined.

"eagle bait?" he asks.

"hi," you whisper. your voice sounds tiny compared to his.

"you called me," he states.

"..it was an accident. i was.. folding laundry."

"i see."

there's a pause. you can hear faint chatter in the background – he's probably in the locker room.

"you sound.. like i expected."

"and how is that?"

"kind. and a bit terrified right now."

you let out a shaky laugh. "me? never."

"i have to go to practice," he says ever so softly. "but.. i liked hearing your voice."

you smile into the phone. "i liked hearing yours too.. toshi."

"i will text you tonight." before you can utter a goodbye, he hangs up.

you collapse onto your bed, staring at the ceiling.

now you aren't just texting a number anymore.

you're talking to a living, breathing person.

a person with a voice that makes your toes curl.

you're walking past the gym again – actually, lets be honest. you're taking the long way home just to catch a glimpse.

the gym doors fly open.

"BROWNIE GIRL!"

tendou is sprinting toward you, waving his arms like a windmill. behind him, he is walking out at a normal pace, looking slightly exasperated.

you freeze. you can't run this time; tendou is too fast.

"it's you! i knew it!" tendou skids to a stop in front of you, leaning down to look you square in the face. "ushijima is always staring at his screen with this look like he's trying to solve a very intense math problem, but the math problem is love!"

"satori," ushijima booms. he catches up, stepping between you and the redhead. "leave her alone. you're being intrusive."

toshi looks down at you.

"are you okay?" he asks, a genuine look of concern on his face.

"yeah," you squeak. "im fine. just.. laundry. i mean, walking home."

tendou snickers. "laundry.." he scoffs under his breath.

the other man looks at you for a long moment. you notice his eyes are a dark olive, like his hair.

"you're wearing the sweater."

"it's my favorite," you admit, fiddling with a loose thread.

he nods, a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. "it suits you. as i said before."

"WAKATOSHI-KUN!" tendou screams. "you're doing it! you're flirting! my eyes! they've never seen such a thing! actually.. she's shown me before.." echo reference??

toshi ignores him entirely. "ill text you later. i have to take satori away before he causes a scene."

"too late for that," you joke. "i've got to go as well."

he actually huffs a small laugh. it's a sound that blesses your ears.

"you're right. goodbye.. eagle bait."

"bye, toshi."

you walk away, feeling his gaze on your back until you turn the corner.

tendou turns to ushijima, grinning. "eagle bait? still?"

"she doesn't mind it. i think."

"you think-"

when you reach the front door, your heart is still trying to beat out of your chest through your throat.

you keep replaying it – the way he looked down at you, the way his voice dropped when he noticed your sweater, and, most importantly, the fact that he laughed.

your phone vibrates again before you even get the chance to take your shoes off.

toshi I apologise for Tendou, he has no sense of personal boundaries. you lol it's fine hes funny :) toshi He's a nuisance sometimes. But.. he wasn't entirely wrong.

you stop mid step, one shoe on, one shoe off.

you about toshi About the way I look at my phone.

friday evening, you're trying to study when a text comes through that isn't a text at all. it's a link to a destination on google maps.

toshi I'm going to a park tomorrow. Not the one with the oak tree. This one is further away, near the river. you okay? are you going to look for squids 😭 toshi No. I'm going for a run.

oh.

oh.

if hes asking u to run w him we cooked asf

toshi I'll be finished at 10am, and there's a bench near the bridge. you waiiit are you asking me to meet you like for real without any distractions or people around toshi I would like to see if you are the same in person as you are over text without Tendou present, if that's what you mean. you wow. rude justice for tendou ill be there toshi Nice 👍 ⤷ you reacted 🥹 to this message toshi ? you nothing toshi Also, I brought a brownie the other day. you you WHAT toshi Yes. It was good, but not as good as the one you brought me. you thats because i sprinkled it with some neighbourly love otw! toshi Oh is that a seasoning? I'll have to try it out you oh gosh ⤷ toshi reacted ? to this message

you arrive at exactly 9:55am. you're wearing a fresh outfit, your hair is actually done, and you've checked your breath, like, five times.

more like fifty.

the park is quiet, the morning mist still clinging to the river. you see a figure running toward the bridge.

he's wearing a black compression shirt and shorts. he slows to a jog, then a walk, as he nears the bench. drenched in sweat, his skin glows in the morning light. he looks like a perfect sculpture come to life.

ushijima stops in front of you, breathing hard. "you came," he says. his voice is a little raspy from the run.

"i said i would," you say, trying to sound cool. you fail miserably. "uhh, nice running?"

toshi wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "thank you."

a beat, and you stare at eachother awkwardly.

"i realised something," he says, stepping a bit closer.

"what?"

"i don't know your name."

you smile, reaching out and gently poking his arm. damn, his muscles are like rock- "it's l/n. y/n."

he repeats it, testing the weight of the syllables in his mouth. "y/n. it is a good name. better than eagle bait."

you let out an unflattering snort. "i think everything is better than eagle bait."

toshi sits down on the bench, gesturing for you to join him. you sit, and for a while, you both just watch the river flow.

he reaches into his gym bag and pulls out a small, crumpled paper bag. he hands it to you.

inside is a single, slightly squashed chocolate bar. the same one you told him to buy weeks ago.

"i bought it this morning," he says, looking at his feet. "i thought.. maybe we could share it."

you feel a lump rise in your throat.

breaking the bar in half, you hand him the bigger piece. he promptly nudges it back to you and takes the smaller piece.

"to living a little," you say.

"to being neighbors," he replies.

the chocolate is slightly warm and has a papery taste to it, but it's easily one of the best thing you've ever tasted.

you sit on that bench for an hour. you talk about things that aren't volleyball, like how he likes the smell of old books and how you're terrified shitless of spiders.

