#azul.writes

Of course, the city of Mondstadt, having caught the news of his return, have carefully and excitedly planned for a celebration to happen. Thus, the usual silent and peaceful air turned into something electrified with the rustle of banners and bustling chatter of the citizens, whispering and talking among themselves—oftentimes of the grandmaster, of how long he had been away, of what would happen now that he’s here. Before, the only thing Knights of Favonius, stationed at the mainland, have received are reports of his status and the elite knights, while the citizens could only wonder about the whereabouts of the man himself.

It would be no wonder that some would even speculate whether he’s still alive or not, and even then, what use would he have if he were to return now since they already have the acting grandmaster, Jean, already performing his duties. It was an inevitable thing to have such whispers, though it had never fostered into anything, only remaining as fleeting murmurs carried away by the wind.

Every corner of the city was not spared with silence and just as the citizens have been waiting with bated breath for the day, for the culmination of their efforts, you, too, cannot sit still at the simple thought of Varka, finally, coming back.

It’s been a long time since you have last seen your husband. It’s been three years now and the only kind of communication, interaction, or way you feel his presence is through letters with souvenirs, trinkets, or anything that he thinks you will like. Letters that can never be a page or less than two, letters written with that messy script of his with occasional blobs of ink that have dripped on to the paper, letters that will end with those three words of his affection for you and signed with ‘Your Beloved, Varka’.

It is no understatement to say that you lent a great hand in the preparations for the expedition team’s return. From the hanging banners, the decorations all over the place, the cathedral looking for helpers, literally anything you can get your hands on. If you were even given the opportunity, you would have built a statue of his honor. It was no news to everyone that you were ecstatic no matter how much you try to appear calm and composed in front of them. You cannot sit still at all. 

You were simply everywhere and doing everything all at once, and this is evident by that fact Lisa had to come to you and tell you to take some time to rest or else, you wouldn’t even get to see the day that he will be here. You couldn’t even say no to her, knowing how scary she can get—she even threatened to tell Jean to ban you from helping. The thought of it was ridiculous but it was not impossible, so for the last few days leading to the day of celebration, you sat in your home or outside; you played with the children who each, but all the same, told you of how excited they are to see the grandmaster again and have him train them—by which, they mean chasing him with a sword while he pretends to be scared.

You simply love and miss your husband, the love of your life, Varka. It was hard not to—only an insane person wouldn’t, or maybe you just adore him a lot. Either way, this ache was strong and this ache was making you lose your mind at each second he’s not here.

The day comes and as early as dawn, people are already coming out of their homes, looking forward to the day ahead. The streets are alive with a palpable energy, the kind that only surfaces during festivals. Albeit, it was still different—this was no ordinary festival, after all. Children dart between the legs of adults, their laughter as bright as the streamers that now adorn every lamp post and awning. The smell of fresh bread and roasting meat wafts from Good Hunter, where Sara is already working twice as fast to accommodate the influx of orders. Even the cats, those independent creatures of the city, seem to sense the shift in the atmosphere, finding sunny spots along the route where the crowds will gather, as if they too wish to witness the grandmaster's return.

“I’ll give you a discount since I’m in a great mood today!”

“Ah, the pigeons!”

“How long until we see them?!”

Today just feels so right and perfect.

There is a sea of familiar faces and excited chatter as soon as you step outside and walk along the streets. People greet you, pat your shoulder, offer kind words and knowing smiles—some have even teased you, pushing you into a flustered state with their words. They understand, perhaps better than anyone, what this moment means for you. You’ve been a part of their community long enough that your yearning has become woven into the fabric of their own anticipation.

Not far away, the gates of Mondstadt stand open, welcoming, waiting. Beyond them lies the path to the rest of Teyvat, the path Varka took so long ago. And then—

“They’re here! They’re coming!”

Immediately afterwards, the people gathered at the sides so as not to block the pathway, and there, on the horizon, you see them—the expedition party emerges from the distance like a dream given form and cheers soon erupt, yelling, shouting. It drowns out the sound of your own heartbeat, your own breath, and your own thoughts.

The procession slows as it reaches the gates. The crowd takes this moment to press closer, voices calling out greetings and blessings.

“Grandmaster Varka!”

“Barbatos bless you all!”

“Look! Do you think one of them is Captain Kaeya’s horse?”

Though you, too, are glad to see the elite knights return, knowing how much of a strong foundation they are to the city’s military prowess, your eyes only seem to look for one and one person only. You watch him, eyes warm with affection, a smile tainting your lips, and your shoulders relax at the utter sight of him, basking in all this glory and celebration.

(Beneath it all, you are relieved—relieved, not just because he’s returned, but because he’s here and that through all your prayers and desperation, he is unharmed. He is alive. The mere thought of it crashes through you like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, and you realize that you had been holding something beneath your ribs all this time—something cold and sharp and terrible, a fear you never allowed yourself to name, a dread that lived in the space between heartbeats, in the silence between letters, in the hours past midnight when the bed felt too large and the world too quiet. You had carried it so long it had become part of your breathing, part of your waking, part of the way you moved through days without him. You had grown so accustomed to its weight that you forgot it was there at all.)

He's dismounted now, his great horse being led away by a young squire who looks absolutely starstruck. Varka pats the boy's shoulder with a laugh you can hear even from here, that booming, infectious sound that has always made your heart swell. He looks around, taking in the banners, the decorations, the crowd of familiar faces, and you watch as recognition dawns on his features, one by one.

Many have approached him already, though you still remain on the sidelines, not wishing to interrupt this tender moment. You know the extent of his longing for his homeland, having to endure the battlefield every single day; his letters have told you so.

"Grandmaster!" A young knight pushes through the crowd, his face flushed with excitement. "Welcome back, sir! Could I—could I possibly ask for your autograph?"

Varka laughs again, clapping the young man on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "Slow down, soldier! I'm not going anywhere. We'll have plenty of time for autographs and training and everything else. But first—"

Through the chaos of celebration, through the sea of bodies and noise and color, his eyes easily find yours. Albeit he tries to approach you, only to be intercepted by one person to another, and you cannot simply help but laugh at the sight, waving him off and telling him to deal with that first. He could only mutter a silent apology while scratching the back of his head, turning his attention back to entertaining everyone who comes to him.

"Grandmaster! The children have been practicing a song for weeks!"

"Sir Varka! My tavern has saved its best cask for tonight!”

"Welcome back, old friend!"

He’d greet them warmly, genuinely, but his attention would keep on drifting, keep wandering, keep settling on you for a few moments as if he was trying to reassure—or remind—himself that you’re still there waiting.

You don’t know how long you’ve been standing there now, underneath the shade and away from the crowd that have gathered and drowned him with their relentless inquiries and excitement. He was not spared a single moment, perhaps even accumulating all their energy, returning it back to them tenfold. Varka, through all of it, was a man who loved his people with the same ferocity he loved anything—wholly, without reservation, with every piece of himself he had to give.

However, this time, his eyes find you again, and you see the silent question there: Can I come to you now? Please?

You nod, laughing warmly, and he starts toward you, and this time, the crowd lets him. People have stepped aside, making way for him and leaving the man alone, understanding that this moment—this reunion—belongs to the two of you first. His boots strike the cobblestones with familiar rhythm, each step bringing him closer, closer, until he stops before you. 

Up close, you see the changes the years have wrought. New lines etched at the corners of his eyes, evidence of harsh sun and harsher conditions. His hair is longer than you remember, but still styled in the same way that he always does. But more than everything, his eyes. 

Archons above, his eyes.

They are the same eyes that looked at you on your wedding day, full of wonder that someone like you could love someone like him. They are the same eyes that crinkled with laughter when you made silly faces to cheer him up after difficult days. They are the same eyes that, even in his hastily scrawled letters, you could feel looking at you across impossible distances.

And now they are looking at you from only a breath away.

“Hello, my love.” He says, and his voice falters on the last note.

The sound breaks something in you. You surge forward, closing the remaining distance between you, and his arms—those strong, warm arms you have dreamed about for so many sleepless nights—wrap around you and pull you tight against his chest. You bury your face in his chest, breathing him in, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek.

"I'm home," he whispers into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm home."

You can't speak—despite the amount of times you have practiced in front of the mirror on what to say to him, despite the amount of daydreaming you have of this moment, despite having prepared yourself—silence, brought by so much emotions and feelings, has lodged itself in your throat. Words are inadequate, useless things when faced with the enormity of this moment. So instead you cling to him, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt as if he might disappear if you loosen your hold even slightly. He holds you just as tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped firmly around your waist, anchoring you both to this moment, to each other.

Eventually, reluctantly, you pull back just enough to look at him. Your hands come up to frame his face, your thumbs tracing the new lines, the beloved features that have haunted your dreams. He leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for just a moment, as if he, too, cannot believe this is real.

"I missed you," you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper. "I missed you so much." And the tears you’ve been holding at bay finally spill over, just a little. You don’t wish to embarrass yourself in front of him and already make a mess. You told yourself repeatedly that you wouldn’t cry or do anything stupid, but it seems like that was thrown out of the window.

Varka immediately panics. This legendary warrior, this grand master who has faced down monsters and braved the harshest conditions Teyvat could throw at him, looks utterly and completely terrified by the sight of your tears. His hands, which have held swords and shields and the weight of an entire expedition, flutter helplessly at your sides as if he has no idea what to do with them.

"Don't—please don't cry," he pleads, his voice cracking in a way that would be comical if you weren't so overwhelmed.

He fumbles for something and ends up pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabs at your cheeks with a gentle clumsiness that only he possesses, his brow furrowed with such intense concentration you'd think he was back in the battlefield rather than wiping away tears.

"Please don't cry, my love," he murmurs, his thumb catching a tear at the corner of your eye. "I can't bear it. I could face any enemy and it would be less terrifying than watching you cry."

From his words, a wet laugh escapes you, and his face lights up like sunrise. Before you can say anything else, he leans in and presses his lips to your forehead—soft, reverent, lingering—as if you are something sacred, something worth crossing entire nations to return to. When he pulls back, his eyes are bright with unshed tears of his own, holding only affection, adoration, love for you and you only; and he smiles at you like you are the answer to every prayer he never spoke aloud.

“Welcome home, Varka.”

he better come home at my first 10 pull (i only have that much)

DAN HENG

Dan Heng sees you camping by the hallway like the nosy person you are as soon as he gets home, hiding behind the slightly open door, eavesdropping on the couple, ex-lovers, or a pair with a romantic history (a gut-wrenching situationship) bickering. 

You immediately beckon him over, placing a finger against your lips to silence any of his questions, and by the time he arrives by your side you pull him aside: “They’ve been at it for hours.” You say, completely focused on a pair of a couple of strangers, eyes gleaming with the fervor as if you’re watching your favorite show on TV. 

“And you’ve been here for hours?” He replies, which you immediately hush him. It’s rather painful to admit, but there’s this feeling that boils in his chest, and he can’t help but be upset. Something sharp and unwelcome twists in his chest at how utterly captivated you are by this strangers' mess when he's standing right here, when he could be giving you his full attention. Why are you paying so much attention to someone that isn’t him?

“I don’t really know what’s going on but it looks so interesting, so I can’t help it.” You utter, still not sparing a glance at him. Clearly, you weren’t the only one as the others are doing the same thing—even the ones from a different floor are lingering by the stairs.

With a long-suffering sigh that doesn't quite mask his irritation, he hooks a finger in your collar and bodily drags you away from your makeshift opera show, ignoring your indignant squawks as he herds you back inside, effectively distracting you with something else.

