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Sometimes he thinks he's lucky.
Scratch that, he pretty much always thinks he's absurdly lucky, now. What were the chances that an enslaved bloodhound - one who cursed every living moment of his existence, craved with his entire soul only the silence and wasteland of death - would be saved by a rival god? What were the chances that said bloodhound, given a new name and a new lease on life, would be granted the chance to serve a merciful and compassionate lord, and live to see the lord claim dominion over the land itself? What were the chances that the yaksha, no more talented or worthy than any of his brothers-in-arms, would be the sole survivor of the warrior order after two millennia, his eyes still allowed to linger over the dazzling lanterns of Liyue Harbor, his heart soothed by the prayers of mortals wishing for prosperity and love?
... And what were the chances that the yaksha would actually ( somehow ) catch the eye of his own elemental archon from the neighboring realm, and be given the chance to save not only himself, but the impossible dreamer of life and song as well, and just be allowed to wake up to the sight of the dreamer sleeping soundlessly next to him, with the short, twin braids of their ombre-colored hair barely touching his arm?
Hm.
It's 6 a.m. In the old days, he would have already covered a fifth of Liyue by now. He gets up slowly, making sure not to awaken the archon, and slips into the inn kitchen, reaching up on his toes to grab the sugar from the top shelf.
For the most part, it's all going well. Working with his hands in this way soothes him. Venti was right that it feels peaceful, almost therapeutic - though working on them like this, he's not acutely aware of the tofu's dream-like texture, the faint sweet smell of the ingredients and the peaceful ambiance still lends an aura that keeps most of the worst voices away. Almost alone with his thoughts - more alone than he's been allowed to be for many centuries - the serenity and meditative quality of the whole thing is almost unassumingly, overwhelmingly addictive. It makes him recall fond moments from a certain starborne traveler’s teapot. It makes him think of windwheel asters and the sight of pale smoke rising from chimneys in Springvale. It makes him think of happy endings, of things working out, of -
He's still learning to not just instinctively back away from such ideas.
"Ugh - you could have at least given me ONE kiss before just up and sneaking away!"
He nearly jumps. When had the bard just... appeared behind him? "Uug - Venti!"
The bard's voice is rueful, teasing, but they are still impossibly light and graceful on their feet, and their movements as they wrap their arms around him from behind are surprisingly soft. Two taps against the floor. He can sense the barest hint of a cool breeze coalescing in the space, as well as the lingering scent of cecilias. "A bit unlike you to not notice. Guess you really did just get up, huh? Or are the voices bothering you again?"
The sensation of their body against his is nice. Too nice. So nice, in fact, that he's having trouble focusing on anything but how nice it is. There's a vague thought in his head that he should be reciprocating, reaching for them back, perhaps turn around or something, but it's all being overwritten a bit by the tsunami of contentedness and ugh he can't think like this. It is awfully embarrassing how many centuries of mental strength and discipline can just all be undone in a single moment. He can only hope that he hasn't become either too stiff or too weak in response to the bard’s touch; considering his track record with this (affectionately) exasperating god, either reflex wouldn't have surprised him. "... I was just. Not really expecting you."
He could sense their eyebrows rising comically and then slowly fall back down. There's the tiniest of groans and he can imagine the feigned mischief between dark brows. There is… a telltale tinge of hurt, too - how much of it is genuine he cannot quite tell, so he puts it on a mental tab, to address later with further offerings and promises of love. "Why? What were you expecting me to do, just stare forlornly at the empty half of the bed? You promised me last night that you would always stay with me, remember? It hasn't even been, what, three whole shichens after that and you've already made me wake up wondering if you've teleported across half of Liyue to fight?"
A small sheepish smile has crept onto his face before he's had the time to think about it. Oops . The expression feels... unnatural on his face, engaging all the muscle groups he’s never used and never thought he’d ever use. It tingles a little, though it doesn’t quite hurt. It’s definitely… almost uncomfortable. Yet it's the only thing that feels right next to the mental image in his head and the boy clinging to his back, so he keeps it up, though he prays he doesn’t have to stick to it for too long. "... I did not think so far ahead. You just looked so content sleeping."
"So don't ruin a good run like that! Just go back to sleep and let me wake up first, sheesh. You are plenty cute too when you actually sleep, in case you didn't know." Venti's given him a tight squeeze and let him go, now, and it's hard not to feel just a little winded. Well. More emotionally than physically winded. It’s not fair the bard can just freely wave off all of their emotions because they’ve had so much more practice with it. Not to say they’re far more of a natural than he’d ever be. "I demand an apple from you to make up for this."
Anytime . He idly wonders what the god would say if he’s to offer a whole apple tree, or even a whole apple orchard, if the owner of Dawn Winery wasn’t just as bad as him at such impractical talk. He divides the completed pieces of tofu evenly across two porcelain dishes and holds one out in front of the pouting god. "An apple slice on top of this?"
"No, that would ruin your dish. Sweet dreams should be consumed alone - appreciated for their own grace and beauty." It's as if those eyes have suddenly transitioned in hue from the sprawling prairies of a breezy spring to the unknowable depths of an endless tumultuous sea; he could easily lose himself in them, if not for the fact that those transitions are always brief, almost imperceptible. One blink - did he even blink at all, really? - and the impalpable atmosphere has already been broken, the bard's expression returned to one of innocent cheer, the smile radiant like the morning star rising. The leaf of the cecilia on their hat is bobbling to and fro as they dance lightly around him, their toes barely touching the wooden floor. Ah, sweet Barbatos. "Come on, now. I promised to teach you a song today. Let's just pick some apples as we make our way through Liyue!"
“... I do not believe there are as many apple trees in Liyue.”
“... You owe me a drink, then. Or I can put it on that blockhead’s tab!”
“We can get something from Goldet. Just swing back at some point before dark.”
The pale hand clasped around his own is warm. The voice of the anemo archon standing by his side is warm. He is aware that it is so because it’s a voice picked up by his true ears, a voice carried by and blessed by the winds, a voice of care and affection rather than one of resentment and loss - and so he etches it carefully into his memory, frames it within his heart of crystal. The voice is kind as the music, free as the soul. He will protect that voice. He will let it soar and hold. It is precious, after all.
And also -
Thank you for opening up to me. Thank you for remaining in this world.
The smile on the bard’s face is becoming just a little too knowing again.
Let us go then, you and I -
There is light beyond the alcove, and on the balcony of Wangshu, the world opens up like a kaleidoscope before them. They step out together into perilous heights and the sunrise, and as winged beings of the air, hold each other afloat.