can we lose our minds & call it love

genshin impact

kaveh: unreachable

kaveh, alhaitham (not ship): what about me?

kaveh: not exactly doing work

xiao: pet names

alhaitham: to date a computer

multi: genshin men and unrequited love

honkai: star rail

sunday: your lips on mine

jujutsu kaisen

You try, and fondly fail, not to laugh. The sound alone makes him slightly more alert.

Large scarred fingers move like those of a child when he drowsily rubs the sleep from his eyes. Exhaustion seeps from their corners, or maybe sluggishness borne from boredom, but so does relief when he sees it’s you and not someone expecting anything from him, be that signatures on paper or battlefield heroism.

Not that he would mind if you asked him to play your hero.

He allows himself a gentler expression, forgoes alertness, and forgets the halfhearted alibi he was just beginning to form. Instead, he gives you a boyish grin. It is a wonder that he manages to look boyish at his age, but you suppose that true charm never fades.

He rests his elbows on the desk, ignoring the scattered papers that require his attention. They’re no more than makeshift pillows beneath him.

“Came all the way here to see little ol’ me again, did you?” His mouth teases, but his eyes are fond and gentle.

“I had my concerns about bothering you at work,” you reply, leaning your hip against his desk, “but I guess I should’ve been more worried about interrupting your dreams.”

Varka leans back in his chair and looks up at you, amused. “It’s impossible for you to interrupt my dreams when none of them are complete without you.”

A snort or a giggle escapes your lips. Some sound in between. Regardless, he sees it as a reward and smiles wider.

“How long have you been waiting to use that line?” you ask, because it’s hard to believe he can improvise such suavity. Skilled and smooth as he is on the battlefield, the Grand Master is not as debonair a flirt as many might expect, for he is more adept with a claymore than with flowery flirtations.

“Ages,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Is it too much?”

Your lips twist in a thoughtful expression, seriously considering the degree of sweetness of his words. “Well, no. But it’s obvious that you came up with it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“Never mind that.” You wave a hand with a grin, and he smiles back helplessly while messing his hair up with his hand in a careless attempt at fixing it. That shaggy hair of his makes him look out of place in an office. That and his entire person.

“I see that you’ve barely made a dent in this,” you say as you pat a stack of papers, pushed to the far corner of his desk, likely from Varka just resisting the temptation to throw it off completely. “It looked like this yesterday.”

He groans. “Yeah. Well. You visited yesterday, and you left behind that floral perfume scent—it stayed here for hours. I could smell you every time I breathed in. How was I supposed to focus?”

“You’re not a wolf, Varka. My scent is not that strong, and neither is your nose.”

“I always say not to underestimate me,” he replies, crossing his arms playfully. “But you also shouldn’t underestimate yourself. Or your perfume. That stuff is strong.”

You push off of his desk and try to emulate Jean. His work matters, after all. “Not strong enough for you to use it as an excuse.”

“Then you’re underestimating my love for you. Just a tiny whiff of you and I’m a goner, you know.” He looks proud of himself for that.

“Where on Teyvat are you getting these corny lines?”

…

You swallowed the last cold, hardened bite of the bread you'd packed, hoping it would settle the aching and rumbling of your forlorn stomach. It was the last bit of sustenance you had, and nothing alive or edible seemed to grow in these parts of the mountains. As much as you wanted to stay optimistic, all the odds were against you, and you were still hungry, extremely thirsty, exhausted and trembling uncontrollably.

You thought you’d at least last for a few more days. An excess of confidence and optimism led you to your current circumstances, but a stark lack of experience and preparation made it impossible to escape them. You were no stranger to snow, a native to the relentless cold, but here, the elements seemed to recognize you as a foreign object and were determined to push you out.

Panic didn’t have room to settle within the freezing blood under your grey-tinged flesh. Your teeth chattered incessantly, gradually overpowering in volume the thoughts in your mind. Snow-covered trees and unmerciful winds were all that surrounded you as your body miserably crumpled to the ground.

You closed your eyes and found yourself thinking of home. Images of the last time you saw your friends and family flashed through your mind, the confusion they’d tried to hide under well-meaning smiles when you told them you were leaving. Home was all they knew back there. To them, your yearning for the world outside the four corners of your humble village was a waste of time that would do more harm than good. Now, shivering and half dead with snow accumulating on your motionless eyelashes, you began to realize they might have been right.

Perhaps everything you have done until this point has been meaningless.

This spiteful wisp of a thought was the last to appear to you as the pale white snow on which you had collapsed began to embrace you. It felt tender and welcoming—illusory warmth and peace your defeated body accepted to cope with your death bed. You closed your eyes and consigned yourself to oblivion.

Howling winds filled your ears and carried you off… until you heard sounds of snow crunching nearby under somebody’s boot. You weren’t aware of there being any other human soul there besides yours, but it was unmistakable: the weight, the rhythmic thump of left then right. But you were too numb and weak to investigate or care.

A heavy blanket landed suddenly atop your shivering form, then you felt yourself getting lifted up just as the cold blackness swallowed your consciousness.

…

A baby bird flees from its nest instinctively thinking it needs the world beyond.