PHAINON

There are some pretty loud sounds and creaking that has been going on in the apartment next door. 

At first, Phainon and you dismissed it. I mean, it’s not like those kinds of things are not normal and both of you weren’t the purest beings out there in this world. Besides, that was just the only time it’s going to happen, right? 

Wrong. 

You are completely and utterly wrong because for DAYS you have been enduring those damn sounds and for days you are losing sleep over it. It haunts you every single night for hours as soon as the clock strikes nine as if it was a damn routine of theirs. You tried knocking back against the wall, a signal, but they didn't stop. Matter of fact, they get louder.

By the time a week has passed by, or banged by, both you and Phainon have reached a level of zen-like resignation that would concern even the most seasoned monks. 

Night comes once more, his eyes are glazed over as the headboard next door pounds rhythmically against the wall in what can only be described as architectural assault. He’s long since given up on subtlety, muttering, “Good for them,” with the hollow cheer of a man who has accepted his fate. You, on the other hand, are biting your lip to keep from laughing at the way his eye twitches every time a particularly enthusiastic moan pierces the air. 

He suddenly rolls over, pulls you in his arms, and squeezes you tightly like you were a life-sized stress ball, “You’re laughing, we’re both miserable, and you’re laughing.” Perhaps it was better to bang at your neighbor's door tomorrow to give them a change of pace, or a new definition of pounding.

ANAXAGORAS

Anaxa is not one to be able to tolerate such things. I mean, how many times has this been already? Every single time there is a damn delivery addressed to your door, it’s not really addressed to you nor him, but to the person who lives next to you. You wouldn’t mind it if it was just a one-time occurrence, but no, because nearly every single day you’ll always have someone knocking and yelling: “Delivery for (insert name of your neighbour who is pissing you off and inconveniencing you with this thing)!”

From food, to jewelry, to clothes, to shoes, to flowers, you name it all. It feels like you had the entire mall fall into your entire doorstep already. It gets annoying especially when it overlaps with some of your expected deliveries. Imagine being so excited for your parcel to arrive that you’d run to your door, abandoning whatever you are doing, only to discover that it wasn’t even yours?!?

“This is getting annoying.” You grumble, invading Anaxa’s personal space as he reads from his book, resting your head against his shoulder.

“I agree.”

So what does Anaxa propose to do instead? Accepting the deliveries before his neighbour could open the door and tell the guy that it’s theirs. From then on, you are enjoying the luxuries of free food and items. Though it only lasted for five days because your lovely neighbor didn’t put your address as the delivery place anymore after your small squabble with them. Bummer.

Why were they even putting your address for deliveries anyway? Turns out your neighbour was scamming people left and right online and putting your address as to not get in trouble in case authorities get involved. Well, they did get involved and they also did end up at your door but you simply redirected them to the right place.

MYDEIMOS

As a great philosopher has once said, for one to arrange their furniture, one must do it in the morning. Not during the ass fucking crack of dawn when you’re already wandering and skipping in your dreamland, talking to a purple dinosaur. As soon as he hears that loud banging, screeching, and scraping of something coming from the place above, Mydei does not waste a single second.

“What the fuck.” You say, groggy and having just woken up from your sleep when a loud sound of something crashing is heard from above. You would have thought someone broke into your place until you saw Mydei right beside you, leaning against the headboard, arms crossed across his chest.

“What was that? Did you hear that?” You’re already bombarding him with questions, trying to make sense of what’s happening until you hear another sound of something scraping just above your ceiling and it doesn’t stop for a minute. If you were in a cartoon, your whole place would already be shaking just for the effect of it.

“I’m going to talk to them.”

“Huh?” You say, confused, watching as your lover gets out of bed. “Who?” Your eyes follow him as he randomly picks a shirt from his closet. 

Before he completely leaves, he crosses the room until he’s leaning over you, one hand cradling your cheek as if you’re something sacred. His thumb brushes beneath your eye and before you realize it, he’s already tilting your face up, pressing a lingering kiss on your forehead.

When he finally pulls back, he murmurs, “Stay here.” And then you never see him again.

Just kidding, you do. Just a few minutes later when he slips back into bed and tells you to go back to sleep, while he embraces you. You don’t question him or what he did, and surely enough, your sleep was peaceful and quiet.

BOOTHILL

ASSERT DOMINANCE, Boothill claims as he’s already rolling his sleeves and preparing to take out the speaker system.

He was already not having it. Months of having to deal with his so-called neighbours, also so-called ‘friends’, and their never-ending parties that disturb your sleep to which they’ll compensate with a half-assed apology the next morning only to do the same thing again during the night. In addition to that nuisance too is how some of these dumbasses would occasionally stumble into your door, mistaking it for the party venue. Clearly, they don’t see the loud ass house with disco lights just behind them.

After another intoxicated fool ends up at your doorstep again, his already-broken composure falters as he swings the door open with a rather pissed off grin, gaze burning with so much intensity. "Lost, darling?" he purrs, voice dripping saccharine venom as the stranger blinks blearily at him. One glance at you who bore a tired look on your face and back to Boothill who's still hovering by the doorway, glaring, and the poor soul suddenly remembers they have somewhere else to be. That was it, that was the last straw.

So here you are, trying to stop him as he drags the speakers to the porch, firing up a playlist exclusively consisting of a guy imitating how Hugh Jackman would sing certain songs (please get the reference) and Mariah Carey’s entire discography.

Not long after, the neighbour’s party stops dead. Although a verbal argument did break out, with your lover’s amazing vocabulary and machine-gun like mouth, he won.

"See, darlin’? Sometimes the best way to shut a party down is to throw a better one."

In the end, both you and the neighbours got a noise complaint.

JING YUAN

There’s a couple breaking up across the street and they were yelling loud enough to wake up even the neighbourhood’s deepest sleeper. So like the chad Jing Yuan and you are, of course, you sit by your porch on the pretense that you are… simply sightseeing. Yes, sightseeing. 

That’s why you have your chairs out with glasses of juice along with some leftover popcorn that you made last night. Oh, and also, your binoculars. If only you could read lips to complete your experience, but it’s alright, because this couple (or not to be) is screaming and hollering loudly, as the lady throws into the streets what you assume to be his belongings. 

The spectacle escalates to something like you would see from a telenovela, shame there are no grand reveals and slapping involved. But the girl did fling a ceramic vase at him, to which the man dodges, unfortunately.

“I wonder what the guy did.” You mumble, taking a mouthful of popcorn. Your bucket was nearly empty now and at the same time, it seems like your show is coming to an end as the woman stomps back inside and leaves the guy behind. With that, Jing Yuan rises from his chair, stretching languidly before offering you his arm. 

"Shall we retire for intermission, my dear? I believe Act Two will involve either tearful reconciliation or a round two of their fight. Either way, we'll want fresh snacks." It’s no lie that your lover is positively radiant with amusement despite the disruption it created for your usually peaceful, warm afternoon.

SUNDAY

Sunday deals with the neighbours’ drunken chaos the way a saint tolerates blasphemy. Despite the nuisance it has brought with the loud bass that seem to shake the whole place awake, he’s still formal and proper in handling the situation.

The door opens after a few minutes of knocking and waiting and a lady greets him.

“My apologies for interrupting your revelry, but I’m afraid you’re disturbing everyone with your enthusiastic celebration.” Specifically you. The thought of you being weary and troubled as you lose sleep over this terrible disturbance is making his chest tighten. He doesn’t wish to see you suffer, so he ignores your insistence of just leaving the neighbours alone. “Some of us have work in the morning.”

The woman blinks slowly and cries, “I’M NOT READY TO DIE YET!” 

Hell is quieter than their playlist, that’s for sure. 

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Please, it is clear that you are not of sober mind,” he forces a smile, “so allow me to make this simple for you. We would appreciate it if you were to immediately comply with local noise ordinance, lest we escalate this to the authorities. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

That seemed to have sobered her up, and though annoyed, the lady apologized and went back inside. Soon, the music comes to a halt and everything is embraced by silence. Relieved, he returns to your side after accomplishing what he was here for, bringing you a warm cup of tea to drink as he tells you of how his conversation went down, saying something about how some people wouldn't recognize peace if it bit them.

BLADE

You’ve just moved into the neighborhood, hoping to have a fresh, warm start together with your beloved. But life seems to have different plans for you.

There’s this group of teenagers making a commotion every day by the front of your house, coinciding at the same time that he’s away. From lighting up fireworks which resulted in burning off a few of your plants as it flew off the wrong direction, to laughing and playing loudly that you often find your afternoon nap being disturbed, and to even throwing eggs at your window as they compete with one another on who’ll get to hit the highest. It’s annoying, especially when you have already told them off many times before but they never listen. These brats.

Eventually, you’ve resorted to telling Blade about it, nearly breaking down in the process. I mean, it was stressing you out so much and although it could just be a small thing for others—reasoning it with how they’re just children and having fun—, it was making you frustrated. 

Blade makes an effort to comfort you, even reassuring you that he’ll deal with the problem. You just nod and accept it, knowing that he won’t be able to do anything against these young, wild, and free teenagers. 

You didn’t know that doubting Blade was a big mistake because somehow, when the next day comes, he had managed to bring them over to you and had them apologize, swearing that they’ll never bother you again.

“We’re so sorry!”

“We’re never going to do it again!”

“Please forgive us!”

You did scold them, kindly, before forgiving them and oddly enough, it was satisfying. It feels like a heavy weight was lifted off your shoulders.

“What did you do?” You ask him as soon as the kids leave.

“Stared at them.”

AVENTURINE

In all honesty, it’s rare for you to hear anything scandalous or experience something frustrating, so things can get a little boring. But when drama does strike, you and Aventurine are front-row spectators, dissecting every juicy detail.

This time, however, the gossip seems to involve you. There is a girl, a stranger, standing in front of you, yelling and accusing you of things that you don’t even remember doing. Your confusion and silence, however, prompts the stranger to hesitate and stop.

“Wait, you’re not [Name]?”

“I am…?”

"You bitch! Are you trying to confuse me or what?!" Furious, her hand flies up—only for Aventurine to catch her wrist with ease, letting go of it soon after.

“Perhaps there is a small misunderstanding. If I remember correctly, there are two [Name]’s in here.” he shields you behind him, holding your hand as if to reassure you, “I believe that the person you are looking for is them.” He says, directing her attention to somewhere else.

And funnily enough, there is another girl a few steps away, attempting to cover their face with their purse, trying to run away before they get caught. But it’s too late as the girl finally realizes who her target truly is. 

“YOU!” She storms over, heels clanking loudly against the floor. “I knew it was you!” You beg to differ.

The scene immediately escalated into a catfight accompanied with yelling and spilling the most atrocious things like how this paramour was also sleeping with the man’s sister. Wow, messy.

“Should we call the security?”

“I already did.” Aventurine casually says, squeezing your hand as he tugs you away from the spectacle. Walking back to your home and away from the mess, he takes this moment to tease you:

“Babe, you should have told me you had another man.”

“I do not!”

GALLAGHER

“And what’s troubling my beloved?” Gallagher asks as soon as he sees your rather stressed state—bags heavy under your eyes, hair disheveled, and the demeanor of someone who’s been pushed to their limit. You groan, flopping face-first onto the couch with a muffled scream into the cushion.

Gallagher hums, already pouring you a glass of water before settling beside you. His calloused fingers card through your hair, listening patiently, as you rant about the latest neighborhood nuisance: there is this constant thump-thump-thump noise that happens at exactly 3 AM. 

You’ll find yourself waking up to it often, cursing at that repeated sound that’s making your head explode. It lasts for an hour, sometimes less than it, but it occurs at the same time of dawn. You’ve adapted to it now by covering your ears with some plugs you bought from the store after days of having it happen to you.

