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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐀 | READ ON AO3

JOHAN LIEBERT x GENDER-NEUTRAL!READER

˚ · .─ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: A reclusive man haunted by a dark past makes a routine of settling in from one remote village to another, it is until his solitude is disrupted by a warmhearted neighbor who slowly unravels his barriers.

˚ · .─ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4k

˚ · .─ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: post-canon, neighbors, developing friendship, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort, romance but only if you squint, johan goes by a different name, a bit self-indulgent

The morning was quiet, the kind of quiet that wrapped itself around you like a heavy blanket. Johan—or the man who used to be Johan—stood by the edge of a small, weathered dock. The lake before him mirrored the gray sky above, its stillness a fitting companion to his isolation.

Here, in the shadow of the Austrian Alps, no one asked questions. No one looked too closely at the soft-spoken man who had arrived a year ago with little more than a duffle bag and a name scribbled on forged papers: Elias Meyer.

The locals in the nearby village whispered their theories about him. Some said he was a writer escaping the noise of the city; others believed he was a broken man fleeing a past too heavy to bear. No one dared to press him for details, not when his polite smiles came with an unshakable undercurrent of sadness.

Johan—Elias—had chosen this place for a reason. It was far enough from his past that even the most persistent ghosts couldn't follow.

One afternoon, as he carried firewood from the forest to his small cabin, he noticed a group of children playing by the lake. Their laughter echoed through the valley, sharp and carefree, a sound Johan hadn’t heard in what felt like lifetimes.

When was the last time he had heard it again?

With the question, memories of him and Anna running and laughing around the flower fields surged in his mind like a hidden plague aching to be let out. He tried to shake it off, which thankfully, did when a ball suddenly rolled towards him, coming to a stop near his boots.

One of the children, a boy no older than eight, hesitated before approaching him with wide, curious eyes, “Excuse me, Sir.”

Johan bent down, picking up the ball. For a moment, he froze, staring at the object in his hands. Memories of other children, other faces, tried to claw their way to the surface. But he pushed them back, focusing on the boy before him.

“Here,” Johan said softly, handing the ball back.

The boy smiled, and Johan felt something shift—a flicker of warmth where there had only been cold.

Weeks passed, and Johan began to notice the children more often. They waved to him from the village road, their carefree energy drawing him out of his solitude in ways he didn’t understand.

One day, the same boy from before approached him again.

“Mr. Meyer,” the boy said, using the name Johan had adopted. “Can you help us build a raft?”

Johan blinked, surprised. “A raft?”

“For the lake. We want to float it across and see who can paddle the fastest.”

Johan hesitated. He had spent so long avoiding attachments, avoiding the messiness of human connection. But something in the boy’s earnest expression made him nod.

As they worked together, something unexpected happened. Johan began to laugh—not the hollow, calculated laugh of his past, but something genuine, something that startled even himself.

Months turned into a year, and Johan—no, Elias—became a quiet but integral part of the village. He never shared much about himself, and the villagers respected his privacy. But he was always there to lend a hand, whether it was fixing a broken fence or helping the children with their schoolwork.

He didn’t try to forget his past; that would have been impossible. He didn't try to be a good person to reclaim himself either, as that would've been more impossible. Instead, he let it serve as a reminder of what needs to ponder as he lives the rest of his life in solitude.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the mountains, Johan sat by the lake with the boy who had first approached him.

“Mr. Meyer,” the boy asked, “why do you live here all alone?”

Johan smiled faintly, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Sometimes, people need to start over.”

“Because?”

“No reason, really. They just need to. Maybe to see the world a lot clearer than they did in their old lives…?”

The boy nodded, not fully understanding what his blonde friend was on.

Years later, Johan’s presence in the village becomes a story the locals would pass down—a kind stranger who came out of nowhere and left with no warning. No one knew where he went or why he had left in the first place.

But those who remembered him would always recall his kindness, quiet but comforting, faint but indubitably paved more warmth in their lives.

And somewhere, in places even quieter than the village he had already gone through, Johan Liebert immersed in his new name—quite surprised that monsters like him didn’t actually need to consume another’s existence just to gain one. For the first time, he was simply a man, trying to live—at least, that was the routine he had developed for years and years. Elias Meyer, a man almost unnoticeable building himself a haven from one remote town to the other. Johan had no plans of changing it.

Even when he decided to settle in another remote village to check on an old friend (without making his old identity known, of course), he had no plans of changing it. Elias Meyer is an existence that will always be bound to leave.

