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“Papa? Are you awake?”
The sight that greeted Lohen once his mind finally cooperated with wakefulness was one of the most beautiful things life could give, in Lohen's very biased opinion. His daughter’s eyes were bluer than any sky, flecked with red like little fireworks caught in her irises. Her hair, blonde and gloriously unruly in the morning light, framed a face that was steadily, progressively beaming. It reminded him of the exact expression a certain someone wore whenever Lohen did something beloved. Like breathing. Or simply existing nearby, apparently.
"Good morning, Della," he answered warmly, because even if she'd woken him up at (he peeked at the clock) six in the morning on a weekend, his well of fondness would still overflow just seeing his little girl first thing.
“Good morning, Papa,” Delara replied dutifully, eyes sparkling. “Are you awake now?”
Lips curving upward in automatic response, he said, “Yes, I am now. Thanks to you.”
Lohen pried one arm free of his husband’s octopus-like grip (not without effort, and not without a muffled noise of protest from the man whose clinginess persisted even in his unconscious state). He then poked his daughter on the tip of her nose, feather-light, earning himself a giggle bright enough to make the sun outside the still-drawn curtains jealous.
It was only then that he noticed how Delara was already dressed: her favorite coat, something warm yet light; ribbons in hand rather than in her hair yet; her sturdy little boots laced halfway and clearly done by herself, in a hurry. The exact outfit she wore when she intended to run through Mondstadt as though the wind itself had personally blessed her chaos.
(With the Anemo Archon’s sense of humor, it probably had.)
“You’re up early,” Lohen commented, eyebrow raising as he took in her appearance, the readiness, the barely contained energy radiating off a ten-year-old who’d clearly been awake for a while already plotting in excitement. “Did you forget to tell Papa you have plans today?”
Delara’s grin turned sheepish. It was a mirror image of how a certain Grand Master looked whenever Jean caught him dodging paperwork by getting comfortable in Lohen’s office instead. “Big Sis Klee and Big Sis Prune want to show me a new fish-blasting spot,” she admitted.
Lohen showed no reaction at all to that, not even a blink. He recognized the implications at once, just as every Mondstadt citizen did whenever Klee’s name and “spot” were spoken together. Fish-blasting. Of course it was. He made a quiet, internal note to ask Albedo, later and very casually, just how many of Cider Lake's fish populations had survived Klee's enthusiasm so far this year.
Delara continued on, unaware that she’d just added a new delightful task to Lohen’s mental checklist. “They said we have to go early, before Master Jean wakes up.”
A small pause, and there it was, that tiny glint in her eyes. The same flicker of mischief he himself wore right before becoming someone else’s problem.
"Also," she added, lowering her voice conspiratorially and leaning in like the curtains themselves might be listening, “Big Sis Prune said not to tell Dada.”
Lohen fought to keep his face straight. “Did she?”
Delara nodded, way too solemnly for someone who had put in ‘cause chaos’ in her own agenda today. “Because Master Jean will know if Dada knows.”
Ah. So that was why she hadn’t woken them the usual way, which was by launching herself onto the bed like a catapult. Especially on those mornings after she sneaked around downstairs at night eating too many sweets. The sweets Lohen hid for exactly this reason.
He stifled a laugh. A very reasonable concern, honestly. Though he suspected Prune had thought several steps further ahead than even that, given the way she operated.
Lohen glanced over his shoulder then to check on said ‘Dada’, and the sight nearly took his breath away all over again, the way it had for years now and somehow still managed to get him every single time. His husband’s face, slack with sleep; the laugh lines carved deep even at rest; that sculpted jaw; the cheekbones Lohen still wasn’t over after a decade of marriage; the tempting lips parted around a soft, even snore. Handsome. Ridiculously, unfairly handsome, in a way that should have stopped being unfair to Lohen’s heart years ago and simply never had.
He remembered Varka stumbling home well past midnight, considerably later than Lohen, who didn’t share the habit of personally emptying Diluc's Wine reserves. There’d been a small celebration at Angel’s Share; something about a successful expedition, a cleared-out monster den. Achievements that apparently warranted draining half the winery’s stock in one sitting. Lohen hadn’t cared enough to remember the specifics. He’d mostly gone to supervise, which was a very generous way of saying he’d come to make sure his husband flirted exclusively with him while three drinks deep and several volumes too loud.