“It’s just so annoying! Does it not bother you?” You say, rolling over to your back and staring at the ceiling.

“I don’t recall ever waking up to anything with that sound.” Right, you forgot how this man can be such a heavy sleeper at times.

“Lucky you.” You groan. “It sounded like someone's bouncing a basketball? Or maybe hammering nails? I don't even know anymore."

He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, gazing at you affectionately as he caresses your cheek. “Maybe we can talk to them tomorrow.”

“Yeah, we could, they’re just next door anyway.” You mutter, sitting up slightly to rub your tired eyes. 

Gallagher’s hand stills against your skin. “What do you mean next door?”

“You know, unit 305. The one right next to us.”

“My love.”

“What? You’re scaring me, Gallagher.” You whisper, pulse quickening as his gaze flicks toward the wall.

“Nobody lives there.”

i procrastinated on this for days then as soon as i finished i got informed i have a 150-page reading due

Before you could even say anything, Mydei is already walking to the couch and flopping down on it. When asked if he’s going to sleep on the bed later, he’ll only say that it’s all yours to have. Discussion closed. If you toss a pillow at him, he’ll catch it without opening his eyes before tucking it under his head—that’s the most you’ll get from him.

You should have known what a little shit Caelus is. He'll opt for sleeping on the floor, right close to the bed where you can completely see him, even though there is a perfectly fine couch over there that is possibly more comfortable than the ground he insists on. He is committed to the bit, escalating his performance into Oscar-worthy height, sprawled all over the ground like a fallen hero in a musical. “The aching," he moans, clutching a throw pillow to his chest like a deathbed prop. “UGH, my back! If only someone is so kind as to offer me something warm… like a bed. This is not directed to you, [Name]. How could I ever be so scandalous and greedy to take something away from you.” Except he’s being scandalous. Is this his way of making you feel guilty? Yes. Is it working? Terribly so.

It’s hard to tell what Dan Heng is thinking at the moment, especially with his silence. But suddenly, he moves with the precision of a mechanical robot, prepares the bed and tells you that you’ll have it while he sleeps somewhere else. However, it takes three logical appeals—“The chair will ruin your back"—, one impulsive grab at his sleeve, and his own traitorous exhaustion before he relents and lies down. It’s a little quiet, don’t you think? Is he already asleep? Apparently not, because the ceiling looks more interesting than any kind of dream right now. Eventually, you’ll find yourself asking him random questions to which he answers anyway until you fall asleep. Dawn reveals him exactly where he started, spine straight, hands folded on his chest, as if he’s some kind of a display. The only evidence he ever moved at all is the blanket now tucked over your shoulders.

Jing Yuan finds some kind of delight or entertainment in this situation. He’s having way too much fun with this, so much so that he teases you so much and you have to smack him repeatedly until he stops—he doesn’t though, and you’re so close to just grabbing his lips with your hand. Grinning, he’ll say: “But why would I sleep on the couch? There’s a bed over there.” or something like, “Oh, you’re sure you don’t want to share?”. In the end, you cannot completely win against him so the two of you end up in the same space, only a few inches apart because as fate would have it, there’s only one pillow too.

Give Sunday a moment to just process and look if there are any other beds in the room. When he finally realizes there’s one and nothing else, yeahhh… flustered at the thought of being on the same bed as you? Maybe, but he still tries to be a gentleman and offers for you to take the bed’s comfort and he’ll look for something to work with for his sleep. He is just so close to cracking—his princely composure fading into nothing as he debates the ethics of sharing versus his very obvious crush. "Perhaps… if we both face opposite walls?" he suggests weakly, like that’ll somehow erase the tension. When you finally tug him onto the bed, he lies so still you’d think he’s in a coffin, hands clasped over his chest like a vampire praying for restraint.

Yeah, you and Boothill are sharing that bed despite you insisting that the two of you would not fit in it. You have no choice at all. And somehow, your crisis went from where to sleep to how to sleep because he moves a lot like he’s in some kind of boxing competition in his dreams. He is a one-man apocalypse—he is both the zombie and the survivor, flipping, rolling, and doing everything but not giving you peace. You ended up kicking him out of frustration, perhaps a little too hard because he nearly fell to the ground—-amazingly, he didn’t wake up. Annoyingly, he just comes back like a boomerang and by morning, you’re a shell of a person, while he stretches like he had the best sleep in his entire life.

That is no problem at all because Blade does not fucking sleep. Somehow, that stresses you out.

Dr. Ratio would sigh and ask whether you prefer the bed, the floor, or the couch (if there is any). Whatever you choose, you’re sleeping there, although it seems kind of stupid to give you the illusion of choice because he’ll scold you if you choose anything else other than the bed. Say what? You’re choosing the couch? Okay, have fun sleeping on the bed. Unbelievable, he has logicked you into submission. And when words fail and you still protest, he lifts you like a misbehaving kitten and drops you onto the mattress (those muscles are not just for display). "Go to sleep," he commands, looming over you like a crazed professor.

With the ever-loving gentleman Argenti, you’re always taken care of and considered by him. He is just insufferably chivalrous. "A flower as delicate as you deserves the finest rest," he’ll say, gesturing to the bed like it’s a throne. He’s draping you in blankets, tucking you under them like you’re some kind of fragile artifact, then afterwards, he prepares to rest on a single-cushioned chair. He will not be swayed no matter what you say, so just go sleep and don’t worry about him.

One bed? No worries, Aventurine will just get another room for himself. No room either? Guess, you’re stuck with him now. “What’s the harm in sharing, friend?” What you imagined to be a night of fine wine and dinner ends up in a mess of pillow-fighting after you threw one directly on his face, to which he retaliated, and you, too, also retaliated until it ended into this chaos. Finally, when you grudgingly settle in and resigned to your fate, lounging on your side of the bed, you fall asleep to the sound of his laugh and his whispered words of goodnight. You’ll wake up baffled, however, as you see him curled on the couch, one arm dangling off, having silently relocated sometime in the night. The audacity of this man to play chivalrous after wrecking the room.

In this place, you were completely vulnerable and exposed to everyone. There was no place for you to hide. The decorations were not big enough to cover you up and the transparent walls allowed anyone to watch your every move—perhaps that was the intention. After all, you were captured and sold to a wealthy nobleman who was fascinated by your species and their ‘exotic beauty’.

The second time was when he was with the master, standing in front of your ‘home’, gawking at you with a grin on his face—all teeth and greed. You were still the same except much worse, lingering on the same spot he had seen you. “Pretty, isn’t she?” The master says, a sparkle in his gaze as he admires your every inch before he turns to look at the swordsman by his side. “You find her amazing, don’t you?” It seems he had mistaken Phainon’s tension for awe, and he hates it; there’s a bitter taste on his tongue and a tight feeling in his chest, especially more so when the brutish man mentions how he can’t have you.

As if you were some prized possession or doll for ownership. The thought alone angers him, his grip on the hilt of his sword never loosening.

A gem is tossed inside your tank, landing on top of your head, as the master speaks of how your species is particularly fond of such things: “Doesn’t that one make you happy?” The man croons, “So rid that ugly expression on your face. The guests wouldn’t wish to see such a depressing display.” How considerate, truly. 

Phainon doesn’t even ease from where he stands, from where he watches, and it frustrates him further that he’s bound to a position where there’s nothing he can do. He hates that he feels useless, that the chains of his responsibility and status tugs tightly on his neck, rendering him unable to reach you.

But surely there should be something, right?

Later that night, unburdened by his duty, he returned to where you were. This is the third time he sees you, and yet, you remain the same. The faint moonlight dimly alights your room, the silver casting its glow right at your display case. To think that they even thought of your display and where the light will hit. You’ll see him, lingering by the doorway, seemingly hesitant but when he catches your gaze, he steels his resolve and steps forward.

Phainon’s greeting to you is returned with a curious tilt of your head—this time, something different from your usual pensiveness flickers in your expression at the sight of a cautious man who bears the wave in his eyes. At least you don’t look too wary or scared in front of him (he’d hate himself if you feared him too). He takes this as a good sign to continue… with whatever his plan is. It’s practically non-existent, he just wanted to come here and see you. At this point, he’s no less different to his master; he can’t help the sigh that escapes him.

You swim toward him—only a bit—and there’s something tentative in the way your fingers press against the glass, like you're waiting to see if he’ll hurt you too. For a few moments, the two of you have this staring contest held in pure silence, until the words come out of his mouth before it gets lost in the crevices of his mind: “Are you lonely?” And you blink; the only answer you could ever give him was a tilt of your head downwards and the faintest nod as if telling the truth was a sin itself, as if admitting to yourself and to someone that you’re lonely was a blasphemy.

And maybe that’s what does it. The softness in your response, the way you fold yourself smaller like you’re trying to disappear, like you’re tired of being seen and never known (and it’s cruel how the nobles, how these terrible humans, had never tried to know your name or see past your scales). It twists something deep in him like a scar being carved open, left bleeding on the edges.

From then on, Phainon returns—always at odd hours, always in secret. He comes with stories: half-truth about the stars, lies dressed up as tales about heroic escapades and adventures, and anecdotes about his beautiful, exceptional horse, who he claims is more honorable than most men. Other times, he just sits. Talks. Mostly about things that don’t matter like how he’s a bad swimmer, how he grew up close to the wheatfields of his hometown, and how he came to be in this state, wielding a sword to protect the very master you detest, who he also detests. There are also poorly-made jokes and horrible-executed magic tricks, but it makes you laugh anyway, bubbles spiraling up around your face, and oh, how lovely it is that he wants to make you do it again.

He brings things: little, inconsequential things he pockets from the outside world—dried seaweed snuck into your tank that he had bribed one of the servants to drop inside after seeing how poor your diet is, a smooth stone that feels like it remembers the tide, a ribbon the same color of his eyes to tie and style your hair with when you are bored. But sometimes, he comes with silence, with a solemn look on his expression, and with blood on his mouth. And in those moments, he will always ask the strangest questions but never seek for answers, only giving you the smallest of smiles.

You never ask him to stay longer, but he always does.

However, it all falls apart on the night of a gathering. Nobles had arrived in finery too expensive for their personalities—loud laughter and strong perfume that reeks in the halls. Their eyes drag over your form like it’s something they own; they found amusement in the scared expression on your face and how you got startled when one of them knocked too hard against the glass. Stationed by the door, lips pressed tight, Phainon’s hand shakes against the hilt of his sword.

The master gestures at you like you’re part of the decor: “She’s a lovely thing, making the whole room feel alive when she’s simply just swimming. Such a shame that’s all she can do.” Like a bowstring taut too far and tight, something inside of him snaps.

When the night has fallen deep and the halls are empty with the absence of people and their mockery, you hear footsteps, heavy, against the eerie quiet. Phainon appears but you can sense that there is something wrong—his boots and clothes are stained with crimson, rust-brown in streaks, and his sword, unsheathed, drips with something of the same color. His eyes, usually calm like an undisturbed lake, are stormed over. The room was still dim, moonlight draped over his surroundings like silk, casting shadows on his already dreary face.

“I couldn’t find the key,” he says, voice trembling. “So, I’m making one.” He tells you to stay back as he raises his sword and with a swing, the glass cracks once. Twice. And finally, on the third strike, it shatters completely. Water comes rushing out in a torrent, spilling like a scream, the sea reborn inside a noble manor. You’re unsure whether this is salvation or something worse, but the man kneels in front of you, wraps you in his cloak, and touches your cheek like you’re made of something holy. “Please hold on to me,” his voice is nothing but gentle and tender, 

Your prison fades behind him as he runs through the darkness of the night like something possessed, arms heavy with you, but he never stops. Even if the torchlights appear and blink like the stars above you, even if the shouting grows louder in each second. And when the cliff looms ahead, he doesn’t hesitate to jump, murmuring an apology close to your ear that tangles in the wind’s roar.

