genshin boys overhear you talking to yourself
premise. sometimes, talking to yourself feels safer than facing the guy you canβt stop thinking aboutβ¦until he walks in on you mid-spiral. from awkward blushes to unexpected confessions, hereβs what happens when your most embarrassing moments become the genshin boys' favorite memories
features. kazuha, diluc, childe, wanderer, alhaitham, xiao, ayato, cyno, itto, kaeya, baizhu, dainsleif, tighnari, thoma, heizou, bennett, kaveh, zhongli
You're crouched beside a broken cart wheel, half-hidden in tall grass, muttering furiously to yourself as you examine the splintered wood.
βOf course it had to break here, in the middle of nowhere. No signal flare left, and I let the boat crew leave without me. Brilliant. Great job, really stellar planningββ
βYouβre being rather harsh on yourself.β
You startle so hard you nearly fall backward. Kazuha stands a few paces behind, hands tucked calmly into his sleeves, his eyes full of quiet amusement and concern.
βYou were gone longer than expected,β he explains, seeing your confusion. βBeidou sent me to check if youβd lost your wayβor started arguing with local wildlife.β
You flush. βNo, Iβm justβ¦talking to myself. Thinking through how to fix it.β
He steps closer and knelt beside you, examining the wheel. βHm. The axleβs intact. A proper wedge might hold long enough to get you back to the road.β
You blink. βOh. Youβre not going to tease me about earlier?β
βI speak to the wind as if it listens,β he says lightly. βWhy would I judge you for speaking to yourself?β
You glance at him. βAnd does the wind ever answer?β
He smiles faintly. βOnly when Iβm quiet enough to hear it.β
And then, just like that, he gets to work, gathering branches, finding rope in your satchel, never once asking why you chose to be alone in the first place but just staying until the cart moves again. Maybe the wind hadnβt answered, but he had.
He walks into the tavern early in the morning, expecting silence. Instead, he hears your voice in a low, frantic whisper as you await his arrival: βOkay, youβve got this. Heβs just a man. A tall, brooding, red-haired, intimidatingly handsome manβArchons above, why am I like this?β
He freezes mid-step, but the tap of his boot on the tile is loud enough to betray him. You whirl around, mortified, and lock eyes with him like a deer caught in emotionally compromising headlights.
ββ¦I assume that was about me,β he says, voice neutral, but his ears are visibly pink.
βIβNoβI meanβkind of?β you squeak, visibly crumbling under the weight of your own existence.
He clears his throat and looks away, reaching for a mug that absolutely does not need his attention.
βUnderstood,β he mutters.
For the rest of the day, heβs overly polite, painfully formal, and avoids eye contact like itβs flammable. Later that evening, you find a cup of your favorite tea left out for youβsteaming, perfectly steeped, and completely unsupervised. The mug has a folded note under it, consisting of just three words: βYouβve got this.β
Heβs passing by your room when he hears your voice, quiet but distinct, and increasingly unhinged: βOkay. Plan A: cry. Plan B: threaten to cry. Plan C: run away and never return.β
He pauses mid-step, then leans against the doorway with a lopsided grin. βWow, those are some elite-level crisis strategies. You sure youβre not Fatui?β
You shriek in embarrassment. βHow long have you been standing there?!β
βLong enough to know youβve got potential,β he laughs, pushing off the doorframe and stepping inside.
You groan and hide your face. βI was joking. mostly.β
βNah, I kinda like it,β he teases. βPlan Aβs got emotional flair. Plan B? Classic drama. However, Plan C?β his voice softens just a bit. βIf you ran, Iβd just find you. You know that, right?β
You look up and find his smile stripped of mischief. Itβs quiet and gentle in a way that makes your heart trip over itself.
βButβ¦if you do need tissues, Iβve got plenty.β
Somehow, this ends with him dragging you to sit on the couch, arms slung around you, both of you buried under a blanket neither of you remembers pulling over your laps.
βNew plan,β he says, voice muffled against your shoulder. βPlan D: stay right here.β
He wasnβt trying to eavesdrop. He'd simply been on his way when he found you pacing the courtyard, completely unaware of his presence.
βHe probably doesnβt even notice when I smile at him. Or maybe he does. Maybe heβs just ignoring me. Ugh. I should just throw a rock at him.β
He replies instantly. βTry it. Iβll throw one back.β
You flinch so hard you nearly drop your bag. Heβs already leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, unreadable as ever. His gaze flicks to you, sharp but dissolving into something strangely unguarded. You open your mouth, but he speaks first.
