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"But I am home wherever you are near
There's no life in anything
When you're not here
Who could take my love away?"Love in the Time of Socialism, Yellow House
Angel’s Share bustles with the chatter of the patrons of that evening. Venti relishes in it, in the familiar smell of alcohol and in the drag of the strings of his lyre on his fingers.
“A tune, bard?” An adventurer sitting by the stairs calls out to him. The tavern had been building good energy throughout the evening, and Venti had just about been thinking about starting up a song.
“Of course, good sir. Could I trouble you for a fine glass of dandelion wine in exchange?” He takes payments in drinks, for any mora for his performances would have ended up as dandelion wine funds anyways.
The atmosphere is merry and bright, so he sings a song of Venessa’s bravery and triumph in accordance. Looping and building, the melody feels like it is flowing through his entire body, twisting with the undertones of the accompaniment from the lyre. A midsummer night’s breeze drifts in through the open window, laced with the sweet scent of apples and--
All of a sudden it feels difficult to breathe, like the air in his very throat has come to a suffocating halt. His skin crawls with the brush of the air, and Venti barely notices that he has stopped playing entirely. He’s reminded of the coasts of Guyun after a particularly strenuous fight, of the rot and hatred bleeding from it in waves.
A confused sort of mutter passes through the tavern in the absence of the music, yet Venti stays immobile, heart heavy with foreboding. He resists the urge to run, though it presses at his ankles with much fervor.
Ignoring the curious gazes, Venti stands with unsteady limbs. Then, with a feathered bust of anemo, he disappears from the tavern and finds himself standing at the far edge of Dawn Winery near Stone Gate. The winds from Liyue seep in familiar tufts from the stone arches. Looking far up, he spots small clusters of wind sprites pushing storm clouds towards the winery. Something in him aches at the sight, but he only gives them a gentle nudge of encouragement before starting towards Stone Gate.
As he flits through Stone Gate, the wind feels hazy, like it is trying to tell him something that he cannot hear. For a moment, he considers that it might have something to do with the absence of his gnosis or that he is beyond his domain, but then he thinks of all the other times he had heeded the call of the wind in much distant lands and dismisses the thought.
Worry dances down his limbs to his fingertips and nervous energy keeps him moving through the open marshes. He has an inkling of what the cause of this might be, but he doesn’t want to think about it, because thinking about it makes it all that much more real.
The wind continues to push against him, speaking in strange muffled voices that thankfully get clearer by the second, until finally--
Conqueror of Demons. The voice of the wind is peculiar and grating this time; it speaks with fear and no color, though its thousand voices overlap all at once.
Venti heaves a breath and tries to relax his tense muscles. He had suspected this would have had something to do with Xiao; the way the winds had been tinged with the burn of corruption should have been more than enough to tip it off.
Although it’s usually easy for him to follow the path of the wind and locate Xiao, the haziness in the air blots out the sensation of anemo to a dull pull. The corruption in the wind still stings, and Venti latches onto it. Wonders if he’ll be too late this time.
Verr Goldet watches him with guarded curiosity as he appears at her desk. Her hands are folded neatly in front of her like an unassuming, proper secretary. She seems unusually alert for an inn worker; Venti does not spare her a second glance when he reappears at the top of the building.
All he finds is empty air and no sign of an adeptus. The air on the roof is too calm and his steps echo loudly with the force of his feet as he searches desperately.
He searches through the marsh, bypassing the towering shadow of Wangshu Inn and sweeping past the guarding millileth in nothing more that bursts of air. The marsh is strangely comforting, yet it tugs at his heartstrings in a nostalgic way, reminding him of times long gone. Horsetails tickle his sides and the tips of his shoes grow damp from the water.
When he finds the marsh empty save for a few wandering hilichurls, Venti follows the main road down to the Guili Plains. He doubts Xiao would have come so close to the city in his situation. Even when tormented by the karmic binds, he refused to put the humans in danger. Venti thinks he’s just kind like that, even though he knows Xiao would never admit it.
The Guili Plains are dotted with ruins. If he squints, Venti thinks he can see the shadows of old, familiar buildings, of the same residences he would sometimes frequent many, many decades ago. He wonders for a moment if Morax visits the Plains like he used to, then remembers that as the human Zhongli, he probably spends his days strolling the busy street markets of Liyue.
The wind grows even more fervent when he finds no trace of Xiao in the Plains, chorusing at him in its thousand different voices that blend together incoherently. He considers whether he should search Guyun or Huaguang first. Both are just about equal distance from the Guili Plains. The wind tugs him westward.
