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It’s been so long since Varka’s graced the sprawling steps of the Dawn Winery. Too long.
When he looks around at the evergreen scenery, Varka can’t help but reminisce. For just a moment, he feels like a young man again. The smell of fragrant grapes and fine wine brings back memories of a simpler time. In his youth, he’d spent a good handful of days here. He and Crepus had grown up aspiring to join the Favonius ranks together. Of course, Crepus’ childhood dream had never transpired and ultimately, he chose to take over the family business. Admittedly, he was quite the master at managing the vineyard and a connoisseur of the arts when it came to winemaking. His late wife, Magdalena, was much the same, a clever botanist herself. All her life she’d been a free spirit, the perfect, bold complement to Crepus’ much more reserved demeanor.
This evening’s visit is under much sunnier circumstances than the mourning of a dear friend. Master Diluc had asked Varka over for dinner, extending a cordial invitation. It was quite the shock. For what reason Varka can’t guess at, but he hopes it’s something positive. Why else would Diluc invite him into his home?
These ten years without Crepus haven’t been all that kind to either of them. Varka’s not entirely sure of Diluc’s opinion of him, but given his steadfast reluctance to rejoin the Knights of Favonius, Varka knows that opinion must not be all that great. Varka’s sure Diluc’s mistrust isn’t ill-placed, though. Perhaps Diluc blames Varka in some part for not seeing through Eroch’s deceit and more so for the downfall of his father, especially because of his absence at the time.
Varka approaches the front door and knocks a few times. He decided to dress a bit formal tonight, unsure exactly what the evening would entail but wanting to forgo his usual knightly state of dress.
Miss Adelinde answers the door with a warm smile. She’s aged like fine wine, jokes aside. “Grand Master Varka, what a pleasure to see you. Please, come in,” she says, gesturing into the abode.
Varka offers his thanks and steps inside, hearing her shut the door softly behind them.
“Master Diluc is right this way,” Adelinde guides, bringing Varka to the dining room. She pulls a chair for him before promptly busying herself elsewhere.
Diluc sits at the far end of the table, pondering over a glass of what can be assumed to be grape juice. Some things never change. “Grand Master Varka. I’m glad you could make it.”
“Ah, I wouldn’t dare decline an invitation like this.” Varka grabs the glass of wine at his right and takes a long sip. The taste of sunsettia seems to be infused with the beverage, and all the telling signs of aging harmonize the flavors. “This is exquisite. My deepest thanks.”
Diluc grows ever more somber. “I want to talk about my father.”
Varka sets down his glass carefully. For a second, he thinks he may have misheard the young man. “Okay…” He tries to catch Diluc’s gaze across the room, but it’s obvious the young master’s walls are up.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had the chance to properly talk to you about him. What was he like? To you?”
“I’m sure you knew him way better than I did.”
“I knew a version of him. You knew the version of him before he became a husband or a father.” Diluc’s still looking idly at the table. “I understand you were childhood friends.”
“Right, we were. He had a year or two on me, but we had hoped to become knights together.” Varka pauses, staring into his wine. “From what I understand, he was really proud that you achieved his dream.”
“I know.”
“But I’m not gonna sit here and pester you about rejoining… just know the offer’s always on the table.” Varka crosses his arms and settles into his seat. “I know you have your reservations.”
“I appreciate you sparing me of that.” Diluc almost smiles. Almost.
“Do you dislike me, Diluc?”
Diluc hesitates before finally meeting eyes with Varka. “No, I… I don’t. I don’t understand you. My critique of the knights is a critique of the system as a whole, not of you specifically.”
“Do you blame me for what happened? With your father?”
“I’m not the foolish child I once was. I’ve grown out of such naivety.” Diluc takes a drink. “The blame lies with a select few, including myself.”
“After all this time, you still blame yourself?”
“If I had been stronger, things might have been different, yes. And I refuse to forget that I was the one who put him out of his misery. I’m not afraid to be honest about my past, unlike that… brother of mine.”
Diluc’s right when he says he’s not a boy anymore, but Varka sees that in some ways he’s remained the same. He still fidgets the same when he sits. Still struggles to speak ill of Kaeya, even after all this time.
“I don’t think Crepus would want you to blame yourself.”
