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I.
The little bitch is hammering the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius into the ground.
The little bitch does have a name, quite a sonorous one, one that reflects his character and temperament rather well.
Lohen. “To flare up” in the Mondstadt dialect. Show Varka a more unpredictable person than Lohen once he’s done stamping on him with his charming little feet and playfully thrusting his polearm on either side of Varka’s head, laughing.
His feet really are small. Lohen wears a size thirty-seven, and his heels are as sharp as daggers.
Little slut.
Varka feels like his breath is being knocked out of him, like he’s already seeing Barbatos. Does Barbatos meet wretched souls before they find rest in the gardens of exalted Celestia…?
Lohen’s laughter – drunk on triumph, thrill, and his own greatness – rings in Varka’s ears, shrill and exultant. Varka sees his crazy, hazy eyes and the endless blue above his head, unbound by anything, absolutely nothing. Not a single cloud. Such a fine, clear day.
“Get off,” Varka says, not even trying to move or throw off the ruffled youngster. The little squirt thinks too much of himself.
Lohen smiles at him gently and therefore mockingly. He chirps cheerfully:
“No.”
Varka’s eye twitches.
He doesn’t understand this thirst to simply defeat enemies, can’t wrap his still-living mind around it (after all, Varka isn’t that young anymore). Lohen isn’t chasing glory or anything else, and this whole endless running around looking for new opponents seems pointless to Varka.
His ribs crack merrily. Not broken yet, but very soon they will be if Lohen doesn’t stop right now. Varka grabs him by the ankle, and his fingers close completely around it. Warm shackles, or something like that. Lohen freezes for a second in anticipation.
Trying to calm Lohen down is like trying to calm a wild, frisky cat and take away the prey it’s playing with. Varka tries to explain that he’s tired of lying on the dusty stone slabs of the training ground, and Lohen interprets his words not quite the way he’d like.
Instead of leaving the Grand Master alone, he nonchalantly plops down on him like on a low chaise lounge, like on the most comfortable pillow. Varka demonstratively slaps his own forehead.
Lohen settles on him as on a personal throne. One of his outstretched legs twitches, his heel tapping on the tiles like a clock counting down the seconds until the next prank. The other, bent at the knee, grazes Varka’s waist a couple of times. Neurotic flirting.
Place a golden wreath upon his head, where the free wind wanders.
…Perhaps for the first time in his life, Varka wishes Jean would come quickly, because she is one of the few people who can influence Lohen.
“Get off,” Varka repeats, asking. Lohen shifts on him, swings his legs so that his knees press into Varka’s ribs on both sides. Damn, he’s so tiny.
For a second Varka remembers him as a young knight, when he was barely taller than Varka’s waist. Not that Lohen has grown much over the years, even though he’s achieved considerable heights.
Little thing.
He props himself up on his elbows. Lohen doesn’t move away – on the contrary, he leans closer, so their faces almost touch. The sinful curve of his lips beckons, teases, and seems to hide a kiss. Lohen smells of freshly laundered shirt powder and something sour.
“Why? I’m comfortable.”
Then he shifts, getting more comfortable, leans back, propping his hands on Varka’s thighs. His backside, clad in slightly dusty white trousers, slides down the Grand Master’s stomach lower and
freezes.
Lohen feels it – hot, hard, engorged with blood, curious and lustful, pressed right against his tailbone.
A second of silence. Lohen looks at Varka with an unreadable expression.
“…Ouch.”
And he jumps up sharply, as if stung. His heels clatter on the stone.
“What’s with you?” asks Varka, deciding that playing dumb will be the most normal reaction, because he himself hadn’t expected to get hard.
This is some kind of fucked-up mess.
“Things, things, I’m up to my ears in things…” Lohen hastily retreats to a safe distance of three meters. Then, dramatically placing a hand over his heart, he bows low and gracefully and chirps sweetly: “I swear on the honor of a Knight of Favonius that I will tell no one that the Grand Master got a hard-on because I, Lohen, vice-captain of the fifth ranged company, sat on him.”
Varka feels his face burning like it hasn’t burned in ten years. Lohen laughs sonorously and runs away.
Little bastard.
II.
“Listen… I’m sorry. Let me treat you to something?”
Lohen is lounging on the sofa, hands behind his head, eyes closed, legs thrown over the soft armrest.
A picture of utter idleness.
Varka stands over him, not knowing what to do with himself, feeling too big and therefore clumsy and awkward in this space.
“Oh, come on,” says Lohen, not opening his eyes. “Physiology, blah-blah-blah, all that kind of crap… I’ve already forgotten.”
Varka frowns but stays silent.
He knows: Lohen doesn’t forget anything, especially slights. The little bitch has an excellent memory… Varka thinks he at least insulted Lohen with such an unworthy gesture from his body.
“Well, a boner…” Lohen shrugs his narrow shoulders. “Lots of people get boners for me. It’s fine.”
Varka doesn’t quite believe that. Yes, Lohen has a pretty face when he’s not making faces: a pleasant shape, a beautiful curve of his lips, a coquettish mole under his right eye, but – any knights who have tasted the sweet fruits of terror from Lohen start to fear him. Unlikely that anyone would want to jerk off to him after that.
Ahem…
“In any case,” says Varka, trying to keep his voice as casual as possible, repeating the same thing like those foreign birds that can mimic human speech, “I am in your debt. Let me treat you?”
Lohen finally opens his eyes and narrows them.
“Is this a bribe?”
“It’s an apology.”
Lohen is silent for a few seconds, studying his face. Then slowly sits up, swings his legs off the sofa.