The green of his Mondstadtian clothes bleed away to the snow white of his robes. His wings stretch with disuse as they unfurl, shimmering still with divinity even in the absence of his god-heart. Fluttering in the glittering breezes, the weight of his hood settles over the crown of his head. Something about this feels different without his gnosis, and Venti’s unsure if it’s the lack of his divine heart or if it’s just the strangeness of donning an immortal form after so long. He’s lucky there are no mortals around, for even his silver tongue would have trouble whittling his way out of something like this.
Traveling is faster like this, with his wings supporting his flight and the new lightness of his robes allowing swifter movement.
Venti senses the corroding miasma before he sees the stone peaks of Huaguang. There is a sound, rattling and empty. It takes a moment for him to realize that it came from his own mouth, from the sound of his breath entering and leaving his lungs. He tastes the pollution, the hatred, the desire for plunder, and the way it curls around the air in his mouth makes him nauseous.
But in the middle of the darkened shadows, hollowed out with violence and traces of death under the pale gaze of a full moon, Venti sees a quivering adeptus, and he cannot bear to turn away.
Venti reaches out, through the miasma, through the smell of despair, grasping at the dark green of Xiao’s hair. His sweeping folds of his wings, divine or not, have no effect on the corruption that seeps from Xiao’s skin.
“Xiao, you’ve exhausted yourself again.” He finds that his voice sounds unusually steady for the tumultuous storm that is his mind. Venti lets his fingers softly tug through the tangles in Xiao’s hair, drawing himself closer to the adeptus’ crouched figure.
Silence. The glowing green of Xiao’s Nuo mask stares back at him without a word. The tattoos on Venti’s chest and thighs glow a bright teal from under his robes as he wills a fresh wisp of wind through the miasma to brush against Xiao’s mask.
“Can you come back for me, love?” His voice rings with an impossible quality as his heart aches at the uncomfortable shivers that wrack Xiao’s frame. He wishes he could do more, wishes with his entire being that Xiao will one day miraculously be free of the corruption and binds forever. Sometimes, Venti loathes and he hates; he resents Morax for his infinite contracts, resents the fallen gods for their undead hatred, resents the rest of the world for throwing this weight upon one gentle soul--because he knows that Xiao, with the weight of the karmic debt, cannot afford to hold hatred in his heart, that he must let things go lest he let the corruption break his soul.
There is still no response, but the way Xiao moves to grip Venti’s forearm lets him know that he can hear him, at least. The teal tattoos on his arm flicker bright for a few beats before they dim again, but his mask does not disappear and he remains latched onto Venti’s arm.
Ah. Venti regrets not bringing his flute with him, but he supposes his lyre will have to make do. He knows that Xiao has had a curious affinity to his flute ever since that first night at Dihua Marsh so many decades ago. But the lyre is Venti’s instrument of choice, really, and it’s closeness to him makes it easy for him to transport it.
He picks a soft, lilting tune, one that rises and falls in tandem with his voice. As a bard, his profession revolves around making music for an audience. Usually, he has no problem pulling his very spirit into his performances, for most of them are stories about events that he had lived to see and remember. Sometimes, though, on weeks where he cannot bear to look at himself in the mirror for fear of what he’ll see, his music feels empty and soulless. This is not one of those times. Venti knows of the weight his music holds in Xiao’s heart, so he takes special care to gift each song to him with his entire heart.
He finishes the first song. Starts another. Xiao’s grip on his arm has relaxed enough that it is mostly just a familiar weight now, though Venti wishes he could feel the weathered skin of his hands instead of the toughness of his glove.
His fingers glide over the strings of his lyre, delivering honeyed notes and rising melodies. Venti imagines that his fingers are pulling apart the karmic binds on Xiao’s soul, and then imagines them gently holding Xiao, because he deserves better than to be the one to take the brunt of Liyue’s divine hatred.
Somewhere through the middle of the second song, Xiao’s hand falls away from his arm. Almost immediately, Venti misses its weight and warmth. And then, finally, finally, Xiao’s mask dissipates into small particles of anemo.
“There you are,” Venti remarks with a gentle smile. He feels the miasma begin to slowly thin out, and he’s glad to feel the chilled night air brush against him once more.
Xiao looks up at him with wide eyes lined with a weary red, face open and vulnerable. There it is, that softness that lines the gentle slopes of his face. Venti rarely gets to see that same look, which usually only appears when Xiao thinks he’s not looking or when Venti manages to catch Xiao on their rather uncommon lazy mornings, when neither of them are awake enough to be coherent.