"i am not afraid of spiders," ushijima says, looking at the remainder of his chocolate. "they're helpful. they eat mosquitoes."

"spoken like a true fearless soldier," you laugh. "but if one crawls on me, i'm using you as a human shield."

he glances at you, expression softening into a lopsided half smile. "i'm a very large shield. you'll be safe."

the.. peace lasts exactly forty eight hours.

by monday lunch, the school is buzzing (gossiping). apparently, someone (tendou) saw (spied) a mystery girl (you) sitting with the ace (ushijima) at the river.

you're trying to blend into the cafeteria wall when a shadow falls over your table. you look up, and it's not toshi.

it's guy with a black bowl cut and a guy with light brown hair, in a slightly more lopsided bowl cut.

"is it you?" the first one asks, pointing a finger at you like he's accusing you of a crime. "are you the one who made ushijima-san eat a brownie?"

"i.. maybe?"

"he hasn't stopped looking at his phone during stretches," the other one says, sounding personally offended.

before you can defend yourself, a hand lands on their heads and pushes them aside.

it's.. toshi!

he looks down at his apparently teammates with a look that would wither a cactus.

"go away," he states. "you are bothering her."

"we just wanted to see if she was real!" black bowl cut squeaks. "tendou-san said she was a forest spirit that lived in an oak tree!"

"uh. clearly im not a forest spirit," you say, finally finding your voice. "im a student."

toshi looks at you, then back at his teammates. "she is y/n."

light hair shrugs. "'kay. cmon goshiki."

they leave, albeit reluctantly.

"i'm going to practice. do you want to walk with me to the gym doors?"

you feel a hundred eyes on you, and you step forward, legs a little shaky.

"sure, toshi. let's go."

toshi Tendou has been banned from my phone. I've changed the passcode. you nah what was it before 😭 0000 toshi No It was 1111 you ..youre so predictable toshi I was joking Predictability is a sign of stability you in what world 🥹 toshi Anyway I have Friday evening free. My coach is attending a conference you are you asking me on a date perchance toshi I am proposing an evening with you. I'd like to go to the cinema. you oh? no documentaries about squids toshi There's a film about a man who survives in the wilderness. It seems logical. you okay it's a date but i get to pick the popcorn seasoning‼️ toshi Yes 👍 But no bacon flavour please. you DO THEY MAKE THAT toshi ... No. you ohhh they do dont they 😼 ⤷ toshi disliked this message

the cinema is oh so very dark and smells of buttered popcorn. you're sitting next to him, and even though you aren't touching, you can feel the heat radiating off him.

he's sitting perfectly upright, staring at the screen.

halfway through the movie, the main character gets lost in a blizzard. ironically, you shiver – the theater is a little cold.

without a word, toshi shifts. he doesn't put his arm around you – that would be too smooth for him. instead, he reaches over, takes your hand, and simply places it on his thigh, covering it with his own massive, warm hand.

"you're cold," he whispers. "this will help."

you bite your lip to keep from giggling. he is such an awkward romantic, and you love it.

you squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back. his hand is rough with callouses from thousands of spikes, yet it's incredibly gentle.

you spend the rest of the movie not watching the screen at all, just focusing on the feeling of his thumb tracing small, absent minded circles on the back of your hand.

when the lights come up and the movie ends, he doesn't let go immediately. he looks at you, eyes thoughtful.

"the movie was.. acceptable," he says.

"was it better than the brownie?" you tease, grinning.

"no. but it is unfair to compare food and entertainment." he says, leaning in. "the company was better than the movie."

you think he might kiss you right there in the cinema, but then his phone buzzes.

yay. cockblocker

( 38 notifications from tendou )

tendou HOW WAS THE MOVIE DID U HOLD HANDS I CAN FEEL THE ROMANCE FROM MY DOOM SOOM ROON ROOM TELL ME EVEYYITMG EVERYTING EVERYTGING ECERTITN fucj EVERYTHING USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI USHIWAKA U S H I J I M A W A K A T O S H I ANSWER MEEEEEEEE ew are u making out OR WORSE.. DOING THE NAUGHTY ‼️‼️ ewwwwwwwww that's naaasty wear protection kids 😏

toshi sighs, deep and weary. "i'm going to change my phone number."

"don't you dare," you laugh, standing up and pulling him toward the exit. "i like my number neighbor right where he is."

it turns out that when the most stoic, volleyball obsessed boy in shiratorizawa starts walking someone to class, people notice. i know! absolute shocker.

you're standing by the school lockers in the morning when you see him. he's, well, hard to miss – he towers over the crowd like a giant.

a group of first year girls is hovering near him, one of them holding a pink envelope.

ah.

"ushijima-senpai!" she chirps, her face bright red. "ive watched all your games! please, take this!"

you pause, feeling a weird, cold prickle in your chest. you've never been the jealous type, but seeing a literal fan club form around your.. you don't know what he is, but! it feels different.

ushijima doesn't take the envelope. he doesn't even look at it LMAO. he's looking over their heads, his eyes scanning the hallway until they land on you.

"i cannot take that," he says to the girl, his voice loud and clear. "it would be an inefficient use of my time, and i am already spoken for."

the hallway goes dead silent. the girl's jaw drops, and her friends giggle awkwardly.

toshi walks straight past them and stops in front of you.

"you're late," he says.

"sorry, captain," you answer, hiding a grin. "i didn't want to interrupt your, erm, fan meeting."

"it was not a meeting. it was disturbance. let us go."

and so the two of you walk off together, leaving the girl and her friends behind, her still clutching the envelope pathetically.

your phone pings during your afternoon break. it's a notification from instagram – you've been tagged in a post.

it's a photo someone took of you and ushijima at the cinema. the two of you walking out, hands briefly brushing.

and.. the comments are a war zone.

