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“Maybe in the next life we'll meet each other for the first time.”
― Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
—
Someday, the gods will fade, and divinity will be no more. Stone into dust, dust into dreams. He calls out his name anyways.
A boy leans over him, and cradles his face.
He traces the back of bloody hands.
I love you, for all of my lives. Forever.
A promise.
—
On pure impulse, Osamu books a flight to Guangzhou, China.
Maybe not on impulse, since it's a little bit too much money to spend just like that, and he’s thought about this trip fairly often. It only makes sense. Osamu appreciates good food, and Guangzhou has it in spades. He knows his cousin Mie lives there, and Osamu could probably convince her to let him stay there and use the kitchen.
It’s been a while since he was back in China, trips were more frequent as a kid, when he and Atsumu and the other children could run around and wreak havoc in the small playground just outside while the adults sat and talked.
He thinks about all the steamed pork buns and fried turnip cakes in his future, and soon enough, he’s at the AirChina checkout page with tickets for a late August departure. Immediately after it’s purchased, he saves the confirmation and closes out of the tab as fast as possible, not wanting to think of the amount of yen he just dropped, and picks up his phone to make sure that he doesn’t have to book a hotel.
Osamu
mie, you still live in guangzhou?
Osamu falls backwards onto his bed with a soft thud and holds his phone over his face, waiting for her reply.
Mie
yeah whats up? u and tsumu coming? been a while
Osamu
nah, just me this time.
Mie
aww
when?
Osamu
be there 27 aug
Mie
ooh i can pick u up from airport, except im actually leaving the day after to visit ur mom
He squints a little at the screen.
Osamu
Mie this better not be a your mama joke
Mie
I swear its not !! not my fault she didnt tell yall yet.
aw it’ll be like we’re trading places
did u book a hotel or are u freeloading
Osamu
…......freeloading
Mie
thought so. i guess u get the place to yourself then, lucky 😩
Osamu reacts to the message with a thumbs up, and leaves it at that. August is still a few months away, he has time.
—
He thought he had time. University ends in a blur, Osamu couldn’t tell what day or time it was, only that something was due, and August creeps up on him, hiding between the summer crowd and lunch rush hours. He lifts his cap off his head and wipes at his forehead with the back of his hand, thinking about how much stuff for roughly a month he could fit into a singular suitcase for a brief moment, before putting on his best customer service voice for the next person that stepped in.
It probably also didn’t help that he’d been losing quite a bit of sleep recently, still reeling from how much finals week fucked him up, and to add to that, he’s been having strange dreams.
Usually, Osamu rarely dreamt, and if he ever did, they were promptly forgotten a few minutes after he woke up. But the one he’s been having recently vaguely stuck to his brain, no matter how hard he tried to forget about it. The worst part was that there was nothing even remotely vivid or interesting about these dreams. He could never really see what the figures in his dreams looked like, and they were always in pitch dark nothingness, but he knows that there are at most, two people, and that one of the two are most certainly him. The other one leaves him with a feeling of total confusion, like he’s forgetting something real important, but he doesn’t know what, and the not knowing eats at him.
He wishes his dreams were more straightforward, or that they were about something entirely different, like food or even some other weird shit.
Anything but this— he doesn’t need his brain working overtime even when he’s asleep.
—
Guangzhou is humid, oppressively so. Osamu feels it as soon as he hits the outside air, stepping out of the airport and hoisting his suitcase into the trunk of Mie’s car.
“Aww look at you, all grown up,” she says as he slides into the passenger seat.
“You’re only three years older than me Mie,” Osamu points out.
In response, Mie coos once more and peels out of the curbside pickup area, as fast as one could go in a busy airport area, which was not very fast at all due to the amount of cars and taxis ahead.
The drive from the airport wasn’t supposed to be too long, but the pace at which they crawled in traffic made it feel like hours.
“Ah, it’s always like this,” Mie commented while they inched forward.
She talks the whole way, pointing out subway stations, other landmarks, and a place a few blocks away called Liwan Square.
Osamu leans his head against the window and watches the foreign-yet-familiar characters that dot the landscape pass by.