He hesitates. Varka prays to the heavens that he agrees, because the tactic was a good one, right? Few people would turn down a free dinner…
The tavern is crowded and noisy.
They choose a table away from the other patrons.
The little bitch terrorizes the poor waiter with his terrible order, demanding that the stew be loaded with salt, pepper, spices, and hot sauce – the more, the better. Varka feels sorry for the nervously trembling fellow and, to avoid finishing him off completely, simply asks for roast meat and a few pints of beer.
Lohen wrinkles his nose. Oh… Varka forgot that he doesn’t like drinking, that he’d rather pour alcohol on his wounds and revel in the burning pain than warm his chilled insides.
The waiter stumbles away, leaving them alone in a strange, uncomfortable silence. Lohen sits, propping his cheek on his fist with a bored look, glumly watching the drinkers and eaters.
Varka licks his dry lips.
“Listen,” he puts his huge hands on the table; Lohen’s hazy gaze slowly shifts to him. “If you want to talk about this…”
“I don’t,” Lohen interrupts, looking away. “I already said: it’s fine.”
Varka sighs. Nothing is fine.
It’s obvious that Lohen is bothered by what happened and probably the feelings it caused. No, not the fluttering in the chest/stomach and all that. Varka thinks the butterflies in Lohen’s stomach died long ago. He’s more inclined to think that Lohen feels unpleasantly vulnerable.
“Lohen…”
“Enough.”
Varka shuts up for a couple of seconds. Uh-oh. Now Lohen is starting to get angry.
“…I just want you to know: I’m sorry you felt uncomfortable and that I couldn’t control it.”
…Although, Varka probably wouldn’t have been able to control it anyway.
Lohen is silent and won’t even look at him. Varka isn’t sure if he should say anything else.
“You shouldn’t have said anything at all,” Lohen finally mutters. “Just taken… I don’t know… just not mentioned it. And we’d be sitting here normally, not this whole thing,” – a vague motion of his elegant little hand between them.
Small, fragile, but strong fingers. Varka wants to take his hand and compare how much smaller Lohen’s palm is than his own.
“Sorry, my moral compass doesn’t allow that,” Varka smirks.
Lohen shrugs.
“Dunno, that shit of mine is glitchy.”
The food arrives.
While Varka cuts into his steak, Lohen, having tasted his stew, cuts into the waiter – figuratively, for now – and starts an argument. Like, what the fuck, not spicy at all, what is he paying for???
Never mind that Varka will be paying for everything.
The customer is always right. The waiter leaves to convey the outrage to the cook and return the stew. Lohen sits, sullen and dissatisfied.
“Steak?” offers Varka, but Lohen shakes his head.
“No, thanks. I don’t want bland meat.”
A plate of sliced sausages and sharp cheese arrives with the beer. Lohen gloomily chews a piece of cheese, replenishing his calcium levels, washes it down with foamy, hoppy beer, watching Varka eat his meat.
“Have you ever considered that animals are inherently depraved? After all, they have no creative impulse or aspiration for higher matters, and only hell awaits them after death,” Lohen says for some reason, and Varka nearly chokes.
He swallows hastily.
“Uh, no.”
“Do you think the cruel killing of animals and even their consumption is nothing other than purification through suffering, thanks to which they can enter paradise?”
Varka doesn’t know. Lohen takes another sip of beer.
“Are you already drunk?” asks Varka. “You don’t usually philosophize.”
“Dunno, maybe.”
Lohen stares into his mug, swaying it. Gentle beer waves slap against the wooden sides. Varka pours himself some beer and thinks.
“…So you think barbecue is the highest form of compassion towards animals?”
“Something like that,” Lohen yawns into his hand. “Mm…”
He takes a piece of ham. After a while, they bring him a new stew. Lohen seems satisfied with the spiciness but adds more pepper.
“How is it?” asks Varka.
“Not bad,” Lohen shrugs.
“Share?”
A mischievous glint in his eyes. Lohen grins slyly.
“Try it.”
Varka scoops up a little: sauce, a piece of carrot and meat, puts the spoon in his mouth, and immediately regrets it.
Fire explodes on his tongue, pierces his palate, and rolls down his throat like a hot coal. Varka coughs, his eyes start to water. He grabs the mug of beer and takes a huge gulp. Lohen laughs, kicking his legs.
“How can you eat this?” Varka wheezes, wiping away the tears. “It’s inedible.”
“Mm, it’s fine for me… You’re just a weakling. A crybaby who eats veal tenderness.”
“It’s pork,” Varka growls, pointing at the remains of his steak.
“Veal tenderness,” Lohen repeats and returns to picking at his stew. Varka sips his beer.
Like a gallant gentleman, he walks Lohen home, even though he’s already received two polite refusals. Lohen thinks he has nothing to fear late at night. No one would dare attack him – rather, Lohen would attack them – but Varka barely listens.
“Thanks for the food, all that…” says Lohen, hands clasped behind his back, rocking from heel to toe – back and forth, back and forth.
“You’re welcome.”
Varka is just glad he’s finally sorted all this out.
III.
…Lately, Lohen has been making a lot of dick jokes. Then again, his sense of humor was always a bit strange and hard to understand.
The word “dick” and its derivatives are heard in his speech more often than “hello”.
“Your jokes have become dicky,” says Varka, and Lohen laughs.
IV.
The little bitch goes off to cause trouble in Dornman Port. Varka lets him go with a clear conscience. After all, Adorno will keep an eye on him there.
…On one hand, it’ll be a bit boring at headquarters without Lohen. On the other hand, the knights will finally be able to breathe and not fear the next prank.
