Chapter Text
Lohen doesn't like to drink.
It's not that he can't, or that he won't, so much as he thinks beer is foul and that far too much dandelion—really, an unfortunately allergy for a man born to the land of pastorals—is found in Mondstadtian wine. Which is a pity, since grape juice sounds much better for alcohol than wheat or hops or whatever other poor, unappetizing plant the drunken hounds have gotten their mitts on.
But the Flagship doesn't have apple cider, and the Knights of Favonius and the local Lightkeepers insisted on celebrating a job well done, so Lohen nurses a pint of beer just so that nobody gets a bright idea and tries to foist some other poison onto him. It's sour on his tongue, and stings his nose like nettle, but whatever.
Lohen won't get drunk. His sips are smaller than the lap of a cat, he's already dumped a good chunk into some inattentive idiot's pint, and he'd sooner stick his blade through every man and woman and mercenary in this room than be so vulnerable in front of them. Dark eyes slide to Varka, raucous and flushed to his ears, with disdain.
Sometimes Lohen looks at him and sees a monument. His blood is Mondstadt's, his greatsword is Boreas' Fang, and his chivalry is the Knight's Oath. Grand Master Varka is a mountain of a man with a great reputation to match, and he's Lohen's favorite challenge to pick at.
Poisons scarcely knock him flat, traps beneath his feet keep him down no longer than seconds, and Lohen can count on his fingers the times he's managed to his draw blood in an ambush. It keeps them both sharp, sure, but Lohen wants to see what it takes to really make that man fall.
To put—and keep—Grand Master Varka on his knees would be to topple a mountain.
Admittedly, Lohen more often finds himself turning stones at a time, just to see what squirms beneath them. Small victories are just as important.
Across the bar, leant half on the countertop with massive tankard in hand, Varka throws his head back to laugh drunkenly. It's a rich, mirthful, roaring sound, like the sharp crackle of a bonfire or the boom of a cannon. Other voices easily join in, because that's just the effect the Grand Master has on others. He's an easy presence, and someone so easy to trust.
It makes Lohen's stomach writhe, watching comrades and allies brush and pat friendly hands over those broad shoulders and back. Varka seems utterly unaware of the attention, or perhaps he's just that used to it? Lohen wouldn't be surprised by either.
His heel taps against the metal floor, lost to the din of the drunken crowd. Few people are seated; everyone crowds about the bar, around Varka and whatever that weird Lightkeeper captain's name is, crowing and jostling and cackling like a bunch of noisy birds.
Lohen's table is empty, but for himself. Probably because he's being boring, but partially because lots of those guys are scared shitless of him half the time. Apparently, admiration and fear aren't emotions far apart on the battlefield.
Honestly, that's fine with him. Dealing with people without a goal is typically pretty tiresome.
(It also makes it harder to get away with his schemes, unless they happen to be a convenient pawn.)
The crowd seems drunk enough to soundly regret it in the morning, and Lohen watches with equal parts irritation and amusement as Varka stumbles against a chair with his hip and downs at least a third of his tankard in one swoop. His grin is stupid and boyish, despite the wiry scruff on his face, and Lohen thinks that he probably can't even taste the damn stuff anymore.
An idea snaps together in Lohen's mind, and he bites back a grin and a snicker. The beer already tastes like piss, and, even though he's only had a few little sips, alcohol is a diuretic.
Lohen doesn't want to finish the stuff and kind of needs to pee—Varka's stupid custom-made cup is nearly empty, and no one's paying the Vice Captain any mind. It all works out perfectly.
No one sees him slip his pint under the table.
The hardest part is discreetly maneuvering his pants out of the way. It's loud enough that no one hears the rustling of Lohen's clothes, and they certainly can't hear the two short rows of buttons slip through the holes, but the zipper beneath the front flap is a little louder.
He swipes it down quickly, pauses for observation, and finds the small, harsh sound went wholly unnoticed, as he expected.
Getting his underwear out of the way is a piece of cake from there, though it's a little awkward to get the round mouth of the pint between his legs without sitting too conspicuously strange. The smooth edge settles against his lower labia, cold and gently curved—Lohen shuffles his hips forward just a little more on the seat to make sure he doesn't miss.
The relief is slow, because he knows better than to risk a sound so loud and long as a heavy stream. A light push is all he needs, so it's all he does. Close as he is, Lohen can still only barely hear the trickling of his piss into the alcohol, but the cold air against his cunt makes him shudder with the knowledge that someone could see him exposed if they just leant down to look.
