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It happens on one of Venti’s visits, the ones he insists upon making every other week even as Xiao insists in turn that he needn’t be bothered, that he must have better things to do. Not really, Venti replies cheerfully every time he points it out, and besides, even if I did—so what? And every time Xiao remains silent, uncertain of the words that try to spill out of him.
They’re in Wangshu Inn more often than not, as they are today. Unlike Xiao, Venti partakes in eating and drinking with gusto, and Xiao likes to watch him do so: likes the practiced motions of his hands as he chops his food, complaining about the chopsticks, likes the way he drinks, practiced but still sloppy, droplets of wine splashing down his throat—but mostly he likes the mundanity of it all, this thing that with any other person would cause him to snort with derision and disappear on the spot. But with Venti, he lets himself be guided docily to an empty table, lets himself sit across from him, lets the waitress set down a menu, already knowing they wouldn’t be needing two.
“We’re out of Bamboo today,” she says as she does so, an apologetic note in her voice. “So no Bamboo Shoot Soup, I’m afraid.”
Venti lets out a dismayed noise. “Such a shame!” he laments. “In this kind of dreary weather, soup would have been perfect!” It has been raining the entire day, but while Xiao is soaked to his bone, Venti is perfectly dry—he has offered to buffet the rain off of Xiao’s body as well, but Xiao refused. The thought of using Barbatos as some kind of an umbrella makes him uncomfortable, presumptuous. His answer had been so abrupt and immediate that for a moment Venti looked taken aback, but then he just shrugged and continued on. But Xiao feels stuck in that moment of dissonance.
“How about our Noodles with Mountain Delicacies?” the waitress offers. “It’s a bit basic, but it’s a classic for a reason! Would warm you right up in this cold.”
“He’s allergic to mushrooms,” Xiao says. The words slip out of him the way they almost never do, thoughtlessly and carelessly, and the waitress startles slightly, as if she forgot he was there entirely.
“Haha, I am!” Venti confirms, smiling at her. “How about some Stir-Fried Shrimp? You’re right about the classics.”
“Coming right up!” She leaves, but Xiao doesn’t even pay attention to watch her go, still staring at Venti. He just—blurted it out, so easily—
“Xiao?” Venti frowns at him. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” the answer is automatic. “You were speaking of the Acting Grandmaster.”
Venti’s frown keeps for a moment longer, but then it clears as if by an afternoon breeze, and Venti launches back into his story about the Acting Grandmaster getting caught in a compromising position with their head librarian. Venti is a talented storyteller, engaging and animated, but Xiao barely hears a single word.
The thing is—The thing is—
For over two thousand years, Barbatos was nothing but a name and a tune for Xiao. The tune first, the name later, but that was all he had. Morax was not one to share, and Xiao would have never thought to pry back then, barely would even now. He collected more information sparsely, as it came to him: Barbatos was the Anemo Archon, the god of wind and music, wine and dance. He lived in Mondstadt, a city of freedom. He was less present than Morax was in his own territory, choosing instead to let his people govern themselves.
He gave Xiao his Vision, and then never approached him again.
And Xiao was content with that life, the one where he barely knew anything about his saviour. He didn’t need to know—all he needed was the memory of that lovely tune, the one that pushed his soul back into his body, tied it to his bones, whispered to him not yet, not yet. To him, Barbatos was not a person, but an ideal of freedom, the kind Xiao knew he would never have again. It was enough knowing that that ideal existed, somewhere, for someone. Xiao didn’t need more than that to fulfill his duty.
Then—then he met Venti, and suddenly his life was an embarrassment of riches, his days and nights overflowing with companionship, the likes of which he never had. He had been almost entirely mute for weeks, at first, answering all of Venti’s questions with one word answers: yes, he killed that Ruin Guard with one blow. No, he could not grant wishes. No, he did not eat. Yes, he could. He had wanted so badly to say more, was so fearful that Venti would think him boring, disinterested—that he would leave, eventually, and Xiao wouldn’t get to have this again.
Venti stayed. And Xiao learned how to let the words inside of him get out, how to carve little rivers in his teeth and tongue to let them flow out of him, a slow trickle at first but more with every day Venti stayed. He told him of picking up glaze lilies, of Guizhong’s smile, Osial’s wrath. With quieter words he spoke of the name Alatus, of the cruelty of beings, human or not.
He spoke and spoke, because in his mind, Barbatos already had ownership to all of it: to Xiao’s triumphs and failures, his best dreams and his worst ones. He was simply—collecting the debt later than anticipated.
He just never noticed that as things were leaving him, other things were worming their way in.