βI notice,β he tells you, quieter now. almost like it costs him something to admit. βMore than you think.β
Then heβs gone, vanishing down the corridor before you can speak, like he never meant to say anything at all. But later, you find a small, perfectly smooth stone placed outside your windowsill. No note. No explanation. Just one rock, light enough to throw.
Heβs walking past the study when he hears you, your voice sounding low, frantic, and clearly not meant for anyone else.
βOkay, if I just put the books back exactly the way he had them, maybe he wonβt know I was here. Unlessβ¦he cataloged them by page wear. Oh archonsβwhat if he did? Why does he have to be attractive and terrifying?β
His deadpan voice sounds right behind you. βFor the record, I do catalog them by page wear.β
You jump, dropping the book youβre holding, but instead of hitting the floor, it lands effortlessly in his palm.
βAlso, youβve been muttering to yourself for three full minutes. Youβre not exactly subtle.β
You open your mouth to explain, apologize, evaporate, anything, but he just walks past and plucks a book from your stack.
βYou misaligned this one by 0.6 centimeters,β he remarks, tone neutral. βBut Iβll let it slide.β
Youβre still frozen, blinking at him.
Without looking at you, he adds almost offhandedly, βNext time you wish to come by, just ask. Iβd rather see you here than not.β
And then he starts reorganizing beside you. Heβs silent, efficient, and just close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.
Youβre sitting alone on the quiet terrace just outside Wangshu Inn, knees pulled up to your chest as you mutter into the dusk. βWhy did I say βsweet dreamsβ? Who says that to Xiao? Heβs the vigilant yaksha, not some character from a bedtime story. He probably thinks Iβm a sentimental weirdoββ
You whip around. Heβs suddenly there, silent as ever, standing just behind you in the fading light.
βI donβt think youβre weird,β he repeats, voice soft and steady, though thereβs the faintest crease in his brow like heβs wondering if heβs said too much.
You scramble to stand, completely flustered. βWait, how long were youβ?β
βI heard my name,β he says plainly, as if that explains everything.
The air feels charged with embarrassment. Yours. Maybe his, too. After a pause, he glances away toward the treetops. His voice is quieter now.
βNo oneβs said that to me before.β
You blink. βSaid what?β
He doesnβt meet your eyes. βSweet dreams.β
Thereβs something almost reverent in the way he says it, like the words feel too fragile in his mouth.
βI didnβt think those were something I could have.β
The breeze carries the scent of silk flowers, and for a long moment, neither of you says anything.
Then, without looking at you, he adds, βBut I liked hearing it. From you.β
Your heart flips once, hard.
And before you can spiral all over again, he turns to go, but stops just long enough to murmur, βGoodnight. I hopeβ¦yours are sweet, too.β
Heβs strolling through the estate gardens when he catches the faint tones of your voice, muffled but unmistakably dramatic. Curious, he peeks around a hedge and discovers you monologuing to a cluster of blue hydrangeas with passionate gestures.
βLord Ayato, my dearest nemesis. Why must you smile like that? Why must your tea taste like heartbreak and fine politics?β
His brows lift in faint surprise.Β
βAnd why did I tell him it was βtranscendentβ? Thatβs not normal person behavior. Thatβs the kind of thing a swooning diplomat says before fainting into their fan.β
Ayato brings a hand to his mouth, stifling the laugh that bubbles up. He knows he should announce himselfβknows it's indecent to lingerβbut curiosity roots him in place. Itβs rare to see you so unguarded, and rarer still to be the subject of such poetic vitriol.
You pace a few steps, oblivious. βHe probably thinks I was flirting. Which I wasnβt. I think. Ugh.β
He waits just a second longer, watching as you sigh and press your fingertips to your forehead like a tragic heroine from a stage play, before stepping forward, his fan snapping closed with a soft click.
βI didnβt realize Iβd been cast as the villain in your private soliloquy.β
You freeze. There is no mistaking his voice, nor the silk-smooth amusement threading through it. Slowly, you turn.
βI must say, your critique wasβ¦vivid,β he continues. His expression is polite, but his eyes betray him, bright with barely contained laughter. βAnd rather unfair to the tea, which I assure you is not culpable for your emotional distress.β
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. He tilts his head, as if considering something seriously.
βThough I do wonder what heartbreak tastes like to you.β
You groan and bury your face in your hands.
He inclines his head slightly, a teasing smile playing on his lips. βNext time, speak your grievances aloud to me instead. I assure you, I respond far better than flowers.β
He walks in on you muttering and pacing in circles.
