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The walk from the Knights of Headquarters to his front door had never felt longer. Each step seemed to weigh a hundred pounds, the day's frustrations—endless paperwork, intransigent nobles, logistical nightmares—clinging to his cloak like a physical burden. Varka pushed the door open, the cheerful creak of the hinges a stark contrast to the sigh that escaped him.
The scent of pine and freshly brewed tea washed over him, and the dim, warm light of the living room was a balm to his weary eyes. And there he was.
Wanderer was curled in the corner of the sofa, a book resting face-down on his chest as if he’d just dozed off waiting. At the sound of the door, his eyes—sharp and knowing—flicked open, immediately taking in Varka’s slumped shoulders, the tired line of his mouth.
No effusive greeting, no dramatic exclamation. A simple, familiar understanding passed between them.
Varka didn’t even bother with his boots beyond kicking them off haphazardly. He crossed the room in three strides and simply… folded. He sank onto the sofa, his body turning almost of its own volition, until his head came to rest heavily, trustingly, on Wanderer’s lap. A deep, bone-weary exhale shuddered out of him as he closed his eyes.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, cool, deft fingers slid into his wild, wind-tousled hair. They traced the tense line of his brow, smoothing it away, before beginning to work in slow, firm circles at his temples.
“They ran you ragged again,” Wanderer stated, his voice a low murmur that vibrated pleasantly beneath Varka’s ear. It wasn’t a question.
“Hnngh. More like buried me in a mountain of their own making,” Varka grumbled, but the edge was already softening, melting under the precise pressure of those fingers. “Those papers need to be burned”
Wanderer hummed, a non-committal sound that held a world of sympathy. His thumbs pressed along the tight cords at the back of Varka’s neck, unknotting the day’s stubborn grip. He carded his fingers through blond hair, his touch alternating between firm pressure and soothing strokes. The scent of him—clean linen and the faint, sharp ozone of his innate power—wrapped around Varka more securely than any blanket.
The quiet was not empty. It was filled with the rhythm of their breathing, the faint crackle of the hearth, the gentle scrape of fingernails against Varka’s scalp. Every bit of lingering tension, every stubborn thought of reports and duties, began to loosen its hold and drift away, carried off by the tide of his beloved’s care.
“Idiot,” Wanderer whispered, but the words were feather-light, fond. He leaned down, his lips brushing against Varka’s forehead in a kiss as gentle as a dandelion seed on the wind.
A slow, genuine smile spread across Varka’s face for the first time that day. He nuzzled deeper into the warmth of Wanderer’s lap, his arm coming up to wrap loosely around the other’s waist.
“Your wonderful, lovely idiot,” Varka sighed, his voice thick with encroaching sleep and profound gratitude. Here, in this sanctuary they had built, with the steadfast weight of his heart resting beneath his cheek, the long day finally, truly, came to an end.
Wanderer held himself perfectly still, a living statue in the dim light. The only movement was the slow, deliberate sweep of his fingers through Varka’s thick, blond hair. The great Knight of Boreas, the legendary wolf of the North, the man who could roar laughter that shook rafters and whose presence commanded entire rooms… was reduced to a warm, heavy weight in his lap, snoring softly with the unguarded vulnerability of a child.
A quiet, internal scoff echoed in Wanderer’s mind, but it held no bite.
Look at you. A mountain of a man brought low by parchment and politicking. How utterly ridiculous.
Yet, his fingers never ceased their soothing motion. He traced the shell of Varka’s ear, the strong line of his jaw now slack with sleep. There was a strange, fierce pride in this—in being the only one who saw this side of him. The world saw the boisterous general, the unwavering pillar. Only Wanderer saw the pillar sigh and lean, trusted him enough to bear the full, unburdened weight.
‘You trust so easily… what a foolish man,’ he thought, his gaze tracing the faint laugh lines, the scars earned in battles long before they’d met. ‘You put your head in the lap of a weapon, and sleep as if it’s the safest place in Teyvat.’
The irony was not lost on him. These hands, crafted for destruction and idle cruelty, were now engaged in an act of pure, tender maintenance. They were holding a hero together. The thought was absurd, almost offensive to his long-cultivated cynicism, but it was also an undeniable truth he had come to… not cherish, perhaps, but to accept as his own.
His lover’s hair was soft, sun-bleached and storm-gray woven together. Wanderer remembered its scent after a long ride—of wind, sunshine, and horse—and the cleaner, soapy scent of it now after a wash. He preferred it clean. It meant Varka was home, truly home, and not about to ride off again.
A deep, rumbling breath escaped Varka, and he shifted slightly, his brow furrowing for a second before Wanderer’s thumb instinctively smoothed it flat again. The furrow disappeared, replaced by deeper peace.
‘So fragile,’ the thought came, unbidden and startling in its clarity. Not physically, of course. The man was built like a fortress. But this trust, this quiet surrender… it was a fragility Varka offered to no one else. And Wanderer, who had shattered so many things in his long existence, found his sole, desperate purpose in protecting this one, precious, breakable thing.
He let his palm rest, finally still, over Varka’s heart. He could feel the steady, powerful rhythm of it through the fabric of his shirt. A life force so vibrant, so stubbornly alive, it seemed to beat back the lingering cold shadows in Wanderer’s own soul just by proximity.
The cynic in him wanted to mock the sentimentality of it all. The creature of wrath wanted to rage at the unfairness of finding such peace only after centuries of despair. But the man—the man he was, here and now, with this weight on his thighs and this quiet in the room—felt only a profound, possessive calm.
‘Sleep,’ he commanded silently, his fingers resuming their gentle journey through Varka’s hair. ‘Rest your heroic heart. I’ll be here when you wake. I’ll always be here to bear your weight.’
