Chapter Text
docile… soft-spoken… meek… there are many words to characterize the man lying idle against the otogi tree in the garden. you eye him from where you stand while you oversee the patches of sweet flowers you were working to grow. he seems at peace, you thought, and move on to check the carrots and radishes you recently planted.
a small voice in the farthest corner of your mind scolds you for fussing over him. he’s shown you he was capable of fending for himself in your absence. however, the unease persists to linger. he was a dear friend to katsuragi and you would be overridden with guilt if anything troublesome were to transpire.
with a shake of your head, you bear in mind there was nothing to stress. your humble abode resides far from the nearest village and farther away from the sangonomiya shrine. there was not a soul but you, him, and the surrounding flora. the mellow scenery compensates in areas where it lacked.
it was safe and sound.
be that as it may, the distance did not mean you were ignorant to the sharp-tongued chatter traversing from villager to villager at your expense. as a young woman, it was unbecoming of you to live under the same roof with the opposite gender unwedded . you overheard the vicious whispers spread by the old crows whenever you visited to deliver your fresh stock. it wounds you to hear their remarks, alas, you have little to no time to wallow in such misery when you have responsibilities waiting to be met.
and one of them happens to involve your companion here.
you return your focus onto him and find he had fallen asleep. the sun barely makes its presence in the sky above, a light breeze kisses his pale skin. it created the perfect environment to lull him in a lazy morning nap. you softly laugh into your hand at the scene ahead of you, he imitates the sprite of a stubborn feline.
surreal, you inwardly hum, as you toy with the lock of your bracelet. it is surreal. time did not feel grounded in reality once the great change in seasons dawned upon you. the development of your kinship from strangers to co-occupants to friends mimics an illusory sequence you would witness in a dream.
it was a blur.
you could not recall much beyond the hysterical knocking on your door that fateful evening. a long-familiar yoriki stood in front of you and implored for your immediate help; he spoke too fast for you to grasp what he spouted. from what was pieced together, you figured it was a desperate plea to allow his new friend to stay with you in the forthcoming days.
you scrunch your nose.
“please?” he beseeched; he kneeled down on the ground and bowed his head low. you took a step back, uncertain of what to do or say. was it truly the best decision to accede to his request? to accommodate an outsider — a man nonetheless? you huffed.
staring past him, you surveyed the man deaf to the present conversation. there were many facets of his character to behold. for starters, he looked… strange. his attire, although scuffed, was weaved from the finest silk in teyvat. you need not to guess, you were confident the material was imported from liyue as well. the wine stained veil obscures your view of his face until the inlet of a light zephyr lifts the garment. the clutch on your shawl went weak and you drew in a sharp breath;
he was beautiful.
bathed under the luster of moonlight, it casted a shadow that accentuated his features — possessing a symmetry, individuals could only fantasize with a sea of indigo tresses that touched the nape of his neck, doe-like eyes, and soft lips. ethereal.
you flinched when your gaze met his for a brief second, the embarrassment warming your body. you preyed a glimpse to observe him and one note to eventually bear in mind was his non-threatening aura.
he bore the impression of being innocuous in nature, manifesting in its own ways; he was unmindful of his surroundings yet easily distracted by the slightest movements in his peripherals. the topic of discussion rests ignored in spite of it concerning his living situation and how it depended on you.
katsuragi was an old friend of yours. the idea of forsaking him in his hour of need felt morally wrong. who were you to turn your back on him? you did not waste a second to respond with a meek, “yes.”
“forgive me — did i hear you correctly? you agree?” he stood up in haste, words struggling to express his disbelief.
you clasped your hands behind your back and gave him a curt nod. a wide grin stretched on his lips, he could not be ever more grateful for your kind heart. in a spur of the moment, he enveloped you in his embrace and twirled you around out of pure joy. you gasped then fell into a burst of giggles at his childish antics.
he set you down and cocked his head in the direction of his friend; he waved a free hand, gesturing for the timid man to approach you. he took a hesitant step forward, slow and deliberate as if he were assessing your reaction. the thrumming of his heart quickened at the image of your face.