(It was as if he had planned this from the very start, the route carved and drawn deep in the corners of his mind, waiting for the right moment.)

The sea swallows you whole and Phainon nearly drowns. You had to drag him to the shore, the knight—once bore glory and status, reduced to a man in drenched clothing and tarnished honor—gasped and coughs, half-conscious, bleeding from his knuckles and some parts of his skin. But he grins at you as if he had finally lost everything—except the one thing that he truly cares for. “Told you,” he rasps in broken breaths, “Protector. Occasional entertainer and magician. Bad swimmer.”

You laugh, the same one you’ve shown him, except it’s clearer and livelier compared to when you were inside your glass cage, and he feels like a little boy seeing the sun after a long time. And perhaps, it was the rising dawn on the horizon and the tide’s sweet hum, but you kiss him—like freedom on your tongue, a wind that gently caresses you, and the sea on your lips. It’s soft like a prayer; an affection that the skies would never understand.

And when you part: “Thank you,” you whisper in the language only the deep remembers and though he may not understand, he knows, and he smiles, patting your head. However, you must go now, even if it pains you to leave and forget the warmth of his skin because it is not safe here and it will never be.

This was fine, it was fine.

You’ve made a promise that you’ll come back to him, after all.

ANAXAGORAS, ALL ABOUT MERFOLK 101

Anaxa—or Anaxagoras—is a man of passion and knowledge, that is definite. 

He stumbles upon you by chance, or perhaps by fate despite never believing in it, injured and unconscious by a cove he frequents during his night walks. Moonlight had fractured its surface, silvered shards dancing over your scales—each one a fleeting star in the dark. He wades in, dragging you a little deeper (you were heavy that’s for sure), so that no one else will spot you. 

His fingers, ink-stained and calloused, hover above the gash in your tail, hesitant as if touching a relic. Armed with some information on basic medicine and of your species (sourced from rather not-so credible books and papers), he manages to tend to your wounds enough that it looks… somewhat acceptable-looking in a way that it will really help you heal. Though his bandaging is precise, it is inelegant—too tight here, too loose there—and he simply settles with that despite his frown suggesting otherwise. He was not a healer nor a medical student.

Not long after, you rouse from your sleep. Your vision swims as the searing pain overwhelms you. You first see a ceiling of jagged rock, the scent of salt and crushed herbs thick in the air. Then, a shadow moves from right beside you—a man, human, and you immediately panic though useless when the stranger spoke: "Do not thrash." The command is sharp, but the voice is wrong: guttural, clumsy in all its parts. "You are... safe. Ish."

Mer-tongue, but a butchered version of it as if he was chewing rocks. You’re not sure whether to be insulted with how poorly they are spoken or amazed because it’s a human speaking it.

You blink up at him—tall, seemingly gaunt like he could be blown away with a wind’s kiss (an exaggeration, but he really does look like it), and one eye hidden behind an intricately-designed patch. The other glints like a blade in the moonlight. He kneels before you, a hand held out not to touch but to display as he introduced himself: "Anaxagoras," he says, tapping his chest. Then, slower: "Ahn-ax-ah-gor-as." Like you’re the one struggling with language. You say it, syllables much clearer, flowing smoothly than his. He does not take this as an offense, but rather, he’s amused that he’s able to converse with you.

He tells you of how he simply stumbled upon you and treated your wounds, and it seems to have worked seeing that you’re not dead. “You will not die. Probably.” You wheeze—a weak laugh or a protest, even you’re not sure. Although he mistakes it for something else, a mermaid’s dying breath or whatever that made him command you: “Breathe.” It’s sharp but concern clings to it. "I do not want your corpse." Then, switching to his native tongue when Mer-words fail: "You are valuable. Alive."

You flinch and he does not notice the fear that strikes your face. His eyes narrow and he sighs, softening his words this time: “You have something that I want.” Of course. Humans always want something. Typical; you had to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes, but you did raise your eyebrow at him. “What could I possibly—” 

“Information.” He cuts you off, taking out the journal he had kept hidden underneath his clothes. "Your people’s creation myths, the moment your kind first understood mortality, your understanding of time. Anything—” His voice falters and grits his teeth, as if forcing out the next words: “—to disprove the idiotic texts claiming mermaids simply weave moonlight into their songs.” 

He was no linguist nor doctor, but he sure was a scholar in a mad pursuit of answers to his questions, and to disprove the narrative and lies falsely weaved into your species. You tilt your head at him, "Do humans think we’re just fish with pretty voices?" He does not entertain your question, waiting for your answer to his somewhat one-sided proposal, and you sigh. “Fine. But you bring me land-food tomorrow. The red fruit with seeds.”

And that’s where it begins—fate playing its cruel game of tangling the souls of yours and his.

You’ve established the cove as your meeting spot. It’s become some sort of your ritual—every day before the sun sets you resurface from the waters only to see him already waiting for you, idly sitting or writing down something in the same journal he uses to record everything with. You’ve joked of stealing it and dumping it into the waters once, but the look you got from him immediately shot the idea down and sealed your mouth shut.

Day one. He brought you the promised pomegranate but you ended up making a mess out of it. In your own defense, the skin of it was hard and tough, nothing like you expected. On that same day, you taught him the word for ‘sweet’. Day seven. He brings you some oranges in exchange for your beliefs, if any exists. You tell him of the moon, and scorn him for bringing you such a sour fruit. He had to bring you mangoes the next day to appease you. Day twenty-one. He brought you books, one that brings stories and illustrations. Fascinated, you sing him a song that praises the sun. And the days go on and on, until it turns into weeks, until it turns into months, and eventually a year.

Although there are some days where he ‘forgets’ his journal and spends it watching you draw on sand, listening to your voice. At those times, his inquiries are more often directed to you rather than about you.

Over the thread of time, you cannot really deny that the two of you had gotten close; from what were awkward, somewhat one-sided conversations of just him giving you something and immediately asking for knowledge in return, to this—softness laced into your banter, lingering too close to one another, the tide whispering against the rocks as if keeping your secrets, his fingers no longer hesitating before brushing against your wrist, your laughter no longer guarded but bright and unburdened, the space between your world and his shrinking with every shared moment.

“Say it, scholar.” You grin, sharp. “Or do you not know the word for ‘please’?” He clicks his tongue at you, the sound as dry as parchment. "I know many words for 'please' in dead languages. Your dialect's inflection is confusing and inconsistent."

You laugh, the sound bubbling up like seawater over stones. "Truly arrogant. For someone who still says 'hello' like he's choking on a shell, you ask such big questions, don’t you?” and you don’t fail to notice how Anaxa's jaw clenches. "This is a fair exchange. I've brought you"—he gestures to the collection on the rocks—"texts of all kinds, fruits that don't grow beneath the waves, and the coordinates of three freshwater springs that you have insisted on knowing.”

"But you’re lonely.” You say and the realization comes suddenly, but feels obvious now. "All these questions... you just want someone to talk to." I mean, what kind of man would spend nearly half of their day trying to trade knowledge, bargain about trivial things, and yaps about whatever he could think about as if you were some kind of diary, and think it’s nothing but a desire for company?

While he is studying you, learning new things about you, you, too, are doing the same.

For a moment, the only sound is the tide pulling at the shore before he scoffs at the idea you have brought to him. “Ridiculous. You must know that a claim such as yours should—” But before he even gets through halfway of his sentence, you interrupt him (and you know he hates it when he gets interrupted, but you still do anyway). “Then, do you like me?”

“That is irrelevant.” He quickly answers and you laugh: “So, you don’t deny it?”

“You’re delusional,” he says in your language, but the red that faintly dusts his ears tells otherwise. “You’ve butchered it again, geez.” And though he frowns, there's something almost pleasing in the way he scrawls your correction in the margins. Anaxa finds it that you’re the type to command rather than ask, just like right now: “Stay until the sun sets.”

He had told himself many times that it’s just curiosity—the way his pulse stutters when you mimic his laughter and teases the way he pronounces his words that it bleeds into another meaning. Not fondness. Never fondness. But he stayed even when the sun had bled red and sunk into the horizon, even when you had tugged him into the waves, even when you had dragged him deep into the depths, his lips sealed with yours.

And so the bargain continues—not as scholar and subject, but as something far simpler than the gods could ever comprehend. It endures like the silence during dawn and in how your laughter now lingers in the hollows of his ribs like a second heart. 

Two souls trading whispers where the sea meets the shore, while the tides keep count of all they cannot name—the weight of his gaze when he thinks you're not looking, the way your fingers brush against one another, the unspoken promise that tomorrow, and every tomorrow after, he'll still be waiting when you surface.

MYDEIMOS; LINGER IN THE SILENCE OF FOREVER AND NOTHINGS

In the pursuit of gold, or dinner, he found a mermaid.

You were caught by mistake, getting trapped in the nets was thrown into the waters after spotting a shadowy mass beneath the waves. You thrashed in it, tangled in the ropes like a stray minnow amid the day’s pitiful haul of flounder. Above you, the crew of pirates gawked, their faces slack with disbelief. 

What was thought to be something valuable—maybe a kraken (delusional), a shipwreck’s spoils (optimistic), or at least a tuna large enough to feed more than a dozen hungry pirates (desperate)—turned out to be something completely and utterly different.

One man pokes your tail with a rusty hook, yelping when you snap your teeth at him. A scrawny deckhand with a missing front tooth whistles: “We got a big catch today, boss!” He says, poking your tailfin with the toe of his boot. “Fetch a pretty price in port, eh?”

You’re trapped. You’ve got nowhere to run (literally). In their eyes, you’re practically a diamond waiting to be mined, a jewel in grubby hands.

You shouldn’t have gotten close to the water’s surface, you shouldn’t have been too curious, you should have stayed away, you begin berating yourself at the realization that you will most likely end up as a trophy or worse, soup.

“You’re scaring her.” A voice,gravel wrapped in velvet, came from behind them. The crew parted like tidewater before the moon, revealing who possibly is their captain: Mydei—you learned his name from one of the humans’ whispers—, a storm given a human shape. His presence is a brooding shadow, appearing before you clad in a mix of red, dark maroon, and gold, and his chest covered in crimson tattoos. He crouches, eye level with your trembling form.

For a moment, you expected a knife at your throat. You’ve braced for it even. But instead, he sliced the net open with a flick of his dagger. “Idiots,” he muttered under his breath as he worked on peeling the rope from your scaled hips, as he untangled you out of this mess. You’re confused, but still scared, and the group surrounding you appears to be dumbfounded. “Since when does the captain play nursemaid?” The comment does not fly past your ears and neither does for Mydei, but he ignores the gossiping lot.

This is when you see how the net’s ropes had bitten into your skin, leaving angry red lines. His touch was clinical, careful, but his thumb brushed your wrist where the fibers had bitten deepest, and you hiss. 

He’ll utter an apology and the word sounds foreign in his mouth. “You’re wounded.” And that was true. Blood had streaked your scales and your tail seemed to be limp, muscles protesting at even the thought of movement. When he has asked you if you can understand what he’s saying,  you nod your head and he exhales through his nose, relieved, then jerks his chin toward the horizon.