“Spare me,” Diluc says, growing ill. “I’ve been told that many more times than I can count.” He stiffens. “Sorry.”
Varka relaxes. “No need. I get it.” He sits forward again, a hand on his glass. “I do find myself wondering every now and then if things would’ve been different if I had been there. If we’d exposed Eroch’s corruption sooner.”
“Then I’m sure you know as well as I that wondering won't change anything.”
“Yeah. I do.”
Diluc seems to have softened, crimson eyes lighter somehow, as if recalling a fond memory from a distant time. “How well did you know my mother?”
“Oh, she was… well, I’m sure you remember how beautiful she was. Radiant. Didn’t put up with anybody’s shit.” Varka lets out a hearty laugh. “She had a worse temper than me, believe it or not. Except for when it came to you, that is.” He fiddles with his glass. “When I met her, actually, I remember thinking she was a lot like me in some ways. She was lighthearted, carefree, y’know. But that brain of hers–oh boy–I’ll tell ya. She was a hell of a lot smarter than people gave her credit for. Barbatos, rest her soul.”
Diluc looks over at the portrait of her on the wall. “I don’t think I remember ever seeing her angry. My few memories of her are nothing short of paradise.” He looks back at Varka. “You say she had a bad temper… did she and my father ever fight?”
Not his place to speak of the marriage two now deceased people had, but Varka doesn’t exactly want to withhold harmless information. “Not that I know of,” he says, keeping things simple. He’s not lying–from what he understands, they were perfectly happy. They probably had their moments, of course. All couples argue at one point or another. Varka recalls another tidbit. “I’ll say this, though. If they did ever have heated arguments, she’d definitely be the one winning. He was quite the pushover when it came to her. Not to say he was naive, no, but–”
“…just how well did you know my father?”
Varka clears his throat awkwardly, feeling as though he’s said too much. A smile spreads across his face as he pictures his old friend, sitting where Diluc sits now. Gods, he’s the spitting image of his father. It’s like Magdalena’s genetics didn’t even try. If he grew a beard, he’d be his twin.
Though, he can’t exactly imagine Diluc would look good with blonde hair. It’s probably for the best he’s a redhead like Crepus. “He was, uh… he was my anchor a lot of times. Kept me down when I was about to fly too far from home. I used to be quite the hothead, y’know. Finding my purpose really… mellowed me out.” He perks up, recalling tales from his youth. “Did I ever tell you any of those stories? My travels across Teyvat when I was about your age?” He chuckles, beginning to ramble. “Man, I really went everywhere in search of something that was already waiting for me at home. I was actually shocked when I got back, y’know. Didn’t expect your old man to settle down so young—and I’d never even met Magdalena before—but y’know, I’d assumed we’d be bachelors together forever. Haha, bastard didn’t make me the Best Man at his wedding? I bet it was a beautiful ceremony. Wish I had–”
“Did you sleep with my father?”
Varka is dumbfounded, utterly shocked—this came out of… practically nowhere. He nearly spits out his wine, stares at Diluc for a long moment, their eyes locked. He only snaps out of his stupor when Diluc looks away. “Are you sure you want me to answer that?”
Diluc looks… crestfallen, really. “I don’t know.” He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. “If you say no, I don’t think I’ll believe you, and… if you say yes, I’ll… hope that you at least made him happy. Brought him… comfort.”
He’s undoubtedly troubled. Varka is quick to ensure there’s no room for doubt. “I’ll tell you that his faithfulness to your mother never swayed. I know he loved her–and his children–more than anything.”
“Did he love you?”
Diluc has a knack for putting people on the spot like this, doesn’t he? Varka straightens up. He decides to leave that question unanswered.
Before Diluc can apologize for such forwardness, a few of the maids appear with dinner, setting the various dishes on the table and topping off the gentlemen’s drinks. Thanks are passed around, and the rest of the night is spent in eerie silence. Not a word.
Varka leaves after dinner, barely managing to bid Diluc farewell before the young master retreats into the emptiness of his home, face red with embarrassment
But Varka doesn’t judge him. He knows there’s a lot weighing heavily on his mind. He means well. He’s just a kid, Varka thinks.
Upon returning to his quarters, Varka fetches himself a cold bottle of honey beer and sits down. The weight of the day still clings to his being, sapping his energy like a leech. He’s left alone with just his booze and his thoughts. Dangerous combo, sometimes.