@.user1 who is she she looks so plain @.user2 does he even like her? he looks bored asf @.user3 ushijima kun deserves someone more athletic! ↳ @.tendersatoes definitely not you then 😂😂

a lump rises in your throat. you know you shouldn't care what strangers think, but it still hurts.

although tendou's comment does make you crack a smile. seriously, tendersatoes??

you're about to close the app when a new comment loads.

@.Ushijima_Wakatoshi Her name is Y/n. She is not plain, she is observant. And I'm not bored. I'm focused. If you have time to comment on my personal life, you have time to practice on whatever you need to do. You're lacking in discipline. @.Ushijima_Wakatoshi Fuckers. ↳ @.tendersatoes pop off ushiwaka 🤪 CLOCKED BITCHES ↳ @.user2 whatever

you stare at the screen.

toshi just commented a whole paragraph for you.

and on top of that – fuckers.

you toshi did u just flame your uh FANS in the comments toshi I didn't flame them. I provided an objective assessment of their behavior and their priorities. you yeah.. you basically told them to go touch grass toshi Grass is good for them. Are you upset? I can delete the comment, but I think many people have seen it already. you no actually i'm really happy but pls dont get suspended for me toshi If it means I have more time to spend with you, then I welcome it. you TOSHI 🥹🥹 ⤷ toshi liked this message

since the gym is being renovated for two days, ushijima actually has an afternoon off.

you invite him over to your house to study, which mostly consists of you trying to talk about work while he stares at your bookshelves.

"why do you have so many books about people who don't exist?" he asks, picking up one of your romance novels.

"because fiction is fun, toshi! it's about feelings and drama and shit."

he puts it down, then reaches for another one.

you gasp, jumping on his back. "not that one-!"

"drama is just a lack of communication," he says, sitting down on your rug. he's so big that your room suddenly feels half its size.

you sit next to him, leaning your head on his shoulder. he freezes for a second before he slowly relaxes, resting his head on top of yours.

"i like your house," he says softly. "it smells like you."

you laugh, the sound muffled against his arm.

ushijima suddenly shifts, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. he opens up your contact info.

"i have changed your name again," he says.

you look at the screen.

it doesn't say 'eagle bait' anymore.

it just says,

y/n ❤️

"the red heart means affection," he says, his face turning a very unnatural shade of pink. "tendou told me it was mandatory for this stage of a relationship."

"for once," you whisper, leaning up to kiss his cheek, "i think tendou is right."

but ushijima turns his head at the last second, catching your lips with his.

"i agree," he says matter of factly once you pull away, then lifts your chin to kiss you again.

called both of my number neighbours once on a dare, one sent me to voicemail and the other was a woman with a child crying in the background. and i was reading the manga the other day and ml ushijima does not talk like a robot all the time 😭 bro fanon ushijima is scary.

genuinely really proud of myself for this one tysm for reading (new top 3 fav unlocked ?!)

tumblr, please allow more than 30 images. thank you.

also ! im making this a number neighbour collection/series so lmk through my inbox if reqs are open if u want any other characters with a specific plot, and smau or chatfic :D (if a character's already been done, i won't do it again. at time of this post ive got akaashi, ushijima, oikawa and suna)

taglist ( to be added OR removed, fill out the tag form ) @n-o-b-o-d-y123 @owl-captain-of-fukurodani @tc-selmarillian @blythmourning @sevslover @fosfatodna @tearsoftae @heavenquilll @perlleta @noemivalorr @bookworm-center @thesmithslvr17 @lottiekarottiqd @fweakygyatt @wellitseugi @haniipie @charukii @imgonnashartmyself @toorubae @kotarosangel @leosxrealm @irethepotato @lithiumval @dreamayy @wanderless-musings @sunnyl1ght

Master list:

Original Work:

Immortal

Insatiable 🌶️

The Sponser

Love Me More

Pinky Promise (Part 1)

Baki Short Stories (Not Yandere):

A Hug (Jack)

Eat (Retsu)

Don’t Push It (Jack)

A Piece of Me (Shiba Chiharu)

Oppai (Katsumi)

Yandere Baki Short Stories:

Mine (Hanayama and Kizaki) 🌶️

Family (Katsumi and Jack)

Him & Him (Katsumi and Retsu) 🌶️

Later (Yujiro)

Pet (Baki) 🌶️

Hold on (Baki)

Extra Eyes (Baki and Hanayama) 🌶️

I’m Here Now (Katsumi)

Promise (Part 1) (Katsumi and Katou)

Promise (Final Part) (Katsumi and Katou)

Katsumi Yandere fluff (Katsumi)

The Edge (Hanayama) 🌶️

Loco (Jun)

Fantasies (Katou)

Training (Katou) 🌶️

All Bark, No Bite (Katou) 🌶️

More (Katsumi)

A Miracle (Katsumi)

Wake Up (Jack)

Awake (Jack and Hanayama)

Three’s A Crowd But Four’s A Party (Pickle)

Belonging (Jack) 🌶️

Fate (Jun)

Baby With My Baby (Katsumi) 🌶️

The Spectator (Hector and Katsumi) 🌶️

Change of Fate (Retsu)

A Game of Cat and Mouse (Hanayama)

Rent-a-girlfriend (Harem)

Courtship (Pickle)

Saccharine Kisses (Matsumoto Kozue)

My Beloved Best Friend (Hector Doyle)

Paparazzi (Hanayama Kaoru)

Covet (Hanayama and Katsumi)

Longing (Part 1) (Katsumi) 🌶️

Longing (Final) (Katsumi) 🌶️

Delusion (Baki)

Destiny (Hanayama)

Genderbend Baki

Bambi, Jackie, and Kaori 🌶️

Head Canon

Suzuna (Sukune)

Jackie

Kaori

Bambi

Taste (Kaori)

Juliana and Oliva

Sonia and Gaia

Humdah Ali Jr

Pickle

Violet Kisses (Kasumi and Jackie)