“Good. This stretch of sea is crawling with hunters. Pirates. Idiots who’d sell your teeth for a mere drink and with your state right now, you’re an easy catch for them.” His voice is low, matter-of-fact, but the truth of it coils cold in your stomach. Your kin had warned you of humans, of their dangers and how they had brought ruin to your fellowmen. “You’ll stay aboard. Until you’re not useless anymore.”

But no one had ever mentioned the ones who wear cruelty as if it were armor, only to reveal gentle hands beneath—they never spoke of storms with quiet eyes, of tempests that shelter and protect rather than bring destruction.

He lifted you—careful, slowly—into his arms, water dripping down his boots, blood staining the fabric of his clothes. The crew’s protests die mid-breath when Mydei levels them with a simple look. You were then hauled to a hastily emptied storage room, lining up a tub that was dumped with buckets of water inside. It’s cramped. Claustrophobic. A far cry from the endless blue you call home, but you bite your tongue. When the alternative is bleeding out on a pirate’s deck, you’ll take the tub.

Against your very expectations, however, the days that you have spent on this ship were not the least uncomfortable, if you put aside your cramped space. The crew members who had scared you at first were actually a bunch of nice people who often perform tricks to entertain you and make you laugh. Although you had bitten one of them when they called you ‘the captain’s pet’.

They bother you nearly every day, either barging into the room to chatter and ramble while they sit on the floor, whether drunk or not, or carrying your tub with you still in it to somewhere else in case you’re sick of seeing the empty wooden walls—so you won’t forget the sun.

They carve chess pieces of terrible forms that it’s hard to discern the rook from a pawn so you can play (you cheat; Mydei catches you and flicks your forehead). One brings a stolen mirror, fragile-looking and probably would shatter in pieces with a small drop if you’re not careful enough, to “fix your boredom, milady”—until Mydei confiscates it: “She’ll hurt herself with the damn thing”. Albeit he’ll return it to you soon after when he sees the pleading look on your face. And that’s not all as the youngest cabin boy sneaks in at dawn to whisper gossip, but flees when Mydei’s shadow darkens the doorway. “Out, it’s too early in the morning to bother her.”

It’s not hard to fall into their routine, especially that they seem to have adopted you like a stray cat. 

Your moments with Mydei and him alone were never meaningless, too. And over the course of time you have spent with him as he always has, and I mean always, visit you every night, you’ve learned three things: 1.) He enjoys pomegranate juice, 2.) He knows how to braid and style hair, 3.) He’s a gentle person.

Words between you and him were scarce. Though you can understand his language, you couldn’t speak it; he couldn’t decipher your words either. But the silence between you wasn’t empty—it was full, like measuring one’s words and gestures before they’re lost to the harsh waves. When he braided your hair, his hands would often linger. When you hummed old lullabies, his shoulders relaxed. The both of you were at peace just being near each other.

But the day will fall and the night will come, and this too, must come to an end—you must return to the waters. “Go home,” Mydei had said while he watched you move your already-healed tail up and down, though struggling a little in the tight space. As an act of rebellion, you decided to sink deep into the tub, but: “You know you can’t drown, right?”

Well, he earned a glare from you when you resurfaced. “This is not your home, fishy.” You know that. You’re not stupid, especially when the evidence is in front of you, covered in scales and glistening in iridescent hues. He can sense your hesitance, sighing: “You surely are more trouble than you’re worth.”

Eventually, after much water-splashing and stubbornness, you’re now being lowered overboard with a jolly boat. The crew lingers on deck, their usual raucous chatter muted—even the deckhand you bit sniffles into his sleeve. Salt spray stings your eyes, or maybe it’s something else. The ocean stretches before you, vast and familiar, but your tail feels leaden.

Mydei sits across you and helps you return into the gentle waves that yearn for your caress. The ocean embraces you like a long-lost limb, but for some reason, regret and something heavier weighs in your chest. But Mydei, ever so attentive, sees the grimness of your expression: “This is not goodbye.” He flicks water at you—something that you often do to him. “Those idiots will miss you.” He jerks his chin toward the ship, where the crew waves exaggeratedly. “So don’t be a stranger.”

He will, too, but you don’t need to know that. And with one last look, you leave and disappear into the darkness. Mydei lingers a little longer on his spot, watching, waiting, and seemingly wanting to see you once more, but he doesn’t, and so, he finally turns away, resigned to the very fate he is forced to take from the stars.

Weeks later, with a whimsical quest for treasure and drunken bet of finding one on a rumored place, the ship will find a chest of gold, gems, and everything that screams of value precisely where there should be nothing. Along with cheers  was a chorus of “See, I told you so!” and “I was right!”, but Mydei knows only one person capable of this—you, now seen perched on a rock, grinning. A ruby, the size of his fist, is thrown at him to which he catches, a smile flickering on his lips. “Show-off.”

Silence settled around you like the unsettling calm that had been forged by the lightkeeper and without a word, you placed your hand in his. The rain that had been gently falling, comes into a drizzle until no longer, the skies cry. Albeit, you are soaked through your clothes and the cold is already deep within your bones. The fine fabric of his gloved hand is chilled by the rain, too, and though it is not warm, a certain comfort bleeds through your skin.

"Not exactly the tour I was expecting, but I won't say no to a guide,” you chuckle rather nervously, trying to make light of the situation. Flins had now straightened from his bow, his form seeming to tower in the gloom as he turned your hand over within his own. 

In all honesty, he hadn’t really expected you to take his hand.

A low, soft hum escaped him, a sound that seemed to weave into the mist. "A fortunate surprise for me, then.” He begins walking, not toward the distant exit as you had assumed, but to a nearby shelter nestled in the shadow of the lighthouse—a detour that would have rendered your arduous journey through Nod-Krai's perilous depths entirely useless. All that effort undone in a single, violent interruption. Seriously, nobody has told you how far away the burial grounds actually are.

"Your presence here brings a much-needed light to this place," he speaks again, his tone as cool and smooth as the surrounding stones. "Though I must apologize; the hospitality thus far has been... lacking.”

"You more than made up for it with the rescue," you say, the words feeling more genuine than your attempted joke earlier. The memory of him fighting earlier, utterly dashing and striking that it felt like your breath had been stolen away, banishing the horrors into nothingness, momentarily eclipsing your shivering. "I'd take a lack of hospitality over being a permanent resident here any day."

You fall into step beside him, your hand still enveloped in his; his grip is neither tight nor loose, but possesses a deliberate, unyielding hold that silently communicates he has no intention of releasing you. And so, your immediate dilemma seamlessly shifts, the terror of the abyssal creatures fading into a more intimate, flustering confusion that coils in your chest—a single, looping question: why did you actually take his hand?

“You jest,” he chuckles. Perhaps it was a trick of your overwhelmed mind, or perhaps it was the new, fragile peace, but the gloom itself seemed to brighten, the air now shimmering with motes of light that danced around the two of you. 

Though, in the midst of the whirlpool of your thoughts, he, too, falls in the same quiet bewilderment. In all honesty, it isn’t his first time that he had extended his hand—he’s done so countless times before, to the lost, the frightened, the dying. But this is the first time someone has actually taken it. Properly taken it. No hesitation, no desperate grasping, no fading pulse beneath his fingers nor nothing at all. And for reasons he can’t quite name, that simple act makes his chest feel oddly light, his composure slipping for the briefest moment. 

He wonders if you noticed the way his thumb almost twitched, as if tempted to tighten his hold. Ridiculous. He’s guided countless souls through far worse storms—so why does this one feel different? Why does your hand feel heavier in his? It’s inconvenient, really. Entirely unnecessary. 

(And yet, when he chances a glance at you, your damp hair catching faint glimmers of lantern light, he thinks, perhaps—)

“Flins.”

“Yes?” He hums, low, questioning, without looking back. The sound carries easily through the mist, like a thread pulling you closer. 

“You’re still holding my hand.”

“Ah, my apologies.”

Though he doesn’t let go. Instead, he seems to consider the act of it—the way your fingers fit so easily against his gloved palm, how natural it feels despite the strangeness of it all. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, albeit it does leave you with questions and thoughts that rampage inside your head.

You glance at him. “You know, most people let go after apologizing.”

“Do they?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him before. “That seems inefficient.”

You laugh softly, a sound that fogs the chill between you. “Inefficient?”

“Well, yes,” he replies, almost defensively, though there’s a faint smile curving his lips. “It would be rather rude to abandon someone halfway through an escort, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s one way to justify it,” you say, shaking your head, though you don’t pull your hand away either. Somehow, that feels like its own small confession.

The path evens out, and the faint light of the lighthouse glows ahead, cutting through the fog like a gentle beacon, and spilling across both of you. You notice the way the light pools softly over his shoulder, gilding the edges of his hair, tracing faint gold along the curve of his jaw. He looks different under it—less distant, more human. Or maybe that’s just the exhaustion catching up to you.

“Cold?” he asks quietly, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

“A little,” you admit, voice barely above the whisper of the wind.

He hums, thoughtful. “Then I suppose it would be best if I didn’t let go after all.”

You blink, caught off guard, and for a moment you don’t know whether to laugh or hide your face. “That’s—”

“Efficient,” he finishes for you, deadpan, though the faint curve of his mouth betrays the joke.

It shouldn’t make you smile as much as it does. And yet, here you are, grinning like a fool in the middle of a graveyard, your hand still tucked safely in his. Somehow, the setting makes it all stupid, it’s gloomy and dark, and yet, you’re here, indulging yourself in whatever this is. You had only come here for the sake of politeness and curiosity, but still, in the very depths of your mind and everything you are swearing for, maybe you don’t regret it one bit.

By the time you reach the lighthouse steps, the mist has thinned into nothing more than a veil over the sea. You pause, the both of you standing still before the resting area—a table littered with all kinds of things accompanied by a singular chair—, and only then does he finally release your hand. The air rushes back in like a held breath let go.

You flex your fingers once, the ghost of warmth still dancing around your skin where he had once touched. “So,” you say, feigning nonchalance, “do you do this for everyone? Holding their hand and everything?”

He turns slightly, his expression unreadable in the soft glow. “You make it sound as though I go around holding everyone’s hand,” he says, voice laced with amusement. “I assure you, it’s only you.”

You open your mouth, but no reply comes out—just the quick flutter of your heartbeat and the failing gears of your thoughts filling the space between you. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?

He inclines his head, almost in a bow. “The storm has passed.”

(—maybe it’s warm after all.)

speechless as you may be, you still stayed to listen to him and watch him fill that ridiculous whiteboard with his ramblings in a neat handwriting.

to him, however, this was a rare occurrence—so rare that this is perhaps the first time someone has interacted with him out of their own oblivion and not just the usual void that would occasionally echo back with a stray “lol” or “cool”. he was used to having less than twenty (20) viewers watching him, his chat becoming active once in a millenia, or nothing at all. so having you here with him, attempting to make a conversation out of this boring stream of his, was odd at first but he welcomed it nonetheless.

your questions, though not profound and maybe even stupid, are willingly entertained by him. such inquiries are fostered by the curiosity that led you here and he would answer them with the same seriousness he’d give a doctoral candidate. something about your presence made him want to foster that spark of curiosity, however clumsily it manifested.

ever since then, it has become a routine for you to join in his streams late into the night which is at 10 pm, sharp. you’ve never seen him as one to be particular with time to which he admits he isn’t really but the habit began to grow on him.

occasionally, you'll be doing something as he serves as your white noise or background music. he has a really soothing voice that you could literally just listen to him for hours talking about the most boring topic ever and you'll still stay and feel your eyelids grow heavy in the best way, like being wrapped in a warm blanket while someone reads to you from a book you've loved since childhood.

silence was something he never let linger. anaxa really had a lot of things to think and say outloud and you are very much impressed by how smart this guy is—why is he even here in the first place? he could be at a proper setting for his teachings instead. turns out, he was.

over the course of interacting with him, you’ve come to learn a lot of things—that the man was a philosophy graduate and was simply doing this streaming ‘career’ on the sides, that he likes dromas (which is obvious to his username already), and that he has a sister he greatly adores and looks up to, who have supported him in every step of his way (you stored every detail like a squirrel hoarding nuts for winter, not sure what you were saving them for, but certain they mattered).

if it wasn’t obvious to you already, it seems like anaxa has grown some kind of favoritism towards you. it became obvious after a night you didn’t show up, having fallen asleep and waking up at 1 AM to your phone buzzing with a notification from the streaming site: ILoveDromas has started streaming! you have clicked it, confused, and found him still there, extending past his usual routine of ending it when the clock strikes 12.