Lohen, head thrown back, looking into the window of the Grand Master’s office, playfully waves his little hand at Varka – like, bye-bye – almost skips to the cart and jumps in.
And he doesn’t look back again.
Varka stands by the window for a while, but waiting is pointless.
V.
After the incident at the port, Lohen is placed under house arrest. Surprisingly – even though the windows aren’t boarded up and the door isn’t locked – Lohen doesn’t even try to escape.
He doesn’t even have time for that.
Since he’s finally home, his mother, worried that Lohen will start looking for trouble again, piles him with household chores.
From time to time, Varka visits him.
From afar he hears noise. More precisely – squealing. Lohen is squealing. Varka quickens his pace.
In the backyard, behind a low wattle fence, a tragicomic scene unfolds. Lohen, dressed in unaccustomed home clothes – a soft white untucked shirt, wide linen pants cinched with a belt, barefoot – is trying to lure a cream-colored greyhound into the house. The dog is stubborn.
“Come here,” Lohen coaxes, squatting and slapping his knees. “Come-come-come, you’re a good girl.”
The dog stands in the opposite corner of the yard, eyeing him warily, clearly not intending to obey.
“Oh, come on!” The slapping turns into jerky, almost hysterical motions. Lohen starts to freak out.
He smiles sweetly-sweetly, coos tenderly:
“Darling, sunshine, my precious sweetheart, come on, please?”
The greyhound lies down on the ground, rests its snout on its paws, and closes its eyes.
Lohen’s shoulders slump.
“Fuck… I’ve had it. Listen, dear, if I don’t wash you, Mom will kill me… Varka!” Lohen whirls around. Varka, who had been about to climb over the fence, freezes. “This is private property! I’ll call the guards!”
“I’m their boss,” Varka replies.
“Even worse,” Lohen crosses his arms over his narrow chest. “Abuse of power!”
Varka climbs over the fence and approaches.
Without his uniform, Lohen looks even smaller and younger. He looks about fifteen, maybe less.
“What are you doing?”
“Mother asked me to bathe this bitch,” Lohen points a finger at the greyhound. “The fool rolled in something again.”
The dog, as if sensing it’s being talked about, lifts its head and looks at Varka. Then slowly it gets up, shakes itself off, and… approaches him, pokes its cold nose into his palm.
“Traitor,” Lohen exhales.
Varka scratches the greyhound behind the ear.
“What’s her name?”
Lohen pauses for a couple of seconds.
“…Lady.”
“What a sweet name,” says Varka. Lohen grimaces as if forced to eat a lemon.
Lady, meanwhile, rubs her snout against Varka’s knee, wags her tail, and generally behaves as if he’s her best friend, not a random guest.
“Come on, you can help,” says Lohen, waving toward the house, “since you showed up.”
He turns and walks to the back door. Varka follows, holding Lady by the collar, though the dog no longer resists.
Inside the house, it smells of wood, dried herbs, and something sweet – either pies or jam. Lohen leads them to a small outbuilding where a large wooden tub stands.
A cauldron of hot water steams in the corner.
“Pour,” Lohen orders, nodding at the buckets. “I’ll hold Lady.”
“How about the other way around? I’ll hold her, and you pour?”
“You’re stronger than me. Your job is to carry heavy stuff.”
Little commander.
Varka smirks but doesn’t argue, fills the buckets, pours into the tub, adds cold water from the barrel. Lohen dips his elbow in to check the temperature.
“Okay. Lady, get in.”
The greyhound looks at him with an expression of deep offense.
“Lady.”
The dog lies down on the floor. Lohen rubs the bridge of his nose.
“Barbatos, give me strength…”
“Help me lift her,” Varka suggests, squatting down.
Lohen sighs, comes around to the other side, and together – Varka by the front legs, Lohen by the back – they lift the dog and lower her into the warm water. Lady whines pitifully, jerks.
“Hold her!” yells Lohen, grabbing a washcloth and a piece of soap. “Hold her so she doesn’t jump out!”
Varka presses the dog against the edge of the tub. Lady whimpers resentfully. Lohen starts furiously scrubbing her back, muttering discontentedly.
Lady licks his chin.
“Don’t suck up. It’s useless.”
His wet shirt clings to his tense shoulders, the outlines of his shoulder blades showing through the fabric. Gods, he’s so thin.
“What are you staring at?” Lohen catches Varka’s wandering gaze and frowns. “Give me the soap! This shit can’t be used anymore.”
Lohen demonstratively squeezes the old piece, and it disintegrates.
“Where’s the soap?”
“Right under your nose.”
Varka finds the soap on the edge of the tub. Lohen snatches it, continues rubbing Lady, who has almost resigned herself and even started to squint with pleasure.
“Done,” says Lohen after ten minutes, stepping back and surveying the wet, soapy, miserable but clean dog. “Now rinse her.”
“Why me?”
“Because I said so.”
The little bitch loves to give orders.
Varka sighs, scoops up a bucket of clean water, and pours it over Lady. The dog yelps, shakes herself off, spraying both of them with a fountain of droplets.
Lohen, wiping his face with wet sleeves, starts spewing elaborate curses and simply yelling. The little squirt is very agitated and on edge, and Varka finds it almost amusing.
Half an hour later, Lady, clean and dry, lies on the rug and snores. Lohen, now changed into a dry shirt, remembers that Varka is his guest, so to speak, seats him at the table and starts fussing with tea.
Varka watches him.
Lohen stands at the stove with his back to him – narrow shoulders, thin waist, damp after the dog bath, hair slightly curling at the nape. His bare feet quietly pad on the wooden floor as he shifts from foot to foot, fetching cups.
