Work Text:
The workday drifted by in its usual pleasant haze. Barbara from marketing had apparently left her husband over the weekend—something about an unnoticed haircut—but you'd only half-listened while nodding sympathetically over the break room coffee. Ronald's seven chihuahuas had fleas, and everyone was giving him a wide berth as he scratched absently at his arms, launching into yet another detailed story about his latest vet visit.
You felt a twinge of guilt at how little any of it touched you. These people were perfectly nice, genuinely kind even. Easy to chat with over coffee, always ready with a smile or a funny story. But your heart was somewhere else entirely, dwelling in worlds they couldn't see.
That's exactly why you'd chosen this job, after all: simple work, steady pay, no overtime, no drama you had to carry home. Not a fortune, but enough to buy you what really mattered: time. Glorious, unstructured time. Time for takeout dinners eaten straight from the container, cozy evenings at your PC, and long nights of beautiful escape.
And honestly? You loved your life just as it was.
You had time with friends, both the ones you could hug and the ones who existed in glowing pixels across the screen, their laughter filling your headset at midnight. Gaming sessions that stretched into dawn, deep thoughts shared over Discord, diving into lore that made your pulse quicken and your imagination soar. Stolen hours for writing, where the words flowed like magic and you forgot the world existed.
Your cat purring in your lap, warm and heavy with trust. Coffee steaming beside you in your favorite mug—the chipped one with his quote you loved. Lemonade sweating in the summer heat, leaving rings on your coaster that you never bothered to wipe up.
Perfect.
Well, almost perfect.
There was something, wasn't there? Something you couldn't quite name. A hollow space that all this contentment couldn't quite fill, like reaching for something just beyond your fingertips. But you brushed the thought away as you always did. This was good. This was enough. It had to be.
You paused outside the grocery store on your way home, drawn by a sudden craving. The automatic doors whooshed open welcomingly, and you wandered the familiar aisles with easy pleasure. Chips, the good kettle-cooked kind. Pretzels, salty and perfect. Dark chocolate that would meld on your tongue at 2 am. And—why not?—a bottle of wine with a label that looked pretty.
It was Friday night, after all. You deserved to indulge yourself a little.
The moment you stepped into your apartment, you let out a contented sigh that came from somewhere deep in your chest. Home. The word settled over you like a favorite blanket. The faint scent of fresh laundry wrapped around you like a welcome-home hug—you'd done a load this morning before work, and it had clearly finished its cycle.
Your space. Your sanctuary. Your little corner of the world where everything was exactly as you wanted it.
Friday night.
A smile tugged at your lips, genuine and unbidden, as you kicked off your boots and lined them up neatly by the door. Hung your coat on its designated hook. Dropped your bag in its usual spot. The ritual of it soothed something in you.
You unpacked your treasures in the kitchen, humming softly to yourself as you arranged chips and pretzels into the small blue and green bowls you'd picked up at a craft fair last year. The colors made you happy every time you used them. Such a simple thing, but simple things mattered.
You were halfway to your desk, bowls balanced carefully, when you stopped. Turned back.
The wine.
You smiled to yourself. It had been a long week—a good week, but long nonetheless. You definitely deserved a treat.
You grabbed the bottle, admiring the label again in better light, tucking it under your arm while you collected a wine glass and a water glass. Always water too, you'd learned that lesson. Balancing them carefully, you made your way to your room, your special space, already feeling the day's responsibilities sliding off your shoulders.
With a gentle nudge of your big toe—a trick you'd perfected over countless nights—you woke your PC from sleep. The familiar hum of it coming to life was like a greeting from an old friend. You set down your prizes on the desk you'd arranged just so, everything within reach, and switched on the ambient lighting.
Purple tonight, you decided, clicking through the options. A Weave night.
That familiar flutter of excitement bloomed in your chest, warm and sweet and yours. This feeling, this anticipation—it was something you'd learned to cherish, to protect. In a world that demanded so much, these moments were rebellion and refuge all at once.