Violet Kisses (2) (Kasumi, Jackie, & Kaori)

Violet Kisses (Final) (Jackie, Kasumi, & Kaori)

Monster Baki

Haunted (Retsu) 🌶️

Little Mate (Katsumi) 🌶️

The Dragon’s Bride (Hanayama and Jack)

The Corpse Husband (Katsumi)

Harpy Hanayama

Moth Man Pickle

Merman Pickle

Merman Pickle (Part 2)

Merman Baki

How Deep is Your Love (Jun and Katsumi)

Merman Hanayama

Werewolf Jack

Lamb to the Slaughter (Jack)

Lost and Found (Part 1) (Jun and Oliva)

Wonderland AU:

Down the Rabbit Hole (Harem)

Tea Party (Retsu)

The Red Knight (Hanayama)

Yandere Baki Book:

Heart Shaped Wound (novel)

Baki Kinktober 2023:

Day 1: Hector Doyle 🌶️

Day 2: Shinogi Kureha 🌶️

Day 3: Katsumi Orochi 🌶️

Day 4: Doppo Orochi 🌶️

Day 5: Gaia & Sikorsky 🌶️

Day 6: Jack Hanma 🌶️

Day 7: Baki Hanma 🌶️

Day 8: Kaioh Retsu 🌶️

Day 9: Biscuit Oliva 🌶️

Day 10: Katsumi Orochi (lime)

Day 11: Kiyosumi Katou 🌶️

Day 12: Biscuit Oliva 🌶️

Day 13: Hanayama Kaoru 🌶️

Day 14: Nomi no Sukune the 2nd 🌶️

Day 15: Yujiro Hanma 🌶️

Day 16: Pickle 🌶️

Day 17: Hanayama Kaoru 🌶️

Day 18: Izou Motobe 🌶️

Day 19: Pickle & Jack 🌶️🌶️

Original Work:

My Purpose (Clone)

Sedulous Desire (Lesbian Orc)

Ángel (Serial Killer)

Split Personality (Yandere Reader)

Worship (Forgotten God)

Heroes and Villains (Harem) 2019

A Brewing Storm (Selkie)

Pinky Promise (ii) (Love Triangle) 🏳️‍🌈

Loved By Death (Grim Reaper)

Meet Your Match (Gameshow Host)

An Eternity (Elf x Ghost)

The Cure (Doctor)

You Are My Sunshine (Cowboy/ Sheriff)

Hold Onto Me (Sheriff) 🌶️

Doomed From the Start (Doomed Yuri)

Acceptance (Monster Prince)

Mommy (Prequel) (Single Father)

Mommy (Single Father)

Look My Way (Bodyguard vs Antifan)

Romantic Homicide (Hitman)

The Tooth Fairy (Prequel) (Serial Killer)

Predator and Prey (Beast Harem)

A Mermaid’s Lure (Fisherman x Mermaid) 🌶️

The Husband Swap (Shapeshifter) 🌶️

The Guard Dog (Lesbian Vampire) 🌶️🏳️‍🌈

Defying Destiny (Hero vs Demon Lord)

Defying Destiny 2 (Hero vs Demon Lord)

Build-a-Yandere (Android) 🌶️

Limerence (Prequel) (Childhood friend/ Rebel)

For Those Who Wait (Hair stylist) 🏳️‍🌈

Sacrificial Bride (Dragon)

The Hands That Hold You (Harem) 🏳️‍🌈🌶️

Play Pretend (Ex Stalker)

Hell Fire (Priest)

Knight in Shining Armor (Orc Knight)

Your Admirer (Middle Aged Coworker)

Love After Death (Skeleton)

A Confession to Make (Florist)

A Dragon’s Treasure (Dragon) 🏳️‍🌈

Your Only Option (Otome Game Character)

A Friendship Forever (Platonic Unicorn)

More Baki Stories (not Yandere):

Only For You (Hanayama Kaoru)

True Love (Hanayama angst)

Time To Play (Kaioh Retsu)

A Helping Hand (Jack Hanma) 🌶️

Older (Izou Motobe)

Triangle (Hanayama & Jack)

Baki Christmas Special 2023:

Christmas Cookies (Musashi Miyamoto)

A Gift (Shiba Chiharu)

A Christmas Carol (Yandere Hanayama Kaoru)

Naughty or Nice (Yandere Motobe) 🌶️

The Abominable Snowman (Yandere Pickle)🌶️

Dick in a Box (Kiyosumi Katou)

Santa Baby (Biscuit Oliva) 🌶️

Under the Mistletoe (Katsumi Orochi)

The Nutcracker (Yandere Jack Hanma)

Baby It’s Cold Outside (Yandere Baki Hanma)

Christmas Treat (Kaioh Retsu)

The Snow King (Yandere Sikorsky)

The Day After Christmas (Yandere Doyle)

Yandere Baki Valentine Special:

Struck by Cupid (Harem)

Struck By Cupid 2 (Harem)

More Yandere Baki Stories:

Little Rabbit (Doppo Orochi)

My Princess (Izou Motobe)

The Perfect Fit (Jack Hanma) 🌶️

Passengers (Katou & Suedou) 🌶️

Childhood Sweethearts (Katsumi Orochi)

Wish Upon A Star (Hanayama Kaoru) 🌶️🖤

Little Secretary (Katsumi) 🌶️

Barking Up The Wrong Tree (Katsumi)

Just Let Me Adore You (Jack) 🌶️

The Friendzone (Hanayama & Katsumi)

One More Time (Yarem + norm Oliva)

Extra Set of Eyes (Hanayama & Baki) 🌶️

Tug-o-war (Reverse Harem)

The View (Baki)

Our Girlfriend (Baki & Kozue)

Let’s Play A Game (Reverse Harem Otome AU)

