Chapter Text
Xiao supposed that today wasn’t the worst day to have off.
It’s a Sunday in late March, meaning the bitter frosts of winter have disappeared but the pollen-ridden winds of spring have yet to arrive. The sun peeks out from behind the clouds, its soft rays caressing the earth in white kisses against a pastel sky. In the distance, chains of fluffy black clouds adorn the peaks of the Vicentine Alps like a necklace of black mother-of-pearls, a tell-tale sign of an evening storm brewing.
Throughout his year-long stay in Verona, Xiao only had Sundays off a handful of times. He spent those Sundays like he spent any other day off - catching up on sleep, writing letters to his family in France and catching a meal with his squadmates. But Xiao was feeling restless and homesick of late; Napoleon has shown no sign of moving the French forces stationed at Verona home anytime soon, and being cooped up in his quarters made him miss his siblings more.
In the distance, he hears the cathedral bells tolling, the mellifluous sound rousing the city from the clutches of sleep. From his window, he watches the idyllic Verona come to life, the population streaming towards the cathedral for mass like ants to their nest.
Well, going to mass doesn’t seem like a bad way to pass the time. Xiao hasn’t gone to church since he was drafted, and honestly, if he gets bored, he can just nap in the back. S’not like he understands Italian very well anyway.
After freshening up and changing into his nicest set of clothes (that isn’t his uniform), Xiao makes his way to the cathedral. As he nears the doors, he catches a glimpse of two of the bellboys tolling the bells. Although they don’t look like siblings, they wear matching braids and share the same aura of joyous radiance that the other bellboys lack. He thinks about the angelic smiles the two share even as he takes a seat at the backmost pew, and then thinks about how he and his siblings used to smile like that, too.
Although Xiao hails from the poorest, most backcountry regions of southern France, even he knows that the Veronese take the art of bell-ringing very seriously. Many monks dedicate their whole lives to studying, writing, performing and instructing this art. The profession generates no liveable income and the ringing of the bells is gruelling, thankless work. But the sweet chimes that resonate throughout the city are but a moment of bliss given freely for all, even the poorest of citizens, to enjoy - it's rewarding in a way little else is. He understands why it is Verona’s pride and joy -
- which is why he finds it so surprising that the bellboys from earlier in the morning are also singing in the choir. And that they are… gifted at it, more so than they are at bell-ringing.
Is this what ascending feels like? Two ethereal voices singing divine praises in a language he does not understand, harmonies dancing and intertwining to lift any listening souls into The Sublime?
Xiao is a foreign soldier, sent to steal this beautiful, modest town away for the French. Is a sinner like him allowed to experience this little shard of Heaven like this?
He was by no means a religious person. Xiao gave up all faith in God when his prayers so many years ago were left unanswered; God gave his country bitter cold, gave his village famine, gave Guizhong to the epidemic…
But the two boys with the matching braids could almost convince him that God is real and abandons none of his children. And… he is embarrassed to admit it, but the cherubic face of the boy with the roundest of cheeks, the most mirthful of smiles and teal-tipped braids could give him hope that someone like him can find salvation.
The hymn ends. A pair of sparkling turquoise meets a pair of mesmerized amber - Xiao is caught staring. The teal-eyed boy gives Xiao a wink as he follows his periwinkle-eyed duet partner off the platforms and into the west wing of the cathedral.
Xiao can’t remember anything else past his embarrassment. His head is empty as he shoves past the throng of people that are hurriedly vacating the pews. Overwhelmed by the foot traffic in front of the cathedral, he slips away to one of the cathedral’s side gardens to recollect himself. Sitting at the edge of the fountain, Xiao holds his head in his hands and mentally vows to never come to mass ever again, else risk being seen by that beautiful boy as an obsessed stalker.
Bell-like peals of laughter carry in the wind, and the source only seems to approach closer and closer. Xiao tenses, but before he can look up, a familiar voice sounds, “Pray tell, what is a handsome chap like you brooding in the sunlight for? Are you unwell?”
Xiao flinches, almost falling into the fountain. The chime-like laughter resumes.
“I’m fine,” Xiao grits out in broken Italian. “I do not speak Italian very well.”
“I can see that,” the other boy responds in perfect French. “Regardless of what language, I can still rhyme and chat!”
“Please stop rhyming.” Xiao groans. “Actually, why are you talking to me, anyway?”