Once it was time to tuck Delara in, he’d headed home first. Not, of course, before very thoroughly intimidating whoever was left (fortunate or unfortunately enough) with Varka at the tavern, making sure they know not to try any funny business when he wasn't there to juggle his knives when any one of them got too handsy with the boisterous Grand Master.
(He remembered fondly some of them sobered up so fast they must have given themselves a headache. Oh, how he loved to teach those new recruits this very valuable lesson and remind the old ones that Lohen’s reputation hadn’t diminished even the slightest.)
But all that was last night, and this was now. And at whatever hour Varka had finally stumbled into bed, the man currently dead asleep beside him had clearly paid for his fun. Varka had likely consumed enough alcohol to put a Lawachurl flat on its back, which meant he wasn't stirring before noon if he could help it. Which meant, in turn, that Delara's odds of a clean getaway were, conservatively, excellent.
Lohen turned back to his daughter. If only she knew Varka would spoil her rotten regardless of permission. Paperwork allergy be damned, her Dada would personally wade through a Dragonspine-sized mountain of documents if it meant earning Jean’s approval for one Saturday of supervised mayhem around any bodies of water Klee deemed ‘exciting’ enough to blow up.
“Really? But Papa gets to know?” he asked teasingly.
Delara gave him a dazzling smile. “Yes! ‘Cause Papa’s way better at keeping secrets than Dada!”
That was quite the understatement. “You make a compelling case,” he said with a grin.
“So? Can I please go, Papa?” She clasped her hands together, dramatic as anything, staring wide-eyed and pleadingly in a way she’d clearly practiced. “I promise to bring home lots of fish! We can make that grilled fish you like so much!”
Lohen’s mouth twitched with suppressed amusement once more. The little con artist. Grilled fish was her favorite, not his. Somewhere along the way, his daughter had figured out that framing her own wants as a gift to her father improved her success rate considerably.
A worrying development.
A proud one, admittedly.
Lohen shook his head a little before deciding to sit up properly, which proved challenging since Varka’s arm had drifted back around his waist and showed no intention of releasing him without negotiation.
“Come here,” he beckoned once he found himself successful in his quest for freedom. “Let Papa do your hair.”
Delara’s face lit up as she scrambled onto the bed, picking her way around Varka’s sleeping form with the exaggerated caution only a child raised by two overprotective knights would possess. The ‘careful’ effort lasted all of two seconds before she misjudged a step and planted a foot directly on her Dada’s stomach. That prompted a noise from Varka, something between a grunt and a wounded sigh. Though, miraculously, his eyes stayed shut.
Neither father nor daughter acknowledged it.
So much for stealth. Clearly, she still had some ways to go before she could call herself a proper knight.
(Not that Lohen would tell her that, not while she beamed at him, so proud of her effort, if just a heartbeat too late.)
As Delara settled onto his lap, Lohen got comfortable behind her. His fingers found her hair to start deftly threading through it with the same care he gave his weapons pre-mission. The color of it was entirely Varka’s, unmistakable. The perpetual bedhead? Also Varka’s. The ability to become everyone’s favorite person in a room within minutes of meeting them? Varka’s, through and through, passed down like an inheritance of the highest order. The tendency toward chaos, however? That was a shared trait, for sure. It was amplified rather than softened, much to the ongoing detriment of Mondstadt’s citizens.
Lohen smiled down at her. “So, do you want the braid or just pigtails today?”
“Braid with the ribbons, please!” Delara answered without hesitation. She held up the ribbons she’d been clutching all this while, offering them to him with both hands as if presenting a treasure.
Lohen accepted them with appropriate solemnity. “The special braid?” he asked. “The one that takes effort?"
Delara nodded, entirely too pleased with herself. "Yes. The one that makes me pretty."
Lohen’s fingers paused at that. “Della,” he said, voice turning earnest, “you’re always pretty, darling.”
Delara giggled, her head dipping in an unusual display of shyness. “Papa.”
“What? I’m right,” he said with theatrical indignation. “The ribbons just add a special touch to what’s already beautiful.”