“When does the arrest end?” asks Lohen, not turning around. “I’m bored at home. My rebellious soul craves destruction and mayhem.”
“Another two weeks.”
Lohen glances back, and something in his face expresses hope.
“Can you issue an order to release me early? Please?”
Varka sighs, shaking his head.
“With pleasure, but alas, no. That really would be abuse of power.”
Lohen purses his lips, places two cups from mismatched sets on the table, a sugar bowl and a creamer, pours the tea concentrate into the cups and adds boiling water.
“Want me to dilute with cold water?”
“No, thanks.”
Lohen shrugs – suit yourself. Plops onto the chair opposite.
“What have you been up to?” asks Varka, to keep the conversation going. Lohen frowns thoughtfully.
“Well… yesterday I sorted junk in the pantry, trimmed the bushes, and cooked dinner for everyone. Thrilling activities.”
Indeed, Lohen is probably bored being confined to four walls and one door.
“I even started reading books to keep from going completely insane.”
“Books?” Varka raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “You?”
“Yes, me,” Lohen sniffs, blowing on his too-hot tea. “Songs of Wind and Steel, volume three. It’s about some ancient knight who beat everyone and fucked everyone. Or something. I quit around the middle because he started whining about honor and dignity, even though he was up to his balls in some chick’s cunt. Crap, basically, don’t recommend it.”
Varka laughs softly. The sound is low, warm, filling the tiny kitchen. Lohen props his chin on his fist, nervously taps his bare heel on the wooden floor. Tiny feet, slender ankles.
At some point, the little foot playfully kicks Varka under the table.
Steam curls in gray spirals.
VI.
A poisoned knife sinks into his ribs – not deep enough to seriously wound, but deep enough to cause pain, because Lohen isn’t stupid enough to try to kill Varka in a spar.
A curved blade of complex shape, designed to cut tissue and amplify pain.
Varka crashes to the ground, raising dust. Lohen stands, breathing heavily, smiling half-crazedly.
Lohen… He was supposed to inherit the title of Benevolent Knight, yet there is nothing benevolent about him.
He is an angel cast down from heaven, knowing no mercy and feeling no fear.
The claymore – the last one Varka had, because Lohen knocked the first out of his hands earlier – falls with a clatter nearby.
The little bitch wins by deceit.
For a split second, Varka is stunned.
Then he laughs, loud and wild.
“Now that’s just rude!” he declares, grinning. “You didn’t even let me get a proper swing!”
“Sowwy~” Lohen coos tenderly.
Ah… Varka’s heart melts.
He’s so cute.
Everything blurs before his eyes, but Varka sees him clearly.
A strangled laugh escapes his chest – a mix of agony and helpless tenderness – and he drops his head back onto the ground, letting out a groan suspiciously like a whimper.
“Heavenly Archons…” he mutters, staring at the sky. “I’m going to marry you.”
Lohen’s expression doesn’t change, he continues smiling.
“No way, Grand Master,” he says softly.
…
What?
Varka frowns in confusion.
Why?
“Marriage implies starting a family. I don’t think I’m suited for that role,” says Lohen, and
walks away.
Varka is left staring after him.
VII.
He was just rejected, wasn’t he?
Varka thinks about it a lot while Barbara and a few other sisters fuss over him.
Did he understand correctly what Lohen said? He doesn’t want to become Varka’s spouse, does he?
…Well, yes, Varka was foolish to blurt out something like that. He shouldn’t have said such things so hastily, especially considering there hasn’t been any particular romantic interaction between them.
He’s a good warrior and a mediocre diplomat, Varka admits, and his approach to courting women has always been straightforward and artless. To Lohen, he probably seems like a clumsy bull in a china shop.
Never mind that Lohen is not a woman.
He’ll have to apologize again, probably… Or maybe not.
He has a better idea.
VIII.
A delicate hand in a glove pushes away a bouquet of freshly picked cecilias, and Varka already knows what he’ll hear.
“No, Grand Master,” says Lohen.
Damn.
So, this is the sixteenth public rejection this month and overall. So far.
Some curious knights are watching from a distance, because it’s so funny: the Grand Master himself running after the vice-captain of the fifth ranged company like a lovesick puppy.
Lohen leaves. Varka sighs. It seems these flowers are also out of favor. He’s already tried everything that grows in Mondstadt and on the border with Liyue, but for some reason, Lohen hasn’t appreciated a single bouquet.
…Maybe Lohen likes playing hard to get? Or is the attention truly unwanted? Varka doesn’t understand. When he tries to talk about it, Lohen immediately runs away – oh, his reports aren’t finished, bye for now. What the hell?
On the nineteenth day, Varka starts trying other gifts. Does Lohen like sweets? Varka doesn’t know. After asking his subordinates, he only found out that Lohen likes pain and bullying people. The knights complain one after another about being forced to participate in “special” training, and about constantly having pit traps dug for them, and being victims of strange pranks.
Not much useful information.
Varka orders handmade chocolate sweets – a rather curious and quite appetizing-looking product.
The good news: Lohen took the box. The bad news: he returned it the next day almost full. He ate only two sweets and said he doesn’t like coconut and almonds. Later, some knights out of curiosity took a sweet each, and very soon everyone felt unwell.
Why? The little bitch added a large dose of laxative to the sweets.
Does Lohen like trinkets? Rings, earrings? Lohen wears an earring in his left ear and several rings. Logically – yes.
A delicate hand in a glove pushes away a small box.
“No, Grand Master.”
…Seems like another miss. Varka sighs, scratching the back of his head. Lohen walks off, saying you can’t buy me with that.
That’s the fifth public rejection this month and the thirty-eighth overall.