—
The front metal door of the building swings open at the twist of Mie’s keys. The lobby is not much of a lobby, only a small section of mailboxes on one side and a narrow, direct pathway to the elevator and stairs. Inside the elevator, Mie knocks a finger against the 8th floor button once, then again, because it didn’t light up the first time. The doors open a while later, revealing a dark hallway. As they walk by, the lights switch on, section by section, motion activated. They continue stepping forwards into the light, until they reach a door marked 8A. The first door Mie pulls open is barred metal, with a chinese character mounted on a red decorative diamond shape stuck on the top middle section, and the second one is a wooden one that pushes open.
The tour Osamu’s given of the apartment is not much of a tour. He toes his shoes off, and slips his feet into some off brand adidas slides. By the front door, some suitcases lay open, with items hanging out and shirts half folded. Mie ushers him past it, saying she’ll finish packing later, and that he should get settled in first. There’s simply a room with a single bed that opens up to a small balcony, a kitchen, and a bathroom.
Osamu enters the room, and is immediately struck by the collection of plushies and an overwhelming amount of Pompurin merch. At least Pompurin is a solid choice. He pushes his luggage into a corner and lays them flat on the floor, takes a seat on the bed, and moves a few plushies to an adjacent desk. While he was kept awake by his cousin’s talking in the car ride from the airport earlier, he can feel the jetlag really seeping into his bones at this point and weighing down his eyelids. Just a little rest, he thinks.
—
He is falling— plummeting fast, eyes screwed shut. Gravity is unforgiving after all.
Until he isn’t. There is an arm around his waist, tight and secure and sudden, so that the breath leaves Osamu’s lungs with the impact. He opens his eyes, and his face is pressed up against damp fabric, but he can feel the warmth and solidity of flesh just underneath. When he inhales, it smells distinctly of qingxin and refreshing mountaintop air.
There is only one person he can think of that embodies these scents just so, and he knows him, he knows him, but he cannot place his name.
But before Osamu can think harder, his feet meet a solid surface again. His arm is still slung around the boy's shoulder, hands still holding on tight, like he also was unwilling to let go. “...careful,” the boy says, looking at Osamu. And he is so, so close, Osamu can trace the tips of that green blue hair to the shadows that frame his face and read the concealed concern in those yellow amber eyes. Osamu hadn’t caught the beginning of the boy’s sentence.
Osamu can only nod, chest heaving a little.
He watches the intricately crafted house explode, warm hues of orange and yellow sharply painting the inky blue sky. It’s pretty, in the ways only bittersweetness and violence are.
And then he is flying. The air cuts through his hair and his clothes billow out behind him. It’s cold, the way it cools his damp hair and skin. He’s sitting on something soft to the touch and feathery— a bird. A huge crane, to be exact. He clings inadvertently to the boy from before, and the back of his spiky, tufted hair tickles Osamu’s face.
He breathes in, large and slow, and lets the air fill his lungs.
—
Osamu blinks his eyes sleepily open and feels around for his phone. How long has he been out for? This doesn’t feel like his apartment.
The time on his screen reads 10:54PM, and as he stares at the ceiling, he remembers that he is in fact, not in Japan. He sits up and picks up a note on the desk, which simply read
left to airport. enjoy your sleep.
- Mie
and then beneath it, a list of food places scrawled out, some with stars next to them. Osamu assumes the starred ones are the important ones, and places the note back on the desk to take a closer look at later.
He belatedly remembers the threads of a dream, and realizes that he can now see more and retain more of what happens in them.
Osamu shuffles to the balcony door, and slides it open, stepping outside. It was significantly cooler at night than it was this afternoon, the absence of stifling humidity comes as a relief. The balcony itself is small, not much room for moving around, and there are a few pots and plants scattered along the sides. The streetlights are on, and the city glitters in the distance. He thinks he can spot the Canton Tower. He leans against the railing, and thinks it’s a little bit reminiscent of the dream he just had.
“Hey.”
A voice interrupts his thoughts, and Osamu swivels his head to the left, towards the sound of the voice.
There is a person on the adjacent balcony, propped against the railing closest to his balcony. Osamu can’t see too much in the low light but the stranger’s head is kind of shaped like a triangle. He keeps the thought to himself.