Delara’s giggle bloomed even more. “But I still want that braid, Papa. Big Sis Klee and Big Sis Prune always compliment me when I wear it!”
Lohen sighed, the very picture of a man gravely burdened by his daughter’s vanity, though there was nothing but warmth behind it. “Fine. You always know exactly what to say, don't you?"
“I learned it from you!” She sent a winning grin over her shoulder at him, cheeky and so very himself indeed.
As Lohen worked on the braid, parting it into three careful sections and threading a ribbon through on the second round just as Lisa had once taught him for exactly this purpose, Delara launched into a full operational briefing for the day ahead. As far as Lohen could piece together between her enthusiastic tangents, the three of them intended to: locate fish, blast fish, observe fish, blast even more fish, try their hand at raft-building, investigate a cave, and perhaps stumble upon treasure, though not necessarily in that sequence.
The list grew more concerning with every item. Lohen found himself smiling through all of it anyway, humming here and there, content, as he tied off the end of the braid with a small, practiced knot.
Definitely his child, this one.
“Della.”
“Yes?” she answered, glancing back at him curiously.
“If Klee suggests entering an ancient ruin—” Lohen began.
“Uh-huh?” she prompted.
“Say yes.”
That got Delara twisting to face him fully, eyes wide. “Papa. That’s bad advice.”
“It’s excellent advice,” Lohen insisted, feigning offense.
“It’s really not.” She crossed her arms, doing her best to appear stern. He could tell she was trying to imitate Jean’s authoritative posture, but the playful light that still lingered in her features was all Lohen, which sabotaged her attempt quite spectacularly.
“Fine.” Lohen reached for the second ribbon. Sighing, he conceded, saying, “If Klee suggests entering an ancient ruin, make sure she’s carrying the bigger bomb.”
Delara dissolved into uncontrollable snickers at that, the kind that shook her whole small frame.
“There you have it. Much safer.” He continued, nodding sagely.
“Papa!”
“You’re right, how very irresponsible of me,” Lohen barged on. “Take two bigger bombs.”
By this point, she’d fallen over onto the blankets, laughing too hard to sit up straight. Behind them, Varka shifted but stayed unconscious. Probably. Hopefully. A small mercy, Lohen decided, and not something he planned to look at too closely.
After a moment, Delara regained her composure. Sort of.
“Okay.” Lohen straightened her ribbons where they’d gone askew from all the laughing, smoothing a stray strand back into place with his thumb. “There you go. Even prettier now.”
Delara’s sheer happiness was radiant enough to put the sun to shame. She planted a quick, eager kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Papa! You’re the best, as always!”
Lohen had to actively smother the impulse to squeeze her tight, hugging her something fierce. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t have the time to redo the braid he’d worked so hard on if it got messed up. So, he settled for pressing a soft kiss to her temple in return instead, lingering softly on her skin and breathing her in.
(Ah, his dearest. How he loved her so.)
“Of course,” he said warmly. Then, not a moment too soon, he schooled his expression to say: “Now. Onto the important survival instructions.”
His daughter sat up at once, her posture attentive and a faint amusement tugging at her features. It was the familiar response to that specific shift in his tone, the same one he used when briefing his knights, but gentle and mischievous rather than commanding, reserved only for her. She knew exactly what was coming; survival instructions were always the prelude to a Klee-and-Prune adventure in their household. The specifics like who was on duty, the weather, or Klee’s latest antics? Those might change, but the ritual itself never did.
“Uncle Kaeya should be on duty this morning,” Lohen started. “If you see him, offer him some of the fish you catch. He’ll help stall Master Jean.”
Delara nodded diligently. “Okay.”
“But if you run into Uncle Mika, attempt stealth first.”
She gave another firm nod. “Okay.”
“If stealth fails, tell him very seriously that Papa knows where he hid his newest monster map.”
Delara’s face went solemn, grave as a knight swearing an oath before the Cathedral. “Yes, Papa.”
"If you run into Aunt Amber—"
Delara winced preemptively.
"—do not let Klee start talking to her."
"But Big Sis Klee loves talking to her!" Delara exclaimed.