“ah, you’re here.” though no name is mentioned, you know it’s you he’s talking about. between you and the 7 viewers that who rarely send a message, you’re the only who he consistently talks to and greets. he didn’t say anything else about it, but he stayed online for another hour, answering your sleepy questions with a gentleness that made your chest ache. “whatever it is, i hope everything is in order,” and you realized, with a start, that he had been worried.

what first started with you being his audience, and him as the performer, has, eventually, stopped becoming a matter of performing and started becoming a small thing between two people who'd found each other in the dark. call it what you want, call it what you may be, but you're glad your curiosity has always been the kind that pulls you toward things you don't understand because it led you to him.

“see you tomorrow.”

PHAINON — HOP OFF THE GAME, YOU $#1*?!

ragebaiter reader x victim of ragebaiting phainon

“who just called me phainshit?”

phainon takes pride in his patient and understanding personality. even so, he is not one to express his frustrations or annoyance easily but you arrived in his life so abruptly like a meteor crashing down his roof and suddenly, all of that is thrown out the window.

the first time phainon ever encountered you (not you encountering him), it was in a ranked match that he genuinely thought would be an easy win. he'd been streaming for a few hours, facecam on as always because he knew exactly what his viewers wanted, which was, apparently, to watch him slowly lose his mind over poorly coordinated teams and questionable gameplay decisions.

you were his random duo queue partner, and within the first thirty seconds, you'd done something so bizarre that he actually stopped moving his character to stare at his screen. "what," he said flatly, reading the chat explode with laughter, "was that."

you sent him a friend request and when he accepted it, you typed him a message that simply said: "nice moves, grandpa. try to keep up next time." in all honesty, he could have just blocked you and moved forward with his life, but he typed back and you typed too, and him again, then you—all of this were relentless and his chat could only speculate behind their screens on what is happening that is causing the pretty boy’s face to crumple and break into laughter then crumple again.

“accept the party invite, so i can carry you again.” and shamefully, he did.

friendship bloomed between you both despite the endless ‘banter’ that would occur. he couldn't even be actually angry—not really—because the way you'd lean into the bit, clearly holding back laughter, made something in his chest feel weirdly warm. he'd never admit it, but your attention, even when it came in the form of ragebaiting, was better than the alternative. besides, he does the same to you, too, and funnily enough, you also fall easily right into his trap.

“wow, good job. i didn’t know you could read.” he teases and you could only bark, “shut up,” as a response before he fully dropped it after a few more words. he, too, finds joy in ragebaiting but doesn’t do it often as much as you do. it feels like you have established this stupid and ridiculous relationship with your whims and fortunately, or unfortunately, it was a strong foundation.

at one point, he questioned you if you even know who he was and much to his surprise, you do. you just couldn't care less about it and seeing that his chat likes you anyways,  you would occasionally acknowledge them as if you, were was a streamer on your own.

you two cycled through games like other people cycled through hobbies; one week it was tactical shooters, the next it was survival games, then fighting games, then random indie horror titles that made him scream in ways that would have chat spamming with "clip that". the throughline was always you, lurking in his ear, waiting for the perfect moment to say something that would make him choke on his own spit. 

in horror games, you'd go silent for minutes at a time, letting him forget you were there, and then when a jumpscare happened and he yelped, your voice would cut through with a calm "scared?" that made him want to reach through the screen and strangle you.

he doesn’t really admit it, at least not to you, but you’re a great person and he truly enjoys every second of his time with you. he’s felt it in the small things—the way you'd notice when his voice went flat and ask if he'd eaten anything that day, the way you'd defend him against actually toxic players , the way you'd stay in the call after streams ended and just talk about nothing until one of you inevitably fell asleep. 

and he noticed, too, the way his chest would feel full when you did those things. you were still a menace but you were also the person he wanted to talk to first when something good happened, and the person he wanted to hear from last before he went to sleep. you were carving a space into his mind so much that his thoughts are consumed by you. he didn't know what to call that, all he knew was that he didn't want to lose it.

"you know," he said one night, after a particularly ridiculous match where you'd spent the entire time trying to get him killed, "for someone who claims to hate me, you sure do spend a lot of time with me." there was a pause on your end, and for a moment he thought he'd actually gotten you. but your voice came back, perfectly even: 

"i don't hate you, phainon. matter of fact, i like you a lot. i just hate losing and you make winning entertaining." he opened his mouth to respond, found he had nothing. whatever you attached with the word ‘like’, it was making him feel like he’d just been hit with an arrow straight to his chest.

MYDEIMOS — COOKING WITH MYDEI

mydei, streamer that became popular for no reason x reader, a popular streamer, who gets shipped with mydei after one mention of him

mydeimos—mydei to his chat, mydeimos on his birth certificate, and apparently the topic of conversation in your streams now—had absolutely no idea how he'd ended up here. 

he was a cooking streamer; he showed people how to make perfect omelettes and discussed the ideal sear on a steak. he did not play video games, he did not have dramatic facecam reactions, and he certainly did not expect to be mentioned in the chat of someone who did do all those things. but here he was, scrolling through his own stream's chat one evening, when someone asked "hey have you heard of [name]?" to which he said "no, who's that?" and that tiny moment of curiosity was apparently enough to start a fire.

and because of that, your chat keeps on mentioning a particular name in your streams. one time was a passing, two times is something, three times is a topic, and four times is what gets you calling for their attention. mydei. mydei. have you seen mydei's stream. mydei would love this game. mydei mydei mydei. you'd paused, genuinely baffled, and said, "chat, slow down, who's mydei?" and the response was overwhelming and mostly unhelpful. cooking streamer. he's so chill. he mentioned you once. you should collab. MYDEI MYDEI MYDEI. you squinted at the screen, trying to parse the chaos and the flood of text that fades away in a blur, and finally just said "okay, i'll look him up. calm down."

welp, there goes sealing your fate.

you, being you, decided to watch one of his vods to understand what your chat was losing their minds over and you expected something mediocre. you really expected something bland and boring. what you got, however, was forty-five minutes of a ridiculously attractive man (because of course he was, the universe had a sense of humor) talking about mushroom soup in a voice so calm it made you want to take a nap. you watched the whole thing, then you watched another, then you watched one from three months ago where he made paella and accidentally set off his smoke alarm and just brushed off the incident. all of this witnessed by your audience because you were too drowned and focused on this random guy your chat selected to hyperfixate over in your stream.

by the time you were done, you had a problem and you also had a chat that was very interested in your opinion. "he seems nice," you said carefully, which was the understatement of the century. 

mydei’s cooking streams was, for the lack of a better word, calm. his vibes were opposite of yours in every single way possible—where there is peace and silence in his, there was chaos and screaming in yours (literally just hooting and hollering at times). for someone who looks intimidating and scary, he sure does act the opposite. maybe this was why your chat and his find you two as the perfect match. 

he'd been doing this for two years, slowly building an audience of people who found his voice soothing and his food beautiful. he'd never had a viral moment, never been in drama or any allegations (which is quite rare in this playground), never done anything except exist quietly and make really, really good food. and then someone in his chat asked about you, and he said "[name] sounds like a cool guy," and somehow that was enough to break that fragile glass.

you feel bad for the guy, really, that you sent him a private message, apologizing for suddenly dragging him in this mess when he’s just trying to do his own thing peacefully. he responded soon after saying that it was alright. his viewer count had gone up because of you, so if anything, he should be thanking you.

the tension between your two communities became its own ecosystem. your viewers would raid his streams with compliments and his viewers would show up in yours. and occasionally, one of you would mention the other in passing; you'd say "i tried making pasta today, it did not go like mydei's," or he'd say, "i don't understand this game but [name] makes it look fun" and his chat would be bombarding him with questions if he was going to ask you to teach him. neither of you addressed it directly, because, of course, neither of you needed to.

outside your streaming life and his own, you would actually talk to him. it started small, just as all things are—him sending you a recipe he thought you'd like after you mentioned struggling with dinner, you sending him screenshots of your attempts: "i followed your video step by step. i don't know what happened." then it became more frequent, more personal, developing and spiraling into something you never expected but embraced. he'd ask about your day, and you'd tell him; he'd send you photos of his cat, and you'd send him photos of your takeout, and he'd respond with gentle scolding about your eating habits that made something warm curl in your chest. 

none of you said anything about what it meant because maybe you didn't need to say it at all.

one night, late, after your stream had ended, you were scrolling through your phone when you stumbled upon a short video of him saying something that made you freeze: "i don't know if i believe in fate, but i do believe in the people who find you when you least expect them. my chat found me and i found cooking. and lately, i've found someone i didn't expect to find at all."

guys im getting into statesmp and my mind AUGHHHH

“You’re fussing too much,” you murmur, voice still scratchy, but your smile is unshaken. You let him do what he needs to do for yourself, lest you concur his wrath and get a mile of scolding about your carelessness from him. You don’t want to hear it anymore. He had already talked your ears off when he had arrived and saw that you weren’t resting just like he had wanted you to do.

“You’re ill,” he replies flatly, squeezing the excess water from the towel before folding it anew, placing it over your forehead. “Forgive me for wanting to keep you alive.”

“I’m not dying, Anaxagoras.”

No. If you perished from something as banal as fever, it would be after he’d dragged you back to lucidity and made sure you remembered it was his hand that spared you. And not just once. He’d remind you daily and without shame, that it was he who nursed you through your recklessness, he who kept you from slipping away over something as embarrassingly preventable as he’d once put it; “Next time you have decided to tempt mortality, at least wear a coat.” 

(It was undeniable, however, that underneath all that pride and sharpness, Anaxagoras loves you in the only way he knows how: deeply, deliberately, and with a care that clings to the edges of everything he does for you.)

“And? Shall you be on the deathbed before I begin taking care of you?”

In a world full of almosts and maybes, you and him are the rare certainty—a quiet, unwavering truth as if the stars themselves whispered your names in the same breath long before you ever crossed paths. 

However, others seem to oppose these ideas.

Such as your friend, your dearly beloved Stelle, who finds fascination in trash cans. Over the duration of your friendship—which is roughly from when you saved her when she got her ass stuck in a bin to this very moment and onwards—, you’ve found that embarrassment does not exist in her vocabulary. 

You’ve recalled your conversation with her a few days ago, when she had asked you to: “Blink twice if you need help.” to which was met with just your confusion. You remember the dramatic groan that escaped her—loud, theatrical, and full of despair—as she clutched your shoulders like she’s anchoring herself from being swept away by the tragedy that is your love life. You remember her eyes and how they lock onto yours with the intensity of someone who’s seen too much, recounting horrors no one else can understand, and the rare seriousness painted across her usually unserious face. All of that just to present the grand question that has been repeatedly hammered into your ear drums: “Why are you dating him?”