The mornings in this town were colder than the last one. The frost was biting at the air before the sun had fully risen. The uncomfortable weather might’ve been too cozy for someone like him, and yet his resolve was unwavering—he is Elias Meyer, and Elias Meyer is an existence that would be always bound to leave—it is until you started appearing at his door with delectable breakfasts at hand.

You had moved to this little village years ago after graduating college, and ever since, the neighbors had perceived you as a bright newcomer with an eagerness to meet each one of them. Poor Elias, they thought to themselves humorously, because they just know his preference for solitude—even to the point of owning a cabin at the edge of town—would have no say once faced with your resolute extroversion.

You perceived Elias as that tall, blonde man whose face looked carved from stone—a beauty so ethereal it’d be a waste if he wasn’t basking in the sun for everyone to see every morning. He barely acknowledged anyone. He kept to himself, slipping into town only for essentials, his words clipped but polite. And unfortunately for you, most of the neighbors could respect his solitude.

But you couldn’t.

When you first saw him at the market buying his fair share of supplies and vegetables, he has unknowingly bewitched you. His beautiful, distant face seemed wrapped in shadows you couldn’t decipher. And perhaps you're a cat whose curiosity would someday get you killed, or perhaps a moth doomed to die by its entrancement to the fire. The neighbors were right, much to their excitement—Elias is doomed to be your project.

The first morning you knocked on his door, you had a basket in hand—freshly baked shortbread cookies, a jar of honey, and a thermos of hot tea.

When he opened the door, his expression was unreadable, pale blue eyes scanning you with a calm detachment that made your stomach flutter.

“Good morning, my new neighbor!” you chirped, holding the basket out. “I figured you might want some breakfast.”

He stared at you for a moment, his gaze cool but not unkind. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Oh, come on, you haven’t even tried it yet!” you insisted, pushing the basket forward. “I made it myself.”

There was a long pause, the kind that might have made anyone else shrink back. But not you. You smiled, unwavering, until he finally sighed and took the basket from your hands.

“Thank you,” he said again, quieter this time. Then he closed the door.

It was all it took for him to take note of your existence? Hell, he looked at you for a solid minute from head to toe, as though taking in your presence before his very eyes! You left his doorstep feeling victorious.

The next morning, you knocked again. And the morning after that.

At first, he didn’t seem to know what to do with you. He would accept the food with a quiet nod, barely saying a word before closing the door. But over time, you noticed subtle changes—with how he lingered a little longer at the threshold, and with how his eyes softened just the slightest when he saw you.

“You really don’t have to do this,” he said one morning, as you handed him a bowl of steaming soup.

“I know,” you replied with a grin, “but I want to.”

He stared at you, as though trying to puzzle you out. “Why?”

“Because you look like you could use a friend.”

The words seemed to unsettle him. He didn’t reply, but this time, he didn’t close the door right away.

Weeks passed, and your morning visits became a routine. He started inviting you inside—not for long, just enough time to sip tea or exchange a few words.

You learned his name was Elias Meyer, though something in the way he said it made you wonder if it was real. You didn’t press him for details; you could tell he valued his privacy, and you could at least respect that despite the things you couldn’t.

But little by little, you saw glimpses of the man beneath the quiet exterior. He was incredibly observant, noticing small details about you that no one else did. He rarely smiled, but when he did, it felt like the sun breaking through clouds.

One morning, you brought him a basket of wildflowers along with the usual breakfast.

“They reminded me of you,” you said, setting the basket on his table.

He gave you a strange look, his lips twitching as though he didn’t know whether to laugh or frown. “Wildflowers reminded you of me?”

“Sure,” you said brightly. “They’re quiet, but they still make the world a little more beautiful.”

Despite the amusing remark, Johan seemed to remember something from a long past, something that made him stare at the flowers way longer than intended. Then, you saw him smile—not a ghost of one, but a real, genuine smile. It was fleeting, but it made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t quite understand.

“You should smile more, Elias,” you blurted, which in turn dissipated Johan’s smile with a clear of his throat.

“Not my thing.”

But still! You quietly gushed. What a beautiful smile! You went home victorious yet again when dusk came.

One evening, as the sun set behind the mountains, you found yourself sitting on the porch of his cabin. He had made tea for the two of you, a small gesture that felt monumental considering how reluctant he’d been to accept your kindness at first.

“Why do you keep coming here?” he asked suddenly, his voice low but steady.

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, searching for the right words. “I’m not the kind of person people like you should want to be around.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “What makes you say that?”

His eyes darkened, a shadow passing over his face, and yet he stayed silent, refusing to answer. It didn't take long for you to put the pieces together. You reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “We all have pasts, Elias. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve a future.” For a moment, he looked at you as though you were something incomprehensible, something he couldn’t quite believe was real.