Now that he noticed it once, he can’t stop. He finds himself absentmindedly picking up silk flowers, knowing Venti loves the fabric made from it, that he has a tailor back in Mondstadt who specializes in the fancy garment that he enjoys wearing. He braves Liyue Harbour to accompany Venti on a tour, because he knows that unlike himself, Venti thrives off of the bustle, the flow of human life. He keeps cats away from him. He secrets away apples, red and ripe for eating. On one occasion, he even finds himself helping a snowy fox stuck in a trap on the slopes of Dragonspine, just because he knows Venti is partial to the little creature. He wasn’t even around to see it, but Xiao did it anyway.
He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know if there is something that he has to do, but it feels like there is. It keeps itching at him, and he finds himself stumbling in conversations, reverting back to that initial muteness, the still stone. It’s terrifying, and he hates how comforting he finds this terror. He knows that if he lets it, it would consume him all over again.
“You’re angry at me.”
The accusation comes out of nowhere. Venti doesn’t say it angrily, or even sadly; just in an even, measured tone of voice, so much so that Xiao almost doesn’t catch it at first, thinking it’s part of the story Venti was telling. They’ve met at Stone Gate, this time, the only concession Xiao can make to his vow to never abandon Liyue. They’re alone, perched on the edge of the cliff hanging over the walkway, and a cold evening breeze ruffles Xiao’s hair as he stares at Venti in horror.
“What? No.”
“You are,” Venti insists, still in that same calm tone. His eyes are bright as he looks at him, glinting even though the sun has long since set. Instead, they’re reflecting the shine of the stars, and the corpse the humans call a moon.
“I-I’m not,” Xiao repeats helplessly. “I would never.”
“Hmm,” Venti hums. “Well, that’s a different problem. We should probably come back to that, at some point. I know I definitely deserve to be angry at, at least every once in a while. But if you say you aren’t angry—what’s wrong?”
Xiao can’t even conceive of a situation where he might be angry at Venti, at Barbatos. Morax has certainly been so in the past, and Xiao would never claim to doubt his Archon, but he doesn’t think he has the capacity in himself for it. He’s too full of—everything else. “Nothing is wrong.”
“Xiao, you’ve hardly said a word to me today, even though I went to all the trouble of asking Kaeya about his latest fight against some treasure hunters, a topic I thought you would be interested in. I even included some foley work! And you haven’t done your grimsmile even once.” He sounds aggrieved, as if something precious has been stolen from him.
“My—what?”
Venti waves him off. “Oh, you know, that thing you do where you want to smile but you think you can’t for some inane reason, so it comes out as a grimace instead. Your grimsmile. It’s very cute, if you manage to get past it being deeply tragic.” He says it so matter of fact that Xiao doesn’t even know how to reply.
“I do not. Grimsmile,” he finally manages, the words stilted on his tongue.
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying! You haven’t even once today, and barely at all the last few weeks, even though my weekly average is about 4.5 grimsmiles.”
“You’ve calculated a weekly average?”
“Well, I had Mona do it for me. She is much better at math,” he shrugs, as if the idea of Venti counting to a stranger exactly how many times per day he can make Xiao smile isn’t deeply mortifying. He resists the urge to bury his head in his hands, even as he can feel a telltale blush sneaking its way across his cheekbones.
“Venti.”
“What? I had to know somehow if you weren’t going to tell me!” Venti huffs, crossing his arms. He has forgone his usual hat this time, and his hair is still messed up from Xiao’s fingers petting through it earlier, as they kissed each other hello, again and again and again. He looks so lovely Xiao aches with it.
“But—But I tell you everything,” Xiao says, wrong-footed. It was the contract he made with himself, when he met Venti again, learned who he was: that he would never lie to him, never hide away from him. Morax might be dead, but Xiao knows well what must be done to those who break their contracts.
Venti huffs again, but this time with an edge of affection lining his exasperation. “I do love that you think you do, sweetheart,” he says, and with anyone else it would sound condescending. Xiao knows that Venti doesn’t know how to be condescending, that he would need to think himself above everyone else to do so—that despite Brabatos being a god of freedom and flight, he had never found his place amongst the sky. “But you really don’t.”
Xiao stares at him, his heart beating somewhere at the back of his throat. This is it, isn’t it? The moment Venti suddenly has enough, that he understands Xiao isn’t—isn’t interesting enough, or funny enough, or good enough. Any second now he’s going to uncross his arms, lean over slightly and say sorry, I need more. Good luck next time, maybe. He would say it kindly, gently, because Venti always is those things. And Xiao would nod, and agree, and go back to the emptiness of before, and be grateful to have had this, even for a little while, and then never again. He called him sweetheart, and earlier he called him darling and love and Xiao doesn’t know how to be those soft things that Venti deserves.