He can’t stop thinking of Crepus. He hadn’t forgotten him—how could he possibly forget him—but he thought he’d moved on by now. One thing he’s sure of is that his love for Crepus… it wasn’t mutual. To Crepus, the two were friends, but to Varka, their bond was so much more.
And so was that night. That one fleeting, wonderful night they spent together. A late night drinking. Talking. Laughing. Kissing. Moving in the sheets, bodies pressed together, sweating and…
Varka doesn’t know why he expected that night to change things, why he expected it to be the start of something. To Crepus it may have been a drunken night where two friends went too far, pushed their boundaries and did something silly. To Varka it was a declaration of love, a confession, the beginning of something wonderful and weird and meaningful.
So when he had returned from his journey to find himself, to better himself, and found that Crepus had gotten married, had a son, started a family… he was beyond devastated. Happy for him too, of course, but heartbroken nonetheless.
But what did he expect, really? He left home and was gone for years. He couldn’t possibly think Crepus would’ve been waiting for him when he got back. Had he even spared Crepus a thought before leaving Mondstadt?
That’s one of the reasons he thrusted himself so wholeheartedly into his duty as a knight. What else was there to dedicate himself to?
Though… now that Varka thinks about it, Magdalena was pretty similar to him. A feisty blonde with a strong sense of justice? Is he reading too much into this?
He drags his palms across his face with a deep sigh. Magdalena’s probably looking down at him in disdain. Likely disappointed he’d come to these conclusions, assuming Crepus had married a female version of his best friend. How insulting to her. He’d been her friend too. Some friend he is. No wonder his feelings weren’t reciprocated. Good thing he never confessed them.
Crepus claimed to have few regrets. Was that night one of them?
Varka lays awake in his bed, having finished his drink and dressed down. It’s dead silent, spare the occasional creaking as the building settles. At some point, his eyes start to grow heavy, despite the rushing thoughts and memories flooding his head. Sleep tugs him under, and he dreams of Crepus. Dreams of that night, the summer before his nineteenth birthday. 32 years ago…
At night, the Dawn Winery looks even more beautiful. The Ragnvindr family takes pride in their estate, maintaining its integrity and historical charm while still progressing as the years go by. Lanterns aglow and fairy lights strewn between wooden posts, it’s almost a magical sight. The courtyard so welcoming, the vineyard so fragrant. Sprawling steps that lead up to a lively, two-story manor. The smell of wine. The abundance of elemental energy.
“Join me down here, won’t ya?” says Varka, back on the grass as he stares up at the stars. He fiddles with the freshly plucked dandelion in his hands.
Crepus sits on an empty barrel nearby. “The grass’ll ruin my trousers.” They’re white, after all.
Varka taunts him. “Since when has that stopped you? If I recall, you and I used to eat dirt and grass as kids.”
“Keyword: kids.” Crepus shakes his head but laughs anyway, walking over and lying beside Varka. He crosses his arms behind his head, a steady prop. “Ahh… I’ll just have to apologize to the maids when they wash these clothes of mine.” He shifts in an attempt to get comfortable. “We’ll be sore all over by the time we get back up.”
Varka guffaws. “As if. We’re not old men yet.”
Crepus laughs all the same. A moment passes, and his face grows somber. “Speaking of old men…” He sighs. “My father… his illness has rapidly progressed. Doctors say it's pretty severe.”
“Shit… I’m really sorry.” He sees nothing but shadow in Crepus’ eyes. “He’s still so young.”
“Eh, some would argue sixty’s quite old.” He examines the stars above. “He’s made his peace with the imminence of death. So have I.”
“How’s your mother handling this?”
“Very well. She’s not particularly fond of him.”
Varka laughs. “Why’d she marry him then?”
“Didn’t want to. My grandparents arranged the wedding.” Crepus closes his eyes. “They didn’t want the Ragnvindr name to die with her, so they married her off, begged him to take her surname. How could he refuse wealth, power, and a beautiful woman?” He sighs, looking to the sky once more. “From what I understand, my grandparents would’ve made my mother bear children until she had a son. She was grateful for my birth. I only wish my uncle had lived a long life. Had he gotten the chance to settle down, I’m sure she would’ve been spared this fate.”