IX.
What does Lohen even like?
Lohen likes to fight, and he doesn’t mind beating up anyone, but he treats women, the elderly, and children with respect, even though he doesn’t like the latter much; Varka has never caught him beating those categories.
Lohen likes good food, especially spicy food. He doesn’t like drinking much, but sometimes doesn’t mind a glass or two.
Lohen likes to have fun, but his idea of fun is his own, and mostly he eliminates his boredom by himself.
Lohen likes to chase people. Sometimes poor surveyor Mika becomes his victim, and Lohen chases him all over the city, laughing.
Also, Lohen likes weapons. He sometimes takes better care of his polearm than of himself. He may be hungry and dirty, but he’ll still clean everything and sharpen it well.
That seems to be everything Varka can recall.
Most likely, Varka is speaking to him in the wrong language. Lohen is barely moved by tenderness. Should he be tougher?
Varka calls Lohen for a spar, proposing to rely solely on physical strength, not weapons. Lohen stands and looks at him like he’s an idiot.
“Grand Master, I don’t think that’s quite fair. You’re at least a head and a half taller than me and undoubtedly heavier. Throwing me over your shoulder would be no trouble for you.”
Well, Lohen is right. He’s small, quite skinny, and of rather fragile build.
“Then like this,” Varka sheds his coat, remains in just his shirt, rolls up his sleeves to his elbows. “I won’t use holds. Only strikes. With palms, not fists. Just in case I accidentally kill you.”
Lohen snorts.
“What if I strike?”
“You’re allowed to,” Varka shrugs. “If you can reach, of course.”
Little squirt.
Lohen raises an eyebrow, and something dangerous ignites in his hazy eyes. There it is. Excitement and curiosity.
He slowly pulls off his blue half-coat, tosses it onto a bench, squares his shoulders.
“Fine.”
Yes, yes, yes yes yes yes y e s
Finally!
The sun is tilting toward sunset. Long shadows crawl slowly across the stone slabs. Varka takes a stance – not a combat stance, but something relaxed, almost street-like. Lohen opposite – wound tight as a spring.
“Begin,” Varka nods.
And Lohen lunges forward, swift, almost elusive. His fist flies toward Varka’s jaw – Varka leans away, offering his shoulder. The blow glances off, but even the touch feels like a wasp sting. Varka answers with his palm – Lohen dodges, presses himself to the ground, rolls, and kicks with a spin. The heel – not a dagger, but still unpleasant – slams into Varka’s side.
“Careful with the legs,” Varka exhales, stepping back. “I haven’t recovered from last time yet.”
“It’s a warm-up,” Lohen grins, his eyes blazing.
Little bitch.
Second round. Varka tries to advance – presses with his mass, forces Lohen back toward the wall. But he’s slippery as an eel, slips out from under Varka’s arm, dives under his elbow, striking him in the solar plexus. Varka catches his fist at the last moment, closes around the thin wrist.
“Gotcha.”
Lohen is silent. His pulse beats under Varka’s fingers – fast, fast, like a hunted animal.
A hare before a wolf’s jaws.
“Let go.”
“Say ‘please’.”
“Fuck off.”
Varka laughs – and Lohen takes the moment, hits him with his free hand across the face, on the cheekbone – almost a slap. Varka lets him go, wipes his split lip and looks at the blood on his fingers.
“Rude,” he states. “Where are your manners?”
“I’m a brute,” Lohen replies, stepping back. “Red flag, gaslighter, and abuser.”
“I didn’t understand a word. Is that youth slang?”
They clash again. Now Varka doesn’t hold back as much – he pushes, corners, but doesn’t grab. Lohen dodges with some animalistic grace, movements sharp, jerky. He strikes – at the torso, the thighs, tries to break through the defense. Varka catches his ankle, yanks it toward himself, and Lohen flies to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Varka falls on top, not letting him get up. He looms over him, breathing heavily, sweat streaming down his face.
“Give up?”
Lohen looks up from below, his eyes two crazy flames.
“No.”
He writhes, tries to slip out, but Varka holds tight. Too tight. Lohen headbutts him in the bridge of the nose – Varka shakes his head, and in that moment Lohen crawls out from under him, jumps on him like a horse, ends up on top. Slender fingers close around his throat, as if he really wants to strangle him.
Wonder if Lohen has a choking fetish?
“Well?” wayward lips whisper, barely touching his earlobe. “What will you do now, Grand Master?”
Varka stands up in one jerk. Lohen yelps, clinging tighter to his shoulders, expecting to fall from a height of a meter and a half, but – Varka holds him under the thighs.
“Varka, what the fuck?” asks Lohen, and if Varka didn’t know him so well, he’d think he was nervous. “This isn’t a spar anymore.”
“Yes, you’re right. This isn’t a spar anymore.”
Lohen shifts, trying to slide off Varka, roll off his back like off a vertical slide, but Varka holds him tight.
“Let go.”
“Ask nicely.”
A three-second pause.
“Grand Master, please let me go.”
Varka sighs and reluctantly, carefully loosens his hands so Lohen doesn’t fall, and removes them completely when he hears the click of heels: Lohen is already on the ground.
“I give up,” Lohen suddenly says.
Varka can’t believe his ears – because Lohen never gives up, he’d fight to the last drop of his blood.
“…Why?”
“I’m tired.”
Lohen brushes himself off – somewhat disgustedly, but thoroughly.
“That was the dumbest fight of my life,” he says, heading for his half-coat. “Next time, we fight with knives.”
Varka can’t help but smirk.
“Deal.”