“beautiful,” he muttered under his breath.
he was introduced to his fair share of women in bourou village, though, each and every one of them paled in comparison to your whole being. they could not hold a candle to you, they could not leave him breathless the way you did.
he shifted from one foot to the other, a surge of relief engulfed his system when the yoriki misunderstood his adoration for one of distress. “ah, there’s no need to worry! i'll do my best to visit you when my schedule allows it. for now, the village beauty here will be accommodating your stay until we figure out your permanent living situation,” he consoled.
your cheeks flared up. it was a measly title the local folk bestowed on you, much to your displeasure. its origins remain unknown, the name surfaced out of nowhere and continues to be used in reference to you — whether it was in jest or not was a subject you preferred to stay ignorant..
your fingers carded through your hair in pursuit of making it the least bit presentable and smoothen the creases in your ensemble. you bowed, introducing yourself first with the intention of easing the heavy tension in the air.
silence.
his eyes flickered to your face then dwelled on katsuragi, indirectly urging for his guidance. the yoriki read his discomfort and promptly answered on his behalf. “his name? um… his name is wanderer.”
wanderer? you mused, thoroughly intrigued but chose not to question it out of respect. having said that, your good friend still copped the visible bewilderment written in your demeanor and motioned a subtle nod your way to confirm what you heard. how peculiar.
his gaze burrowed into yours, he was curious of what you made of him; whereas you gape back in wonder of where fate might lead you now.
the bond conceived and the dynamic it developed over time was a tantalizing affair to reflect upon in retrospect. albeit unmarried, the stench of domesticity wafted your household and your behavior vowed otherwise. for instance, conversation was not of the essence. a simple glance was enough for the two of you to gain an inkling of what the other was thinking or wanted to say.
this newfound intimacy did not appear out of thin air. his shy self provoked you to fixate on his body language in every interaction. sigh, you can recall the day you first heard his voice… it sounded sweet, of honey! you had to lay a hand over your chest to soothe the rapid humming of your heart after he mumbled your name.
seasons drifted since your initial meeting, your dreary abode was now brimming with life and spirit — “two’s a company,” as they say. in due course, he disclosed fragments of his past bit by bit. he spoke of seeking shelter at the shakkei pavilion, the lands he roamed, and his venture to tatarasuna island. undeterred by his vague tales, you welcomed it with open arms.
noon descends in a blink of an eye unnoticed, too engrossed in your day-to-day tasks; tending to your garden, arranging lunch, then preparing the delivery orders on schedule whilst the wanderer dressed himself in clothes appropriate for the long travel behind the bamboo dressing screen.
you originally disapproved of his idea to visit the village independently, frightened of the different scenarios plaguing your mind of his demise in your absence. he implored you to think twice, grasping at straws for you to trust him. he forbids to be casted aside and dawdle as you sweat blood to create a feasible income to support a home for two under the fickle inazuman weather.
guilt festered his conscience whenever you walked through the front door hollow-eyed and limping, he was adamant there must be at least one assignment he can fulfill in return for your generosity. he pestered you for days on end to assign him a chore or errand to lighten your daily agenda. and as his luck would have it, he flourished in neither farming nor housework. his green-thumb was… amateur at best, to place it kindly, and his cooking skills were a topic you would rather not touch.
it was dense of you to not realize it sooner. his talents belong elsewhere, he possessed an incredible sense of direction, hence, he could deliver the ordered produce midday and return home before sundown. you would be the fool of fools to overlook such a great detail.
“wanderer!” you wave your hand and call from the window. it still feels strange to utter on the tongue. a man born with no name to carry was unimaginable to reckon. withal, you pried no further, perhaps it was not even for you to know.
“hm?” he turns around at the sound of your sweet voice singing his name. he tilts his head. has he done something wrong? he whispers a silent prayer that he did not, he would hate nothing more than to disappoint you. he wanted your pretty face to light up in pride at him, not frown.