You padded back to the kitchen with last night's dishes, rinsing them with care and setting them in the rack. Your cat wound between your ankles, purring, and you bent to scratch behind her ears. Before getting lost in thoughts and dreams, you decided to fill up her bowl, so she could enjoy an early dinner.
Back in your room, you clicked on your diffuser, scrolling through scents before settling on the blend you'd mixed yourself: cedar and sandalwood. What the fandom had collectively decided he smelled like, after all. You'd ordered the oils specifically, blended them in ratios suggested by someone who claimed to be an aromatherapy expert. It probably wasn't exact, but it was close enough to make your heart flutter.
Your smile deepened, softened into something almost tender, as you finally sank into your chair. It embraced you like it had been waiting all day. Your fingers flew across the keyboard, muscle memory entering your password while your eyes swept over your carefully curated space.
The small potted plants you'd arranged on the shelf, their leaves catching the purple glow. Your collection of dice, even though you rarely played tabletop anymore. The wine catching the light as you poured yourself a generous glass, the soft glug-glug of it somehow ceremonial. The screenshots and artwork printed and pinned to your cork board. The little trinkets that meant nothing to anyone but you.
This whole cozy sanctuary you'd built for yourself, piece by piece, detail by detail.
You took a sip of wine—surprisingly good—and felt the last tension leave your shoulders.
This is good, you reminded yourself, settling deeper into your chair as your screen flickered to life. This is enough. This is exactly what I want.
But even as you thought it, even as you smiled and clicked open the game that would transport you elsewhere, there was that whisper again. That small, persistent ache tucked beneath your contentment, like a secret you kept even from yourself.
The longing for something—someone—to make all this perfect contentment feel truly complete.
You pushed the thought away gently, kindly, and let yourself get lost once again in a longing that felt more real than it probably should.
Tonight, like every night, it would be enough.
It had to be.
There wasn't much happening tonight—most of the girls were busy. Real life pulling them away: actual partners to spend time with, social obligations to fulfill, responsibilities that couldn't be postponed. You felt a little pang of something—not quite loneliness, not quite envy—as you scrolled through the quiet Discord server.
You called each other spouses, had for a long time now, and the term fit better than most real relationships you'd seen. These women got you in ways no one in your offline life ever had.
Still, you checked in. Dropped heart emojis on their status updates, shared memes you knew would make them laugh later, reblogged their latest fics and artwork with enthusiastic tags. The little rituals of friendship that said I see you, I'm here, even when we're apart.
Then you opened AO3, that familiar interface loading like a portal to somewhere better, and scrolled through your subscriptions for newly updated chapters.
Oh, yes. Three new updates. Tonight was looking up.
Leaning back in your chair with a satisfied smile, you pulled up your favorite delivery app and ordered dinner: yoza, miso soup, yakitori noodles with tofu. Your usual order, the one you didn't even have to think about anymore. Confirmed. Thirty minutes.
Perfect.
You settled in with your wine, clicking on the first fic, and began reading with the focus of someone being paid for it. Commenting as you went, of course—proper, thoughtful comments because these authors deserved it, because they gave you these gifts for free, because this community ran on love and validation and you'd be damned if you didn't contribute your share.
"The way you write his dialogue is perfect—I can HEAR him saying this"
"I SCREAMED at this part, my cat is judging me"
"The yearning??? THE YEARNING??? I'm not okay"
These people were your friends, after all. This mattered. This was real, even if no one at work would understand.
You were deep into chapter two, fully transported, when the doorbell rang.
The sound yanked you back to reality just as your phone buzzed. You blinked at the screen, still half in the Sword Coast, and saw your brother's name.
Don't forget - family dinner tomorrow at 6. Mom's making your favorite. BE THERE.
Oh no.
Oh no.
Groaning—a full, theatrical groan that your cat didn't even bother to acknowledge—you hauled yourself out of your chair and shuffled to the door. The delivery guy stood there looking tired and patient, and you managed a genuine smile as you took the bag.
"Thank you so much," you said, meaning it, adding a generous tip because he was out here working while you were living your best hermit life.
"Have a good night," he replied, already turning away.
You closed the door and slumped back into your chair, staring at your phone like it had personally betrayed you.
