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stellarron · 4 months

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:// 𝙸𝙽 𝙰𝙱𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙰

[ AN ARGENTI × FEM!READER FIC ]

For @favonius-library 2023 Secret Santa gift exchange 🎄💝 Media: Honkai: Star Rail Characters: Reader (she/her; written in third person perspective), Argenti Word count: ~2.6k

Content warnings: Present day AU. Setting is based off the southwestern United States. Angst — this is (the beginning of) a story about grief, but also about love. Argenti and reader are in a pre-established relationship; both of them are the same age, and of majority age (20-21 years old). From the author: Happy holidays Mimi ( @aimixx ) ! It’s your Secret Santa here. Argenti… He is so… (screams into pillow and bites it). I hope you enjoy the story I’ve written for you — this is only chapter one, so there’ll be more to come in the future! Special thanks to @souglias + @verxsyon + @shiinleaf for giving this chapter a read-through and sharing your thoughts! Soundtrack: Heroes – The Midnight (live version) / 失恋ソング沢山聴いて泣いてばかりの私はもう。(Summertime Render ED2) by Riria. / Way Back Home – Shaun / Meant To Be (Tower of Fantasy OST) – Shymie

:// 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 1: 𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙸𝙰

“y/n… y/n…”

She stirs to the soothing lilt of her boyfriend's voice, his palm firm on her shoulder as he gently shakes her from her slumber. Her eyes flutter open to the incessant patter of raindrops outside the car window; beyond the rain-marred windshield, she can make out the sight of asphalt stretching into the horizon, flanked on either side by even concrete pavements and vibrant, tidy rows of bungalows. In any other time of year, perhaps this scene might have served as a tableau of prime suburban living, picture-perfect with lush gardens and the laughter of frolicking children; but today, their once vivid hues stood dampened and dulled beneath the descent of a frigid winter downpour.

The car begins moving again. She sits up in the passenger seat, stretching to alleviate the stiffness in her neck. As the car turns into the driveway and into the shelter of the garage, she shifts her gaze towards her boyfriend. Even against the backdrop of the bleak outdoors, his signature crimson locks don’t lose their blazing lustre, remaining brilliant and bright even when up in a messy ponytail, framing his weary countenance.

He feels her eyes on him, and turns to her. His lips curve into the ever gentle, familiar smile she knows and loves as the car comes to a stop and he cuts the engine.

“We’re here,” he tells her. “Welcome to Roselied.”

y/n and Argenti first met in their freshman year of university.

Their school ranked among the top in the nation. Admissions were reserved for none other than the cream of the crop; even then, those gruelling demands would prove only the tip of the iceberg for those lucky enough to comprise the student body.

It was with this understanding y/n pushed herself to the extreme late one night in freshman year. It would be the tennis team tryouts the next day, and she was dedicated to not wasting a single minute, perfecting serve and swing against an indomitable opponent: the back wall of the school’s locker rooms. Most of the school’s tennis team had been admitted on sports scholarships; anyone who was to fill in its remaining ranks would have to rise to their impeccable standard: that of those who had honed their form and skill for years, who had made the sport their lifeblood. Failure was not an option.

She would eventually lose track of time, though she cared not for the hours that had passed as much as for the number of hits she had missed, for the growing frequency of flaws in her form as the minutes wore on and fatigue crept up upon her.

It was about then that Argenti appeared.

She still remembers the first time she saw him: turning around the corner to sharp, sudden glare she had shot him for his intrusion, wide-eyed astonishment mellowed to sympathy as she softened her gaze in apology, realising just how wound up she was in that moment.

“I’m sorry,” he began, “I heard this weird thumping from back here, so I came to check it out.”

She had merely grunted in reply, and returned to her practice. She could afford no respite — not at this juncture.

Argenti continued to linger, observing her as she practised. He watched as weariness began to take its toll on her, her movements becoming more sluggish, her countenance more frustrated with every move she made. Each motion seemed to prove more laborious than the last. When minutes had passed and he had not left, she paused, intending to lay into him for being a distraction, but before she could speak up, he did:

“Why don’t we play a match together?”

At the incredulous expression on her face, he explained, “I do have some experience from playing back in high school. I might not be as good as you, but still… Practice is practice?”

She cast a glance at the wall before her. He was right — she’d make no proper progress continuing to play against the wall like this. After all, an inanimate entity could never hope to replicate the true circumstances of playing against an actual opponent: the unpredictability of their motions, the intensity of their presence, the dynamism of their being.