He feels dizzy, nauseous. As an adepti, he does not get ill, but he can remember a life before being an adepti—when he would gorge himself on nightmares to keep children safe, and would make himself sick for their sake. It feels like that, now.
“I should go,” he manages to choke out. Maybe he can—just leave. It would still hurt, would still tear his insides apart, but he could at least save Venti the effort to distance himself. One clean cut, like an amputation. He makes to stand, but Venti’s arms are there at an instant, surprisingly strong for such wiry muscles. He pushes him back down on the ground hard.
“Okay, no, you’re not doing that,” he declares. His fingers tighten almost painfully against Xiao’s shoulders. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I can tell you’re definitely misunderstanding—something. Sweetheart, breathe.”
He was breathing, wasn’t he? And then he realizes oh. He wasn’t. It’s like the panic has filled him to the brim, and there was no room for the flow of air. Even the thought of pushing it through feels painful. But Venti—Barbatos asked him to, in the same lovely, soft tone he hummed sweet words into his skin late at night, and how could Xiao ever refuse him anything? He said—he said, misunderstanding. Xiao misunderstands so many things, constantly, consistently. He doesn’t know where he did so now.
One breath. Then two. The evening air is sharp against his lungs, cold and biting, like an old friend angry about a long separation. His fingers grip the dirt underneath him, digging rivets into stone. Venti’s hands leave his shoulders, but before he can panic again his arms wrap around his head, gently laying his head against Venti’s shoulder. “There we go, xiao-Xiao. Slowly, slowly.”
Xiao doesn’t have enough air in his lungs to protest this embarrassing nickname, the one that almost made Lumine’s fairy companion choke to death when she heard it. Involuntarily, his head burrows further into Venti’s neck, breathing him in. Venti almost smells so clean and fresh, the aroma of the cecilia flowers he’s so partial to stuck to his skin. Today there is a hint of smoke underneath it, the musky aroma of Liyue clinging to him already. Selfishly, Xiao loves him best this way.
“I’m sorry,” he finally manages to mutter. He knew that if he disengages now, Venti will let him go—that above all else, Venti won’t ever bind someone to him. He loves that about him, but just this once, he wishes he would hold Xiao tight and not let go, so. He stays put.
“Whatever for?”
Xiao huffs a weak scoff. “I hardly think you wished to spend your night watching me fall apart.”
“I wanted to spend my night with you, my dear adeptus. What we do is hardly consequential.” Venti’s fingers start to weave through his hair and despite himself, Xiao feels his eyes fall shut. He’s as exhausted as he is after a particularly bad fight, the kind that leaves him with broken bones and crushed arteries.
“You have a show tomorrow,” Xiao points out, as if he has to make Venti see what an inconvenience he is. He is so tired of his own words. “You miss notes if you don’t get a good night’s rest.” And then he—freezes, again. Because it’s another instinct he now has that he never had before, an intimate knowledge of another person. The image of a sleepy, petulant Venti is tucked close to his heart.
“Okay, see?” Venti says, and then pokes him in his side. Xiao jumps, because Venti has found all of his weak spots weeks ago, and has been exploiting them evily, lovingly, ever since. “What’s that about.”
“What’s what about?”
“You were so cute and cuddly a second ago, and now I feel like I’m holding a slate of stone,” he declares, but despite his words he draws Xiao even closer. “And it’s not just now, either. You keep… balking, at my own words, or at yours, or sometimes at nothing I can discern at all, but it’s definitely there. Won’t you tell me?”
He phrases it as a question, and Xiao knows he means it as one. But Venti has never understood the power he has over Xiao, power he would be so disgusted at having. He can never know. “It’s nothing.”
Venti falls silent, even as his fingers continue to pet through Xiao’s hair, twirling locks of hair around his long, slender digits. “You know,” he finally says. The softness in his voice is almost unbearable. “I would choose to believe it, if you said it again. I would know it’s a lie, but I would choose to believe it. And we would continue on, and I would never ask again, and never push, and you would never tell me. But I fear that it would—fester, between us, like an open wound. We both might be powerful, immortal beings, but neither one of us is much of a healer.” From the corner of his eye, Xiao can see him biting his lip, as if unsure of his own words. Such an unusual thing, for a god who wields pen and word as easy as his bow. Such a startling, impossible thing.
He’s scared as well, Xiao realizes, and it washes over him like a waterfall. He never even—How could he have ever considered that Venti, Barbatos, could be uncertain, could doubt? Xiao has spent his entire existence stumbling in each and every social interaction he ever had, until he wrote them off entirely. It is second nature for him to approach his relationship with Venti as he would fight with unfavourable odds: knowing he would lose, but braving it anyway, impossible to choose any other option.