Lohen nods, turns, and walks away. At the very turn, he looks back – for a moment, just one moment – and looks at Varka as if he wants to say something, but stays silent.
He leaves.
Varka remains on the training ground alone. He touches his split lip – the blood has already dried.
Little bitch.
X.
The fiftieth, jubilee attempt. Varka decides to return to traditional methods again, but with symbolism. Twenty-nine fiery red roses.
Ardent love, passionate feelings.
Lohen sighs.
“No, Grand Master.”
“Why?” asks Varka.
“Uninteresting. Banal. Pushy,” Lohen shrugs.
Ah. Varka droops. Lohen sighs.
“I’m by no means trying to insult your tender feelings and all that. I want to understand how serious your intentions are.”
…What?
“Try something else. Use your imagination. I don’t know, I want creativity.”
Varka thinks and catches onto something.
“Is that a challenge?”
“Perhaps,” Lohen smiles at him.
It’s not mockery or cruelty. Rather, curiosity and pleasure that Varka is beginning to understand the rules of the game.
Varka knows what he’ll bring for Lohen next time.
“At least take the roses,” he asks. “It would be a shame to throw them away.”
“Nope.”
Lohen leaves, lightly swaying his hips. The little bitch doesn’t even look back.
Varka sighs heavily, hugs the bouquet to his chest, and heads toward his office.
So, he needs something different, something that will hit that small, perverse soul…
The next day, he shows up at Lohen’s house without flowers or boxes, but with a battered straw dummy.
The dummy’s face is painted with charcoal and vaguely resembles Varka.
Lohen silently looks at the dummy.
“So you’re depicting yourself?” he asks.
“Yep,” Varka sticks the dummy into the ground and crosses his arms over his chest. “I figured if you love hammering me into the ground and cutting me so much, maybe you’d enjoy having a personal punching bag with my face on it.”
Lohen circles the dummy. Takes a folding knife from his pocket. God, he’s armed even on his day off.
First, he stabs the chest of “Varka”, pulls out the knife, twirls it thoughtfully in his fingers. After a couple of seconds of consideration, he thrusts it again – this time into the dummy’s crotch.
Varka involuntarily flinches.
“…Cruel.”
“Funny, but not much more. Something to play with in my spare time.”
So that’s not it either. Varka sighs.
XI.
What does Lohen even love?
Lohen loves to fight and the feeling of danger. The more adrenaline rush, the better.
The next gift must conquer him, because it’s something Lohen cannot resist.
Varka leads him into Whispering Woods.
“Grand Master,” says Lohen, batting his innocent eyelashes, “if you have outdoor sex in mind, I must warn you: I don’t approve it, and I’d rather fuck in a bedroom than in the grass.”
“Oh no,” Varka laughs. “That is in the plans – sex in the bedroom, I mean – but later.”
Lohen shakes his head and
freezes, stunned.
His sensual lips part slightly, and a lively gleam appears in his eyes.
Varka hasn’t seen him so excited in a long time, because it’s a lawachurl – a huge, bound, thrashing lawachurl.
“How do you like it?” asks Varka. “I ordered it captured in Liyue especially for you… Alive, angry, and entirely at your disposal.”
Lohen lets out a high-pitched, completely uncharacteristic squeal of joy, jumps up, clapping his hands like a child in front of a Christmas tree. He throws himself at Varka, standing on tiptoes, pressing his little fists into Varka’s broad chest, looking into his eyes. Little squirt.
“Can I?! Can I, yes?! Varka, please-please-please!” he jumps, clings to his cloak. His eyes gleam with madness and pure delight. “I want to kill it! Want-want-want! Please!”
Varka laughs.
“Yes. It's yours.”
Lohen lets out another ecstatic, jubilant cry and takes off. His polearm is already in his hand. He runs toward the monster, jumping over roots. The lawachurl roars. Lohen laughs back – ringing, mad, happy.
…Perhaps for such an expression on Lohen’s face, Varka is ready to bring him another dozen lawachurls.
In gratitude, Lohen kicks Varka hard in the leg so that he doubles over, wincing in pain.
“Ow, you little bitch…”
The next second, Lohen is already on his tiptoes, grabs Varka by the collar and gently, almost reverently kisses him on the cheekbone.
“Those are the kind of gifts I like,” he says, his mahogany-colored eyes so close.
Varka wants to kiss him, but Lohen slips away like an eel, laughing.
“Keep it up, Grand Master,” he says and leaves.
Varka thinks about what monster to capture next time.
XII.
Varka tenderly kisses the small delicate hand, slips a simple silver ring onto the finger. Lohen yawns into his free hand and rubs his eye. He just woke up.
“What’s this?” asks Lohen, half-asleep.
“An engagement ring,” Varka informs him. Lohen scratches his head.
“Okay.”
So simple. Varka doesn’t even need to dance with a tambourine or pray forehead to the floor to get Lohen to agree. Then again, Lohen’s decision was probably influenced by his fairly peaceful mood and a good night’s sleep.
XIII.
Lohen accepts the ring, but that doesn’t mean he stops being a little bitch.
Varka leans in to kiss him, and Lohen turns away – out of spite.
“I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“Just because.”
“Oh, I get it, I have to ask you. May I kiss you?”
Politeness never hurt anyone, after all. Lohen looks at him from under his brows, and his face from this angle looks rather funny.
“Stubborn ram,” he sighs. “Kiss.”
Varka puts his hand on the back of Lohen’s neck – lightly, almost imperceptibly – and leans in, stopping a millimeter from Lohen’s lips, giving him time to change his mind. Lohen himself reaches up, grabs Varka by the collar.