“Hi,” Osamu says back, tentatively.
“You don’t live here.” Triangle-head states, eyeing him.
As Osamu draws a little closer, he blinks at the other guy, and feels that he’s a little familiar. He’s never met this guy, he’s sure of it. But he can’t help but feel like he has and that he should remember.
“Uh, not really, but I kind of do now,” Osamu replies belatedly. He doesn’t know how else to explain it.
“You sure you’re not an intruder? What happened to the girl that usually lives here?”
Osamu doesn’t really think it’s any of the other dude’s business but he tells him anyway. “Yes I’m sure, and that’s my cousin, she left on a trip.”
He takes the simple hn and nod of the head that follows as a sign that he’s passed some sort of test.
“Yer name?” Osamu asks, when it was clear the stranger wasn’t gonna say anything else.
“Suna Rintarou. You?”
Ah. So he’s Japanese too, Osamu notes.
“Miya Osamu. Y’can just call me Osamu though, everybody else does.”
“You’re visiting, then? From Japan?” Suna asks.
“Yeah.” Osamu leans his right side against the railing a bit more and stuff his hands into his pant pockets. “I’m on break. Wanted to check this city out.”
“Me too. On break, I mean. Except I study here.” Suna makes a considering sort of sound, then asks, “How much time you got?”
It sounds something like a promise, except he doesn’t know Suna all that well yet, so it’s a thin one, at best.
“Long enough, I’m here for a month.”
“You probably have some places you wanna visit.” The corner of Suna’s mouth quirks up a little, and Osamu knew right there and then that he was really in it now. “Wanna get started tonight?”
—
Osamu learns that Suna is slightly taller than him and walks in long unhurried strides, but with a slouch and hands tucked away into his pockets. Osamu matches his pace. The night breeze nips at the hems of his t-shirt. He palms the messily folded note in his own pocket, the one Mie had left on his desk earlier.
He’d given it to Suna to look at before they left, and Suna had just thumbed at the first item on the list and said, “This is pretty close. Panxi is probably closed right now but the area around it is still pretty.”
Apparently, Suna’s definition of pretty close is a twenty minute walk, and Osamu was getting kind of hungry, having woken up only recently and missed dinner. His stomach lets out an embarrassing sort of noise, and Suna turns his head, questioning.
“Uhh,” Osamu comments.
“Ah,” Suna simply says. “There should be a few places still open.”
The buildings along the road are nothing like the tall, sweeping structures with LCD screens he’d seen from the balcony, but rather short and aged. Large trees stretch their canopies overhead, obstructing a view of the sky. The white-warm glow of a few late night stores spill onto the concrete streets and bluestone alleyways, and some have cheap, flashing neon signs dangling from their awnings.
“The old district,” Suna explains.
They stop a few paces ahead, at a street side vendor selling skewers. The smell and low sizzle of the grill has Osamu absolutely hooked, and so he bought five of them. They thank the vendor, and resume walking, Osamu happily munching on his chicken skewers. He’d almost offered a taste to Suna, who hadn’t bought anything, but decided that if Suna had really wanted some, he could’ve got his own.
He glances occasionally at Suna’s sharp side profile, looking away, then looking back every now and then. There is no reason for this, Osamu assures himself, other than the fact that Suna was more visible now, compared to their short exchange on the balcony, even if the street lights cast everything in an ugly warm orange color. And the fact that Suna was objectively attractive. Objectively only, though Osamu will admit that it was a tiny bit unfair how he’d managed to look good even in the shitty lighting.
If Suna notices anything, he doesn’t bring it up.
A tall stone gate looms above them.
“Liwan Lake Park,” Suna supplies to his right.
Osamu assumes that’s what the characters engraved into the very top of the gate read.
“C’mon,” Suna murmurs, and steps through. “We’re here.”
Osamu follows him.
The trees here are shorter, but their branches and leaves still spread wide, reaching, seeking for something maybe. Strings of red lights in the shape of lanterns hang from them, swaying slightly. An extremely fake, bright tree sits at the center of the front of the park. There are a couple other people milling about, even at this hour. A group of businessmen returning from drinks at a bar, a lone auntie shooing away the mosquitos in the air.