And for once, his thoughts held no past regrets, no future schemes. There was only the present: the fire’s warmth, the steady breath against his leg, and the silent, steadfast vow that thrummed in time with the heartbeat beneath his hand. This was his. And he would let nothing, not even the ghosts of his own past, disturb it.
The dream was a gentle, sun-dappled thing. Varka was weightless, suspended in a warmth that had no source and yet was everywhere. Before him, Wanderer smiled—a true, unguarded smile that lit his eyes with a softness the world never saw.
He was singing something, a lilting, nostalgic tune from Inazuma, the words floating just beyond Varka's comprehension, but the feeling was clear: safety, devotion, a love so deep it felt like coming home. Varka felt hands smoothing his hair, cupping his face.
He was being tended to, cherished, spoiled in a way that made his dream-self think, with perfect clarity, ‘This must be what heaven is.’
Varka was aware of nothing but the cradle of Wanderer’s thighs and the celestial touch of his fingers working magic on his scalp. Each stroke unraveled a knot of worry, each press of a thumb against his temple released a sigh he hadn’t known he was holding.
But more than the physical relief, it was the vision above him that stole his breath and stilled his racing mind.
Wanderer was looking down at him, and in this dream-bright space, his beauty was not just a fact but an experience. The usual sharpness of his gaze was molten into something tender and warm. Sunlight—though there was no discernible source—dusted the elegant line of his jaw, caught in the dark fringe of his lashes. His lips, so often pressed into a line of disdain or mockery, were curved in the faintest, most peaceful of smiles, reserved solely for this, for him.
Varka’s thoughts, usually a busy map of duties, strategies, and memories, went quiet. There was no room for anything else. Not the weight of his title, not the echo of past battles. There was only this: the exquisite sight of his beloved, the cool silk of his clothes against Varka’s cheek, the rhythmic, loving attention of his hands.
A wave of pure, adoring affection, too vast to be contained, swelled in Varka’s chest. The desire to touch, to connect, became an undeniable pull.
With a slow, deliberate movement, he lifted a hand from where it rested on his own stomach. He didn’t reach for Wanderer’s hand, but instead let his fingers gently trace the air beside his lover’s cheek before curling them, a soft request, into the fabric at the front of Wanderer’s robe.
He gave a tender, insistent tug downwards.
Wanderer’s hands stilled for a heartbeat. His smile deepened, understanding flickering in his eyes—not surprise, but a pleased recognition. He didn’t resist. He allowed himself to be guided down, bending like a willow in a gentle breeze.
The distance closed. The world narrowed to the space between their lips.
Varka met him halfway, lifting his head just slightly from Wanderer’s lap. The kiss was not hungry or desperate, but a slow, deep sealing of the moment. It tasted of shared quiet and sunlight. Wanderer’s lips were soft, and as they moved against his own, Varka felt the unmistakable curve of a smile into the kiss—a private, joyous thing that sent a thrill of pure happiness straight to Varka’s soul.
For a long, suspended moment, there was only the kiss—the sweet pressure, the shared breath, the perfect alignment of their mouths speaking a language more profound than words.
When they finally parted, it was by a whisper. Wanderer’s eyes, now close enough for Varka to see every shade of violet within them, held a fond, luminous glow. He didn’t speak. He simply let his forehead rest against Varka’s for a second, a silent communion, before he straightened up again.
His hands, which had come to rest on Varka’s shoulders, now resumed their sacred work. The fingers slid back into Varka’s hair, the massage continuing as if the kiss had been merely a punctuation—a beautiful, necessary comma in the long, gentle sentence of their care.
Varka let his head sink back into the perfect support of Wanderer’s lap, his eyes fluttering shut. The image of Wanderer smiling into their kiss was now etched onto the back of his eyelids, brighter than any dream-sun. A profound, wordless gratitude flooded him, warmer than any blanket.
He was here. He was loved. And in this dream, as in the waking world he was drifting back toward, that was the only truth that mattered.
He stirred, the edges of the dream fraying as consciousness seeped in. The warmth remained, but it was more specific now. The soft scent of their bedding, the familiar dip of their mattress. He was on his back, and the solid, comforting weight on his chest was unmistakable.
Blinking slowly in the dark room, Varke looked down. His own broad chest was bare—someone had changed him into his soft sleep pants. And there, curled against him like a sleek, contented cat, was Wanderer. His head rested just over Varka’s heartbeat, one arm draped possessively across his ribs, fingers splayed. He was asleep, his sharp features softened in slumber, his breathing a slow, even rhythm against Varka’s skin.
A slow, dazed smile spread across Varka’s face. The dream hadn't ended; it had just shifted form. The singing had faded into the quiet of the night, the ethereal caresses had solidified into this tangible, warm weight anchoring him to earth and to their shared bed.
He remembered the sofa, the head massage that had pulled him under. Wanderer must have moved him. The thought of his slender, proud lover manoeuvring his heavy, unconscious frame—probably with a great deal of muttered annoyance and meticulous care—filled Varka with a surge of tenderness so potent it ached.
Careful not to disturb him, Varka lifted a hand and let it come to rest in Wanderer’s dark hair, his fingers gently stroking the silky strands. The sigh that escaped him then was one of pure, unadulterated contentment.
Heaven wasn't a distant dream. It was right here. It was the stubborn, miraculous reality of this fierce, complicated person choosing to stay, to carry him to bed, to use him as a pillow. It was in the quiet trust of Wanderer’s sleep, a trust Varka knew was harder-won than any battlefield victory.
Varka closed his eyes again, letting the steady rise and fall of Wanderer’s breathing lull him back towards sleep. The last conscious thought he had was a silent promise, sent into the dark towards the man on his chest.
My heaven is you. And I will always be yours to return to.