The days turned into weeks, then months, and slowly, Johan—or Elias, as you knew him—began to change. He still valued his solitude, but he didn’t seem to mind sharing it with you.

He never told you the full truth about his past, not that you ever asked. You didn’t need to know who he had been to see the man he was becoming.

Johan was getting accustomed to his new normal, but then it changed again.

It is a change that, perhaps, would require Johan to rethink the duration of his stay in your village. How strange, one might think, for Johan had developed more disdain for permanence ever since he started living like this. And he only came here to check on an old friend, wanted to see if they’re doing well and good, then he’d be quietly taking his leave again, right? Under what instances must his agenda change?

It started the first morning you didn’t knock on his door. Johan didn’t think much of it. People had lives, after all. Perhaps you’d overslept, or maybe you were busy with something else.

The second morning, however, felt different. He found himself waiting by the door longer than he cared to admit, listening for the sound of your footsteps or the soft knock he’d grown accustomed to. When it didn’t come, he stood there for several minutes before stepping back, unsettled.

By the third day, Johan’s thoughts refused to quiet. Something about your absence gnawed at him, a peculiar weight in his chest he couldn’t name. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to expect you, to rely on the brightness you brought with you each morning.

So that evening, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, Johan found himself standing in front of your small, weathered house.

The curtains were drawn, and the porch light was off, but he could see a faint glow from inside. His knuckles rapped against the door, firm and deliberate.

“Are you there?” he called, his voice steady but quieter than usual.

There was no answer, but the light inside didn’t move. He waited a moment longer before trying the handle. It turned easily, and he stepped inside, his footsteps nearly silent against the wooden floor.

You were on the couch, curled into yourself, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. The sight stopped him cold.

There he goes, his hand stops around the doorframe as he processes the sight. And, perhaps, the realization that out of everyone in this unpopulated village, he might not be the one who does best at masking his real self. You, who were always so buoyant, so irrepressibly bright, were now something else entirely—small, vulnerable, broken in a way he hadn’t seen before. You were still wearing the clothes he had last seen you with three days ago. Your hair was all greasy, and your skin was oily as it wrapped around your body. It must’ve been uncomfortable on your end. Your whole house was chaotic, too. As if it had been abandoned for weeks.

He took a careful step forward, then another, stopping just short of the couch. “You didn’t come this morning,” he said softly, as though the words themselves might shatter you further.

“Please, don’t look at me…” Slowly, you turned to look at him, your face streaked with tears as you realized that it was Elias before you, the last person you’d expect to visit you such an hour—with a face hinting concern, no less. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice raw. “I... I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

He crouched beside you, his expression calm but intense, his pale blue eyes fixed on yours. He didn’t move for a long moment, his mind working in ways it hadn’t in years. Comforting others was not something he was accustomed to. His presence had always been a harbinger of destruction, not solace. And yet, here you were, someone who had given him pieces of light he didn’t think he deserved, now in desperate need of something in return.

He reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and gently wrapped it around you. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though trying not to startle you.

What surprised you, however, was when he sat down beside you, leaving just enough space to make his presence felt without crowding you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, his voice low but not unkind.

You shook your head, clutching the blanket tighter. Minutes passed in silence, broken only by your uneven breaths. Johan sat perfectly still, his gaze fixed on some indeterminate point ahead. He didn’t press you, didn’t offer hollow reassurances. Instead, he stayed there, his calm presence steady against the storm inside you.

When your sobs finally quieted, he heated some tea on your countertop, paving his way onto your kitchen with all the familiar stock of food, all because these were all you’ve been bringing to his door first thing in the morning. Much to his surprise, he sees the familiar basket on the edge of your kitchen—two pieces of sourdough bread, a thermos of tea, and a jar of honey refilled. It means you had an attempt to get out of your house and go to his somehow; it’s just that you failed miserably.

Johan is then confused. What made you sink this low? What have you been amidst all the smiles you shine down upon everyone? The monster inside him spoke; poor human beings, to absolutely despise their real form so much to feign buoyancy and joy when out of their safe havens. How despicable.

This was the first time—since Johan had escaped that dreary hospital bed—that he had gotten confused about which voice he’d let take over inside his pretty little head.

Without a word, he handed the mug of tea to you, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Drink,” he nonchalantly said. “It will help.”

You hesitated but took the cup, your hands trembling slightly as you brought it to your lips. After you’d finished, Johan stood and moved toward the kitchen again. You watched him, confused, as he opened a few cupboards and began preparing something—toast, simple and unassuming, but warm. When he returned, he set the plate in front of you without a word.

“You don’t have to eat it now,” he said, his voice softer than before. “But you should eat something.”