And so they found themselves at opposite ends of the tennis court. Her spare racket in his grasp, Argenti primed himself for her serve. It was a pleasant surprise when he managed to receive it.

Thus continued their back and forth upon the deserted court. As the match went on, she realised he was only a little above the level of an amateur, playing not to defeat his opponent, but simply to be able to return the ball across the net. The rational inclination would have been to dismiss his efforts, to deem the current minutes wasted and better spent on practising by herself; yet she could not deny the pounding of her heartbeat, the thrill of the moment, the swirling sentiments rising from the pits of her stomach: she was having fun.

Another hit of the ball back at him. She noted the movements of his racket as he attempted to return it, the angle of which caused it to soar up, up into the air… He had shouted a hasty apology to her, but her attention was focused solely on the trajectory of the ball.

As the ball descended into her court, she seized the golden opportunity, leaping into the air and smashing it back into his court. He rushed to receive it, but his unpracticed swing could not match its velocity; he felt the recoil of the ball against his wrist, and, in his momentary struggle to return it to her court, the ball lost its inertia, bounding off his racket to hit the net between them.

Argenti bowed his head, a chuckle of concession leaving his lips. He raised his head back up to a sight whose memory still takes his breath away: her, smiling for the first time that night, the look in her eyes wishing, wanting, waiting for more.

He could not help the grin that spread across his face. Their eyes met, and in the gaze held between them, an unspoken understanding: gratitude met with encouragement, a newfound relief, and mutual admiration; the precedent of a sentiment beyond the banality of reason, of sparks beginning to fly.

He was the first to break the silence. “It’s late,” he told her. “We should be heading back. You’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow… You need the rest.

“You’re going to do great. I promise.”

And taking his advice would prove to be something she would later be grateful for — the following day, as she waited her turn on the bench beside the court, nerves ate away at her, allowing her no mental respite. As waves of anxiety overtook her mind, she wondered just how much more worn out she would be had she not heeded his words.

“y/n,” the team manager announced her name, indicating the beginning of her turn in the tryouts. Taking a deep breath, she stepped onto the court.

Just then, out of the corner of her eye, she’d noticed the movement of a familiar, striking hue across the bleachers. She turned to see who it was, and there, in the top row, sat the face from last night: Argenti, casting her an encouraging smile, and giving her a thumbs up.

She felt a surge of adrenaline through her veins. Tossing the ball in the air, she launched a powerful serve against her opponent…

And the rest was history.

Individual efforts, fates aligned — such was the impression left upon others of the romance between the rising star of the school’s tennis team and the gallant prince of the law faculty. The whispers, cheers and jeers alike dubbed the both of them campus royalty; and for all it’s worth, she knew it a title well-deserved on her part: the reward of consistent diligence and discipline factored into every facet of her life, from her consistently stellar academic performance to becoming the youngest member to represent the school in tennis competitions, and even in her everyday appearance and social engagements.

Yet, when met with these comments, Argenti’s eyes always seemed to take on a certain sadness. It never lasts longer than an instant — a fleeting shadow, a trick of the light — but she had seen it enough times to know it was there. She had brought it up once, early on in their relationship, but he had been surprised at this observation, totally unaware of its occurrence and later dismissing it as a result of fatigue. It was thus that she surmised that perhaps it was an unconscious idiosyncrasy of his; and if there was really more to it, she trusted he would confide in her in time.

When he first invited her to spend the year-end holidays with him at his hometown, the memory of that look in his eyes came back to her. She wondered if visiting the place where he grew up would bring her the answers she secretly desired.

And now, as they pulled up to his childhood home amidst the merciless rain, she watched as the same melancholy bloomed in his eyes, more vivid, more forlorn than ever before.

“Make yourself at home,” Argenti pushes open the door, stepping aside to allow y/n into the guest bedroom. “I hope you can forgive that we’ll be staying in different rooms.”

The room exudes a humble elegance: a high, queen-sized mattress with patterned bedsheets sat upon a frame of lacquered rosewood, complemented on either side by a wardrobe and bedside table of similar makes. Cream-coloured drapes hung before each of the windows, and, on an adjacent wall, a door leading into the attached bathroom, pristine, bright and replete with toiletries.

y/n accepts the handle of her suitcase from Argenti and pulls it into the room. “It’s no problem at all,” she replies. “It’s your parents’ place after all. I totally understand, mine are the same way.”