βOkay, okay. Donβt laugh if he tells another joke. But also donβt not laugh, because then heβll think you hate him. Ugh, why is this so complicated?β
He appears behind you with a perfectly straight face and says, βWhat do you call a fake noodle? an impasta.β
You shriek and nearly trip over a chair. He waits. You groan.
βThat wasβ¦better than usual,β you admit.
He pauses as he appraises you. His lips twitch. βSo. Youβve been rehearsing responses to my jokes?β
You blink, caught. βNo. Definitely not.β
He steps closer, arms folded, head tilting in mock-serious thought. βInteresting. That implies you anticipated more. Which meansβ¦youβre expecting me.β
ββ¦to keep telling them?β
He nods solemnly. βCorrect. And now that I know youβre preparing, Iβll have to escalate.β
You groan again, this time into your hands, and he finally cracks a smile. Later, heβll tell you a compliment disguised as a riddle. Youβll pretend not to swoon. Heβll pretend not to notice. Neither of you is very convincing.
Youβre standing in front of a mirror, hyping yourself up. βYouβre brave. Youβre bold. You can flirt with Itto today. Probably. Maybe. Okay, no, donβt flirt, just survive eye contact.β
A voice behind you booms, βWell hey, I think youβre already killinβ it!β
You scream and spin around so fast you almost knock over a stool. Ittoβs standing in the doorway, grinning like a kid who just found candy and a beetle.
βAlso, flirtingβs totally encouraged. Ten outta ten, would recommend.β
You clutch your chest. βHow long have you been standing there?!β
βSince the part where you said you were bold and brave or whatever. Sounded super cool, so I figured Iβd stay for the ending.β
You groan. Heβs still grinning.
βBut hey,β he adds, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh, βyou donβt gotta overthink it. Just talk to me like normal! Or, yβknow, you could flirt if thatβs easier.β
You entertain the idea of feigning amnesia, knowing heβd probably fall for it. Instead, you mutter, β...I liked your hair today.β
He lights up like the sun. βSee? Youβre killinβ it!β
Somehow, this ends with him offering to coach you through flirting with him. The audacity.
You were only meant to drop off a report. Nothing more. Just a quick visit to the Knightsβ headquarters, a few signatures, and out. And yet here you are, lingering in an empty hallway, your forehead pressed lightly against a stone pillar as you mutter to yourself.
βGenius. Absolutely genius. βNice weather, Kaeya.β Thatβs what I went with. Might as well have added, βHi, Iβve been harboring a wildly inconvenient crush on you since Stormterror was still a problem. Want to date and/or be the reason I start writing terrible poetry again?ββ
A breath of laughterβnot your ownβcuts through the silence.
βIβd be open to both,β a familiar voice replies.
Heβs there, lounging against the window alcove like heβs been there all along, elbow propped casually on the sill, head tilted with interest. His smile says he heard every word. His eyes say he enjoyed it.
Kaeya pushes off the ledge and strolls toward you, every step perfectly unhurried. βNext time you plan to deliver a monologue about me, perhaps wait until Iβve left the building. Unless,β he adds, voice dropping with playful weight, βyou were hoping Iβd hear it.β
You can feel the heat rise to your face like a sunrise.
βI was just thinking out loud,β you manage.
βSo I gathered. And for the recordββhe passes close enough that his cloak brushes your sleeveββI find it flattering.β
You briefly consider flinging yourself out the nearest window.
At the end of the corridor, he glances back over his shoulder, smile curling just shy of sincere.
βIf the weather stays this nice, do let me know if that wildly inconvenient crush turns into something more actionable.β
A junior knight passing by gives you a puzzled look. βYou, uhβ¦look like you saw a ghost.β
You exhale, voice thin. βWorse.β
Youβre by yourself in the back room of Bubu Pharmacy, sorting herbs and muttering under your breath. Itβs been a long day, and unfortunately, your brain has chosen to perseverate.
βIf I faint in front of him again, Iβm just going to say it was low blood sugar. Not the fact that he tucked my hair behind my ear like it was nothing.β
βHmm. Iβll make a note to check your glucose levels...and perhaps develop a tincture for sudden-onset romantic distress?β
You whip around so fast that a handful of Qingxin spills onto the table. Baizhu stands in the doorway, serene as ever, holding a tray of tea like he didnβt just obliterate your self-esteem.
βItβs a surprisingly common condition,β he adds, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. βOften triggered by gentle gestures and poor coping mechanisms.β
Changsheng pokes her head out from behind his collar and lets out a tiny, delighted laugh. βLovesick. Very contagious,β she stage-whispers.
You bury your face in your hands.