"I know. And Aunt Amber loves nothing more than talking back," Lohen said, giving Delara a look of knowing defeat. "That’s exactly the problem. So, if you see her, just give her a wave and your biggest smile, then go as fast as you can, okay?"
"I'll try my best," Delara replied, determined.
Lohen immediately broke character, grinning down at her, helplessly proud. “Good girl.”
Delara giggled at once, because she knew (the way the whole of Mondstadt knew) that her uncles and aunts adored her completely, and Lohen had made absolutely sure she understood exactly how to use that. Age-appropriately, of course. Lisa had once lectured him until sundown the last time she caught Lohen brainstorming with Delara about a new prank involving very questionable devices and liquids that no children of a rightful upbringing had any business knowing about.
He blamed that one on Varka, though; he should’ve known not to make promises he intended not to keep (he promised dinner and came home three hours late instead) if he didn’t want his spouse and their very crafty little girl to brew fun tricks for him.
Lisa called it a parenting misfortune.
Lohen called it a great parenting bonding activity.
The debate remained ongoing, and showed no signs of resolving anytime this decade.
(Honestly, the whole of Mondstadt, especially the Knights, loved her too much. Delara could probably talk half of them into committing minor crimes simply by asking politely and blinking up at them with those eyes.)
“Right,” Lohen said, finally moving to swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Let’s get you sorted before they show up and Klee starts knocking down the door instead of using it.”
He cast one last glance at Varka. His husband was still dead to the world, one arm now flung across the space Lohen had vacated, as if his body were already complaining about the absence. Lohen decided, with the fondness of a man long past being annoyed by it, that he’d let the man sleep a little longer. There would be time to wake him properly. There usually was.
Delara hopped off the bed without him having to ask twice, already halfway to the door by the time Lohen pulled a robe on over his sleepwear and followed her out into the hallway.
Her room was, as expected, a disaster of barely restrained frenzy. A small travel bag sat open on her bed, half-packed with the optimistic chaos of a child who’d clearly started preparations sometime before dawn, when children shouldn’t even have been awake yet. Around it, he spied a set of socks haphazardly folded, a sketchbook she insisted on bringing everywhere, a few pieces of candy, and a slingshot Lohen had built together with her two birthdays ago that she was absolutely not supposed to use unsupervised and absolutely did anyway.
“Let’s see,” Lohen murmured, crouching down to survey the damage more properly. He already knew what he'd find. He always did by now. Klee and Prune had been collecting Delara for adventures often enough that this bag check had become as familiar as disciplining his wayward subordinates. “Water flask?”
Delara held it up triumphantly.
“Good. Bandages?”
A slightly less triumphant pause. Lohen raised an eyebrow, and his daughter sheepishly dug a small roll out from under her pillow, where it had apparently (as always, without fail, every single time) been serving as part of some other, more important pillow fort architecture.
“Into the bag,” he said, not unkindly, tucking it in himself when she handed it over.
He moved through the rest of it with the same quiet efficiency he once used to check gear before a mission, except now the gear in question was a child’s weekend bag, and the mission was: don’t let Klee blow up my daughter, even a little. A spare shirt, in case the first one ended up wet, scorched, or both. A small coin purse, because Klee occasionally got distracted by interesting rocks being sold as “treasure” by enterprising merchants, undeterred by Prune’s protests. The slingshot, too, got checked in despite his better judgment, because some battles weren’t worth fighting this early in the morning.
Last of all, he ducked into the kitchen and grabbed two leftover sandwiches. He tucked them into the very top of Delara's bag, where they wouldn't get crushed.
“There,” he said, zipping it shut. “You’re equipped. Try not to lose any of it in a cave or to any feral pigeons.”
“I make no promises,” Delara said cheerfully, already swinging the bag onto her back, nearly toppling sideways under the weight of it before catching her balance.
Lohen smiled, brushed the last stray hair from her face, and herded her back toward the front of the house just as a knock sounded at the door. Three rapid taps. Then a small, distant explosion.
Hopefully distant.
Delara gasped. “Klee! Prune!”
She bolted the remaining distance, made it halfway to the door, then doubled back without warning and threw herself into Lohen’s arms hard enough to nearly knock him off balance.