It’s awkward. Lohen flaps his tongue a lot and teases, but he’s not a very good kisser: he presses his lips too hard, breathes raggedly, though it’s better than the previous two times.
“Relax,” Varka murmurs.
“I am relaxed, aren’t I?”
“No.”
“Dunno, I’m trying.”
Lohen pulls away first.
“Not much of an activity,” he says, wiping his lips on his sleeve. Varka tries to peck him on the cheek, but Lohen pushes him away. The limit is exhausted, it seems. “Fucking seems more interesting, I think.”
“We could try,” says Varka. Lohen snorts.
“Get undressed.”
On the doorstep, of course, Varka won’t undress; he enters the house. Lohen locks the door, and Varka buries his nose in his neck, teases with his teeth.
“Stop,” Lohen says without malice.
“Why? I think you’d like bites.”
“My room,” Lohen commands, crossing his arms over his chest. Varka scoops him up in his arms.
There’s something appealing about holding this small, fluttering body. Varka remembers those days when he was even younger and hunted grouse, hares, and partridges in Springvale, and the feeling of holding a hare in his hands is about the same as holding Lohen.
Both unpredictable and quite aggressive.
Varka stumbles up the stairs. He doesn’t want to imagine what Lohen would do if he accidentally dropped him.
There are so many scars on that pale, thin body. Varka trails his lips over them, and Lohen, unused to this intimacy, occasionally shoves him.
“Who did this to you?” asks Varka, touching a long scar on a protruding rib with his lips.
“I don’t remember,” Lohen mutters. “There were a lot of them.”
Varka kisses the scar again – gently, almost reverently.
“Why are you doing that?”
“Well, it requires a certain level of trust…”
“You’re testing how much I trust you?”
Varka is silent. Lohen stares at the ceiling.
“…There’s sense in that.”
Then he falls silent. Varka, displeased by the silence, bites him low on the stomach and slides lower. Oh. Between Lohen’s thighs there is a rather interesting, appetizing pink place.
Lohen seems to understand where he’s looking, because his body tenses – all at once, like a bowstring.
“…A surprise, huh?”
“A little.”
“Doesn’t it disgust you?”
As if Lohen truly cares and is bothered by it. Varka shakes his head, kissing his stomach. The muscles twitch amusingly, and Lohen lets out a ragged breath.
“It’s rather a pleasant surprise. May I?”
Varka carefully spreads his knees, settles between them. Lohen doesn’t resist – just looks somewhere to the side, biting his lip, clutching the sheets in his fists.
“Look at me,” Varka asks.
“I don’t want to.”
“Lohen.”
“Let me calm down, I’m nervous. I may act all tough, but I have feelings too.”
That’s the sweetest admission all day, perhaps. Varka waits patiently for Lohen to pull himself together mentally.
“…Someone very smart said that in love as in war, but that bullshitter couldn’t be more wrong.”
“Why?”
“During expeditions, I couldn’t give a fuck what was happening, except for the happy excitement of taking down another monster. Right now I’m more anxious than I was then.”
“Relax,” Varka reaches up, kisses his sharp collarbones. “I won’t hurt you.”
“Dunno, it feels like I’d rather you just beat me up right now.”
…
“I can beat you up with my dick.”
“Varka, fuck. You’re not helping at all.”
“What should I do?”
“…I don’t know, something.”
Varka sighs and gently touches his lips to Lohen’s neck – an elegant porcelain vase.
“Tickles.”
Kisses, kisses, kisses. Varka nips at his skin a few times. Lohen bites back, but much more fiercely. Little sadist.
At some point, Varka goes back down. Lohen watches him.
Varka runs his tongue along the entire length of the slit, slowly and carefully. Lohen lets out a high, faltering sound like a sob.
“Varka,” Lohen exhales, arching. “Varka, I… this…”
“What?”
“…too much.”
“Too good?” Varka lifts his head, looks at him. Lohen is red, wet, flustered – and beautiful as never before.
“Shut up,” he says.
Rude.
Varka obeys. He continues – slowly, patiently, tasting with his tongue, getting used to the new flavor, to the new sounds Lohen is no longer trying to suppress. They flow from his lips – high, faltering, almost plaintive.
Music to the ears.
Varka licks everything that oozes with even a little juice of desire. Lohen digs his fingers into Varka’s ripe-wheat-colored hair and moans long and loud when Varka playfully traps his clitoris between his lips.
“E-enough…”
Varka pulls away, smeared with Lohen’s natural lubricant. Lohen’s legs are trembling.
“So, time for the main course?”
“…Uh, I guess.”
Varka prepares for a long time – with fingers, with lube he finds in the nightstand drawer (the little bitch, it turns out, prepared in advance). Lohen squirms, moans, curses – sometimes from impatience, sometimes because Varka is being too careful.
“Just do it already,” he hisses when Varka checks for the umpteenth time if it’s wet enough.
“But I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Take off your pants.”
…
“Fuck.”
It seems Lohen is starting to doubt that this monster – twenty-three centimeters of manhood – will fit inside him. He even half-sat up in surprise.
“If you don’t want to…” Varka nervously scratches the back of his head.
“No, since we’ve started, let’s finish,” Lohen falls back onto the pillows. “Go ahead.”
His voice trembles slightly. He leans back into the pillows, closes his eyes, clenching the sheets in his fists.
“Just don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like at… I don’t know. Like at something precious. I’m not used to that.”
Varka smirks, but obediently looks away – looks at his own hand resting on Lohen’s thigh. Then slowly, very slowly, leans down and kisses his knee.
“You are precious,” he whispers before licking the sensitive skin. “Get used to it.”
“Varka, enough tenderness, come on already…”
“Nervous?”