The path is wide, but Osamu sticks close to Suna anyways. A couple of traditional looking buildings dot the sides of the walkway, the undersides of their roofs lined with bright LED strips. Suna points out Panxi Restaurant as they pass it, and it is indeed closed.
“Maybe another time,” he says offhandedly.
“Another time,” Osamu echos. It means he’d see him again, maybe, hopefully. It’s something he didn’t expect, if Osamu was honest. Kind of thought tonight would turn out to be a one-time thing.
They reach the middle of a bridge, the point that curves up the highest, and slow to a stop. An expanse of dark water stretches out before them, the warmth of the park lights reflected on the surface, shimmering as the wind breezes lightly across the surface.
“Pretty,” Osamu breathes, still looking at the landscape before him. If he leaned over a bit, he could make out lily pads and lotus heads below him.
“Isn’t it?” Suna agrees. “I like it here, this late. Quiet.”
“Is it busy during the day?”
“It’s lively, definitely more people, and noiser. I guess if you like that kind of thing it’s good, but it’s too much for me.”
Osamu hums in agreement.
“I think,” he starts. “It’s important to have that kind of place to fall into, one that isn’t home like a house or apartment, or work or school related. It’s just nice to be able to clear your mind, away from everything else.”
“Can a place be a person?”
Osamu flicks his eyes to Suna, for probably the hundredth time tonight. He’s still looking out toward the water, color reflected in his eyes. The light traces the contours of his sharp side profile, all angles, yet soft in the places that matter.
“Yeah. It can.”
In the quiet of the night, with the soft waves on the lake lapping underneath the bridge, Osamu thinks it feels like they’ve known each other far past the few hours they’ve spent together. It’s kind of an absurd thought, since he really barely knows the guy, but there is a comfort to Suna that Osamu cannot explain.
—
In front of him lie various steaming dishes of food Osamu can’t name, but it doesn’t matter, because it all looks delicious anyways and he would eat it, no questions asked.
Osamu looks around, and there is a makeshift stall, and a few lanterns lighting up the 6 meter radius around him. The rest of his surroundings are simply made of wooden planks— the floor and the broken set of stairs above him that wrap around a building.
The Inn, his brain supplies, unconsciously. He’s never seen this place before, it doesn’t even look like anything he’d encounter in his lifetime, but somehow, he’s been here, he knows it.
Across from him, is a boy he only vaguely recognizes, with an intricate green tattoo decorating the entirety of his left arm, choppy greenish hair, and the most apathetic looking face he’s ever seen, spooning tofu into his mouth. It’s charming, somehow. The warm glow from the lanterns is thrown across his face just right, illuminating already amber eyes further. This too, is familiar to his dream-self, in ways he isn’t sure of.
There are people talking to him, but the words are fuzzy, unclear, and just pass through his ears without any real comprehension, but he finds himself responding, mouth moving, producing equally fuzzy words. Osamu manages to catch only a few repetitive words, like Mingxiao and Lantern Rite.
The scene melts away.
The inn and lanterns are gone, and so is the food unfortunately, but the boy is still here. The dirt path is soft beneath their feet, and the grass comes up to mid-calf, swaying slightly as they move past, a dance for the night winds. The dark sky stretches above, sprinkled slightly with stars. They approach a cliff overlooking water, and Osamu can spot the glow of city lights ahead and their wobbly reflections.
The boy turns to him, and Osamu realizes in his chest that they will part here, that this is the furthest they will go together.
The words they say to each other are still unclear, and he turns away to start towards the city.
—
At this hour, the dim sum restaurant is pleasantly noisy. It’s still a bit early, a little before the regular crowd would usually start to pour in. Warm chatter, the soft clinking of dishware, and the mixed smell of food fills the air. Osamu’s glad they got here when they did, and that he’d woken up right when his alarm rang this morning. It may or may not have had to do with the vague details of his dream that he did remember, but he was real hungry when he woke. Osamu hesitated a little in going over to Suna’s, who was definitely not a morning person and whose preferred way of communication was LINE. Suna had complained that it was too early when he sleepily opened his door, but went willingly with Osamu anyway.