“Well-kept secret,” Varka says, utterly stunned. To think something so obscene was going on right under everyone’s noses. “I had… no idea.”
“No one knows. Shrouding this place in mystery has been my family’s goal for a long time.”
Crepus sits up, stretching his back. Varka joins him, suddenly understanding why Crepus had joked they’d grow sore. The ground just isn't as comfortable as it was when they were kids.
“Mother wants to move. Leave Mondstadt. Start over and abandon the family name and me.” Crepus smiles. “Once my father joins my grandparents in hell, she can do that.”
Varka furrows his brow, discarding the plucked dandelion. “What about the winery?” He’s only half-joking when he asks, “Where else will I find such delicious wine for such a good price?”
“It’ll be my responsibility.”
“Pfft,” Varka snickers. “As if. You’ll be too busy with your work as a knight to run this place.”
Crepus doesn’t laugh. “I received a letter yesterday morning. My application was rejected,” he says, turning to look Varka in the eye.
“What?” Varka’s irritated on his behalf. “How the hell didn’t you meet the requirements?”
“I don’t know. There’s just something I lack.” His face softens. “Don’t give me that look. It’s fine. I’m okay.” He looks down at his hands, moving to sit cross-legged. “If I ever have children, I’ll omit this part of our family history. I’d rather they know of the Dawn Knight and know we Ragnvindrs are meant to be heroes. Good people.” He sighs. “Anyway… did you get in?”
“They haven’t gotten back to me yet.” Varka absently tugs at the grass beside him. “You sure you’re okay? It’s okay to admit this sucks. Shitty situation all across the board.”
Crepus laughs, a genuine laugh. “This does suck. But yes, I’m alright. I’m letting fate steer me where it will. If this is to be my path, so be it.” He nudges Varka’s shoulder with his arm. “Loosen up, Varka. Come, let’s drink.” He stands, gesturing for Varka to follow. “I’ve gotten my hands on something you’ll love.”
Into the winery they retreat, quiet as a mouse so as not to wake anyone inside. They ascend the stairs and sneak into Crepus’ bedroom, locking the door behind them. Crepus kneels and reaches for a bottle of wine beneath his bed.
“Aha. Go on, open it up.” He hands it to Varka, who pops the cork and takes a sniff.
“Wooooh.” Varka laughs and takes a sip straight from the bottle. “This smells pretty fresh. What is it?”
“Our Dandelion Wine infused with lavender melons from Inazuma. Quite a sweet taste, hm? I blended it myself.”
“Well, kudos to ya.” Varka downs a few more mighty swigs before passing the bottle back to Crepus. They take a seat there on Crepus’ bed, sharing the beverage between themselves.
Crepus takes a modest sip. “The melons are rather scarce, due to the export restrictions under Inazuma’s Sakoku Decree. So don’t drink this too fast,” he warns, passing the bottle back to Varka.
Varka lets out a heavy sigh, shoulders dropping as he loosens his muscles in an attempt to unwind. “You could always try again. With the knights, I mean.”
“Let it go,” Crepus chastises him, placing a hand on Varka’s knee and squeezing. “You’ll just have to be so good of a knight that it makes up for my absence, eh?”
He chuckles, and Varka laughs much the same. Still, he knows the disappointment must be eating Crepus up inside. His lifelong dream, shattered in an instant.
Varka notices that Crepus has set the bottle aside on his nightstand. What’s more, that hand of his is still lingering on his knee. Likely an innocent gesture, but Varka’s overactive brain takes this and runs with it. He finds himself staring at Crepus’ face, eyes darting between crimson eyes and soft lips. Quietly, he examines the look on his face, one of wisdom beyond his years. A flickering flame, sparkling in his eyes. Red cheeks from the wine.
It’s like a pit of heat forming in Varka’s gut. He can hear his heart beating in his ears, can feel his body grow tense in anticipation.
He must’ve had a crush on Crepus for a long time now. He’d mistaken the feeling for admiration or the camaraderie between friends for so long, but as of late, he’s realized what this was: love. Many a time he’s wondered if Crepus feels the same.
With the way Crepus eyes him now, Varka starts to feel confident the feeling is mutual. Crepus is still touching his knee. Such a small point of contact, and yet Varka’s nerves are alight like Weinlesefest fireworks.