“Love you, Papa.”
Lohen melted instantly, arms coming around her on reflex. “Love you too, little menace.”
Another giggle, and then she was gone, a small whirlwind thundering toward the entryway, bag bouncing against her back. The front door banged open. Klee's voice rang out first, delighted, already mid-sentence about something explosive, promptly followed by Prune's flatter, far more put-upon tone, informing Klee in no uncertain terms that they were not testing anything else on the front step, thank you, not after last time, and could she please, for once, wait until they were a reasonable distance from any inhabited buildings. Three sets of footsteps retreated down the front path at speed, already plotting another ruckus.
Lohen stood in the doorway a moment longer than necessary, watching the empty street, feeling the particular ache of a parent who'd just handed their entire heart over to the supervision of a girl with an unlimited bomb supply and another one’s nagging care.
Then he shut the door and went back upstairs to deal with the other disaster currently occupying his bed.
Silence greeted him in the bedroom. For approximately five seconds.
"Did she eat before she left?"
Lohen didn't even jump, pausing in the doorway to find Varka blinking up at him from the pillows, his hair an absolute catastrophe, and his eyes still half-lidded with sleep but apparently awake enough to worry about their daughter's breakfast.
"Morning to you too," he said, dry. "Packed her some sandwiches. She'll be fine."
"Mm," Varka hummed, still somewhere between asleep and functional. "Water flask?"
"Filled."
"...Bandages?"
"Side pocket."
"...Spare shirt?"
Lohen snorted at that. "Sure, I remembered the spare shirt."
Varka let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like relief before finally cracking both eyes open. "Good."
Lohen leaned against the bedroom doorframe, arms folded, watching his husband mentally work through Delara's entire adventure checklist one sleepy item at a time. "If you were that worried, you could've said bye to her yourself, you know," he noted airily.
"And make her think Dada showing his face this early means her adventure's getting Jean-limited?" Varka mumbled, already reaching for him the moment Lohen moved from the door and came within range, arms hooking around his waist and hauling him back down onto the bed without so much as a warning. "Nah. Better this way."
Lohen let himself be pulled, settling against his husband's chest with the ease of a decade's practice. "How are you even awake right now? I fully expected you to be dead to the world until well past noon. Archons only know how much you put away last night."
"Baby, I survived your poisoning attempts every week back then. Comparatively, this is nothing." Varka pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, slow, lingering a beat longer than it needed to. "Helps with the hangover, if anything."
"I've only poisoned you a little," he replied, sounding faintly defensive.
"You say that like it's reassuring." Another kiss, this one at his temple, unhurried, asking for nothing and getting everything anyway.
Lohen chuckled at that, and Varka’s arms tightened around him, as if holding onto the sound itself. A third kiss landed at the corner of Lohen’s jaw, something deliberate. Varka’s lips lingered just long enough to send a pleasant shiver down Lohen’s spine before, at last, their mouths met. The kiss was slow, almost lazy, like he had the whole morning and intended to spend every second of it right here. Lohen melted into it without resistance, one hand curling into the front of Varka's sleep shirt. When they finally parted, it was only by the slimmest margin, breaths still mingling.
For a while, neither of them said anything. The house was unusually quiet. No footsteps down the hall. No "Papa!" from downstairs. No suspicious silence that meant Delara had discovered a new category of trouble.
Just the two of them in the gentle silence and the comforting cocoon of each other’s embrace.
"...She's getting bigger," Varka murmured eventually.
"She is," Lohen agreed.
"Feels like yesterday she couldn't tie her own boots."
"Now she ties them wrong all by herself," Lohen noted with a small smile.
A sleepy, helpless chuckle escaped Varka. "I'll miss this one day."
Lohen glanced up at him. "You'll miss her forgetting bandages?"
"I'll miss her needing us."
The admission settled tenderly between them, the way Varka’s most honest confessions always did. Something warm and weightless stirred in Lohen’s chest. Something that didn't have a name and didn't need one.
"She'll always need us," he said, after a moment.
"I know."
"Just differently."
Varka nodded once, thumb tracing a slow, idle line along Lohen's side. Beyond their walls, the city was coming to life: the faint peal of Cathedral bells, the ever-present wind weaving through Mondstadt, the lively noises of merchants setting up.