He watches as Suna carefully dips another shrimp dumpling in soy sauce, and eats it in one bite. It’s charming, really.
“How do you like it here so far?” Suna asks, gesturing vaguely with his chopsticks. “The city, I mean.”
“Mmm,” Osamu thinks, biting into a barbecue pork bun. “It’s different, from home of course. But it’s nice.”
“Where’s home?”
“Hyogo. It’s slower there, but not in a bad way. Life doesn’t pass you by as fast, and the days seem longer. I moved out to Kyoto, for university though. The city was a big change of pace.” Osamu pauses to swallow. “Guangzhou seems much bigger, surreal, kinda larger than life almost.”
Suna tilts his head to the side, then back.
“What?” Osamu squints at him.
“Nothing, just interesting,” Suna says, going back to his shrimp dumplings. “Makes me remember that I felt the same way when I first came here too. I’ve spent most of my university life here so it’s easy to forget.”
Osamu nods along, with a mouthful of food.
“I guess I hold a little bit of nostalgia for the moments when I was able to look at things for the first time,” Suna continues, and his eyes slide across the table to meet Osamu’s, who slowly finishes chewing, unable to look away just yet.
He holds Suna’s unblinking gaze until he can’t anymore, coughing lightly and pointing a chopstick in his direction.
“Ya got a little piece of shrimp,” Osamu points out.
Suna swipes at the wrong side of his face, and Osamu leans over without thinking, picking the stray piece of shrimp off. Suna is even closer now, and Osamu can see the length of his eyelashes up close.
“There ya go,” he says quietly, leaning back.
An almost imperceptible flush dusts the tops of Suna’s cheeks and Osamu feels himself get slightly embarrassed too.
“So,” Suna says awkwardly. “How’s the food?”
And it’s so helplessly endearing that Osamu wants to laugh, wants to lean over again and kiss his cheek or something.
The moment makes the feeling of deja vu swell up again, with Suna sitting across the table and food in between them, like he’s been here before, this same position, and has wanted to laugh, wanted to lean over again and kiss his cheek or something.
But it’s gone as fast as it came, an ephemeral and fleeting half-memory of emotion.
Osamu smiles at Suna instead, wide and soft, and says, “It’s great. After all, who you eat with is what makes a meal more enjoyable.
Suna can’t come up with a good response to that, and feels the blush he tried to hold back earlier return in full force. He nods, looks away, and flags down a cart to order tofu pudding.
—
The ride on the GBRT in the afternoon is twice as crowded as it was this morning. The heavy summer humidity that seems to permeate every corner of the city, even inside the bus, certainly does not help. Osamu is so very close to being unattractively plastered across Suna’s front, and maybe he would consider enjoying the proximity in other circumstances, but currently, his bangs are beginning to stick grossly to his forehead and the only thing he wants is for their stop to arrive sooner.
All it takes is one good jostle for Osamu to end up knocking his forehead against Suna’s collarbone, and he gives up, resigning himself to staying in that position for the remainder of the ride. He can feel Suna wince a bit at the impact, but otherwise makes no move to shake him off.
“Sorry,” Osamu mumbles, and pauses scrolling on his phone to watch Suna swipe mindlessly at a game of 2048. Suna makes a noise of acknowledgement.
After a few seconds, the screen locks and there’s some shifting as Suna turns his head to look out the door he’s leaning against. “C’mon. Up. It’s our stop next,” Suna says, nudging him by moving his shoulder forwards.
“Yeah, yeah.”
Osamu un-attaches himself as the doors open from behind Suna and they half-tumble out from the packed bus. He leans back to stretch and takes in a huge breath of air. It’s humid as always, but a relief from the stuffy air inside.
During the walk back, they settle into a comfortable pace that lets Osamu look around them. There’s a small produce shop with a few cardboard boxes stacked outside, and an old man reading the paper on a bright green plastic stool, the kind Osamu usually saw at the 100 yen store back home. A cafe sits a few meters down, with it’s doors wide open to let in whatever summer breeze it can catch. It’s lively, filled with the chatter of older middle aged aunties spilling onto the street and the loud whirr of a large fan. According to Suna, their hot milk tea is good. On the corner is the bank, ICBC, with it’s LED scrolling signs anchored at the tops of the glass windows.