Baizhu sets the tea down beside you with quiet care. βI could prepare a cure, but I fear the malady is mutualβand, strangely, quite welcome.β
You think youβre alone, sitting quietly in a dim corner of the library and murmuring your frustrations to yourself. Dainsleif, combing the shelves for a particular volume, pauses when he hears the soft thread of your voice carry through the candlelight: βI bet he doesnβt even remember my name. Iβm probably just a temporary footnote to him anyway. Someone who fades like shadows at dusk.β
His low voice answers from just beyond the glow of your lantern. βYou are not a footnote.β
You nearly jump out of your skin as Dainsleif steps into view. The candlelight flickers across the lines of his face, which remains composed and unreadable but not unfeeling. He doesnβt speak gently, not exactly, but thereβs a steadiness to his tone that seems to lessen the musty air.
βNames are more than words,β he says. βThey are memory. History. Presence.β
He kneels slightly and locks eyes with you, his gaze piercing.
βI remember your name,β he continues. βNot only the shape of it. I remember the weight it carries when you speak it. I remember the careful way you said goodnight two nights ago, as if you werenβt sure Iβd hear it, or hold it.β
You canβt breathe. You canβt look away.
βDonβt assume I forget the things that matter,β he says, rising to his full height again. His expression doesnβt shift, but something in his posture softens. And then, without waiting for a reply, he turns and disappears into the stacks. For a long moment, all you can hear is the echo of his footsteps and the pulse of your own heartβlouder now, and somehow less alone.
Youβre elbow-deep in soil, half-focused on coaxing the withered pardisah into a new pot, when your frustration finally boils over.
βOkay, next time, just say thank you and walk away. Easy. Normal. Not, βWow, your ears are so expressive today,β like some feral maniac.β You groan and press your forehead to your palm. βHe probably thinks Iβm studying him like a botanical specimen. What is wrong with me?β
βTo be fair,β a dry voice answers behind you, βmost people donβt notice ear movement unless theyβre watching very closely.β
You nearly send the pot flying as you whip around. Tighnari is leaning beside your bag of soil, arms folded, one brow arched in faint incredulity.
βYou were thereβ¦the whole time,β you croak.
βRoughly since the βferal maniacβ part,β he amends, tail flicking with suspicious amusement. βYou were a bit harsh on yourself, but entertaining.β
You cover your face. βI swear I didnβt mean to make it weird.β
βYou didnβt,β he says gently, and thenβsurprisinglyβsmiles. βI didnβt mind the compliment. It wasβ¦oddly specific, but sincere. And clearly the result of long observation.β
He steps past you, crouching to inspect the flower you nearly murdered in your panic.
βNext time,β he adds, not looking up, βless spiraling, more speaking.β
His tone is neutral, but his ears betray him with the smallest, involuntary flick.
And then he mutters to himself, βTheyβre only expressive when youβre around, anyway.β
You pretend not to hear. For now.
Youβre alone in the kitchenβor so you believeβflipping gyozas with intense concentration and muttering under your breath. βOkay, Thoma likes them crispy. Not burnt. Crispy, like his smile. No, wait, what? Focus!β
βCrispy like my smile, huh?β
You flinch. The spatula slips from your fingers and clatters to the stovetop. Thoma is casually leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and grinning like he definitely heard more than he should have.
βIβm flattered,β he says, stepping closer. βBut now Iβve got questions. What, exactly, does a crispy smile look like?β
βIβI meant the gyoza, not yourβ Wait, no, I meant bothβI meanββ
The oil hisses sharply, like even the pan canβt take it anymore. Smoke streams upward.
Thoma is already by your side, grabbing the pan with practiced ease and sliding it off the stove.
βYou know,β he says, grinning as he surveys the damage, βyou didnβt have to set them on fire just to impress me.β
βHey, Iβm not complaining. Means I get to help.β He tosses you a wink. βTeamwork, right?β
Somehow, you end up shoulder to shoulder, sleeves rolled up, hands floured, trying again as he gives teasing tips on βoptimal gyoza symmetry.β
Later, as the final batch sizzles golden and perfect, he leans just close enough to murmur, βStill not sure what a crispy smile is, but if weβre talking about yoursβ¦I think I get it now.β
You march down the corridor, shoulders tense, voice pitched low but laced with despair.
βNo, Heizou, I donβt need your help picking up the papers I dropped. I just need a convenient hole to bury the cadaver of my dignity in, thank you very muchββ
A hand suddenly lands on your shoulder.
βAAHHββ you scream mid-sentence, spinning on instinct and swinging your bag in self-defense.