The care in his actions, so understated yet deliberate, brought fresh tears to your eyes. There you go again, Johan pointed out in his mind. He never thought you’d be a crybaby. As much as you’d like to disrupt his solitude in the morning, it seemed like he has also taken a liking to observing your every action. How unusual.

Johan stayed until you fell asleep, sitting quietly in the chair across from the couch. As your breathing evened out, he leaned back, his gaze lingering on your tear-streaked face.

And again, for the first time in years, he felt something unfamiliar—a desire not to fix or manipulate, but simply to be there.

As he left the house that night, locking the door behind him, he had decided that whatever it was that fractured your smile, perhaps it would be in his best interest if he didn’t let it consume you—not if he could help it.

A few days passed, and your routine of appearing before his door first thing in the morning still hadn’t gone back.

What surprised Johan instead was the soft knock on his door in the middle of the night, waking him up from a light slumber. He had mentally thanked himself and his unhealthy sleeping habits because as soon as he opened the door, he found you standing there, shivering, your face pale and your eyes wide with a mix of fear and lingering tears.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, clutching the edges of your cardigan. “I had... a bad dream.”

Johan studied you silently for a moment, his gaze sharp but not unkind. Without a word, he stepped aside, gesturing for you to come in.

He didn’t ask what the dream was about as he could sense the weight of it in your shoulders just well—it was in the way you hugged yourself, in your trembling as if the nightmare still had its claws keeping in its wake. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight. It’s just that he didn’t know what to say; it's been decades since he had comforted someone who just woke up due to their own plaguing demons—it was back in the days when his sister, Anna, could still turn to him like this whenever she dreamt of the Red Rose Mansion.

So instead of pressing you on it, he heated some chamomile tea and placed the warm mug in front of you before sitting across the table, repeating his gesture the nights prior.

“You’re safe now,” he managed after a while, voice steady and calm, as if willing you to believe it.

“Am I?” you blankly stared down the ground, letting the smell of chamomile permeate your senses. It wasn’t long until your words sunk at you: Crap, he might think I’m being sarcastic, and so you muttered, “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“I didn’t mean to bother you, I just... I just didn’t know where else to go.”

"Worry not, you've come to the right place." What did he mean by that? Isn't he bothered? It's three in the morning, Elias. After a few sips of tea, Johan suggested, “Stay here tonight. The dream can’t follow you here.”

You nodded, thankful, but the lurking question was still in mind: Why? Why would the dream not follow you here?

But Johan knew the veracity of his statement all too well, albeit lost at how and why he was acting so unlikely of his character. You came to the right place, indeed, for the monster won't reach you if he’s here. No monster would dare, that much he knew, as much as he had liked the intrigue of other beings becoming a master of Johan’s own game. “Want to tell me what happened?”

You shook your head, unable to form words.

He stayed silent, as though waiting for you to form your thoughts. And when you failed, he just moved to sit beside you instead, not daring to ask questions or try to pull answers from you.

His presence was quiet but steady—a calm in the storm even—that you couldn’t help yourself but rest your head against his shoulder. He didn’t move away; if he was surprised or irked, he showed no sign of it either.

Perhaps the only lurking question in his head was that; how do people usually do this? His hand hovered for a moment before he rested it lightly against your back, his touch—perhaps—was perceived by your brain as a silent reminder: Go on, I’ll stay as long as you need.

"Thank you, Elias," you mutter. "And sorry. I'll make it up to you."

Despite Johan feeling all too unfamiliar—not only with the name but with the mere act of being thanked—he didn't show it upfront. It's as if he's a mere watcher, an observer seeing how things unfold. He's definitely not someone to be thanked, he's sure as hell you're not thanking him—as in the person that he is—but rather the person that he's showing in front of you, as Elias Meyers, as the neighbor you had quite taken a liking with.

However, he's not that kind and caring to not use it for his own gain yet. "Show yourself up on my doorstep again once you're all better, preferably with a breakfast at hand to save me the hassle of cooking for myself."

"Tch," you chuckled and rolled your eyes at how silly the payment had sounded, but you nodded anyway. You miss bugging him during the day.

For hours, the two of you sat there, the world outside forgotten. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you weren’t carrying the weight alone. You ended up falling asleep on his couch, the blanket he draped over you smelling faintly of the pinewood walls of his cabin.

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by the way, FOR MY OIL WELL FIRES LOVERS, allow me to cook... read more here ;) also saying this before anyone asks; no i don't want to continue this yet im sorry. maybe after i finish oil well fires? but if someone wants to then pls do and pamper me some johan liebert fluff :( i am so sad

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