They eventually arrive at their crossroads, the two feet of space between the doors to apartments 8A and 8B. Osamu hesitates, not wanting to part just yet, but Suna’s already unlocking his door and he’s scrambling to look for his own key—
“Just come in,” Suna says from Osamu’s right. “You kind of look like a lost puppy, so just come in.”
Osamu looks over, and Suna’s standing in the doorway, back facing Osamu, one hand braced on the frame, kicking off his shoes. Osamu follows suit, and does not think about the sight of his shoes clumsily lined up next to Suna’s.
The layout is exactly the same as the apartment Osamu is in, except there’s less furniture and less things in general. It doesn’t mean that it’s neat though, there’s a few books piled up on a table in front of the couch, and those books have papers scattered across them, with two empty plastic water bottles on the very end of the table.
“Rough week?” Osamu asks. Suna looks over and raises a hand to scratch the back of his neck. “Oh. Uhh I didn’t get the chance to clean up much around here. Don’t mind the mess. Do you want anything to drink? Water or something?”
“Water’s good, thanks.”
When Suna returns with two cups, Osamu’s still wandering awkwardly around the living room, unsure of where to sit.
“You can sit, y’know. Make yourself at home and all that.” Suna says as he gestures to the couch, cups still in hand.
Osamu sits on the couch, and Suna sits next to him, handing him the purple cup. The material is semi-translucent, with a university logo printed on it.
“Thanks,” Osamu murmurs. He looks at the university logo again, and asks, “Ya go here?”
“Yeah,” Suna says. “Jinan University. It’s over in the Tianhe district, which isn't really around here, but also not too far. The commute isn’t bad, only around 30 minutes.”
“What do you study?”
“History. Ancient history specifically. I haven’t decided concretely but I think I want my focus to be around an older era of China, known as Liyue.” He motions at the books and papers on the table. “Leftover from finals. You can pick one up and look, if you want.”
Osamu picks a light green paperback off of the table. “Stone Tablet Compilations,” he reads. “Volumes 1 to 5, 12th edition, translated and edited by Yun. Written by Zichang.”
“Mmhm. Interesting stuff inside,” Suna comments. “It’s not too comprehensive and mostly fragments of history, but this Zichang guy supposedly went and compiled all this writing from old stone tablets in Liyue, and made them readable for people. And that makes it a pretty good source, like obviously people have already pieced together some things since then and wrote other books, but this is as close as the original you can get.”
Osamu’s never seen Suna talk so much about something, and it’s cute, really. “What’s so fascinating about Liyue? Like why did you choose to study it?”
“This just sounds like an interview now.” “Sure is. The Suna Special. The Rintarou Report. As documented by Miya Osamu.”
Suna laughs, and it’s a bright, clear thing that has Osamu fighting a smile of his own.
“To answer the question, there were apparently a bunch of gods and shit, and they were real to the people at the time. A lot of their history and legends are documented. But the time of the gods and divinity have since long passed, we can no longer experience that. This, right now, is the anthropocene— we raise mountains of glass and steel and decide the direction the tide will flow in, and we seek creation, we seek to create like the gods did back then.”
There’s a profound moment of silence after Suna’s statement, and Osamu takes a sip of his water before saying, “Damn bro, the history major jumped out for that one huh.”
“Shut up,” grouses Suna.
“No, keep talking, it’s nice to hear. I’d listen to you read your entire thesis if I could,” Osamu encourages.
Suna looks at him flatly. “The entire thesis?”
“The entire thesis,” Osamu confirms with a nod.
“I’ll be sure to send you it when I write it, then. I don’t think I could talk for that long,” Suna says amusedly.
“What about this one?” Osamu picks up another book. This one is well worn, with multiple pages dog-eared at the corner, and the lingering faint creases of previous dog-eared pages. A few rumpled neon post-it notes stick out. He hands the book to Suna, who smoothes over the teal cover.
Osamu can’t help but look at the sight of Suna’s long fingers and bony knuckles tracing over the image of the mask on the front. It feels like it should bring back memories, like the moment at the restaurant, but it doesn’t. It’s just a sight with an unshakeable familiarity to it.