“Well… It seemed like you really enjoyed Barbatos* and I’s performance today, and you seem so interesting. I saw you sitting out here and thought to introduce myself!” He bends down a little to meet Xiao’s eyes before breaking into an ear-splitting grin. “My name is Venti, and it’s very nice to meet you!” Venti held out his hand for Xiao to shake, his gaze intense and expectant.
Xiao moved his gaze and instead stared very hard at Venti’s outstretched hand. Without looking up, he asked Venti, “Why?”
The other boy dropped his hand, visibly wilting at the rejection. “Is becoming friends too much to ask?” His voice was soft, pained, apologetic. It was only seven barely-audible words, and yet they masked so many things inside them.
The strings in Xiao’s heart tug a little because he knows that tone well.
Had it been anything else: a whine, a sigh of disappointment, anger, Xiao could handle. But it wasn’t any of those things. Instead, it was a voice that Xiao remembers as unspoken loneliness, like tendrils of abandonment suffocating those the dead left behind, like the unspeakable grief of a heart that no longer remembered how to cry. It is a voice that Xiao once spoke with, before the drone of war drums stripped Xiao of any and all ability to vocalise emotion, but especially of grief.
He never thought he would find another voice like this in the sun-dappled gardens of Verona, on the brightest human being to grace the Earth.
“What do you get out of this?” Xiao offers, although a bit frostily.
Venti takes the olive branch, the makings of a smile starting on his face again. “Company!”
“And how do I benefit?”
This stumps Venti for a minute. But when he bounces back, he’s wearing a mischievous, devilish grin that looks out of place for a boy in monk’s robes. “I can help you learn Italian! And....” he winks, “I can sing for you, for the low, low price of an apple.”
Xiao groans. He's only talked to this boy for ten minutes and Xiao is already wrapped around his tiny lithe fingers. Xiao really hates it here.
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Despite his initial wariness, Xiao is pleased to find that he gets along quite well with Venti, even if he won’t admit it.
Venti is easy to talk to - rather, all Venti does is talk. After their various impromptu hangouts (Venti somehow always finds Xiao on his days off), Xiao learns that the singer is knowledgeable about everything under the sky, from his bell-ringing lessons, to the ancient Roman philosophy books he reads in the cathedral libraries, to the experiments he conducts in the cathedral gardens that create new, differently-colored varieties of flowers. Xiao is more than happy to listen and provide occasional hums to indicate that he is paying attention. In fact, he finds that his mind hangs onto Venti’s every word, that his heart wants to escape the cage of his chest, that his eyes linger on the edges of Venti’s face a second too long...
On this particular (serendipitous) encounter, they’ve circled Verona thrice over and the sun is setting, painting the world in a purple haze. It seems to Xiao that Venti hadn’t intended to keep Xiao for so long, because once he realizes how late it has become, he apologizes profusely, tells Xiao that they should do this again sometime, and quickly excuses himself before scampering to the back of the cathedral.
As he makes his way back to his quarters, Xiao retraces the events of the day. He is thoroughly confused and worried.
Being with Venti fills him with a warmth that he hasn’t felt since childhood, when Ganyu and Qiqi were all but toddlers, Zhongli was still happy and Guizhong was still here. It’s comfortable and familiar and Xiao could almost lie to himself that he is whole again.
But underneath that was this dull pain he can’t place. Why was his heart beating so fast (still is), as if he was moments away from death? Why is he so jittery? Xiao knows he is not a nervous person, as he’s marched into many a battle without batting an eye or loosening the iron grips on his bayonet. Sure, he was anxious that first day he met Venti - anyone would, if the person they were accidentally staring at confronted them about it - but the physical phenomenon hadn't disappeared with time. Maybe he is... ill? Should he see a doctor?
He’s back sooner than he likes. He finds his squadmates in the cafeteria of the barracks, teasing him for being out for uncharacteristically long for once.
He must’ve found himself a pretty girl, the lucky good-looking bastard, he hears Bosacius coarsely holler from across the room.
Xiao scoffs. He doesn’t offer any of his squadmates a single morsel of his whereabouts. Not that he has anything to hide, but maybe this once, he’ll keep a little secret, just so he can have something other than peace and quiet to call his own.
His heart is still racing, even when he retires for the night. Xiao really thinks he is sick.