Heizou barely ducks in time, a laugh tumbling out as he stumbles back, half-shielding himself. βWhoa, violent thoughts and airborne satchels? I shouldβve brought a warrant first.β
You freeze, mortified. Heβs already dusting off his sleeves like itβs just another day at the precinct.
βReally now, thatβs the welcome I get?β he continues, far too amused for someone who was nearly concussed.
βYou snuck up on me mid-spiral,β you retort, torn between embarrassment and residual adrenaline. βThatβs reckless behavior, even for you.β
He raises a brow, utterly unbothered. βI prefer to think of it as instinct. I happen to have an uncanny sense for when people are saying my name behind my back. Or in this case, aloud. To themselves.β
Your eyes widen just enough to give you away. Heizou smiles like heβs just cracked another case.
βYou know,β he adds, stepping just close enough for his voice to drop a tone, βtalking to oneself is a perfectly natural response to emotional distress. Especially when that distress has, sayβ¦a face and a name?β
You groan and press a hand to your forehead. βYouβre insufferable.β
He tilts his head. βAnd yet, Iβm the one you keep muttering about.β
You try to come up with a retort. You fail.
βDonβt worry,β he continues smoothly, already turning on his heel, βyour secrets are safe with me.β
βYou are the secret,β you call after him.
βAnd still,β he says without looking back, βyou canβt seem to stop confessing to it.β
βOkay, just be normal. If I trip, Iβll just play dead. He wonβt even notice. Heβs used to disasters,β you tell yourself as you pace in tight little circles outside the Adventurersβ Guild.
βWait, was that about me?β
You nearly leap into the decorative flower box beside the stairs.
Bennett stands behind you, blinking wide-eyed, equal parts confused and concerned.
βNoβI meanβkind of?β you stammer.
He scratches the back of his neck, flustered. βI mean, yeah, stuff does kinda explode around me sometimes, butβ¦hey, youβre not gonna trip.β
He pauses, then adds quickly, βBut if you do, Iβll totally catch you! Probably! I mean, Iβve got decent reflexes! Usually!β
Heβs turning red now, voice rising an octave as he tries to dig himself out.
βNot that youβll fall, or need catching! Itβs justβIf you did fall, hypothetically, Iβd be there. Probably. Hopefully. Unless something explodes first.β
You both stare at each other in silence for a beat and then burst out laughing.
βSo,β you say, grinning, βwanna grab lunch before something does explode?β
βYes! Wait, are you asking me out?β
You hesitate. ββ¦Would it make you trip if I said yes?β
βThen, Iβll give you βprobablyβ as my answer.β
He hears your muffled voice through the wall.
βIf I see his ridiculously pretty face one more time, Iβm going to cry. Or combust. Or both. There is no middle ground anymore.β
A suspicious creak of the floorboard makes your soul exit your body. The door swings open slowly. Kaveh stands there with a tea tray and the most theatrical expression known to man.
βWell,β he says, in full dramatic cadence, βhad I known my face was wreaking such havoc on your emotional equilibrium, I wouldβve brewed peppermint for the nerves.β
You groan and throw a pillow at him.
βAh! betrayed by the very person moved to tears by my beauty. So youβve chosen emotional combustion. Noted.β
You peek between your fingers. βKaveh, please go.β
He places the tea tray down very deliberately. βIβll leave,β he says, moving toward the door, βbut only after I point out that Iβm flattered, deeply and profoundly.β
He stops in the doorway, looks back with a grin just slightly too genuine.
βBy the way,β he adds, not quite looking at you, βitβs mutual. The wholeβ¦emotional-overload-in-each-otherβs-presence thing.β
And with that, he leaves. The tea cools quickly. You do not.
Youβre standing outside WΓ‘nmΓn Restaurant, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and muttered self-advice as you wait for a certain funeral consultant to join you for lunch.
βYou canβt just stare at him every time he talks. Heβs not poetry. Heβs a man. A terrifyingly wise, elegant man made of tea and regret.β
You pause, frowning at the phrase.
You jolt and whirl around. Zhongli is standing just behind you, his expression unreadable, as if weighing your words with the patience of centuries.
After a momentβs pause, a faint smile graces his lips. βI believe thatβs a new metaphor.β
Then, with a quiet elegance, he gestures in the space between you.
βYou may continue your soliloquy. I find itβ¦endearing.β
You feel your composure unravel, cheeks flushing crimson as you try to meet his calm, knowing gaze. For a moment, the world narrows to the soft sound of your breathing and the quiet dignity of a man who understands more than he lets on, and you silently wonder if maybe, just maybe, he is poetry after all.