Right. Family dinner. On a Saturday.
You'd forgotten. Conveniently forgotten, if you were being honest with yourself. You'd been planning a weekend of blissful relaxation and complete escapism—no pants, no schedule, no obligations. Just you, your screen, and approximately forty-eight hours of uninterrupted gaming and reading.
There was a wizard to romance, after all. A very important, very fictional wizard who needed your attention far more than your relatives needed you to show up and explain for the hundredth time what exactly you did at your "computer job."
You looked at the message again. Mom's making your favorite.
The guilt crept in, soft and insistent. You loved your family. You did. They were good people. But they existed in a different world than you did—one where Friday nights meant going out, where fulfillment looked like promotions and marriages and dinner parties, where spending the weekend alone sounded like punishment rather than paradise.
They worried about you, you knew. Gently. Kindly. Your mom's careful questions about whether you were "getting out enough," your brother's suggestions that he could "set you up with someone from his gym."
They meant well.
But they didn't understand that you were happy. That this life you'd built—quiet, simple, full of imaginary worlds and online friends and fictional men who said exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment—wasn't settling. It was choosing.
Wasn't it?
You shook off the thought and opened the takeout bag, the warm, savory scent of miso and ginger immediately improving your mood. Set out your food with the same care you'd used for your snacks earlier—the gyoza arranged prettily on a plate, the soup in your favorite bowl, chopsticks positioned just so.
If you had to sacrifice Saturday evening, at least you had tonight. And tomorrow morning. And tomorrow afternoon until you absolutely had to shower and pretend to be a normal, well-adjusted human being.
You took a long sip of wine, clicked back to your fic, and let yourself sink into the story again.
The wizard was in the middle of explaining some complicated magical theory, his voice (which you could hear perfectly in your head, thank you very much) warm with enthusiasm and just a little bit pretentious in that endearing way of his.
Your shoulders relaxed. Your smile returned.
Tomorrow you'd be dutiful. Tonight, you'd be free.
And really, wasn't that balance what contentment looked like?
(The small voice that whispered but what if you didn't have to choose? was getting easier to ignore.)
You ate in peace, savoring each bite while your eyes stayed glued to the screen, scrolling through prose that made your heart ache in the best way. The empty dishes got shoved to the side of your desk—you'd deal with them later, or tomorrow, or whenever. Right now, there were more important things.
By the time you'd finished eating, you'd read through all the updates, and your comments sat ready in their little text boxes. Just one quick review to make sure they were good enough, that you hadn't left any embarrassing typos that would haunt you at 3 AM.
"I love how you captured his vulnerability here" — good.
"This fic is living in my head rent-free" — perfect.
"Please tell me there's more coming, I'm BEGGING" — sent.
Satisfied, you posted them all and felt that little glow of contributing to the community, of supporting the people who made this whole thing possible.
One big stretch—arms over your head, spine arching, everything popping in that satisfying way—before you settled back down, folding your legs up onto your chair in your favorite pretzel position. The one that would definitely give you problems when you were older, but right now felt absolutely perfect.
Your cat, sensing the settling, immediately launched herself into your lap with the confidence of a creature who knew she was welcome. Always welcome.
"There's my girl," you murmured, gently scratching behind her ears, finding that perfect spot that made her close her eyes in bliss. The low hum of her purrs vibrated against your thighs, a soothing rhythm that made everything feel right with the world.
This. This was contentment. This moment, with your cat warm in your lap, your wine within reach, your space glowing purple around you, and an entire evening of possibility stretching ahead.
You took a breath, let it out slowly, and reached for your mouse.
Time to start the game.
A relieved sigh—nearly left your throat, just nearly, catching there like something sacred you didn't want to disturb—as you opened your last saved file. The loading screen gave way to familiar digital scenery, and there it was: your camp in the Shadow Cursed Lands, that perfectly melancholy setting with its twisted trees and eternal gloom.
You smiled, something soft and private crossing your face as you panned the camera around, taking in your carefully arranged camp. Your character stood near the fire, and there, just beyond, was his tent.