She walks over to the wardrobe, setting down the last of her luggage in front of it, and turns to face him. He’s leaning against the door frame, smiling at her. He extends his arm, and takes her hand in his. “Want to see my room?” he asks.

She squeezes his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. The corners of her lips twitch upwards into a smile. “Of course.”

He grins, leading her down the hallway. The door just by the bannister of the staircase is painted the same cream white as others like it in the household, leave for the fact that its two panels were coloured in with wide, dry strokes of paint, a larger red panel atop a smaller one in gold. On the doorknob hung a wooden door hanger carved and painted to resemble a wilting rose, the letters of his name affixed to its faded silver stalk.

He unlatches the door to his bedroom. Turning to face her, he takes both her hands in his as he walks backwards, pulling her into the space with him.

Argenti’s bedroom is a museum of memory; the material of his very soul made manifest. The ivory-hued walls that surround them are adorned with posters of movies y/n recognized as his favourites, prints of famous paintings, a triangular flag bearing the colours and acronym of their university, as well as polaroids of himself with individuals around his age whom she did not recognize. Behind her, a hand-painted mural of roses blooming amidst vines bordered his room door on the inside.

Facing the doorway, an expansive stretch of windows occupied the widest wall in the room, framed by red curtains. Before the windows stood a vintage study desk, its surface faintly scratched and stained, with rows of drawers built into both sides of it and a swivel chair neatly tucked into the space between. On either side of his desk stood a wardrobe and a bookcase, while his bed sat in a corner away from the windows, neatly made: two pillows had been stacked at its head, while a row of worn, well-loved plush toys stood lined against the adjacent wall, while a quilt of exuberant hues lay folded at its foot.

Argenti steps towards his bed, unfolding the quilt into a larger rectangle. He sits down upon it, meeting y/n’s gaze and patting the space next to him.

No sooner had she settled down next to him did the older, feminine voice of his mother rise from downstairs. “Argenti!” she calls. He sighs, casting an apologetic glance at y/n.

“I'm sorry,” he explains, rising from the bed. “We arrived earlier than anticipated, and my mom— Well, she was really excited to meet you. She doesn't want to keep you waiting for dinner.”

y/n shakes her head. “It’s alright,” she replies, taking his hand in hers and squeezing it. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He shakes his head. “My mom wants to keep it a surprise.”

“Argenti!” yells his mother again. He rushes toward the staircase.

“Leave the door open,” he calls after her. “Just look around at whatever you’d like! I’ll be right back up!”

As he descends the stairs to heed his mother’s call, y/n wanders the room on her lonesome, looking around at the myriad trinkets and items scattered about the room. Her eyes fall on his bookcase.

In the otherwise well-kept room, Argenti’s bookcase posed a region of chaos: books of varying subjects and genres lay upon its shelves in haphazard arrangements, employing no apparent system of organisation leave for that exclusive to the mind of its owner. Her eyes scan past rows of tattered exam guides with frayed spines, yellowed literary classics, thick biographies, glossy-covered fantasy and romance novels, before eventually arriving at the top shelf: the most organised level, chock full of yearbooks and photo albums, each labelled with their respective years.

Her face lights up with an impish curiosity. She perches on her tiptoes, stretching her utmost as she reaches towards the yearbook labelled ‘Roselied High School: Class of 2021’. As her fingertips graze the top of the yearbook, she trips over herself, losing her balance and tugging the yearbook down to the floor with her in a storm of dust and grime.

The resounding thud sends Argenti into a panic. “y/n!” he cries, racing up the stairs from the kitchen, his hand still clad in an oven mitt.

He breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of her unscathed, seated on his room floor. Yet, instead of turning to him or scrambling to help tidy the disarray surrounding her, she continued to face away from him, her interest piqued by an unknown object.

He steps closer to see what she had found.

She holds a stack of photographs in her hands. She takes her time examining each of them, placing one behind the other one at a time. He notices the rest of the paraphernalia in front of her: a bundle of handwritten letters, bound with twine; a dried rose, each of its once white petals tinted with different hues of the rainbow; a spiral-bound notebook full to bursting newspaper clippings and post-it notes; a compact disc, its iridescent surface visible through its yellowed plastic casing; and two sheets of yellowed paper held together by a rusted staple, all neatly placed into the open wooden box he’d hidden at the very top of his bookcase, resting above all his photo albums and yearbooks.

“Argenti.” She senses his presence behind her, but does not turn to face him.

“Who is Idrila?”

#argenti x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #.argenti #.ix #.hsr

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