“Yakshas,” Suna says. “It’s more on Liyuean history, and those who were charged with protecting it. This book’s accuracy is a little debated, but it’s a good one anyways. I’ve read it a couple times. The writing style is a bit entertaining.” He flips through the pages, and Osamu can see the spots where there are underlines and highlights. Suna doesn’t look like he would say more about the book despite the obvious time he’s spent on it, and Osamu doesn’t press.
“In a few days, there will be an exhibit at the Guangdong Museum,” Suna brings up. “I was gonna go either way, but do you wanna come with?”
Osamu’s a little surprised by the sudden invitation, but he agrees anyway.
“Of course.”
—
This time, he welcomes the dream. It feels warm and refreshing all the same, like mountain air in the summer, and when he opens his eyes, he finds that that’s exactly it. The peaks of the mountains here are so high that they break the cloud cover. There’s someone a few paces away, looking out into this expanse of cloud and stone. Osamu knows with a startling clarity that this person is named Xiao, and that he’s very glad to see this Xiao.
“Happy birthday,” Osamu’s body calls out automatically.
Xiao turns.
“Aether,” he says with the faintest of smiles.
Ah, so that’s my name here, Osamu thinks. Osamu-as-Aether offers out the qingxin flowers in his hands.
“Thank you,” Xiao says quietly. “There was nothing for me to do today, so I decided I would find a Crystalfly for you— to put in your hair. I thought that.. it would look nice.”
Osamu feels his body stepping closer. “You really didn’t have to,” he says as Xiao lifts his hand and carefully tucks the Crystalfly into place, just next to his left ear. The proximity makes his face heat up. “It’s your birthday.”
“I don’t care much for birthdays. To be able to spend time with you is enough.”
“Is there anything you’d like to do today?”
“If you have time, we could go to Liyue Harbor together…” Xiao trails off, seemingly unsure.
“Of course, we can. But don’t you dislike going there? There’s a lot of crowds, we don’t have to.”
“It’ll be okay. I wish to understand you more, after all.” Xiao takes a breath. “If it’s with you.. I’ll try.”
A strong breeze blows, and with it, Xiao’s hair and clothes wave in the wind. A hawk circles overhead, crying out once. Amber eyes bore into his own.
A strong breeze blows, and with it, the wisps of a dream drift away.
—
The gallery is empty, quiet, except for them. Dim yellow lights and wooden floors, scrolls stretched out on the walls behind glass, filled with art and writing that Osamu could not even dream of deciphering. A small sign by the entrance reads, Liyue: Our Past.
Suna takes his wrist and tugs him inside.
“You’ve been here before?” Osamu asks.
“No, but I want to see something,” Suna replies. “The website said it’d be here.”
They go by each display, peering at old books that lay open, stopping in front of yellow glazed roof tiles and figures of animals. A carved beast, the plaque read, this Qilin was once placed atop a corner of a royal building, along with many other figures.
At the end of the hall, on the wall, is a huge ink wash painting on faded paper, yet it noticeably misses the red seal that was present on many other works. The seal signified a creator or owner, and this painting had none attached to it. The contents of the art itself looks like any other ink wash painting at first glance, with tall, slim, rocky mountains, and a sprawling sea of clouds. Upon closer inspection, Osamu could see that a smaller figure stood on one of these mountains, close to the viewer. The figure is facing away, but the details were clearly painted with care, from the clothes that billowed away in a wind that was almost tangible, to the polearm held loosely in his right hand and the deliberate tufts of hair that spiked up from the back of the figure’s head.
Osamu remembers his dream. He remembers that in it, he was literally just there, right where this painting shows, last night. And Osamu— Osamu feels everything. Every single dream he’s had weaves into place, every bit of emotion condenses into a singularity.
He swears he could see lifetimes play out in this little dim gallery here. From the very beginnings, the rooftop of Wangshu Inn, the warm glow of city lights in the distance, and to the inevitable end, crumbling rock and blood stained water.
I love you, for all my lives. Forever.
The memories tighten his throat. It takes everything in him to keep every single regret he can remember from spilling out.