The question now—the important question, the one that required genuine thought—was what to dress him in for what would undoubtedly be the first Weave scene of the night.
You took a sip of wine, considering. Your cat purred louder, kneading your thigh gently.
Tonight felt like a camp clothes night. Casual, intimate. The kind of scene where he'd be relaxed, maybe a little wine-soft himself, ready to talk about magic and mortality and all those beautiful, complicated things he carried.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, anticipation building like the moment before opening a gift you'd been waiting for.
"Okay," you whispered to no one, to everyone, to him. "Let's see what kind of trouble we can get into tonight."
And despite the family dinner looming tomorrow, despite the small persistent ache tucked beneath your contentment, despite everything—right now, in this moment, you were exactly where you wanted to be.
Almost.
You lose yourself in it—in them, in him. The game, its story, the world you know so much about and somehow not nearly enough. There's always another detail to discover, another line of dialogue that hits differently this time, another angle to that expression you've seen a hundred times before.
You giggle at the same stupid jokes, mouth the words along with the same scenes you've played through countless times by now.
It doesn't matter. It never matters.
Every time feels like the first time in some small, precious way—that flutter when he appears on screen, that catch in your breath when he says something particularly clever or vulnerable or him. You know what's coming, and yet your heart still speeds up. You've read the meta, analyzed the dialogue trees, scrolled through hours of discourse about his character arcs.
And still, still, when he smiles that particular smile, something in your chest goes warm and soft.
One of the spouses checks in on Discord around midnight, timezones are not friends after all. The ping pulls you partially back to reality.
"Anyone alive? I'm procrastinating SO HARD on this work thing"
You tab over, smiling as you type back, your cat adjusting grumpily in your lap at the shift in position.
"I'm here! Deep in Act 2, you know how it is"
"SAY NO MORE. Which scene?"
"Take a wild guess lol"
"ICONIC. God I wish that was me"
You chat for a bit, the easy back-and-forth of people who speak the same language, who don't need explanations or justifications. She sends you a meme. You send back an emoji string that perfectly encapsulates your current emotional state. She gets it immediately.
But the week is pulling its weight, making your eyes heavy and your thoughts slow. The wine isn't helping, that pleasant warmth has turned into a gentle insistence that horizontal sounds really good right about now.
You find yourself yawning, jaw cracking with it, unable to stop.
"Okay I'm dying, I gotta sleep"
"GO REST. Dream of wizards."
"Always do"
"Lucky bitch. Love you!"
"Love you too"
You close Discord with a smile still on your face, that warm feeling of being known settling around you like a blanket.
One last thing before bed.
You navigate back to your game, to your camp, to him standing there in the firelight. One last kiss for the night—just a quick one, the familiar dialogue option you've chosen so many times you could recite it in your sleep. The animation plays out, soft and sweet and perfect, and a grin tugs at your lips, helpless and genuine.
"Good night," you whisper to the screen, feeling only slightly ridiculous and not caring at all.
You save carefully—wouldn't want to lose progress—and begin the shutdown ritual. Ambient lights off, clicking from purple back to darkness. Diffuser off, the cedar-sandalwood scent already fading. PC off, the familiar hum dying down to silence.
You pad to the kitchen, shoving the rest of dinner into the fridge without bothering to transfer it to proper containers—tomorrow's problem. Brush your teeth in the bathroom, wash your face, do all the things responsible adults do, even when they've spent the evening romancing fictional wizards.
Your bed welcomes you like an old friend, cool sheets and familiar pillows and the particular comfort of your own space. You burrow in, pulling the covers up to your chin, and let out one final, contented sigh.
The day falls away. Work, Barbara's drama, Ronald's itchy chihuahuas, even tomorrow's family dinner—all of it distant and unimportant now.
You're asleep before your cat finishes her own nighttime routine, before she jumps up and curls into her spot on your extra cushion, a warm purring presence in the darkness.
The next morning, you wake with a slight headache pulsing gently behind your eyes. Just a little one. Well, not exactly a surprise, honestly: you'd had half a bottle of wine while gaming (wizard-kissing, your brain corrects automatically) last night, but barely any of the water you dutifully carried to your desk.