“be careful and return home quickly, alright? i don't want you to be late for dinner!” you send off with a grin. cheeks turned flush, he nodded and followed the dirt path to complete his duties for the day. the sooner he finishes his deliveries, the sooner he can come back to you, he thought.
and so, the waiting game commence;
sixty minutes…
sixty minutes, thirty minutes…
a hundred and twenty minutes…
a hundred and fifty minutes…
a hundred and eighty minutes… have passed and he was nowhere to be seen. a foreboding tingle of dread settles in the pit of your stomach. you shake your head. no, he is fine. he must have perused through the many food stalls in the village… yes, that must be it. no, it has to be it.
you reach for a broom and proceed to sweep to keep your mind occupied from the hypotheticals. sometime or the other, you deviate and tidy your cabinet stand in the living area. your eyes brighten when it falls on the open drawer crammed with trinkets he gifted you over the course of the months. he never shared why he did so, merely continuing on tight-lipped.
it is plain as day, really. if it shimmers and glitters under the light or makes him think of you, it is guaranteed to make its way home with him; ranging from fallen treasure hunter coins and handcrafted accessories to washed up seashells or sango pearls and an array of local flowers. it was verging on a routine, an exchange you can anticipate when he arrived home.
speaking of, where is he? you purse your lips and shut the drawer.
tap.
tap.
tap.
your foot raps against the wooden floor panels, your gaze pivots from the dirt path across from where you were perched to the ceaseless ticking of the wall clock. you sit on the bench — a gift katsuragi graciously built as a means to express his great appreciation for you — situated on your porch.
a capful of gentle wind makes its way. you draw your shawl close and wrap your arms to stay warm. where is he? you sigh, fiddling with your bracelet to quell the intensifying prickles of concern bearing down on your shoulders.
the sky progressively bleeds into a somber expanse. despite what had been aforementioned about the land you inhabited and the benevolent critters that prowl the terrain, you harken back to advising him it was best to take heed and move when there was light.
albeit not out of the ordinary for him to arrive later than promised, he was certainly testing your patience. did something happen on the journey back? you pick at your nails. it would not hurt to follow after him, no?
you stand to dress in better suit clothes when a twig snaps in the distance and draws your attention. you whip your head towards its direction and gasp. you rest a hand over your mouth in horror of what beholds up ahead.
wanderer looms disheveled and wounded. you take a gander and instantly spot his injuries. you wince. he must have sprained his ankle considering he appears to be favoring one foot over the other; bruises soil his once unblemished skin; and if you squint, you would find tiny cuts on his hairline and cheek.
his clothes tousled, begrimed like he rolled in mud prior to meeting you and the veil he normally drapes over the crown of his head now lost.
anger cannot begin to cover the flurry of emotions stirring inside of you. the question of “what happened?” runs through again and again and again, as you waltz to aid him.
he stands frail, presumably exerting his utmost efforts to maintain standing on his two feet. you were frightened out of your wits the most minute actions would worsen his state, inadvertently treating him equally to a porcelain doll.
“who did this to you?” he hears you whisper, though, it comes across a hiss instead.
while he was beside himself with joy to see how deeply you cared for him, it was fleeting by a strong wave of embarrassment enveloping his body. what a pathetic creature he is, a faint voice inside the recesses of his head sneers, it was a task even the dunces of men could handle and yet he struggles…
his fist tightens.
it would be no shock to him if you come to terms with the reality of his incompetency, of his shortcomings; if you request for a ferry to send him back to the pavilion; if you toss him aside like he was a nuisance, a pest, a thorn on your side.
tears line his lower lashes, he stares upward to hinder a single droplet from cascading down his cheeks. no. his mouth goes dry. he refuses to give you one more reason to abandon him. he needs to be strong.
“wanderer… who did this to you?”
he keeps his head in position, inclined to preserve the scraps of his dignity. nevertheless, you resume to pressure him for a response. but how? he quietly ponders to himself, how does he relay his unwanted encounter with a disgruntled admirer of yours? how should he face you and not feel humiliated by the end? won’t you be ashamed? it was too mortifying to utter the shameful truth that he was too helpless to protect himself. he was scared, he did not want to tarnish your perception of him.