Venti doesn’t ask Xiao how he’s feeling. He knows by now that the corruption and karmic debts are suffocating to the very soul, and the voices inside his head do nothing to mitigate the pain he’s always in. At the very least, Venti’s thankful that his music makes it somewhat manageable.
“I’m. I’m sorry. For calling you. All the way here.” Xiao’s voice is scratchy and he stumbles and winces over his words, but the glimmer in his eyes is sincere.
“Don’t apologize. We promised, hm? No need for ‘thank yous’ or ‘sorrys’.” It hurts Venti’s heart that Xiao’s first thought is to apologize for calling him all the way to Liyue, as if Venti wouldn’t drop anything and everything to find Xiao whenever he calls.
But Xiao isn’t the best with words, so he says thank you anyways by pulling Venti in and tucking his tired head into the crook of Venti’s neck. He takes a shaky breath, breathing in the homely scent of cecilias and apple cider. With a light giggle, Venti circles his arms around Xiao, resting his cheek on Xiao’s head. The soft strands of his hair tickles his nose, but he doesn’t mind.
He should be used to this by now, really, but Venti’s heart threatens to bloom like fireworks every time Xiao just about does anything. A welcome warmth dances from his chest through his limbs, and he suddenly feels like he’s been sitting in front of a comfortable fireplace for hours.
They stay like that for a bit, resting in the solace of each others’ presence with only the ever bright moon as their witness. Venti admires the way Xiao’s arms slot just right with his, like they’re two pieces of a whole brought together. He can finally feel Xiao’s skin start to warm through the thin material of his shirt. The wind settles in a delicate embrace around them as it seems to take a mind of its own and dances between the folds of their clothes.
But they cannot stay that way forever, and Venti sorely misses the warmth around him when Xiao pulls away. Venti carefully studies the way Xiao’s expression shifts away from the open vulnerability of before. He hasn’t shut himself away, not that Venti thinks Xiao has ever been closed off in his presence for a long, long time, but something changes in the way he postures himself, in the way his brows furrow minisculely.
It’s only because of the moonlight that catches on the wetness in Xiao’s eyes that Venti notices the teary red tinge around it. There’s a sort of intimacy in seeing Xiao as such, because Venti knows that no matter how steep the pain, how grievous the burden, letting someone see his hurt is not something Xiao is used to.
Venti reaches out, brushing the pads of his fingers against Xiao’s cheek as if rubbing away phantom tears. He marvels at the softness of his skin still, unmarred yet by scars after thousands of years. Xiao looks at him with such honesty and adoration that Venti feels as though he could rekindle his god-heart from solely that devotion.
He wants for Xiao to know love, for him to feel and understand and internalize the love Venti has for him. Because no matter what Xiao has to say about his self worth and his past, Venti always wonders how there aren’t songs to praise his kindness and paintings to immortalize the grace of his movements.
So he does the best he can to remind Xiao of this. He often brings gifts of cecilias and qingxin flowers and hopes that Xiao understands, even just a little. Each time, he sees something alight in Xiao’s eyes.
Grazing his fingers against the curve of Xiao’s cheekbone, Venti looks into Xiao’s eyes as they reflect the galaxies around them. Venti looks at the beaded necklace around Xiao’s neck. Considers the tassel, wonders if he strung it together himself with careful hands or if it was gifted to him. He leans in close, close enough that he can spot the flecks of brown in the pools of gold.
Venti’s eyes slip shut as he presses a kiss to the corner of Xiao’s lips, right at the line where they tense. He pulls away with a smile and watches the tension bleed from Xiao’s face. The moonlight leaves soft lines trailing along the curve of his face, and Venti watches as the shadows of Xiao’s eyelashes blur against his cheekbone.
“Now, shall we get going? There’s plenty to see in a night so glowing.” With a wink, Venti climbs to his feet. He gives a show of stretching his cramped muscles. Xiao only huffs at the rhyming, but Venti manages to catch a gentle smile fluttering across his face.
Xiao doesn’t say a word when Venti offers his hand. The moon still shines down on them, illuminating Venti from behind in a glowing outline and gracing the soft planes of Xiao’s face in glimmering silvers. A hand settles in Venti’s as he pulls both of them upwards with a gust of wind that makes his braids shine in the night sky. He leads Xiao towards the galaxies as the stars wink at them from unknown heights. The night air is sufficiently chilly so high up, but with Xiao next to him, Venti feels his heart grow warm with the splendor of a thousand suns.