“No,” Lohen jerks when Varka teasingly runs the tip along the wet slit, brushing the clitoris. “It’s just… objectively… look at your own dimensions.”
“I looked.” Varka props himself on his elbows, looming over him. “Everything will fit. I’ll move slowly. It won’t hurt, I promise.”
Lohen bites his lip, nods, not opening his eyes. His pulse beats in his slender neck – fast, fast.
Varka enters inch by inch, stopping to let Lohen adjust. At first he hisses, then exhales, then starts cursing – through his teeth, quietly, falteringly:
“Fuck, Varka, you… inside there… I can feel… holy shit…”
“Bearable?”
“Bearable,” Lohen opens his eyes, looks at him. In his dilated pupils there’s something wild, scared and at the same time greedy. “More. Give me more.”
Varka pushes forward, deeper. Lohen moans – unrestrainedly, loudly, arches, digs his blunt nails into Varka’s shoulders, scratching.
“That’s it,” he exhales when Varka stops, feeling he’s bottomed out. “That’s it, enough. Move. Slowly. Please.”
The last word – rare, almost unfamiliar on his lips. Varka kisses his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and starts moving.
He’s in no hurry. Every motion is smooth, deep, measured. Lohen writhes beneath him, moans, curses, sometimes – for a second – freezes, rolling his eyes back, and then Varka stops, strokes his stomach, waits.
“Don’t stop,” Lohen whispers when he can speak. “Fuck, don’t stop…”
“Oh, gods…”
Inside, contrary to his prickly exterior, Lohen is warm, wet, and terribly tight. Plenty of lube, but movement still isn’t entirely easy. Varka catches his small elegant hand, interlocks their fingers, pins it to the sheet.
Tiny little thing.
Soon Lohen gets bored with the gentle pace and asks for it harder. Well, why not? Lohen likes pain, maybe rough sex will suit him?
Varka alternates gentle and sharper thrusts, presses Lohen lightly into the bed. Lohen wraps his flexible legs around him and digs his heels into Varka’s lower back, gasping.
Archons, he’s beautiful.
“Choke me,” Lohen rasps, looking Varka in the eyes. “A little. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”
Varka freezes for a moment, stopping his motion.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m the one asking for it.”
First, he strokes Lohen’s throat with his fingers, feeling the pulse beat under the thin skin. Lohen closes his eyes, arches his neck, offering himself. It’s a gesture of trust – so frank, so unusual for him.
“Just not too hard,” Lohen reminds.
Varka nods and closes his palm.
He doesn’t squeeze, just applies his hand, feels Lohen tense, hold his breath – and then exhale, relax, trust.
“More,” Lohen whispers, and Varka slightly increases the pressure.
Lohen moans – low, gutturally – and his body arches, pressing closer, and Varka feels the slick walls clench around him tightly-tightly, and for a second he’s afraid Lohen might tear his dick off. Lohen grabs his wrist, not removing the hand from his throat, guiding, controlling – even now, even as he gives himself over, he wants to be in charge.
“More,” Lohen exhales.
Varka obeys. He moves faster, deeper, and Lohen melts beneath him – moans, curses, digs his heels into his lower back, pushing back to meet him. His face – red, wet, with dilated pupils – looks almost crazed. Beautiful.
“I’m close,” Lohen exhales, closing his eyes. “Varka, I’m…”
“Go ahead,” Varka allows, and Lohen comes – with a hiss, with a spasm, digging his nails into Varka’s shoulders.
Varka freezes, letting him come down.
“…Good,” Lohen exhales, opening his hazy eyes. “Now my turn.”
“What?”
“I want to be on top,” Lohen shoves his shoulder. “Come on, roll onto your back.”
Varka doesn’t argue – carefully withdraws, rolls onto his back. Lohen immediately looms over him, sits on top, slowly, teasingly impaling himself on his cock.
“Holy shit,” Lohen exhales when he’s fully seated. His eyes roll back for a second, but he gets himself together quickly. He braces his hands on Varka’s chest.
“Deep?”
“Shut up,” Lohen starts moving.
He sets the pace – fast, uneven, almost frantic. Varka looks up at him – at his small, flexible body, at his disheveled hair, at his half-crazed smile. Lohen rides beautifully – that’s his essence.
“Hands,” Lohen commands, and Varka carefully places them on his thin hips, but doesn’t try to force him up or down.
Lohen moves faster, the room filled with obscene wet sounds. Varka feels his release approaching – but Lohen is quicker.
“Don’t you dare,” he growls. “Don’t you dare come until I say so.”
“You know I…”
“I said,” Lohen leans down, almost touching his lips to Varka’s, and whispers, “endure it, Grand Master.”
Little slut.
Varka endures. He clenches his teeth, digs his fingers into the sheets, feeling Lohen clench around him, feeling his own breath falter, feeling himself on the edge. It’s torture, the sweetest torture.
“Now,” Lohen exhales, and Varka comes – with a roar, thrusting his hips into Lohen’s thin buttocks, wrapping his strong arms around that trembling body.
Lohen collapses onto his chest, breathing heavily.
“That was…” he mutters, “…not bad.”
“Thank you,” Varka exhales, stroking his sweaty back.
Lohen stares at the ceiling and, smacking his lips, says:
“I'm hungry.”
Varka laughs.
“What? Didn’t I satisfy your appetites?”
Lohen gives him a dark look.
“Idiot, I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
Varka can’t think of a witty reply and closes his eyes. Lohen rustles the sheets, trying to untangle himself from the ring of Varka’s tenacious arms.
The sun sits on the red tiled roofs.
09.06.26 – 11.06.26