It feels equally as impossible that Venti might have felt the same way, might be as anxious about hurting him as Xiao has been about hurting Venti. That while Xiao has been carefully and agonizingly choosing his words, Venti has done the same, simply in a much larger volume. Xiao, from whom words crawl like a trickle, and Venti, from whom words flow like a river—but both with cleverly constructed dams, a series of pulleys and levers easing the way.
“I never thought I could know you as well as I do now,” Xiao says. “It scares me.”
Venti’s fingers pause for a moment, before he continues their gentle motions. “Why does it scare you?”
It’s easier to say it without looking at Venti’s eyes. “Because it means I hold this knowledge in my body, somewhere, somehow. And I’ve never held anything I didn’t break.”
There’s silence for a beat, and then two, and then: “That’s silly.” Before Xiao can even begin to respond, Venti pulls him up, facing him again. His face looks fierce, in a way Xiao has never really seen before. Not mean, or angry, just—steadfast in his own conviction. “Xiao, you hold so many beautiful things in you.”
Xiao doesn’t mean to, but he snorts. “My karmic debt—”
“Isn’t all of you,” Venti cuts him off. “It can’t be. Otherwise you wouldn’t talk with me, you wouldn’t play with me—you wouldn’t kiss me. You wouldn’t have—”
Xiao hurries to put his hands over Venti’s mouth. “Don’t.”
Venti ducks his hands with a laugh. “I was going to say ‘have sweet cuddles with me,’ don’t be crude.” Xiao, who knows Venti wasn’t going to say any such thing, simply gives him a look, and Venti lets out another giggle. “You wouldn’t banter with me, you wouldn’t grimsmile—what do you think all of those things are, if not part of you?”
“I… borrow them from you,” Xiao says slowly, but even as he speaks the metaphor escapes him. “It’s only with you—”
“Nooooo it isn’t!” Venti whines. “You play with the children in Qingce Village, when they catch you lurking about. Last week, you helped Lumine pick glaze lilies. I know you and Ganyu have monthly tea on top of Mount Aocang you call strategy meetings but are really glorified gossip parties. You—”
“Are you stalking me?” Now it’s Xiao’s turn to cut him off. He doesn’t know if he feels embarrassed, angry, or strangely pleased that Venti has as much access to him as he does to Venti, even if he can never bring himself to tell him those things, those little moments in his life.
Venti grimaces, caught in the act. “No?” he still tries. “Um. Maybe? Just a little! You know what wind is like. It just can’t keep silent!”
Xiao laughs. He doesn’t do it often, and it feels like it almost tears something in his lungs as it comes out. There is a hint of his previous hysteria, and a hint of exhausted relief, but mostly it’s just joy. “You know me too,” he says. A statement, not a question, but Venti answers anyway.
“I do,” he says. “Or, well, I try to. It’s a lesson in progress.”
“And you… want to know more?” Xiao asks. He mostly knows the answer, by now, but he feels the need to say it outloud anyway.
Venti smiles at him. “Yes,” he says, and leans in to kiss him, a simple peck on the lips that warms Xiao’s entire body, protecting him against the chill of the night.
“4.5, right?” Xiao asks when they part.
“What?”
“My average... grimsmile amount.”
“Oh! yes,” Venti nods, looking ridiculously pleased at Xiao using this stupid word. It’s an infuriatingly beautiful look on him.
He looks at Xiao eagerly, as if waiting for him to play along, only to deflate when Xiao says: “It’s stupid. Stop counting it.”
“No way! How will I know which of my stories you liked if I stopped counting them?”
“I’ll tell you,” Xiao says. It’s inconceivable, that the brightest thing in Xiao’s life should sound so insecure. He can’t abide it.
Just as easy as he deflated, Venti straightens again, an excited glimmer in his eyes. “You will?”
“Yes.”
“You know, I require a lot of feedback from my audience. Verbal and non-verbal cues.”
“I’ll give them.”
“And written feedback! At least three pages, with detailed annotations.” Venti wags his fingers at him, as if Xiao knows how to do any kind of annotations, let alone detailed ones. Still, Xiao nods his head good-naturedly. “Sure.”
“And at LEAST seven kisses per story—”
“Only seven?”
Venti’s eyes go wide in glee. “Ten! At least TEN kisses per story, and we have to be naked if it was a really good one—”
Xiao laughs again, the sound smoother now, more practiced. It still has to crawl past stones and dams, but once it does it rolls out of him and into Venti’s mouth as he kisses him through his laughter, through Venti’s giggles, through every word Xiao has ever wanted to tell him and couldn’t, and through the the echoes of all the future words that he will.