It's thrilling. It's depraved. It makes an odd cocktail of nerves and arousal clamber up his spine.
Lohen can feel his pulse in his dick, and the small stream he's maintained stutters when his hole tries to clench around something that isn't there. He clicks his tongue, realizing that some slick will be added to the mixture, but the young man doubts Varka will notice that either.
He slides the pint upwards when he's sure he's squeezed out every drop, catching both clinging droplets of piss and the wetness of arousal that had gathered on his folds. The rim teases his dick as it passes upwards, presses over it, and Lohen muffles a needy growl behind his teeth.
Settling it back on the tabletop with a quiet clunk, Lohen fixes up his underwear and his pants. Some dampness lingers between his legs, but it's nothing at all compared to the grime of combat. He'll live.
Deft, gloved fingers curl around the handle, and Lohen gives it a little swirl. It smells practically the same, and seems just a bit lighter in color. Thankfully, it's not so full as to look like he's drank nothing at all—that'll make it so much easier to sell his half-truth.
Lohen sidles up to Varka, slipping like a snake through the vibrant crush of large bodies, and curls a hand over the man's elbow. Bright blue eyes, hazy but no less piercing, blink down at him with sheer confusion, before recognition lights a blinding smile on the older man's face.
"Lohen! Great job out there today," the Grand Master enthuses, the edges of his words slurred but not incoherent, slinging that same remarkably muscled arm over the Vice Captain's shoulders, "Fantastic job keeping the Wild Hunt pushed back for your crew. You're celebrating, right? Good on you!"
"Of course, Grand Master," Lohen agrees, and his saccharine smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, "But you know, I'm pretty small compared to you. My constitution can't handle all this—"
Lohen lifts his cup for Varka to see, and Varka sees exactly what Lohen wants him to: a pint of beer, scarcely touched.
"—without it fogging up my head. You know I hate my mind being impaired. So I'm probably just gonna have to dump it somewhere and go rest for the night."
Varka blinks at him a few more times, lonely to refocuse his gaze, only to huff, "You're made of much tougher stuff than that, y'know, give yourself more credit! But if you seriously don't want it, I'm sure one of the guys'll finish it off for you."
"That's true," Lohen demurs, and the short, coquettish bat of his eyelashes would put any Fontainian actress to shame, "But I think you ought to have it. The rest of these drunkards are already at risk of alcohol poisoning."
The blond squints suspiciously at him, and Lohen has to laugh. He probably could've snuck it into the man's tankard without all of this dance, but it's far more fun to trick Varka when he knows he could have avoided getting tricked, if he had played his card right.
Pressing his free hand over his breast, Lohen laughs amiably, "No poisons this time, old man. We're celebrating, aren't we? Besides, I already used my stock up in the fight today."
A truth, a truth, and a lie. Easy.
Varka sniffs, as if he's a some kind of hunting hound, before finally shrugging, and the suspicion that had sucked away the air between them lifts. Lohen feels giddy. Lohen feels vicious. It's so fun how quickly he can trick the man, and so pathetic too.
"Thanks for not letting it go to waste," Lohen beams as he pours his "beer" into Varka's tankard, "I'm not sure if it's the same kind you got, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyways."
The Grand Master jostles him with a resonant laugh, even louder now that Lohen is practically pressed to his chest, "All the stuff here is good, trust me—you just don't have the palate for it."
Lohen chuckles more out of politeness than anything. Any other time, he'd already be warily eyeing the Vice Captain for a fake sound like that. Really, the old man's dull like this.
The young man's scrutiny of Varka is interrupted when he brings the tankard up to his lips again, and Lohen watches with rapt attention as he swallows what must be half the contents of it. His throat bobs in a way that feels obscene, as if begging for Lohen to take it into his hands, perhaps lovingly curl the edge of his knife beneath the apple of it.
(Maybe Lohen understands territorial dogs, because watching Varka drink down his piss like a man dying of thirst feels an awful lot like owning him.)
When Varka lowers the cup, he peers oddly at its golden contents while he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip. Lohen's stomach twists with arousal, and his underwear is doubly ruined.
"Huh," says the Grand Master, his head cocked like a stupid mutt, "I don't think I've had this one before. Kinda salty, kinda sweet—got a good burn to it. Not bad. What'd you order?"
Lohen shrugs, tamping down an oddly vicious feeling while his breaths shudder through him as quick as a hare's heartbeat. If they were alone, perhaps Lohen would finally jump Varka the way he's wanted to for a couple years now, age disparity and knightly dignity be damned.
"Dunno, but I could probably get you more."