“i-it doesn’t matter.” he tries to change the topic, presenting the empty — also damaged — basket pack in his head and showing off that he delivered everything you asked. he did good, right? tell him he did good. please. please tell him he did good.
without another word, you cautiously guide him inside the quaint house and he treads along step by step. he moves away from you to place the withered basket near the entrance. he winces. it was more strenuous than he expected due to his wounds.
“it may not be to you, but it does matter to me,” you grumble; voice so soft, he strained himself to hear it. “who did this to you? please tell me. surely, you don’t expect me to brush it off?”
no answer.
tight-lipped, his gaze now on the floor. although he cannot see your expression, he can feel you frown at his unwillingness to talk. once you are a good distance away, he takes a glance in your direction and finds you crouching in front of a cabinet stand with your back turned to him.
it was a momentary delay; next thing he knew, he was staring at you, lips forming a small ‘o,’ as you instructed him to wash up and change into a fresh set of clothes before you tended to the cuts and bruises littered on his body.
you could not suspend your disbelief. yes, he’s an eccentric fellow, you inwardly consider, however, it came off endearing to most. from children to the elderly, they adore him all the same. he was a kind man with a sensitive soul and it was difficult to believe any individual would want to hurt him.
footsteps shuffle against the floor and he sinks down on the vacant space beside you. he lies in wait; he was already on thin ice, he would rather not worsen it by saying the wrong thing. though he may not know a lot about the world, he did know he detests the silent treatment. and so, he sits patiently for you to begin treating his injuries.
you furrow your brows. nine times out of ten, a person would either flinch or hiss from pain. he remains unbothered.
did he not feel it?
the still air brews and breathes down his neck. are you angry with him? sick of him? he needs to know but you refuse to speak after he snubbed you earlier. fresh tears line his eyes again; he looks up and prevents any stray dews from streaking his cheeks. no, he’s better than that.
“are you upset with me?” he says in hushed tones, while you meticulously yet lightly dab the cloth soaked disinfectant on his cuts. his doe-like eyes bore into you, stalking your every movement. would it be wrong of him to confess he used the opportunity to admire your face?
you inspect other sections of his body to confirm if there was anything you missed. and you did; your gaze tumbles to his closed fist. you peer at him and he blinks slowly then unfurls his hand. a crumbled runt of a dendrobium flower. your shoulders turn slack. he must have used a hefty amount of his savings to get this.
“no, i'm not upset. never…” you pause and shake your head. “i can never be upset with you. why would you think that?”
he swallows a harsh gulp of air. “i'm a burden to you.” and closes his eyes, as if it causes him afflictions to sound every syllable. “i'm too weak to protect myself… might be too weak to even protect you.”
docile.
soft-spoken.
meek.
these are words frequently used to portray him and he loathes it. he did not want to be perceived as either one of the three. as far as he was concerned, it was an aureate show to call him frail. his jaw clenches. spineless. it would not be too long until you realize he was of no use to you. you would see he was nothing but trouble and you demand he leaves.
he would be back at the pavilion.
he would be all alone again.
“i don't care, i don't mind taking care of you.” your voice brings him out of the depths of his mind. he flinches at the feeling of your hand gently cupping his cheek, casting him to look at you. his lips part in awe. how can you stare at him free of judgment? do you not pity him? deem him to be beneath you because of his feeble nature?
“after this, i want you to rest and take the day off tomorrow, alright?” you beam and ruffle his hair. “i don't want my favorite delivery boy straining himself.” his heart skips a beat. his surroundings wane inch by inch, the longer he continues to gawk at you.
you squeeze his forearm to gather a reply. he nods and smiles, bearing resemblance to an overzealous pup trying to please his owner. it almost immediately disappears when you leave his side. he pouts, missing your warmth. the minute he was alone, his hand slid to where you held his face. the sensation in his chest grows warmer. he did not know what to make of it, he did not know what it meant.
he was sitting on the fence, unsure if he was allowed to feel this way about you; if he was good enough to be allowed to feel this way about you. either way, he welcomes it and relishes in it regardless.