Perhaps he owed you some thanks for making this so easy for him. Impotent little bird, fracturing your own wings. Unfettered by rationality, blindly optimistic, ignorant of true danger… You would never have made it out there on your own, incompetent as you were.

This nonsensical world adores you. You who had done so little to earn it. 

You shivered even under his warmest blanket. Poor thing, you never could settle. He had seen you restless in the cradle of your hometown full of your loved ones and now watched you frown in your sleep.

He stoked the fire (gathering the wood had been a tedious task) then stood by you as you laid there, a phantom over the delicate songbird now in his midst.

Never mind what you’d been hoping to find. You already had everything, but never mind. You’re better off here.

It was tempting to wake you, but he didn’t yet.

His patience had served him well thus far. He could afford to wait.

…

Warmth. An unknown amount of time had elapsed since you passed out, and the first thing you felt upon your return to consciousness was a distinct warmth, the kind you hadn’t felt in a while. Your body was wrapped up, swaddled in soft, thick blankets that put the rags in your possession to shame; it was sorely tempting to keep your eyes closed in comfort and to allow yourself to forget about everything else. You didn’t let yourself think just yet. You were still thawing out.

But as much as you wanted to linger blissfully in that blank, black cradle of ignorance, thoughts began to pop up as the static in your mind cleared, weak as echoes, but there all the same. The slow realization that you were somehow still alive was followed by questions like where am I? Did someone save me? Who?

You (begrudgingly) opened your eyes and sat up to seek out the answers.

There was a fire right in front of you. Or, more accurately, a well-kept fireplace housing a flame whose warm brightness seemed to burn away the treacherous hues of gray and blue you’d been ensnarled in for days that felt like eternity. What looked like freshly placed firewood crackled to greet you.

You couldn’t tell what time it was. There wasn’t a clock in sight, or windows. More than that, you had no idea how long you’d been there. Wherever you were. Your body felt heavy with a dull ache, and your mouth felt drier than a desert, but your fingertips no longer felt numb as if they might fall off.

Before you could further assess the situation and ponder what to do, a door on your left creaked open.

“Ah. You’re awake.”

A tall, shadowy silhouette, more ghost than human at first, appeared in the doorframe, startling you.

He seemed to notice the way you jumped. “Apologies, my dear,” he said. His voice was deep, but his tone seemed light, as if he was amused. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He walked in slowly, closing the door behind himself with a quiet click before you could catch a glimpse of the other room. As your eyes adjusted to the warm glow—the fireplace was the only source of light, as far as your enfeebled senses could tell—you began to see more clearly.

Instead of being met with the kind face of your presumed rescuer and host, you saw a man whose countenance consisted of a peculiar mask that hid the upper half of his face, then tapered down to a slightly curved beak by his nose which allowed you to see most of his mouth.

It was unlike any mask you’d seen in story books telling of phantoms or masquerade parties, for it obscured his eyes like a stiff blindfold. But the way he moved, with his head angling towards you the closer he came, implied that he could see you just fine. Or perhaps he could sense your every breath and its source.

In his hands covered by dark gloves, he held a tray with a glass of water, a teapot, and an empty teacup.

You opened your mouth to talk, but your throat was rough and dry as sandpaper, and it was painful to try and vocalize. You winced.

“Do not try to speak yet,” he ordered gently as he placed the tray on a small table beside you. “You’re severely dehydrated. Drink first.”

Thirst preceded any wariness you might’ve had about accepting this stranger’s drinks. The water was lukewarm and instantly soothing. While you drank, the man began to pour steaming tea into the cup.

He stepped closer to you and took the glass from your hands once you’d emptied it to set it aside. He was facing you. Where there might have been eye contact, you instead blinked at that strange dark mask. The straight line of his lips, just barely visible, betrayed no discernible expression.

His hands moved, taking off one glove to press the backs of his fingers against your forehead. His touch was cold despite the warmth emanating from the fire. You didn’t move back; he was close but not invasive, and his demeanor seemed distant but not uncaring. He acted like a doctor to a patient. The lingering weight of fatigue rendered you unresistant regardless.

“You have a fever. Unsurprising,” he murmured. His hand stayed where it was to be sure. There was a faint scent of old leather and gentle soap. You finally managed to croak out a few words. “Who are you?” 

If there was any change in his expression, you couldn’t see it.

“I advise you to focus on your own recovery,” he replied. He leveled your careful gaze with the same unfeeling mask. A beat of silence. You noticed the tiniest upward movement from the corners of his lips, more of a twitch than a smile. “Although you’re not too weak to ask questions, it’d be best to curb that curiosity for now. Consider this medical advice. I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

His gentle yet impersonal touch moved from your forehead to your chin, lifting it with his fingertips to inspect your hollowed cheeks and cracking lips. In that dim and windowless box of a room, being refused an answer to your question, you felt like a mere specimen under his examination.

“Drink the tea and try not to move too much.” The strange masked man, your masquerade doctor, stepped back and retracted his cold hand, retreating into its glove. His voice remained soft, low and even soothing. At the same time it had a quality of inexplicable lightness to it, like the voice of someone smiling. You couldn’t really tell if he was. “You need food, and I will be back shortly with just that.”