Was it really unbelievable that you are dating THE Anaxagoras—the demised scholar, the known blasphemer, one of the Seven Sages, and founder of the School of Nousporists?

Stelle’s question then had come out in a raised tone; horror, confusion, and everything that reeks of despair and doubt. She has met your lover many times before and all she got is terrible impressions from him. You get it, you understand her, truly, a hundred million times over. Anaxagoras is difficult in the same way a cryptic crossword or a sudoku puzzle with only five numbers given as clues is difficult; he is maddening, frustrating, and devilishly handsome. Well, that too, and how he often causes people to mutter curses under their breath. He talks as if every word of his is carved from marble and gold and thinks in layers you often need to chisel through.

Although, Stelle was not the first person to express her concerns. No, no, she was not the only one who had questioned you about your romantic ties with the man himself. There had been a long line of them—colleagues, acquaintances, old friends who hadn’t seen you since the two of you got together—each of them offering their unsolicited takes like critics reviewing a painting they couldn’t comprehend. Some were subtle, expressing their skepticism through light jokes or half-serious jabs, dressing their doubts with honeyed laughter, and the repeated statements of “Really?” or “Wow, I could never… believe that.” While others were more direct, eyebrows raised, voices dripping with disbelief. “Him?” they’d ask, like you just dropped the most terrible news in their lives ever.

“How are you feeling now?” Anaxagoras’ voice snapped you out of your daze. You had not noticed you have been staring at him for a while now, recalling the conversation in your head like a script you’ve read a thousand times. You blink, reality trickling back in with the weight of his gaze. It is steady, unreadable, but undeniably attentive, only for you.

“Better,” you rasp, offering him a weak smile, “or at least I will be, once you stop hovering like a mother hen.” He doesn’t react at first, only lifts a brow as he shifts the damp towel slightly to sit more evenly across your forehead.

“Then I suppose you won’t be feeling better anytime soon."

It’s not that they don’t like Anaxagoras—they just don’t know him, not in the way you do, at least. They see the storm but not the calm it leaves behind when it reaches you. They hear the sharpness in his voice but never the softness interlacing between the syllables when he says your name. They witness the way he dismantles arguments with precision but never the way he carefully tucks your hair behind your ear when the wind picks up or remembers exactly how you take your tea without ever needing to ask. 

What none of them seemed to grasp was the way Anaxagoras, for all his cold logic and biting words, treated you as if you were something priceless. Something fragile and worth protecting. You know it, because even with his sharp mind and sharper tongue, he’s gentle with you.

Gentle in this, in him dropping everything that he needed to do just to take care of you, like the world could wait if you so much as whimpered. Gentle in the way he holds your hand, gentle in the way his thumb traces idle circles against your skin like he’s memorizing the heat of it. Gentle in the way his silence filled the room, soft and reassuring. It’s in the quiet moments where he simply exists beside you. You’ve known that the way he shows his affection and adoration for you is not loud, and never will be. It is neither grand nor showy, but it is steady and grounding, and it is yours.

(Anaxa didn’t need to say he loved you for his affections were in every quiet action, in every unspoken gesture that threaded through the ordinary like gold in cloth.)

“What are you thinking now?” Anaxa says, noticing your gaze.

His voice is calm, unhurried, yet carries the weight of someone who’s always listening, even to the things you don’t say. You blink up at him, the corners of your mouth curving, and for a moment, you hesitate. Not because you don’t know what to say, but because putting feelings this big into words feels like trying to catch the sky in your hands.

“That I must’ve done something good in a past life,” you say softly, “to be loved like this.”

Anaxagoras doesn’t speak, but you catch the way his expression shifts. It is the ever-subtle change in his eyes, softer now, like moonlight breaking through cold marble. He doesn’t smile, but there’s something in the way he looks at you that feels louder than joy.

“I don’t love you because of merit,” he murmurs, adjusting the edge of the blanket with care. “You don’t need to earn something that already belongs to you.”

They only saw the philosopher, the blasphemer, the myth himself, while you saw the man who kissed your knuckles when you couldn’t sleep. And something about this feels almost holy, the kindness reserved only for you is sacred, untouched by the noise of the world and tucked safely in the quiet corners of your world. It’s in the way he holds your gaze like it’s the only truth worth believing, in how he tends to your needs before you voice them, as if your comfort is a principle written into his very being. 

To others, he is a riddle wrapped in cold intellect, but to you, he is all the warmth embodies, the tender affection that weaves into the gaps of your fingers, the gentle lull of a tide as it crashes into the shore, and the stains on his cheek when you kiss him; he is the quiet devotion in the spaces between his sighs and your laughs—it is simply, completely, and utterly undeniable that the both of you are truly for one another.

phainon, a laid back guy who takes care of everything, and you, a dramatic person who stresses out a lot.

They say opposites attract, and you and PHAINON are the utter proof of that statement. And much to everyone’s expectations, it works against all odds, though how chaotic everything may be. Where you spiral, he steadies. When your thoughts are loud and messy—which often is—he answers in calm nods, soft chuckles, and gentle touches. In those drastic moments, his arms are already around your shoulders before the panic hits its peak, steadying and guiding you back to solid land.

Phainon just seems to know what to say—or not to say—to bring you back down to the ground when you are overwhelmed and flooded by thousands of (imaginary) disasters running inside your head or when you are frantically pacing around, mumbling to yourself, and doing that small habit (e.g. biting your nails or picking your lip until it bleeds). He’ll tread towards where you are, taking your hands, and offers words of comfort and assurance as if he’s done it a thousand times before—he already has and he will never tire of it, never pull away, never let you down, never treat your panic like a burden but rather like something gentle to cradle until it passes. 

It was as if your mind is a place he knows all too well, like a maze that he had already memorized, navigating through the paths of your thoughts with a tender precision.

“Don’t worry, love.” He tells you, voice warm and soothing as he cups your face affectionately. He holds the same note in his gaze, love and the gentleness that comes with it, that only you know of, that only the both of you share for one another, “You can leave it to me.” You cling to your thoughts, all panic and muddied, that has now lost all meaning under your turmoil and in between his ease. His words tug you back to the brink and somehow when everything feels like it's on fire—oftentimes metaphorically and sometimes literally—he’s already halfway through putting out the flames of your problems. (See? The world didn’t end) You don’t know how he does it, how he holds your mess with such grace, only that he does.

You had asked him once, “Aren’t you tired of me?” Surely, he should be, right? I mean, having to deal with someone who is stressed every minute and needing reassurance every single time can be so draining, right? You’ve already heard about couples breaking up because of those things like their lover was being so much like they didn’t want to be comforted every single time like they never even listen like everything is just the same thing over and over again and it gets so tiring having to deal with those things repeatedly. You’re tiring to deal with, right? Maybe he’s just trying to put up with you because you don’t know?? How would you know???? 

It feels like you’re always too much and never enough at the same time. It was as if you’re clinging too tightly and still somehow slipping away, like one more breakdown, one more late-night anxiety spiral, one more text asking “are you mad at me?” will be the final straw. You replay every conversation in your head, dissect every pause, every sigh, every silence that might not even mean anything but what if it did? What if he’s just too kind to say he’s tired of you? What if he’s just waiting for the right moment to leave quietly? What if you’re reading too much into this—but also, what if you’re not? What if you’re right and he’s just too polite to admit it? You try to shake the thoughts off, but they cling like static. It’s relentless.

What if—”No. Why would I be?” But his voice cuts through it all, clean and sharp like a stone abruptly dropped into a pond, and like the settling ripples that eases into the water’s surface to return to what it once was and what it ought to be, your spiraling thoughts are quiet once more. “You may think that you’re unraveling, confusing, and a mess, that perhaps I am tired of your chaos and thoughts. But I promise that you're only a little tangled right now.” His words settle into you like soft rain. “Sure, it gets tiring sometimes, but love is not about ease, isn’t it? It’s about staying, especially when the wires get crossed and the lights flicker. I don’t mind untangling you. I chose you, mess and all, and I’ll keep choosing you, even on the days you forget how to choose yourself.”

It’s just so simple. For Phainon, loving you means loving the storm and being unbothered by the lightning and everything terrible that comes with it.

Albeit sometimes, he matches your energy. No, more like snatches it from you, spins it in his hands, and throws it back at you. He can be dramatic too—even a hundred times more than you already are. One particular example is when the both of you had a fight—it was nothing major, no broken plates, no screaming, no yelling involved (aeons, he’ll hate himself if even raised his voice at you for a little). But still, it was something that made you upset and turned away from him. 

The silence between you and him had only lasted for less than a day, however, when you heard the sound of something hitting your window, to which you dismissed as nothing at first. Not until it came again, again, and again. Until you get sick of it and decide to check which little kid is playing pranks on you this time, thus you open the window, ready to address the annoyance but…

Spoiler alert: it was not a kid.

It was a man in the form of someone you clearly know, whose lines on his face has been memorized by you, whose hands you had held many times in yours, whose laugh still echoes in your head even when he's not around—and there he was, Phainon, standing a few feet away from your window. You just noticed but there is someone else too, but situated a little further away from your boyfriend who you just had a fight earlier. Wait, are they singing? Was that singing you’re hearing? And is that a water vase that he’s trying to spray on himself to imitate the rain? 

“What are you doing?” You voice out the loudest question inside your head, confused. You’re beyond bewilderment, actually.

Phainon expresses the most exaggeratedly forlorn expression you’ve ever seen on his face. The guy beside him, one that you don’t know but have seen performing in the streets of Okhema several times before, keeps singing into the invisible microphone in his hand. You don’t know what the song is but he sure is hitting those notes.

“I’m suffering, clearly.”  Phainon replies dramatically, placing a hand over his chest like a wounded prince. “I’ve been banished from the kingdom of your heart, and thus I stand here—exiled, soggy, and still utterly devoted.”

“What?” At this point, you are not entirely sure what to say or react, but Phainon does as he rambles on and on with his poor singer accompanying him from the back.

“I have known despair. I have tasted the bitterness of your silence. I have felt the frost of you turning away from me. Please,” he begs, asks, and does everything just for you even if he looks utterly stupid right now. Thankfully, there aren’t any citizens to witness the spectacle of their dazzling Chrysos Heir. “Please come back to me, my love. Allow me to hold you again.”

“Phainon, it was just spilled milk.” Why was he acting as if you were breaking up with him? As if you were truly going to leave him? You had planned on apologizing to him later on and admitting your mistakes, you really were, but he beat you to it with whatever this is.

“And for that,” he declares, without a hint of sarcasm or anything similar lacing into his tone. “I shall atone.” And you could not help but sigh, rubbing your temples as he continues to look at you like a tragic hero awaiting his redemption arc.

“You know it was my fault, right?” You remind him, voice a little softer now. However, his response comes without hesitation, firm and full of that all-consuming affection he never dares to hide:

“You could never do anything wrong in my eyes.”

The ridiculousness of this situation sinks into you now—the man donned in white and gold, half soaked and entirely unserious, staging a melodramatic serenade over something small, with a busker-turned-background vocalist going off like this was their final performance. And yet, in the absurdity of it all, your chest aches from the sheer, overwhelming love you feel for this man who would make a fool of himself just to see you smile again. You lean slightly out the open window, resting your arms on the sill, watching the man with a mixture of exasperation and adoration, wondering how on earth you got lucky enough to be loved like this.

A breath of laughter slipping past your lips. “What are you waiting for?” you say, voice tinged with fondness. “Didn’t you wish to hold me?”