Crepus makes the first move. So slow, it's as if time stops for the two of them. His lips near Varka’s and, a bit clumsily, they join in a kiss.
Varka forgets to breathe, and only parts from Crepus long enough to gasp for air before diving right back in. His hands are on Crepus in an instant, one caressing his face and the other on his forearm. He grows more insistent and domineering with each kiss.
Crepus is similarly passionate, but much more nervous despite bringing about these shenanigans. Though he clings to Varka’s frame and meets him in the middle for each kiss, he also moves to lie back on his bed. Tugs Varka down with him.
And so Varka is there, looming above him, lips unyielding. He dares to latch onto Crepus’ jaw, beneath his well-groomed beard–further down, he tugs down Crepus’ collar to get at his neck. Smelling wine and sweat and musk as he inhales. It nearly escapes his notice that he’s started to grind his hips against Crepus, and that's when he realizes how hard he is. He’s taken off guard, and pulls away. “Shit–sorry.”
Panting, Crepus realizes the tent in Varka’s pants too. “Sorry for what?” he still asks, eyeing Varka’s lips.
Varka furrows his brow. He remains still for a moment or two before asking, “What are we doing?”
“Well, we were kissing but now we–” The look on Varka’s face says he’s serious. “Please, continue,” is all Crepus says in amendment, grabbing Varka’s face with both hands and kissing him again.
How could Varka possibly resist? He’s even crazier about him now that he’s gotten himself a taste. He groans softly against Crepus’ kiss-bitten lips, into his mouth where he dares to slip his tongue. Crepus returns this forwardness, raising his hips to meet Varka’s. He’s just as pent-up. Upon this realization, Varka starts to think he won’t be able to hold back.
Crepus grabs at his shirt buttons, eager to free himself from the heat rising between them. He murmurs something under his breath, likely a curse, chest now exposed.
Varka takes advantage of this and lowers his lips to Crepus’ chest, kissing him squarely on the sternum. He feels soothed as a hand ruffles through his hair. The moment he raises his head again, Crepus is reaching for his shirt as well. Buttons come undone, and their lips meet again, the room growing ever hotter.
Crepus has a hand on his belt, fiddling with it while his other hand slips against Varka’s chest. Varka assists him, unbuckling it and putting a hand down Crepus’ pants. “Ah,” breathes Crepus as Varka palms him through fabric.
“Shhh,” Varka warns him, lest the two of them grow too loud.
“The walls are soundproof,” Crepus informs him, voice a bit unsteady. He gyrates his hips, rubbing against Varka’s hand. “Go on.”
Varka retrieves his hand to undo his own belt, hands nearly shaking from both excitement and anxiety. “Fuck.” He practically yanks down his trousers and captures Crepus’ lips again, clothed erections grinding against each other.
Crepus can’t take it. He wriggles, slipping free of his briefs and encouraging Varka to do the same. Fingers dance along Varka’s waistband and free his cock. Then he grabs Varka’s hips and guides him to frot their dicks together. Instant satisfaction.
“Ah fuck,” Varka grunts, “you…”
Crepus brings his arms up to wrap around Varka’s neck. “Feels so good.” He traces Varka’s jaw with his lips until he reaches the shell of his ear. “Gods, don’t stop.”
“Wasn’t–ah–plannin’ on it,” moans Varka, equally wrecked. This is crazy, he thinks.
How did this even happen? One minute they’re talking, the next they’ve got their dicks out, grinding and kissing each other? Ah, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s dreamt of this. Fantasized about it while rubbing one out in his own bedroom.
He loses himself in the sight beneath him. Crepus is usually so well put-together: hair tied back, dressed like a true gentleman, clothing free of wrinkles. Now, his dark red curls spill messily around his shoulders, much like a cloak. His eyes are filled with fire, ablaze with desire. His face red and sweat-damp, and not just from the alcohol. Remaining clothing all wrinkled and frumpy. He’s disheveled, an utter mess. Not to mention that look of debauchery.
Ah, but Varka’s just as bedraggled. His face is even pinker! He’s the one struggling to keep his composure.
“Need more,” says a struggling Crepus, “more than this…” He swallows, covering his mouth with his hand, as if to keep his thoughts within his head. Still, he shifts and Varka takes the hint to back off of him. Crepus moves, turning over and getting on all fours before Varka.