Some things cannot be saved, but the universe will say again, and sometimes again is all you need.
Osamu doesn’t need to look at Suna to draw the connection, doesn’t need to remark at how similar that stupid triangle shaped hair was. Instead, he clutches Suna’s hand tight, and he can already feel Suna looking at him, but he ignores it and leans in to read the description besides the painting, even though he knows what it will probably say.
Xiao
Unknown Artist, ca. 1050
Hanging scroll; ink and color on silk
Also known in Liyuean history as Alatus, the last of the Yakshas, Xiao stands atop a mountain in what is thought to be modern day Zhangjiajie, Hunan.
“Alatus. Xiao,” Osamu breathes, shaping the names with his mouth and trying them on his tongue.
It’s then that Osamu notices the smaller display next to the painting, one that showcases sheets of paper, like letters or perhaps journal entries. He doesn’t bother looking at the contents, it’s the placard next to it that draws his attention. Written accounts of Liyue, author has only signed as Traveler, it reads. Reveals much about geography and mundane life in Liyue, and also details searching for his sister.
There is an insistent tug on his hand, and suddenly, he is facing Suna.
“Aether.”
It almost doesn’t feel right to be called that, a name that is only distantly familiar and not really his anymore.
“You remember,” Osamu says, and it isn’t a question.
“I do.” Suna pauses. “I’ve always had this feeling, so I chose to follow it, and ended up here. I didn’t know for sure until now, and I tried piecing things together before, but the idea seemed so ridiculous and dreams are supposed to be just dreams.”
“It’s surreal isn’t it? Doesn’t seem real. Like one of those sappy romance movies.”
“You watch a lot of those?”
Osamu’s eye twitches. “No,” he lies.
Suna grins knowingly, and Osamu isn’t even gonna try and defend himself.
“This doesn’t have to change you know,” Suna says suddenly.
Osamu’s brows furrow. “What doesn’t have to change?”
Suna gestures between him and Osamu wordlessly.
“Suna, it doesn’t matter, it’s already changed.”
It’s Suna’s turn to look confused, but Osamu cuts him off before he can say anything.
“I can’t unlearn what I know now, about who we were, that’s why it’s changed. But what it doesn’t affect is that you are Suna and I am Osamu, and that who we are now does not equal who we used to be. Whether I have spent a thousand years loving you or two minutes, I, in this moment, would still choose the Suna who is in front of me. I am not choosing you because you were Xiao and I was Aether, I am choosing you because you are Suna.” Osamu blazes on, and he’s only dimly aware that he basically confessed his feelings all in one go and man maybe he should’ve kept it in a little in case it got awkward.
Then Suna’s hands are on his face and Osamu’s thoughts stop dead in their tracks. Suna’s not even looking at him, his eyes are focused somewhere off to the side and he mumbles, just barely audible, “Why do you always say this sappy shit, it’s bad for my heart.”
His thumb brushes feather light over Osamu’s cheekbones, and all Osamu can do is sharply inhale and continue staring all wide-eyed.
“I choose you too,” Suna breathes.
Osamu twists his fingers into the fabric of Suna’s shirt. He’s so close, close enough for Osamu to feel his gentle exhale, close until he’s not, and he’s pulling back while digging for something in his pockets. Osamu keeps his fingers anchored where they are.
Suna pulls out a pen and uncaps it, then reaches for Osamu’s hand, intertwining their fingers and he pulls it up to chest level.
“May I?” He asks, wiggling the pen.
Osamu, intrigued, nods.
The scritch of pen against skin tickles a bit, but Osamu doesn’t dare move. When Suna’s finished, he’s blushing a bit, and holds up the hand for Osamu to see.
5201314 is printed in slanting handwriting, ink still fresh and seeping into the skin.
“It’s uhh supposed to be slang,” Suna explains. “Means ‘I love you forever,’ or something.”
“Or something.”
“Shut up, shithead.”
“Who’s the sappy one now?” Osamu laughs.
He raises their still intertwined hands up against the gallery lights, and looks at the way they're faintly outlined in the light, and at the back of his hand.
I love you, for all my lives. Forever. 5201314