Deserved.
Your cat voices her strong disapproval when you shift in bed, disturbing her perfect arrangement. She gives you a look that clearly communicates her disappointment in your life choices before relocating with an indignant flick of her tail.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," you mutter, standing up and stretching. Your whole neck is stiff, protesting immediately, just as anticipated after a whole night of shrimping in front of your PC. You roll your shoulders, hearing things pop that probably shouldn't, and shuffle towards the kitchen.
The coffee maker becomes your salvation. You switch it on, sending a silent thank-you to your past self for having the foresight to reload it yesterday morning. Small mercies.
You stand there, staring at the black liquid dripping slowly into the pot, your mind pleasantly blank. The sound is meditative, soothing. Half a day of blessed rotting before you have to face your family.
The thought sits heavy in your chest.
You know dinner will be nice once you get there. You always enjoy it, actually. You'll eat good food, laugh at your brother's terrible jokes, let your mom fuss over you a little, hug your dad. You'll have a genuinely great time because you love these people, you do.
But the idea of leaving all of this behind—your peace, the quiet, the lovely spouses and friends waiting in your Discord, the wizard waiting in your game—to return to a world of expectations and gentle questions and concerned looks... it makes you sigh, long and weary.
The coffee finishes brewing and you pour yourself a very generous cup, adding just enough milk to make it drinkable. You set a timer on your phone, just to be sure, because time has a way of disappearing when you're comfortable, and pad back to your sanctuary.
Your desk welcomes you back. You settle in, coffee warming your hands, and open Tumblr to answer some tag games. Reblog a few posts. Reply to comments on your own reblogs with the kind of enthusiasm that would seem unhinged to anyone who doesn't get it.
Check in on the spouses. A few are awake now, scattered across time zones.
Time flies the way it only does when you're doing exactly what you want. You've barely loaded the game, barely gotten settled back into your camp, when the timer starts its insistent beeping.
Your cat protests loudly when she has to vacate your lap, yowling her displeasure like you've committed a personal betrayal. You apologize profusely, scratching her head, but she's having none of it.
The shower is nice, at least. Refreshing. Hot water beating down on your stiff neck, steam clearing your head. You feel less like a hermit crab and more like an actual person afterward. Presentable, even.
The laundry has dried, and you dress yourself in something comfortable but nice enough that your mom won't get That Look. Dark jeans that fit well, a soft sweater that's flattering but not trying too hard. The uniform of someone who has their life together, or at least wants people to think so.
You refill your cat's bowl, then spoil her with some tuna as an apology for your abandonment. She forgives you immediately, as you knew she would, her face buried in her dish.
The drive over is familiar, almost automatic. Your favorite spot in front of their building is empty and you park the car with the ease of someone who's done this a hundred times. You greet the doorman with a smile, the same older gentleman who's been there for years.
"Evening," he says warmly. "Family dinner?"
"You know it."
"Have a good time."
You take the lift up, pressing the button for the eighth floor. The doors close with a gentle thunk, and the low rumble of the machine vibrates through your whole body, humming in your core.
You close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself just be in this small pocket of solitude.
And suddenly, without warning, you're overwhelmed by nausea.
It hits you like a wave, but not from the wine, not from the movement of the elevator. Something else. Something deeper and more complicated, twisting in your stomach like anxiety but not quite that either.
You lean forward to steady yourself against the elevator wall, eyes scrunched closed, trying to breathe away the nausea that's churning in your stomach. Just need a moment. Just need to get your bearings before—
Your hand doesn't find the wall.
Instead, you tumble forward, nothing to catch you, and land hard on your knees with a painful jolt that rattles through your entire body.
"Ow—fuck—"
Your eyes burst open in surprise, shock overriding the pain for a moment as your brain struggles to process what it's seeing. And what it's not seeing.
You're kneeling on cobblestone. Rough, uneven cobblestone that's digging into your knees through your jeans. In bright daylight—actual sunlight warming your back, making you squint after the dim elevator lighting.
Not the clean metal floor of an elevator.
Not the hallway outside your parents' apartment.