“I’m not sure we—I mean we don’t have, uh…” Varka scratches his head, reluctant to approach.
“Just—you can, uh—” Crepus trips over his words, just as unsure of himself. He must look ridiculous in this position. “Rub—between my thighs,” he says, and Varka’s pupils go wide.
Varka nods enthusiastically, moving forward on his knees and settling behind Crepus. He presses his cock between toned but large thighs, pressing them tight around himself. He draws back slowly before thrusting forward. He hadn’t expected it to feel this good, but after a few more movements, he gets the hang of it.
Crepus hangs his head, sweat dropping from his brow. He wraps a hand around his dick, jerking himself off while Varka fucks his thighs.
“Shit,” Varka grunts, draping himself over Crepus’ back. He presses a kiss into his spine. “Good.”
Crepus furrows his brow, eyes fluttering shut. His free hand searches for purchase in the sheets below. “Yeah, like… that.” Varka’s thrusts provide no physical stimulation, but the eagerness behind them makes his chest tighten with thick arousal. Not to mention Varka’s occasional groans, especially the higher ones that he fails to contain.
Desperately chasing that high, Varka continues to frantically grind Crepus’ rear. He wraps both arms about Crepus’ waist, holding him tight.
“Varka,” Crepus says weakly. He’s close. Varka can tell from the way he’s started to tense up. He gulps down a breath as he hurtles towards the edge. When he comes, he makes a mess of the sheets below, a problem for later.
“That’s it,” says Varka, fucking him through it. He’s equally breathless. “I lo…” No. Not now. He shouldn’t confess something so sincere at a time like this.
He’s closer to his own climax than he realizes. And so it takes him off guard, and he grits his teeth, making a sticky mess of Crepus’ legs. His hips rock to a halt soon after.
Worn out, Crepus collapses under their combined weight, pressing into the mattress with Varka lying atop him. The weight is oddly comforting, like a heavy blanket of warmth. His palms lie flat on the sheets.
Varka places his hand atop Crepus’, interlocking their fingers. “Mm.” He presses a kiss to Crepus’ exposed neck.
Some moments later, Crepus opens his eyes again, having fallen asleep for a few minutes. He becomes suddenly aware of their current state. “Shit,” he gasps, trying to move Varka off of him.
“I’ll, uh—” Varka looks around for a handkerchief or towel or something, anything, to clean them up with. He settles on some napkins.
Cleaning his own spend from Crepus’ skin is quite tender. Intimate. He can’t help but chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all.
Crepus wears a soft, satiated smile. He gathers their clothes, finding articles strewn across the room. Getting dressed doesn’t take too long.
Varka downs some more of the wine in an attempt to wind down. “Mind if I take this with me?”
“Where are you going?” Crepus asks, placing his belt in his dresser.
“Home?” He looks Crepus’ face over. “You want me to stay?”
“I don’t see a reason why you wouldn’t. Come,” says Crepus, having squared away the last of his laundry. He doesn’t bother dressing down to his pajamas, instead pulling back the covers and gesturing for Varka to join him.
Varka crawls beneath the sheets beside him, lying on his side with an arm around Crepus but otherwise unsure how to position himself.
Crepus pulls the lamp cord and the room grows dim. After some silence, he rolls onto his back, and Varka withdraws his arm.
“Good night,” Crepus whispers, half awake, and Varka echoes the sentiment.
When morning comes, one of the maids knocks on the door. “Young master Crepus?” Another set of knocking. “Good morning.”
Crepus bolts upright. Shit. He looks over at Varka, who’s startled awake as well. “I failed to think of your… escape route.”
Varka climbs out of the bed and rushes over to the window. A two story drop. “Eh… I should be fine.”
He looks back at Crepus, who wags a finger. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. So… I guess I’ll see you around?”
Crepus nods. “I… had a lot of fun. Your friendship means the world to me, Varka.”
Friendship. All that, and Crepus is calling it friendship? To think, Varka had almost confessed his love.
Varka opens the window and hops out, sneaking away into the morning light. It’s a quiet walk home. Did their kissing really mean nothing to Crepus? The sex? How could anyone call that mere “friendship”?
Even if it meant nothing to him, it meant everything to Varka.