Then, after yet another comfortable stretch of quiet in the room, Varka pulled Lohen in that fraction closer again. It was a small, unconscious motion, the kind his arms seemed to make on instinct whenever Lohen was within reach these days. Like he wanted their bodies to fuse forever, which Lohen would have been on board with had it actually been possible. Maybe he would find a way one day.
"So." A pause, weighted with intent.
"Hm?" Lohen asked, already knowing that tone.
"We've got the whole house to ourselves," Varka said, deceptively casual, like he hadn't clearly been sitting on that thought for the last ten minutes.
Lohen smiled slowly. "Oh?"
"Mm-hm." Varka hummed against his hair. “We have maybe six hours before Jean realizes where our daughter actually went. Three before Kaeya starts helping her evade arrest on principle."
Lohen huffed a laugh. "That specific?"
"I like to know my timeline."
"Since when are you an expert on that? You barely want to work on the timelines for next month's expeditions," Lohen remarked drily.
"That's different. That's paperwork. Paperwork doesn't count." Varka kissed the corner of his mouth, deliberate. "This is important strategic planning."
"Right. Of course," he deadpanned.
"So. I was thinking."
"Dangerous," Lohen quipped, automatic.
Varka went on without acknowledging that. "Della's been complaining lately about always being the youngest one Klee and Prune drag around.”
"Uh-huh."
"So, you know, someone's gotta be the one she gets to boss around for once. Only fair," Varka concluded, a note of mock seriousness in his voice.
Lohen snickered at that. "That's your plan for today? Petitioning for her promotion in the family hierarchy?”
"I think it's compelling," Varka insisted with a straight face.
Lohen shook his head, exasperated and in love. "You just want another baby, don’t you?”
Varka shot him a look, something entirely affectionate, utterly unashamed, and annoyingly triumphant for someone who’d been unconscious not even a quarter of an hour ago. "Yep, I definitely want another baby."
"So your plan today is to defile this innocent flower?" Lohen’s eyebrows raised in exaggerated shock.
That earned him a delighted, scandalized noise, and before Lohen could brace himself, Varka had flipped them, spinning him properly onto his back, looming over him with the exact smirk that had gotten Lohen into trouble more times than he could count and that he had never once regretted.
"Get off me," Lohen protested without any particular conviction.
"No," Varka said, mouth already finding the line of his throat, thorough.
"Varka."
"No." Another kiss, lower, lingering at his collarbone like he meant to memorize it all over again.
"Varka."
"An innocent flower—" Varka murmured against his skin, delight coloring his voice, "who poisoned me at least four times this year alone."
The way Varka said that, as though it was the most romantic thing that kept on happening to him, had Lohen’s composure evacuating the premises. Not that he cared. Totally. "You're insufferable."
"You married me anyway," Varka said, grinning.
"A mistake I revisit daily."
"Mm." Varka stole the protest right off his lips, and whatever Lohen had meant to say next dissolved somewhere between one soft whine and the next.
"So," Varka murmured, insufferably pleased with himself, "what do you say, Mr. Innocent Flower? Care to be my breakfast?"
"Just get over here already," Lohen said, and pulled him down once more before he could answer.
Varka chuckled against his mouth, low and satisfied, the sound quickly swallowed by Lohen’s tongue, each slide slower and more thorough than the last. Whatever remained of the quiet air gave way to something else entirely: the soft creak of the bed, the unhurried drag of hands relearning territory they'd long since claimed as their own, Lohen's breath catching somewhere between a laugh and a moan, the moment stretching sweet and endless between them.
There was no urgency between them. They had time, for once. Actual, uninterrupted, gloriously unsupervised time, and they intended to spend every last minute of it with nothing but each other.
The morning, as far as either of them was concerned, had only just begun. Later, there would be a lecture from Jean, a bribe negotiation with Kaeya, and probably a very long story involving a cave, a raft, and at least one small explosion. There always was. But that was later. Right now, Lohen would live in this moment. Here with Varka's weight over him, his touches, their tangled limbs, their home filled with the pleasant warmth of belonging.
Everything else could wait.