Monster (Hanayama) HORROR ANGST

Take Responsibility (Katsumi)

The Hardest Route (Jack & Katsumi Otome AU)

The Outsider (Hanayama & Jack)

The One That Got Away (Doppo & Katsumi) 🌶️

Die For You (Kiyosumi Katou)

The Phantom of the Opera (Hanayama Kaoru)

You Belong With Me (Kaioh Retsu)

Carne (Jack Hanma) 🌶️

Riled Up (Shiba Chiharu) 🌶️

Mine Mine Mine (Hanayama)

Baki Monster AU:

Birds of a Feather (Katsumi & Kaoru)

Baki Wonder Land AU:

King of Hearts (Baki)

The Beast (Pickle)

Yandere Baki Series (Harem):

The Midnight Man (Hanayama Kaoru)

Daylight Dancer (Katsumi Orochi)

Sunset Seeker (Jack Hanma)

Twilight Torture (Harem)

Kengan Ashura Head Canons:

Look At Me (Raian Kure)

My Only Girl (Lihito)

That’s Not My Neighbor:

Let Me In (Francis Mosses)

Yandere Fairytale Series:

Yandere Original content:

Hypnotic Affection (Merman)

The Distance Between (Bully)

Jenny, Darling (Milf) 🏳️‍🌈

The Consequences (Ex Husband) Angst

Denial of Desire (Vampire) 🏳️‍🌈

Double Trouble (Twins)

Past The Point of No Return (Enemy General)

Always Watching, Done Waiting (Stalker)

The Wishing Well (Kraken) 🌶️

I Bet on Losing Dogs (Bodyguard) Angst

Not the Same (Surgeon Ex)

Your Loyal Servant (Villainess/ Maid) 🏳️‍🌈🌶️

Right Where I Want You (Private Investigator)

With This Love of Mine (Duchess) 🏳️‍🌈

I’m Your Biggest Fan (Yakuza Fan)

We’re Soulmates (Online Friend)

Careful What You Wish For (Fling)

Who Are You (Fiancé)

Yandere Imagines:

Barbarian

Vampire

Yandere Baki:

Hello, Rabbit (Spec)

Dirty Old Man (Kanji Igari) 🌶️

My Kind of Love (Hanayama Kaoru)

In the Palm of My Hand (Yujiro Hanma)

A Little Bit Jealous (Atsushi Suedou)

Sing For Me (Hanayama Kaoru)

Yandere Star Stike It Rich:

Wait Till I’m Done (Sena Riko) 🏳️‍🌈🌶️

Yandere Kengan Ashura:

A Shy Smile (Kaolan Wongsawat)

Too Late For Remorse (Yandere Series):

Too Late For Remorse (Prequel) (Cheater Duke)

Part I

Yandere Batman/ DC:

Seed of Doubt (Harvey Dent/ Two Face)

Together Once More (Harvey Dent/ Two Face)

The Wolf and The Lamb (Jason Todd)

The Heart Wants What It Wants (Harvey Dent/ Bruce Wayne)

In the Middle (Jason vs Dick head canon)

Original Work:

Again & Again & Again (Time Loop)

Like I Love You (Bounty Hunter Werewolf)

Prized Possession (Gargoyle)

Lonely (Villain)

Now You See Me, Now You Don’t (Conman vs Mob Boss)

The Dollhouse Husband (Living Doll)

Lock and Key (1950s Husband)

The Love From the Dark (Victorian Ghost)

Малышка (Baby Girl) (Femme Boss) 🏳️‍🌈

Black Coffee (1920s Mobster)

Your One and Only (WWII Veteran)

1950s Imagines (1950s Husband)

1940s Imagines (WWII Soldier)

1920s Imagines (1920s Husband)

1960s Imagines (1960s Adman)

1920s versus 1950s (Husband vs Husband)

1950s Imagines (Milkman)

1920s Imagines (Parlor Maid)

Rags to Riches (Gilded Age Tycoon)

The Show Must Go On (1950s Director)

Den of Wolves:

Den of Wolves (1) (1920s Mobsters)

WWII Head-canons:

Oh My Little Soldier Boy

Sweety Sweety (Black Reader)

Yandere DC:

In the Jaws of the Wolf (Jason Todd)

Drag You to Hell (Harvey Dent)

Addicted To His Poison (Roman Sionis)

The Missing Piece (Edward Nygma)

My Darling Alice (Jervis Tetch)

Adorned in Pearls (Bruce and Batboys)

His Inamorata (Harvey Dent)

Torn Between Two (Jason and Dick)

You are seven years old when you first hear this story and you do not think about it much. Seven-year-olds do not worry about death or love or the mysteries written on skin that has not yet appeared.

You think about apple orchards instead.

The imperial palace has extensive grounds, and your father's position as a high-ranking lord means your family has chambers here, close to the court. You have the run of the gardens when your tutors release you from your lessons. The apple orchard is your favorite place, the rows and rows of trees heavy with fruit in autumn, branches perfect for climbing in summer, blossoms like snow in spring.

Caleb is always there.

He is a prince, the third son of the Emperor, which means he has more freedom than his older brothers. He does not have to sit through as many state functions or memorize as many treaties. He spends his afternoons in the orchard, reading under the trees or playing with his wooden practice sword.

You are shy around him at first. He is older, ten to your seven, and he is a prince, but he has kind eyes and a patient manner, and when you climb too high and cannot get down, he laughs and helps you, boosting you onto his shoulders to reach the ground.

"You are brave," He sets you down gently. "Most children would cry."

You flush with pride and do not tell him you wanted to cry very much.

Mei comes into your life when you are eight.

Her family are retainers to your household, lower in rank but trusted.  Her mother serves your mother, her father serves your father, and now she is assigned to serve you. 