Phainon beams up at you like you’ve just given him the stars and rushes to where you are, despite the fact that there is a perfectly fine door that he can go through.

“Oh, and please, compensate the poor man for your theatrics.”

You don’t find him annoying whatsoever, though you may have found him intimidating and scary when you first met him. At most you just find it odd how he’s always there like he got nothing to do. Well, he really got nothing to do—he’s quite notorious for slacking off and being too carefree, so oftentimes, you cannot help but wonder how he is still here. But then, you see his students’ academic performance and standing, and you just shut your mouth.

Man, how does he even do it? You questioned yourself one time, especially when your students become rowdy and overly excited that it’s hard to get their attention. This occurrence was mostly recurring at the first few months you started—you have a hard time trying to calm them down and keep them quiet. It is an understatement to say that you were frustrated, patience was never of your virtue and being disrespected feels shitty. But hey, what can you even do against a group of loud teenagers? Understanding was something that came with your job and you try to have some of it.

At one point, you wished for him to appear and save your ass (simply because you saw how his students obeyed and listened to him with just a few words).

And guess what happens? He appears by the door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, and your entire class goes silent in an instant. You don't even know what he said, but it was probably the most profound words you've ever heard leave his mouth. The students shuffle back to their seats, chastened, and you're left standing there at the front with a thank you lodged in your throat. He catches your eye and that easy grin spreads across his face, then he's gone, disappearing back into the hallway as if he were some kind of guardian angel sent specifically to rescue you from the chaos of third-period English.

Varka hit you with a ball in the face once just as you were rushing to get to your next class in five minutes. You have only come by the gym because one of your students left their notebook in the bleachers during PE, and as their homeroom teacher, you've somehow become responsible for retrieving every single forgotten item in existence. It's not in your job description. It's not even close to your job description. The last thing you heard before you went down is the whistle blowing and shouting, particularly of your name.

How the situation further unraveled was that he had to take over your next period as the substitute and it was hellish for him. 

He was not one to give in to threats or anything of sorts, but seeing you with a bloody nose, teary eyes, and telling him off that you cannot let this little gym accident ruin your lesson plan and now you’re going to pull all of his hair out because your students need to finish the activity, seems to have shaken him. That, and the constant booing coming from the students behind him, blaming him for being careless. The chorus of accusations persisted like a background music to his miserable scene.

“Mr. Varka, you’re literally the worst!”

“Apologize, Mr. Varka!”

“How dare you hurt our teacher?!” It was an accident, but still.

“I’m trying to focus here!” Varka could only yell at them as he offered to carry you on his back, bringing you to the nearest clinic. You decline at first, saying that you can handle it, pushing past him and then taking a near trip to the dirtlands before his quick reflexes catch you in his arms.

“Woah there, I got you.” He says, and his voice resonates with something steady and sure, rather than the panicked one from earlier. You don’t even make an effort to fight now, letting him support you instead, as you tell him about what he should do for your class. Even at this moment, your mind still thinks of your work—admittedly, it was just a poor effort to distract yourself.

Between that gym accident and constantly finding your way towards him, some students have begun to ship you a lot. Typical youngsters nowadays, always looking for things to entertain them even if it were just two teachers who they have seen interacting a lot. 

Who cares if you guys have a little chemistry than the others? You've given up on relationships, and you've certainly given up on entertaining the idea that a man like Varka could be anything more than a very persistent, very annoying fixture in your daily life. So what if your students whisper and giggle every time he drops by your classroom with some flimsy excuse? So what if one of your more brazen seniors asked you, straight to your face, if you were going to the upcoming faculty dinner because "Mr. Varka always goes and he always leaves early but maybe this year he'd have a reason to stay"?

Sure, his arms are big, and sure, he has such a stupid fucking grin that makes your heart flutter once you see it, and sure, he’s conveniently there when you need him to be. And sure, you love listening to him talk and boast about many things even though you’re not fond of those things. And sure, you're mesmerized when the golden sun hits his skin, catching the sweat on his neck after practice, warming the blond of his hair until it looks like spun honey, making him look less like a person and more like something painted by an artist who wanted to study the way light loves certain people more than others. Sure. All of that is sure.

But none of it means anything nor can it mean anything because you've been here before, in the orbit of someone who seemed too good to be true, and you know how that story ends. You've already learned your lesson about reading into things, about hoping, about letting yourself believe that someone's attention means something more than convenience or boredom or pity. And Varka is many things—loud, clumsy, inexplicably competent at his job despite all evidence to the contrary—but he's not stupid. He's not blind. If he wanted anything from you, he'd say something.

He had offered you rides, oftentimes when he catches you in the parking lot or when you catch him. There was the convenience of it; he had never asked you to pay for anything, just simply offers and does what he has offered to do. You’re wary of his intentions at first, sending your live location to a close friend of yours who is also part of the school faculty and having the emergency call button prepared.

The first time he offers, you almost laugh in his face. The key word here is almost. You’re standing in the empty parking lot after detention duty, exhausted, and he's just there again, like a stray cat that's decided you're its person. Has he been waiting for you? You cannot really tell, you’ve never been close to him, or did not even try to, no matter how much your co-workers push you to simply talk to him or how your students constantly tease you about this handsome PE teacher that clearly has the hots for you.

"Let me drive you home," he says, and you're already formulating your polite refusal when you ask the obligatory question:

"You have a car?" 

"A bike. Not much though." You nod, expecting some modest little scooter, maybe a beat-up motorcycle that matches his energy, however, what you didn’t expect to get is a monster. It's a big, gleaming machine that looks like it could outrun your trauma if you let it. 

He swings a leg over it, pats the seat behind him, and gives you that charming of a goddamn smile, waiting and watching for your next step. "Well? You coming or what?" You hesitate hard. Every self-preservation instinct is screaming at you, telling you this is exactly how bad decisions start, whether it was to be found on the news or that the last man who seemed charming also had nice things and look where that got you. But you're tired, and it's cold, and your apartment is a fifty-minute walk away. So you get on.

You hold onto the back of the bike at first, gripping metal like it's a lifeline. Then he accelerates, and your hands find his shoulders. Then he takes a corner, and your arms are around his waist, and you're pressed against his back, and he's warm, and he smells like soap and something faintly woodsy, and you hate that you think of how good he smells, of how you long for such warmth, of how you keep on noticing him no matter where you are.

You only ask him to drop you off by the convenience store near your home (and not the exact place of it) but there are times that he would ask: “Do you want to go somewhere else?” To which you declined from the start, saying that it would be late already, but some convincing, please’s, and promises that it won’t take too long, and eventually, you’re there in a place where you can see the city, where the stars are seemingly smiling down at you, and where there’s only the two of you.

Ever since then, you can feel the distance closing in, your walls crumbling no matter how hard you try to fix it and put barriers up around it. But you cannot help it—human beings are not meant to be islands, no matter how hard they try to carve themselves out of the mainland, no matter how many storms they've weathered alone. You can build all the fortifications you want, stack every stone of past betrayal and future fear as high as they'll go, but eventually someone will come along who makes you remember what warmth feels like.

You don’t exactly know when it began but you’re suddenly getting coffee and a note. Sometimes there’s a bouquet of flowers and sometimes there’s not. Only one person came to your mind—a man whose eyes remind you of clear summer skies and whose hair tangles in warmth and gold. 

Other than the messy handwriting and crude sketches giving it away, you know he’s the only one who would do something like this. The other teachers are nice enough, but they're not the type to leave anonymous gifts. Even then, they'd want credit, or they'd make it a group effort, or they'd forget after the first week. But this was consistent. This is someone who notices when you've had a rough morning, who knows you skip lunch when you're grading papers, who somehow always has a fresh flower waiting even when you come in early to catch up on work.

One day, you find a small potted succulent on your desk with a note that just says: "This one's harder to kill. Like you or like me trying to get your attention." You laugh, despite how cringy and corny the line is and when you look up, you catch him peeking through the door window. He flashes grins when your gazes meet that you have to look away before he catches the expression on your face.

And then, finally, unable to endure it any longer, you ask. The flowers are on your desk again and you need to know what game he's playing, what angle he's working, what the catch is.

“How do you even know when to buy me a new bouquet?” You had asked him the very question that had been pestering you for such a long time now. You find him after school, in the parking lot, leaning against his ridiculous bike like he was waiting for you. This was routine now, something unbreakable and persisting between you and him, but don’t dare to acknowledge despite the flowers and coffee.

Varka lights up when he sees you approach. Then the question registers, and his expression softens into something almost shy. “I bought a separate, single flower at the same time I bought yours so I know if it has already withered.” That was smart, you admit.

But... “Listen, I really don’t get what you’re trying to do or say here, but you should honestly stop now.” You say, voice coming out sharper than you intended, and before he gets a word in, you speak once more: “If you’re looking to mess with someone, choose another person.”

His face falls and for a moment, you see something hurt flash through his eyes, but then it's gone just as quickly as it came, replaced by that steady, patient thing he does when you push him away. He knows exactly what you mean and why you’re pushing him away like this constantly, consistently. He had never begged for an answer or some form of reciprocation from you.

“I wasn’t doing any of this simply because I wanted to get in your pants or anything.” He says sheepishly as he rubs the back of his neck and you cannot help but notice how his cheeks are tainted pink. Under all this light and within the softness of his rough voice, you cannot help but think of how utterly adorable akin to a puppy this man is.  “I like you, if the flowers and constant bugging was not enough to tell you.”

“You’re lying.”

Varka’s smile is bitter, different from the usual bright and cheery ones, and you feel an arrow shot straight to your heart. "I'm not messing with you. I never thought about wanting only those things," he says quietly. "I would never. I simply… I see you, all of you, and I want more. I want to hear you laugh more, see you smile more, heck, I’ll do anything for you if you would simply let me. Is that too selfish to ask?”

The parking lot is quiet; gold turns into amber and he stands there before you, having just handed you his heart like it's the simplest thing in the world. The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything you should say but can't quite form, and then you reach into your bag. Your fingers find the familiar spine—the poetry book he left on your desk weeks ago, the one you pretended to ignore, the one you've read so many times the pages are starting to soften.

You hold it out to him. He takes it automatically despite confusion flickering across his features as he looks down at the cover, then back at you, then down again as he opens it to the dog-eared page. He reads it silently and you wait, gaze extending towards where the sun sets in the horizon and where the distant noise of cars and students chattering is. But your mind is a mess, loud in all its forms, trying to silence the sound of your rapidly-beating heart.

When you look back at him, his eyes are bright and glossy like he might cry, which is ridiculous, he's a grown man, he's built like a mountain, and the sight before you simply tugs at your heartstrings, because you, in all your carefully guarded, hard-won, terrified-of-being-hurt glory, like him too—perhaps more than he likes you, perhaps in a way that terrifies you down to your very bones, perhaps with a depth that makes all those years of running and hiding and building walls feel like time wasted when you could have been here, in this parking lot, watching the sunset turn his tears to gold and realizing that this is what you've been afraid of all along: not getting hurt again, but feeling something this much and not being able to stop it.

“I like you too.”

I loved you first: but afterwards your love Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove. Which owes the other most? my love was long, And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong; I loved and guessed at you, you construed me And loved me for what might or might not be – Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong. For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine;’ With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done, For one is both and both are one in love: Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine;’ Both have the strength and both the length thereof, Both of us, of the love which makes us one.

— Christina Rossetti

just pulled this out of my ass ig, also im not really that satisfied with the ending because it feels so random but its the best that i can think of rawrwrawrararw HOPE U GUYS LIKE IT STILL AND YEAH first fic after months of not writing,,,, curse u uni