Cobblestone.
Your hands are braced against the rough stone, your nice jeans probably scuffed, your heart suddenly hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape.
What the hell just happened?
You stay frozen there for a moment, on your hands and knees, unable to move, unable to think. This isn't—this doesn't—
The sunlight is real. You can feel it. Warm and bright and completely impossible because you were just in an elevator, you were just—
Slowly, shakily, you lift your head.
And your breath stops entirely.
You're in a medieval street. Cobblestones stretching out in every direction, buildings rising around you with wooden beams and plaster walls and architectural details that are far too familiar. People moving in your peripheral vision—you can hear voices, footsteps, the distant sound of a blacksmith's hammer.
No.
No.
This isn't possible. This isn't real.
You know this place.
You know this place because you've learned the maps, saw the drawings, read the lore— wait, is that a Walking Statue? That means you are—
Your hands are shaking. Your whole body is shaking.
What the hell just happened?
People are staring at you as they walk by, wearing skirts and tafts and robes and — oh fuck, an actual guard in an armor. An armor! Full metal armor, swords. Wizards in freaking robes.
You suddenly realize you are no longer nauseous, just confused. Incredibly, mindblowingly confused.
This is Waterdeep, you are certain of it. You can see the Wandering Statues and are 90% sure that this is the Blackstaff Tower you can see in the distance if you raise your gaze.
"Forgive me, my friend, but I simply must ask—are you alright? One couldn't help but notice a certain, ah, disquietude about your person."
Your body goes taut. Every muscle locking up at once.
You know this voice.
You know this voice. You know the tone, the cadence, the particular way of expressing concern with just enough eloquence to be charming. The slight formality that somehow never sounds pretentious, just... educated. Warm.
You know it in your heart, have heard it in your headphones and through your speakers countless times. Your brain is racing to catch up, scrambling for explanations: concussion, psychotic break, extremely vivid dream, carbon monoxide poisoning in your apartment—
But your body already knows the truth.
Still, you need to see. You need to look.
You take a deep breath that shudders in your chest and slowly—so slowly, like you're afraid of what you'll find—look up.
The sunlight is brilliant, almost blinding, and he's standing there perfectly framed by it. The sun streams behind him like something out of a Renaissance painting, gilding the edges of his hair in gold. It would be absurdly romantic if you weren't currently having what might be a complete mental breakdown.
He's wearing deep purple robes—purple, of course it's purple—the fabric rich and clearly expensive, with elegant pattern stitches in gold thread along the edges. The kind of intricate embroidery you've zoomed in on during gameplay, appreciating the artistry, never imagining you'd see the actual weave of the fabric, the way the threads catch the light.
Dark brown eyes look down at you with genuine concern. Warm eyes. Intelligent eyes. Eyes you've stared into through a screen more times than you could count, eyes you've seen crinkle with laughter and darken with intensity and soften with vulnerability.
There's a slight smile on his lips. It's soft, it's kind and a little worried. Lips that form words you've memorized, that you watched animate through dialogue trees, that you clicked an option to kiss just last night before logging off.
His hand extends toward you, elegant and sure. Rings glint on his fingers, you can see the details of them, the actual metalwork, not just pixels approximating jewelry. An offer of help. Of steadiness.
It's him.
It's him.
Not a voice actor behind a microphone. Not lines of code and rendered graphics. Not your imagination filling in the gaps.
Gale Dekarios is standing in front of you. Real. Solid. Three-dimensional and close enough to touch.
And you can smell cedar and sandalwood, exactly like your diffuser, except this is real, coming from him, not from essential oils you ordered off the internet based on fan theories.
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out except a sound that might charitably be called a squeak.
This isn't happening. This can't be happening.
His smile shifts slightly, concern deepening. "Perhaps a touch of assistance?" He gestures with his extended hand, patient. "The cobblestones can be rather unforgiving, I'm afraid."
He's talking to you. Real words, in real time, not dialogue you've triggered. His voice has texture to it—you can hear the slight rasp, the warmth, the very real breath behind the words.
You're going to pass out.
Or scream.
Or possibly both.