Mei is exactly one year older than you, nine years old with serious eyes and a protective streak that runs deeper than the rivers surrounding the capital. She finds you in the orchard one afternoon, crying under an apple tree because one of the palace children, a duke's daughter with a cruel tongue, called you a country bumpkin and plain.

"Who said that?" Mei's voice is fierce. "Tell me who said that."

You shake your head, hiccuping.

"It does not matter. She is stupid and her eyes are bad." Mei sits beside you, pulling you against her side. "You are not plain. You are my lady. Mine to serve, mine to protect, and anyone who says different is a liar."

You rest your head on her shoulder and feel the tears dry. There is something about Mei that makes you feel safe. Something about the way her arm wraps around you, solid and certain.

"Will you stay with me?" you ask, and your voice is small.

"Always," Mei promises and reaches for your hand. "Where you go, I go."

Caleb finds you both there an hour later, and that is how it begins. 

The three of you in the orchard, Mei's hand always finding yours first, Caleb's laugh bright as lantern lights, and you in the middle, not yet understanding what you are building.

You turn nine, then ten. Caleb turns thirteen, then fourteen. Mei turns ten then eleven, and she grows tall and graceful, her childhood roundness replaced by elegant lines.

You notice the way Caleb looks at her.

It starts small. He stumbles over his words when she speaks to him. He watches her when he thinks no one is looking. He brings her gifts, ribbons for her hair, a hairpin carved from jade, a book of poetry he claims he found in the market but you suspect he bought specifically for her.

Mei accepts these gifts politely, but there is distance in her manner. She does not blush nor simper. She does not gaze at him the way the court ladies gaze at princes.

She looks at you instead.

You are too young to understand what that means.

The years continue to pass. You turn twelve, then thirteen. Caleb is sixteen now, nearly a man, his shoulders broadening, his voice deepening. He has begun training with the imperial guard, learning strategy and swordcraft. He is good at it. Everyone says so.

Mei is fifteen now, and she is beautiful. You are not blind to it. The court notices her now, despite her lower rank. Men watch her when she walks through the palace gardens. Marriage offers have begun arriving for her family to consider.

She dismisses them all.

"I am not interested," she tells you one evening while she is brushing your hair in your chambers. "My place is here, with you."

"But you could marry well," you protest. "You could have your own household, your own…"

"I could." Her hands are gentle, working through a tangle. "But I do not want to. I want to stay here with you. Is that so strange?"

You do not know how to answer that.

Caleb's feelings for Mei are no longer a secret, at least not to you. He is obvious about it now, seeking her out in the gardens, asking her to walk with him, writing poetry that he does not give her but leaves where you might find it.

You read one once. 

It compared her eyes to lotus pools and her grace to a heron taking flight.

You fold it carefully and return it to its hiding place. You do not tell anyone about it. You certainly do not tell Mei. Watching Caleb fall in love with her is both painful and beautiful. Painful because you…

You do not let yourself finish that thought.

The apple pies start when you are thirteen.

The cook in your father's kitchens makes them perfectly, sweet and tart, the crust flaky, the filling rich with cinnamon. She makes them for the household, small luxuries to brighten the long summer days.

Mei steals the first one.

"Come on," she whispers, catching your hand and pulling you toward the back stairs. "While everyone is at court."

You follow because you always follow her. 

You sneak through the servants' corridors, giggling, the stolen pie warm in Mei's hands. You eat it in the orchard under your favorite tree, passing it back and forth, licking cinnamon from your fingers.

"We will get in trouble," you complain, but you are laughing.

"We will not. I will take the blame if anyone asks." Mei grins at you, her face smudged with apple filling. "Worth it though, was it not worth it?"

It was. It is. Every stolen moment with her is worth it.

You steal pies together all that summer. 

It becomes your secret, your private rebellion. 

Sometimes Caleb joins you, and then it is the three of you again, laughing, eating too fast, lying in the grass and watching clouds drift across the sky. Those are the good days. The golden days. The ones you will remember later when everything has gone wrong.

You turn fourteen. Your childhood is ending, sliding away like silk through your fingers. You begin attending more formal functions, your education intensifying. You learn household management and history, poetry and music. You learn how to smile and curtsy and all other things that daughters of noble houses do.

You learn how to watch Caleb watch Mei and pretend your heart is not breaking. You are old enough to name the feeling that has been growing in your chest for years now.

You are in love with Caleb.

You have been in love with him since you were seven years old and he lifted you down from a tree. You have been in love with him through every afternoon in the orchard, every stolen pie, every moment of laughter and lightness. Every time he shared his cloak when it rained, every time he noticed you were sad before you said anything, every kindness you took for granted.

But he does not see you, not the way you want him to.

He sees only Mei.

You cannot blame him. 

Mei is extraordinary. She is everything you are not, confident where you are hesitant, bold where you are careful, beautiful that sometimes people stop and stare. 

She is your dearest friend. Your protector. Your companion.

How can you resent her when you love her almost as much as you love him?

You tell no one about your feelings for Caleb. Not Mei, the person you trust the most, not your mother, not even your diary. You bury them deep, pressing them down like stones at the bottom of a river. You smile when he talks about Mei. You nod sympathetically when he confides his fears that she will never return his affection.

You are a good friend. A very good companion.

II

Your mark appears on the morning of your fifteenth birthday.

You wake to find two names written on your inner left wrist in ink that seems to shimmer when you move your arm.

Caleb

Mei

You sit on your bed for a long time, staring at your wrist. Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears.

Two names. 

One is your great love. One is your companion.

You know with certainty that it feels like destiny that Caleb is your great love. He has to be. You have loved him for eight years. He is written in your bones, carved into your heart. The mark is simply confirming what you have always felt.

And Mei…

Mei is your companion. Your truest friend. The person who has walked beside you through childhood, who has held your hand promised to never leave.

It makes perfect sense.

You should feel happy. You should feel hopeful. Instead, you feel strange, as if the world has shifted and nothing is quite where it should be.

You dress quickly and go to find Mei.

She is in her family's chambers, and when she opens the door, you see immediately that her mark has appeared as well. She is wearing longer sleeves, but you can see the edge of ink peeking out at her wrist.

"It happened," you say, and your voice sounds breathless.

Mei nods. 

She does not look happy. Her expression is unreadable.

"Mine too," she replies, her voice quiet and almost reluctant. 

You enter her room and close the door behind you. 

"Will you show me?"

For a moment, you think she will refuse, then she pushes back her sleeve.

Two names. 

Your name and Caleb.

The same names as yours. The same two people.

You do not know what to say, you just stand there, staring at her wrist.

"We have the same marks," you say, and it is not a question.

"Yes."

"That means..." You trail off.

Mei pulls her sleeve back down, hiding the names. 

"It means we are both connected to each other and to him. That is all."

But it cannot be all. The marks mean something, they have to mean something.

"Do you think..." You wet your lips. "Do you think you know which is which? For you, I mean?"

Mei looks at you for a long moment. There is an emotion in her eyes you cannot name, it makes your chest tight.

"I think," she starts slowly, "that the marks do not tell us. We have to live and discover the truth ourselves."

"But you must have a sense. You must feel…"

"I feel many things." Mei cuts you off gently. "But I do not think it is wise to make assumptions. Not yet."

You want to demand she tell you what she is thinking, but Mei has always been private, and you have learned not to press when she closes herself off.

"Will you tell me?" you ask instead. "When you know for certain?"

"Yes." She takes your hand, squeezes once. "I will tell you everything. I promise."

You leave her chambers feeling unsettled. The conversation felt wrong, but you cannot put your finger on what.

Caleb's mark appears three days later.

He comes to the orchard in the afternoon, face flushed with excitement, and shows you and Mei his wrist without preamble.

Your name

Mei

The same names. All three of you connected in a triangle, bound by invisible threads of fate.

"This is it," Caleb looks at Mei with such naked hope that you have to look away. "This is proof. You are one of my soulmates, Mei. I knew it. I have always known it."

Mei says nothing. Her face is very still.

"Mei?" Caleb's smile falters. "Are you not happy?"

"I am..." She pauses. "I am surprised. I had not thought…"

"You have my name, do you not?" He reaches for her wrist, pushes back her sleeve before she can stop him. You see the flicker of emotion cross his face when he sees your name alongside his. "We all have each other's names. We are all bound together."

"Yes," Mei says quietly. "We are."

"Then this is fate." Caleb is still smiling. "You see? The gods have decided for us. You cannot refuse me now. You cannot say we are not meant to be together."

Mei gently pulls her arm free. 

"The marks tell us we are connected. They do not tell us how."

"One of us is the great love. One of us is the companion." Caleb's voice is earnest. "I know which you are, Mei. I have known since I was thirteen years old."

You stand there, watching this exchange, and you feel as if you are disappearing. Neither of them is looking at you. Neither of them is acknowledging that your name is there too, that you are part of this triangle as well.

"Caleb," Mei says, and her voice is gentle but firm. "This is not the time for such declarations."

"When is the time?" He is pleading. "I have waited years, Mei. Years. Tell me you feel nothing, and I will stop. Tell me I am wrong."

Mei does not answer. She is looking at you instead, her expression unreadable.

"I think," you speak instead, and your voice sounds distant even to your own ears, "that we should not make assumptions. The marks have only just appeared. We have time to understand what they mean."

Caleb finally looks at you. You see the moment he remembers you are there, standing beside him, your wrist bearing the same names as theirs.

"You are right," he says, and he sounds chastened. "I am sorry. I got carried away. This is…this affects all of us. Not just me."

"Yes." You manage a smile. "It affects all of us."

But you already know that Caleb's mind is already made up. He has decided Mei is his great love. He has decided the story of his marks before he has lived it.

And you are the companion. The friend, the third point to fate’s triangle.

Later that night, alone in your chambers, you trace the names on your wrist with one finger.

Caleb. Mei.

You know which is which, you have always known.

Caleb is your great love. He is the one who will consume you, complete you, destroy you when you lose him.

Mei is your companion. Your steadiest friend. The one who walks beside you.

The marks have simply confirmed what your heart already knew.

III

The summons comes three months after the marks appear.

Your father's household is to meet with the imperial court to discuss a formal arrangement. You, Mei, and your families are to attend. Caleb will be there as well, representing the royal family's interests.

You know what this is before you arrive. You have heard your mother and father discussing it in low voices, arguing behind closed doors. You have seen the way the court ladies watch Caleb now, whispering behind their fans, calculating his worth as a potential match.

You know what is coming, and you feel numb about it.

The meeting takes place in one of the smaller audience halls. Your father and mother sit on cushions across from the Emperor's representative, an elderly minister with shrewd eyes and a neutral expression. Mei's parents are there as well, seated slightly behind, their faces tense.

Caleb stands to one side in formal court robes. He looks older than his eighteen years, solemn and princely. He does not look at you or Mei. His gaze is fixed somewhere in the middle distance, his jaw tight.

The minister speaks first. His voice is dry and formal, reciting the terms like he is reading from a ledger.

The arrangement is this:

You will be betrothed to Caleb as his primary wife. Your rank demands it. You are the daughter of a high-ranking lord, a princess in all but name. The match is appropriate, politically advantageous, entirely proper.

Mei will be given to Caleb as his concubine. Her family's status as retainers, servants, three generations of faithful service but no title, no land, no name of consequence, makes her ineligible for the role of wife, but the marks have spoken. The gods have written both of your names on his wrist, and to ignore the marks entirely would be to insult heaven.

Any child that Mei bears will be recorded as yours. The lineage will be clean. On paper, you will be the mother of all his children, whether they come from your body or hers, ensuring the imperial bloodline remains unbroken.

Everyone in the room remains very still while the minister speaks. You focus on your breathing, in, out, in, out, because if you focus on that, you do not have to think about what is being said.

When the minister finishes, your father speaks. "This arrangement is acceptable to our house."

Mei's father speaks next, his voice tight. "It is acceptable to ours as well."

They do not ask you. They do not ask Mei. Women do not get asked in matters like these.

Caleb finally looks at you, but you cannot understand his expression. It is blank, the face he has learned to perfect for courtly functions. Then he looks at Mei, and his face changes and softens.

The minister continues with more details. 

The formal ceremony will take place in three years. There will be a betrothal period where you and Caleb will be expected to spend time together, to learn each other, to prepare for married life.

Mei will move into Caleb's household two weeks after the wedding. That is the tradition, the wife is installed first, before the concubine is brought in.

You find this detail particularly bitter. Two weeks. Two weeks of pretending to be a new wife before your dearest friend, your companion, is moved into the same house, into your husband's bed.

The meeting ends. You stand and bow. Everyone bows. You are dismissed.

In the courtyard outside, Mei catches your arm, her grip is tight enough to hurt.

"I do not want this," she whispers. "I do not want him. You know that, do you not? You know I have never wanted him."

"Then why did your parents agree?" You cannot keep the hurt from your voice.

"They had no choice. When the imperial court makes a request, it is not truly a request." Mei's eyes are bright with anger. "But I am telling you now, I do not want this. I will not pretend I am happy about it."

"Neither am I." The words come out sharper than you intend.

Mei flinches. 

"You are angry with me."

"I am not angry with you. I am angry with…" You gesture helplessly at the palace around you, at the whole structure of it, the system that decides women's lives without consulting them. "I am angry with everything."

"Then we are in agreement." Mei's voice softens. "We are both trapped."

You look at her and see the exhaustion in her face. She looks older than her sixteen years. There are shadows under her eyes, and her usual confidence is stripped away.

"I need you to do something for me," you hear yourself say.

Mei straightens. 

"Anything."

"I need you to..." You stop before forcing yourself to continue. "I need you to go along with this. Be what Caleb wants. Be what Caleb needs."

"What?" Mei's voice is sharp. "Why would I do that?"

"Because if you do not, he will be miserable, and if he is miserable, this whole arrangement falls apart, and then what happens? They send you to a different household? Marry you off to some stranger? I will lose you entirely." You are speaking too fast now, the words tumbling out. "But if you do this, if you accept your position in his household, then we stay together. You and I. That is all I care about. Staying together."

"You cannot ask this of me."

"I am asking. I am begging." Your voice breaks. "Please, Mei. Please do this, if not for him, then do it for me."

Mei stares at you for a long moment. You see her throat work, see her blink rapidly as if fighting tears.

"You do not understand what you are asking."

"I do."

"You do not." Her voice is cold. "But I will do it. If this is what you truly want, I will do it. I will be what he wants. I will be what he needs."

The words sound like a vow and a curse all at once.

You reach for her hand.

"Thank you."

Mei does not answer. She pulls away from you and walks across the courtyard, her back straight. You watch her go and feel something inside you breaks.

Later, when you are alone in your chambers, you will wonder why you did that. Why you asked her to sacrifice herself. Why you thought that was the solution, but in this moment, you tell yourself it makes sense. You tell yourself you are keeping her close, keeping her safe, keeping her yours in the only way the world will allow.

You tell yourself many lies that evening.

IV

The betrothal period passes in a blur.

Three years is a long time to pretend. 

You spend time with Caleb as required. You take walks in the gardens, attend court functions together, sit across from each other at formal dinners and make polite conversation. You learn his preferences, how he likes poetry but cannot stand most music, how he has a sweet tooth he tries to hide, how he is terrible at strategy games but too proud to admit it.

He is kind to you. He treats you with the respect due a future wife, but his eyes are always searching the room for Mei. You pretend not to notice.

Mei, true to her word, allows Caleb's courtship. She accepts his gifts. She walks with him when he asks. She smiles politely when he attempts poetry. She does everything a concubine-to-be is expected to do.

But there is a distance in her manner. There is a wall she has built between herself and him, invisible but unmistakable. She goes through everything without being truly present.

You wonder if Caleb notices. You suspect he does not.

There are moments, though. Moments when it feels almost like before.

One afternoon in the second year of your betrothal, the three of you find yourselves in the orchard together. It is autumn, the trees heavy with fruit, the air crisp and clean. Caleb plucks an apple from a low-hanging branch and tosses it to you. 

"Remember when we used to steal pies from the kitchen?"

You catch the apple, surprised by the sudden nostalgia in his voice. 

"Of course. Mei was always the one who got us into trouble."

"I was the one who got us out of it," Mei retorts, but she is smiling. 

It is a real smile, not the polite mask she wears at court.

"You were both terrible influences." Caleb's voice is warm, teasing, he sounds like the boy you knew at ten. "I was a perfect prince before I met you."

"You were boring," Mei counters.

"I was dignified."

"Boring," you and Mei say in unison, and then all three of you are laughing.

You sit in the grass, passing the apple back and forth, and for a moment, it is like nothing has changed, like you are still children without complications, still friends who steal pies and climb trees and watch clouds.

"I wish it could stay like this," Caleb admits quietly.

The words hang in the air. You want to agree, want to reach for that feeling and hold it tight, but Mei's smile fades.

"It cannot," she says. "It never could."

Caleb's face closes off. You look away. The three of you sit in silence for a while longer, and then Caleb makes an excuse and leaves. Mei watches him go, her expression unreadable. 

"Someone will always be unhappy," she murmurs so softly you almost miss it.

You do not know who she means, perhaps all of you.